A collection of writing by you'rs truly. Since the forum shutdown (Removing any previous attempt I made), I thought it would be nice to make this. Anyway, here it goes: Across the midsummer dawn sky a painting is made. The sky a canvas, splashes and streaks of brilliant violet and orange as the crimson sun further dips into the sea. As squawking seagulls glide above the World’s pool and the blanket of sand along the shore, seals play joyfully across the warm coast like the puppies of the sea they are. Normality a gorgeous blanket covering the cream-colored coast. Contently, a brightly-stained beach house sits upon the beach, it’s massive face of a window basking in the warm sunlight, resting in warm peace. An array of shingles are plopped upon a greatly sloped roof, a pleasantly toasted clay image of beauty. On a large, worn, brown leather sofa, an elderly man is seen lounging on the couch. In his left hand is the local newspaper while a small glass full of ice and water accompanies his other. He is trapped in a rhythm of simple monotony, taking a sip, then bringing it by his side, taking a sip, then bringing it by his side. After he finishes his drink, he notices something peculiar near the corner of his eye as he rises from the sofa. With a turn of his head, he sees the full object in view; It is a small wild rabbit, with grizzled fur and appearing to be sleeping on the wood floor, slowly breathing inward and outward. The man then widens his eyes and flinches back in a small panic, but then realizes it is but a harmless small creature. A frown then escapes from him, as he realizes that somehow, the critter entered the house whether it be through a small crack in the foundation or some other means. Any way that the creature entered, the man had to get it out of his domain. He slowly walked towards the animal with light footsteps, not wanting to wake the rabbit, then grasping his hands around its sides, still acting gently towards the critter. After a shuffle across the living room, he reaches the door towards the front porch, a little boarded walkway towards the coast. He then cautiously puts the creature down in front of his door then closes the door behind him. With a sigh of great exasperation after the tense moment, he then turns his feet around to go back to his lounging place. As he turns around, however, his left heel knocks over his right ankle, knocking him over onto the ground, left arm first, trying to protect the rest of him. A mighty crack is heard and in shock, the man notices his broken left forearm, bent uneasily across the floor, clearly separated in half internally and bleeding profusely from a scratching wood floor. The man then screamed and hollered uncontrollably in radical pain, feeling his waves upon waves of pain from the decimation of union in his forearm. But, rather through pure adrenaline or sheer willpower, he manages to lift himself slightly with his right arm (Since out of luck, it was only bruised) but then collapses under his own unbearable and gargantuan-feeling weight. Yet the man sees hope in the form of his landline phone on the top of the kitchen counter (Because the beach hosts an open layout) and starts to use his right arm and his barely moving legs as paddles in a wooden sea, stained with crimson. As time continued and the desperate man was reaching safety, a storm rose outside, bringing it’s mighty rain and spectacular flashes of white light, arcing through air itself. The crimson stain now a river, from which the lake is the man agonizingly close towards the kitchen crawling away in terror. He sees the world around him darken, with mighty claps of thunder surrounding him, as if they are watching the spectacle like a Roman Coliseum patron demanding blood and death. But as he is close to reaching his goal, he sees his wife finally arrive from visiting the mall, paper bags in hand. With a rush of fear and shock, the wife drops the bags and rushes towards his barely conscious old husband. Weeping from a bitter cocktail of a hate of death, sadness and compassion towards her suffering husband. The man’s head laid in pool of white, cream panels sneaking into his sight to form a box around him. A monotonous beeping heard to his left as a mysterious box shows a red line dancing across and jumping also to his left. A figure in white then asks “Hello, sir? Sir? Are you okay?” to which the elderly man moaned either out of tiredness or what he did. Two months passed before it was time for the trial; The murder of Rose Anderson by her own husband, Norton Anderson. Even though Rose put up a fight and broke Norton’s ankle, she could not escape from her own cold, sharp and steel-bladed end. A sleeping rabbit to one is the corpse of a wife to another. To understand the inner mechanisms of this event, what first must be cleared up is the fact that the following event did result in the deaths of innocents. It may seem comedic, but it must be confirmed that you (The reader) understand that although the following tale may seem comedic, it is, in fact, rather sorrowful. If you ever feel the need to laugh during this story, let yourself imagine the picture of a baby panda seeing it’s momma being shot by you so that your happiness from cruelty is replaced with rightful sorrow. If you are offended by the following, then let it be known that these are words, pixels on your screen (Or ink on your paper) and are but measily figments of your own mind. On a dark desert highway, with cool wind in his hair, someone was, rather terribly, trying to imitate the Eagles in his car. Right next to him in the passenger seat, though, was famous actor Sam “That Guy from the Beef Commercials” Elliott, who was gently slamming his head against the area above the glove compartment, preferring physical pain rather than the grating voice of his friend. With each slam Elliott was creating a bigger and bigger dent into the interior of the car, causing his friend to look at him annoyed. He then stopped singing terribly and snapped “Sam! This car cost me at least zero-point-one percent of my daily earnings, stop it!” For indeed, his friend was none other than Bill Gates. As Gates sang badly and Elliott tried not to slam his head against the car, they came across quite the traffic jam on the highway. Now Elliott was even more annoyed, and was tempted to just walk the 50 miles left to their destination and ditch Gates, but then he decided that would still be quite over-reactive. Waiting in the traffic jam, a rather cataclysmic ripple was felt in the ground. Since Elliott was raised by desert cacti who were used to earthquakes, he knew that Gates and him had to make a run for it and had to get out of the area. He stopped banging his head against the car, knocked Bill Gates out with a karate chop to his right temple and threw his body to the back so he could take the wheel. Since the car was stuck in between a minivan and a pick-up, Sam knew he would need to get out with force. So he had the car slam into the minivan behind him to make room, then bolted off to his right to get off of the highway onto the flat desert. When he looked behind him to see if the earthquake was starting to occur, he saw a massive tear in the ground appear to swallow the cars; by now Sam knew the full power of this disaster. If only I had some beef for dinner, Sam Elliott thought, then I could punch the hell out of that earthquake. But to his luck, he found a blue bull sleeping on the desert ground. Knowing no other way to kill the bull, he ran it over with the car and then leaped out of said car to feast on it’s blue ribs to gain its power. He then yelled ¨IT'S WHAT'S FOR DINNER!¨, ran to the earthquake, punched it in its jaw and threw it back into the moon where it belonged. Knowing the deed has been accomplished, Elliott leaped back into the car to discover that he accidently killed Bill Gates with a brain hemerage. But then he discovered 100 million dollars worth of cash and credit card money and used it to create his new business called ¨Blue Buster¨, a company made to use blue cows to punch earthquakes into extinction. The asphalt sits unsteadily as the rumbling yacht of a car approaches, an unstoppable steel wall veering uneasily on the hilly road. A blue blur to a docile deer, the driver discards all means of caution and steadiness. But not even the meanders prove to be worrisome to the rather reckless Jim, as he sees each turn as a mockery and a taunt to his daring. Young Jim seems to be almost trapped in the confines of his own twisted view of reality, viewing life as a challenge and dare to his own abilities. But even trapped in this warped vision, Jim feels free and acts as if he is proving something to the world, a world of “do this,” or “do that.” Yet not even his parents can keep track of the slippery and black-haired teen, let alone society. A thick mop of oily fur flutters wildly from air rushing over the windshield, appearing as if it would fly away and leave Jim for good. He’s fitted in a tight leather jacket, giving him this illusion more that he is a god among men and doesn’t need to abide by the rules of society; even if it is just a jumble of dyed cow skin wrapped around his torso. But Jim did not feel worry at the time, for he had his best friend by his side. Greg was his name, a rather shorter figure and more chunky person than Jim. A net of blonde hair placed on his head with a brown, worn, bomber jacket which he actually took from his father. Jim had his left arm rather lazily outside of the car, resting on the car door, while his other was working quite frantically on the feisty steering wheel. Greg, meanwhile, was holding a cola in his left hand, while his right was supporting his head, as he didn’t even wish to use his neck at the time. After a few moments, Jim states rather nostalgically, “Must’ve been ages since I’ve seen ya, Greg. Last time I remember you was going to Vegas to visit Norm.” Greg then nodded, also in nostalgia of the moment. He then chuckled and replied “Yeah, that sure was something. Never seen someone so darn drunk in all my life, you would’ve sworn he’d gone screwy if you didn’t know of the rum.” He then continued, “Wasn’t as bad as the drive back though, that was surely hell.” Jim then looked at Greg for a second then asked “Well, what was hell about the ride? Yeah, I image it took ages but it couldn’t have been that bad, right?” Shaking his head, Greg answered in a faint sense of hysteria; “Oh it was, if those darn back roads weren’t so queer the trip would’ve been fine. But no, Devil thought’d it be funny to mess with me there. I swear by God above there was a light in the sky I’d never seen before.” He started acting up, with fear and terror consuming his mind, not even allowing Jim to ask or question him about anything, he started talking at a faster pace, “My God, that light would’ve been bright enough to make stars scared straight. So damn big an’ scary you’d think apocalypse was comin’.” His eyes widened, then he started to break a sweat and quiver, “Then the blast. My Lord, the blast! I swear I would’ve gone flying off if my car was a coupe and not my wagon. Almost tipped my car over, made me want to take cover and-” But he was finally stopped by Jim, for although Greg has acted in a panic before, not to this extent; “Woah Greg!” Yelled Jim; “Calm down! I swear if ya keep acting like that I’ll have to smack ya! I’m driving and frankly, I don’t have time for this.” But it was already too late to avoid disaster, for poor Jim and Greg went tumbling down a cliff and were left for the birds.