vikINK Writing Club

VikInk is a club for the uncommon intellect that wishes to express their passion for writing every way they can. We encourage members to enter into monthly writing contests, review peer work, and build their own writing portfolios. We also collaborate on a zine at the end of each semester.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Contradictoire — Emma Bohlig

Name: Emma Age: 16 Likes: long walks on the beach, crying over fictional characters Hobbies: photo editing, collecting socks Favorite quote: "Life is so short. I'd rather sing one song than interpret a thousand." ―Jack London Tell us more about yourself: You know, I'd love to say that "I'm not like other girls", but I'd be a hypocrite. There are about six people in the world who look exactly like you. There are also others who are the kinds of people who say you remind them of another friend. So, you could say, I'm exactly like a few other girls on this planet. God, I think of twenty different philosophies per day about thirty different things, but nothing really has the power to knock my brain over on its side. I just sit and think all day, one thought after the other floating by on a squishy, pink cloud. I look over old thoughts and writings sometimes and think, "When did I think of this?" Or something like: "This was so stupid. What was I thinking?" But then, there's that glorious moment where I stumble upon a scramble of words and I think "I'm going to revise this." Fingers tap on a screen and scraps of paper that hold the continuation of my work scatter across my bedroom floor. My greatest thoughts are revisions, and those revisions come from a person who is revising themselves to be unlike the other girls, because what we are really changing are those stupid little chemicals inside of a stupid-little-pink-squishy-thingy. So, all in all, I am not like the other girls. My stupid little chemicals inside of the stupid-little-pink-squishy-thingy are different. Je suis contradictoire.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

This is me, I guess.

I am me. I am neither the amazing student my parents want me to be nor the emotionless soul that some believe me to be. I am just me. I am the manifestation of laziness, yet I am also the embodiment of diligence itself depending on the situation. I am many things, even a fool at times; however, I always keep in mind  that "I know one thing: that I know nothing" - Socrates. In all honesty though, I think I truly do come off as either an intimidating individual, a gloomy insomniac, or even both at first glance. Of course it's not intentional; I just don't happen to smile all of the time for no apparent reason is all. Most importantly, I am good at keeping secrets, yet for some reason I can't help but not have any of my own. I'm a very blunt person and so hanging out with me will either really boost one's tolerance towards insults, or crush his or her self-esteem  I also tend to ignore external influences to my character because I'm too lazy to follow regular conduct in society. Anyways, overall I am essentially a carefree hard worker who's somewhat kind, brutally honest, and nonconforming at times. And so, from all of this I can conclude that I am simply just me I guess.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Simplicity of Life

Whenever I walk out of my home, I prepare myself for the unpredictable challenges of society. This society that we live in is full of judgement and pessimistic ideas. I mean, sure some people do not agree with this outfit or this type of music, but if one is judging the other, doesn't that mean that he or she would be worried about themselves? In other words, the people who are afraid of judgement often change themselves to please society. Let's take girl names such as Jenna and Macy to use as an example. Jenna and Macy do not know each other, actually, they are complete strangers. Jenna is this girl who worries about herself and how she can "fit in" society. Macy, on the other hand, does not have a care in the world; she only cares about her true self, as in, she wants to be Macy. The truth is, Jenna has to be more like Macy because no one would care about what Jenna is wearing or what type of music she listens to because they all occupied thinking about what society thinks. Life is not really that challenging if one just think of his or her true,simple self. Life is simple if one thinks it is.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

me.

I hear the world telling me to be me. Well, I am me, everyday (so, no need to worry about disobedience). I am this girl who loves anything Disney (although I don't consider Disney Channel "Disney," I still watch some shows.) I also love cheese-yes CHEESE- and I also genuinely care about people's days. I am weird sometimes, and dumb (seriously, I just tried to turn on the Christmas lights- we have a remote for them- with the "off" button. I told my dad that the remote didn't work, but it turned out I was pressing the "off" button the whole time). I am silly with my friends, I joke around with them A LOT, as in A LOT. We love each other as sisters love each other. Sometimes, I get really lazy and dress REALLY simple; you know, just a t-shirt, jeans, and my converse or ballet flats. I may seem innocent, but I've done some bad things throughout my life; things that I do not want to recall in my mind while writing this. I do not care about what people think of me. I just want to be myself; otherwise, I would be miserable. I do love myself,indeed, but I also care about people. 

This is me.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Of Love and Russian Novelists

The first time I saw your room, I only noticed your books. Not the day old dishes stacked by your window sill or the Everest of clothing spilling out of your closet. Not the stripped back linen or even the old photos of lovers lining your walls. The first and only things I noticed were your books, and they made you, you who bathed seldomly and wore three-day old clothing, beautiful.

It surprised me to see that my friends were your friends. You had chuckled with Pickwick, despaired with Rochester, and wondered on love and Russian countrysides with Tolstoy. They were stacked around your room like hidden prayers and I said hello to every one.

You came in with tea, and I didn’t know it then, but when you saw me hunched over Camus, you smiled and mouthed, ‘Idiot.’ I didn’t know it then, but you were telling me you loved me.

I know now though. I flip through old letters and it’s painful, because most of them aren’t simply words transcribed on musty paper, but the memories of people I hardly know. They’re crimson in their freshness, and each one strikes a metal chord on the iron bands wrapped around my chest.

I breathe in the rusting iron scent of your old bluebottle ink, and I wonder, are your molecules, your atoms, still there? Are they becoming a part of me now?

It hardly matters. I saw the anatomy of you a long, long time ago, and it was a galaxy that spun on a tilted axis. You became a part of me then, but then you faded and eventually started to peel away from my heart like the paint on the old sign above your father’s stationary shop.

I know it’s been a while, and all of our friends have been blown to dust, but I’d like to have a scrap of reminders left so that when I’m an old and befuddled fool, I might remember. 

I might remember you, and that time I didn’t know what ‘idiot’ meant.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

The Boy; Not as Icarus

The boy’s wings were like branches.

He stood on the cement ledge, and the sheer greyness of him and his grimy pale hair and stormy sweater blended like a concoction with the clouds that bumped and apologized to each other in the sky.

I’d always thought that wings meant wooly feathers and soft papery edges and a silky base of the skin, but instead they were hard and brittle with little sprouts at the ends that weren’t feathers but the jagged edges of leaves.

As if obeying a mutually consented law with the universe, the wings were tar black, and they defined the otherwise colorless landscape. If not for the outline of those wings, I would have thought that some giant had come to suck the color out of this world, like some would suck the yolk out of an egg. 

When the wind blew, I heard the hollowness inside of the boy. Maybe a thief had come in the night to steal his organs and the boy had found a way to replace them with glass. Perhaps he had sacrificed his heart for his wings.

Was it worth it?

The boy turned and met me. He looked at me and my heart and my flesh the way a god would look at a statue of himself. With cold detached reverence. 

And then his wings twitched and like a tree taking a morning stretch for the heavens, the boy flew. 

He is not Icarus. His wings are firmly attached to his spine, and the sun and the sea will not take him. He will instead become golden and cruel like Apollo, and there he will fly with his wings burned a shining white. 

[vikinkwriters-blog]

You; As a Memory

I saw you by yourself on a light Sunday afternoon.

The sky was impossibly frothy with whipped cirrus clouds, and tinged in a sunlit lemon meringue pie. I wanted to sit with the afternoon and read a novel at a French cafe.

I don’t really remember what you wore or what you said to me that day. I remember thinking to myself that I wouldn’t forget, because I had never before then thought, “Wow.”

I recall you now in pieces, from the little scar at the end of your knuckle to your knobby knees. I have to think of your eyes and your nose and your mouth and your voice, and I paint your face like Picasso: it’s there, but it’s slightly wrong.

Yet the background is so vividly clear. I remember the grains in the wooden table where you sat, with weird splotches that reminded me of my grandfather’s face. A hooked nose and deep set eyes. 

The chair I sat in was hard metal, rusting at the corners where it had been pieced together. The edges dug into my thighs, and when I went home that day, the chair had been imprinted there in red streaks. 

The window next to us was dirty, with oily fingerprints smeared in a long trail. Dust had collected around it, and some drifted off to float lazily in the beams of sunlight that hit us, imitating smoke while being irritatingly solid.

In the corner of the window, someone had drawn in a heart.

I see your mouth moving and smiling, but there’s no sound. I remember leaning my head against my wrist, and you rubbing the skin under your eyes, as if there were secret deposits of energy there that would help us communicate like humans, not fools.

I remember everything you said with your eyes. Your eyes said joy, joy, joy. It made me happy to know that I didn’t have to drown in your eyes; I could just paddle along, warm and content. 

Perhaps it means something that your face has to be roughly stitched together in my memories. If memories are cracked windows, you are the beam of light rushing in. It’s not perfect, nor whole, but it’s still you. 

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Ugly.

Humanity is ugly.

Remember that. No matter who may preach to you about how we are "God's children", we are still ugly.

Even if we may possibly be the most intellectual species inhabiting this earth, we are ugly.

We are hypocrites, liars, cheats, adulterers, thieves, murderers. 

We are ugly.

We are not superior. We are beasts. Just a more advanced form of the primates that plod among the jungles. 

We simply have the power to lock fellow beasts in cages--hell, we lock our own people in cages.

We are ugly.

We enslave others, use them for our own benefit, and do anything required for our own survival. No matter how advanced and intelligent we consider ourselves, we still abide by the rules of the animal kingdom.

We are ugly.

We cannot settle disputes with words alone; no, we are animals. We must fight, kill, murder to assert our dominance. 

We kill others' lovers, families, brothers, mothers. And without a single ounce of guilt. No, we murder with a sense of duty and pride.

As if we should praise ourselves for taking a life. But that is how beasts work.

We are ugly.

Once you have accepted that we are ugly, you can begin to see everything else. Once you have accepted that we are not perfect, we are not superior, you will begin to realize that sometimes, ugly is beautiful.

The soldier that mercilessly murdered his own kind will come home and embrace his child with tears streaming down his face, unashamed to bawl in a public airport.

That is beautiful.

The great-granddaughter of a slave owner will stand on a corner for hours, advocating equal rights for African-Americans, while she wipes the sweat from her milky white skin.

That is beautiful.

A starving mother will walk the ends of the earth to find food--and then give everything to her healthy daughter, just for the sake of seeing her child smile with happiness.

That is beautiful.

We are low, spiteful, hypocritical, disgusting, and ugly.

We are imperfect.

And yet, if you look hard enough--if you can accept the ugliness and look further, you will find that in that imperfection, we are beautiful.

For that is humanity: a constant, everlasting paradox.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

There are many horrible things in the world that we know. The stink of human greed, the vileness of cruelty that can be found everywhere on this planet. Some places are so filled with the plague of human evil that one could not think of a place worse than those pits with which evil seems to have made itself at home.

But there is a place.

A place so covered in darkness, so lost in hope that even the most vile creature on this planet would look away in fear. The place does not exist on Earth. It never could. It lies somewhere far away that cannot be walked to on foot nor sailed to by boat. This place lies in a dark depth where no sun shines. Its inhabitants burn in an unnatural and everlasting fire.

The worst part of this place are the screams of the damned. Of the once proud men, lustful women, and the most crafty demons. They were the children who did not believe in the fables taught to them with simple morales. 

Yet as they burn, they are as willing as the thief who bit at his mother's ear to take the blame away from themselves and to other persons. They blame the one who loves them most, the one that gave them the gift of free will to do as they chose, which they could not help but abuse.

God grants free will to men because he believes that they are capable of doing good. They are able to help one another through the roughest of times and have courage and hope in their hearts when there seems to be none. They are able to love. 

But there is no flame that does not cast a shadow. Where there is peace, there is also war, and where there is good, there is also evil. The human spirit is the very definition of the battle between light and darkness.

The inhabitants of this awful place have lost the battle to darkness and have lost their free will, a gift they had shamelessly abused in life. They have lost everything and have nothing left but the darkness that they coveted in life. This is the place in which no form of evil can escape from. This is the place where the screams never die and where God's children are burned and face ultimate judgment for their crimes.

This is hell.

The one who rules over this pitiful land has explored every form of human evil in existence. He has lied, he had cheated, he has killed. He is Satan, the prince of darkness and father of lives. Once an angel of high ranking, he sough to overthrow his creator. With his band of usurper angels, Satan felt sure he could win. 

But in the end, he failed, and was one of the first to be plunged into the very darkness of his forsaken kingdom. No one is quite sure why Satan rebelled. It may have been that he felt himself above the influence of any form of human weakness. He felt that God was too soft with his creations and that the human race should be kept on a tighter leash.

Satan wanted power, he wanted to be in charge, and he believed he could succeed God. He did not want to be overshadowed by the human race, he wanted to rule it. Even now, in his kingdom, he sits above the horrid pit in an enormous black castle which looks as if it could pierce the heavens. It sits above a giant town filled with the very demons he created.

Every day they work within the walls for some forgotten cause, and mingle and toil through their meaningless lives. The city is surrounded by a giant black wall and beyond that is a barren wasteland, and then the pit where evil men squirm under Satan's oppressive thumb, which he wishes to press not only on the wicked and evil, but on the pure and good hearted.

There in his castle he sits even now, plotting and thinking of a way out of his prison. And what better way to get out of a prison than to make a key? A key to lock Hell's gate...

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Scotty

“Congrats, Heger. Another one bites the dust, right?”

“You bet, Dave,” I said as I leaned back in my chair, grinning. Another solved case. That would be my sixth this month. I was on a roll. People kept telling me to buy some lottery tickets, what with all the luck I’d been having, but luck had nothing to do with it.

I had just solved the case of Liza Kenworth, a 24-year-old grad student who was brutally murdered in her apartment. Throat slashed and wrists cut, it was a pretty gruesome scene, but I barely noticed the gore. Within hours, I had found exactly where the killer had stashed the knife and found DNA that could be sent away for processing. After 48 hours, I had tracked down our perp and had him in cuffs. A personal record, if I do say so myself.

Working as a homicide detective for the Boston Police Department wasn’t an easy job, but I was good at it. When I first started here three years ago, everyone thought I was the hothead kid with no experience, but I soon earned my spot as one of the big dogs on the force. Other detectives just couldn’t figure out how I was able to figure out a killer’s exact moves. “It’s a gift,” I’d say, and that would usually shut them up for a while. I’d laugh to myself about it later. They really thought I’d tell them? Yeah, right.

“Heger, my office. Now.” Police Chief Johnson’s voice snapped me out of my daydream.

“Yes, sir.” I jumped out of my chair and hurried toward his office door. The guys laughed as I walked by, they were sure I was getting in trouble for something. It was always funny to watch the Chief chew someone out, as long as it wasn’t you.

“Shut the door.” I did and then I sat down in one of the extremely uncomfortable chairs placed in front of his desk.

“What’s this about, Chief?” Did I do anything wrong? I don’t think I did, but who knows?

“You’re not in trouble, if that’s what you’re wondering.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ve got another case for you.”

“Really boss? I just closed one this morning.” I didn’t like whining, but I was hoping to call in sick tomorrow to just have a “me” day.

“Well then you’re not busy.” I really hated this man sometimes. “Listen, this case… it’s pretty bad. We’ve tried to keep the press out of it as much as possible, and we think we’ve done a good job, but we can’t keep a lid on this forever.”

“What’s the case?” He had piqued my curiosity.

“It happened a couple hours ago. A 21-year-old, David Cramer was found dead in his apartment.” I was pretty confused. This didn’t seem like some “out-there” case.

“And?”

“Well…” Chief Johnson was obviously nervous. “His head’s missing.”

I blinked. Decapitation? I hadn’t seen that one in years.

“Okay, well, I’ll go by the scene and check it out, hopefully I can find something.” I got up to go.

“Scott, wait. There was something else at the scene. A note,” Chief swallowed loudly.

“A note? What did it say?”

Without saying anything, Chief Johnson pushed a piece of paper across the desk. I picked it up and looked at it. As I read it, I felt my stomach leap into my throat.

Heger, you’re not done.

I gulped and looked up. Johnson was studying me with a trained eye, looking for any sign of weakness. I pushed the note away, making sure to keep eye contact.

“What do think this means, Scott?” I could feel the judgment dripping from his words.

“How should I know?” I was trying really hard to keep my voice even. “Some psycho trying to test the best cop in Boston? My name has been in the papers a lot lately, I’m sure someone saw it and decided to try to set me on edge.  Personally don’t think we should read that much into it.” Okay, I was rambling now; I hoped Chief didn’t see right through me. If someone was trying to set me on edge, it was definitely working.

“Shouldn’t read into it? Really?” I pray that I’m looking convincing right now. If his gut was telling him to be suspicious, he must have decided not to act on it because he just nodded his head and turned way.

“You’re probably right. Well, get to it.”

“Yes sir.” I turned and almost ran out of that office, I had to keep it together until I got somewhere private. I ran to the stairs and rushed up three flights until I got to the door that led to the roof. This is where I came to think when the urges got too strong. Now I came here so I could hyperventilate in peace.

“What have you got yourself into, Scott?” I said to myself as I paced back and forth. “You were a fool to think that they would just let you walk away.”

“You’re right, Scotty. You were.” The voice made me jump about a foot into the air. I turned quickly, my hand reflexively going to my gun holster, only to realize that my gun was still in my desk drawer.

“Who’s there?” In the dim light of street lamps, all I could make out was a dark shape.

“Don’t you recognize me, Scotty? I’m the one you sold out to Garcia’s men.” I backed up to the edge of the roof, as far away as I could get.

“No. That’s not possible.”

“Why not, Scotty? Did you think I was dead?” The dark figure laughed.

“Please, don’t do this. I’m sorry. I had no choice.” I dropped to my knees and clasped my hands together in front of me. “I’m begging you, don’t.”

“Oh, Scotty, you always were a coward. Can’t even face me like a man. “The figure stepped closer, raised his right arm, and suddenly, everything went black.

***

I had a pounding headache. I opened my eyes, but couldn’t see anything. A few moments later, I realized I had a burlap sack over my head.

“Where am I?”

“Our old safe house. I guess it’s not really ‘safe’ anymore. Your police buddies raided it once you told everything.” The voice was dripping with contempt. Realization dawned on me, I knew that voice. I didn’t believe it before, but now I knew it was true.

“Matthews? Ben Matthews? How’s that possible?” I was genuinely curious... somewhat. I mostly wanted to keep him talking until I could figure out a way to get my hands untied.

“You sold me out, Scotty. You got caught by the cops, and you blamed me for the Ericsson murder, even though you were the one that took out that hit. Remember that?”

“Vaguely.” I couldn’t help smiling, the ropes on my hands were loosening and I was glad that Matthews couldn’t see my face through the bag.

“Yeah, and after that, your record was wiped clean and I was tossed in prison for 5 years. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t very happy with you, my friend,” Matthews said, I could hear him moving around the room. I think he was pacing.

“Is that what happened? That’s not how I remember it.” I couldn't help being a smart-aleck, it was in my nature.

“That’s why you’re so good at catching murderers, huh? Takes one to know one? I must say, Scotty –”

“Don’t call me Scotty,” I spit through my teeth, I always hated that name.

Matthews ignored me.

“–I never imagined you as a cop. You’re a trained killer, Scotty. A paid assassin. Performing a public service doesn’t suit you.”

“I turned over a new leaf.”

“Yeah right, Scotty. You enjoy the glory of it. Attention junkie, like always. Couldn’t make it in politics so you became a crime fighter? Is that it?” Matthews was just egging me on now.

“Matthews, stop. If you’re gonna kill me, kill me. I realize now that the kid’s murder was just a ploy. Very clever. Now, can you get this over with?” I was tired of Matthews’ sick game. My hands were almost free and soon, I’d be able to take this guy.

“I don’t want to kill you. Not yet, anyway. I wanted it to make this slow and painful, but the boss man wanted this clean and quick. I wasn’t the only one you screwed over.  He’s not happy either.”

My hands were free. I reached up and ripped the sack off my head. I reached for Ben Matthew’s arms and twisted them behind his back. Split second later, I snapped him left arm, and then his right. One solid punch to the nose and he dropped to his knees.

“I’m out of the game, Ben. I’ve been working really hard not to kill anymore, even though I’ve wanted to.” I walked over to the table and picked up the .22 that was sitting there. “You’re too old for this, buddy. It’s time you got out too.” I got ready to fire.

“You’re gonna regret this, Scotty.”

“Stop calling me that.” I pulled the trigger. Instead of firing, the fixed gun exploded backwards. I felt my skin burn and seconds later, my heart stopped beating. It was all a trap. My death was ruled a suicide by the FBI officer that investigated my case, Special Agent Ben Matthews. 

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Two Callers

I am at the mercy of your call

I wait for it, but it never comes at all.

I want it, for you remind me of what could have been,

but you could never give me everlasting peace.

You make me think there is no hope for me;

no hope for felicity;

that all is hopeless, that all is lost.

But in all this, another one calls-

one who could give me the greatest love of all.

And yet, I am deaf to His cries:

I cannot see; my eyes are blind.

Still, patiently, 'til the end He will call

until at last - oh when will it be!-

I have my all in all.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Once upon a time two people were in love,

The girl was the boy's precious turtle dove,

But when someone came and tore them apart,

Both of them died of a broken heart

[vikinkwriters-blog]

There is a city of deer.

The deer never question their purpose in life. The Deerlord tells them they must eat and work. The Deermen do just that or risk exile. The Deermen are happy. Everyone is happy. Gooday gooday halajah. 

Glasshouses look out at the horizon. Glass homes float above the ocean and the Deermen are happy. The city sits upon an island. The island is one island wide. This makes sense. Everything makes sense.

Many years passed since the Deermen became powerful enough to  build a spaceship. The economy was doing poorly. The economy doesn’t exist. Haha silly Deermen. Yet they all still sing. Things that don’t exist make the most sense of all. Sense is silly.

The spaceship rose and its sole passenger, the Starman, looked out out of the porthole. The ocean seemed so vast, and the city seemed to small. A city one island wide. As the craft reached the edge of the troposphere, the Starman looked at the gaping void threatening to swallow all men, Deer and Star alike. What a horrible thing. Why would they even try to reach the void. Silly men, silly world. Ugly truth.

And in that moment the void made itself apparent to Starman. It was three thousand flies, glistening and buzzing in frenetic energy, rubbing glossy heads on one another’s backs. Ten thousand eyes stared at the craft, the universe was onto the Deermen. The Deermen had done an irreversible and irredeemable wrong. To be swallowed by the universe is a blessing the horrible monsters- monsters, monstruo, monstres- of the city did not deserve. And so the universe flung the tiny, tiny ship towards the ocean out of spite and insult.

aGoodbye little ship. Goodbye little city. Goodbye little world. Gooday gooday halajah.

Breaking news: Space Shuttle Victoria explodes in a fiery crash upon reentry. Stay tuned for more breathtaking news to distract you from your mediocre life.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

jupiter overhead

You pull back the screen window and clamber through cobwebs to perch on the edge of the rooftop.

The suburban night has diminished the vitality of the stars, and it’s kind of sad how massive constellations that can stretch for eons and eons and eons are enervated by bright lights and leftover exhaust fumes. They say that if you can see Jupiter tonight if you look close enough, but you are young and you are stupid and you think that this kind of thing will happen the next time and you can see it then. So you smooth out the blanket over the cracked roof tiles and pull out your book that you heard was pretty good from a friend of a friend. Truth is, it’s not for teenagers, it’s for adults with regrets and desires that can never be filled — it is not for the youth who still have a chance, but for those who have wasted theirs.

You do not know why you read it, but you keep on reading anyway, and you pore over the words in front of you until you find the ones that talk of never living enough. It hits you, then, that you are neither listless nor restless — you are some human being caught in between the extremes that often breed sin and self-satisfaction. You could be fickle, but you aren’t; you are content with where you are and you’d like to keep reading this book, but something tells you that what you are doing is not conducive to a life well lived.

You are the author a quarter century away and you know this is true: you are living out the regrets that he has right now. But it isn’t because there’s a book from a friend of a friend in your lap, but because you are missing out on Jupiter lazing around above your head, and if you miss it, you will miss it for good.

It occurs to you then that there’s a tedious beauty to everything, this life that is nothing but a glorified cycle of wash, rinse, and repeat — but sometimes, you climb on your rooftop to read a book and sometimes, a planet infinitely bigger than yours looms in the night sky. So you close your book, set it aside, and tip your head back to watch the phenomenon unfold before you.

Breathe in, breathe out. You can smell the cigarettes leaking from the patio, from the friend of a friend who reads both Bukowski and Austen, who is but a stranger with an intelligent taste in books. They call for you to come down and look through the telescope, because somehow your eyes aren’t good enough to see the planet from overhead. Yet they seem to forget that their eyes are clouded with their parents’ whiskey and fumbling around with an expensive piece of metal is not a wise thing to do; you digress, of course, but tonight you will not retreat from your place on the rooftop to remind them this.

You almost laugh when you hear a clatter, a bang, and a string of swears from the houseowner’s son.

Breathe in, breathe out, and perhaps the author of this book has this life thing sorted out all wrong. Because aside from your friends down below breaking a telescope that must have cost hundreds of dollars, and aside from the trouble you will be in for being out after curfew, you are quite content where you are now. Life is not measured in plane tickets and passport stamps and certificates of merit. You realize this when the friend of a friend with slightly above average taste in books climbs up beside you, holding out a hand for you to take and saying something along the lines of, “We need help fixing the telescope, and you’re the only one who knows how to read an instruction manual.”

You smile. Breathe in, breathe out. You are not wasting your life.

[vikinkwriters-blog]

What Society Really Needs

Looking at the world as it is today, I have been impressed on how the world has developed throughout the centuries socially, economically, and technologically; however the most important factor is at risk, and that is the family. Although humans have been able to achieve astounding achievements, such as landing on the moon, they never provide enough value compared to the bond of a family. The family bond has been unmatched for centuries, until recently because of media influence. Media influence in society has threatened the sanctity of the family because of the material that is shown. Material such as loose sexual morals, over materialism, and violence has corrupted what once was a family enriched environment.

Loose sexual morals have tainted the family by altering the definition of sex from a tool of divine procreation into a hedonistic craving. Yes, it is true that one gains pleasure by the act, however its main purpose is to manifest a couple’s love for one another to yield a family. Today, loose sexual morals run rampant and are even promoted throughout society. One may argue that it is natural for these tendencies, however through observation alone many families have split due to husbands cheating on their wives, or vice versa. Since many families are subjected to this strain, it has greatly reduced the value of marriage and family and because of these changes this generation does not know the true value of these things. Not only does it bode ill for our generation but also the next generations to come, because uprooting the strong sexual morals will be passed down generation to generation affecting millions, desensitizing the world of this atrocious crime.

Over materialism has altered the family negatively by distracting the populace of what is valuable, the truth. In today’s society it is a lot harder to find the truth even though we have the internet, because we are bombarded by useless bullshit rather than the truth. Throughout the world, several millions of people are suffering in third world countries, often tormented by mass genocides, famine, and slavery; and yet we pay more attention to Kim Kardashian or Miley Cyrus doing unimportant things. We must ask ourselves, why we pay attention to these “important” people or events when we should be focusing on what needs to be worked on. The family unit has been compromised because parents aren’t able to fully teach their children to recognize global problems and how to resolve them. It has left families and society blind to the glaring truth. It’s as if the people in charge of reporting deliberately made it harder for people to learn what is necessary.

Violence in society has tainted the family image because it encourages the vengeful nature of human beings and degrades the value of human life. Although violence has permeated throughout history, it is necessary to revitalize the attempts to extinguish it. Videogames are a prime example of violence in society, as they have encouraged reckless behavior. Grand Theft Auto 5 is a newly released videogame that encourages torture to get to a new level. Games such as these encourage people young and old that value of human life if worthless.

Media influence in society has threatened the sanctity of the family through loose sexual morals, over materialism, and violence because they degrade the good moral upbringings that are taught in the family.  It is tantamount that people hold the media responsible for the grievous events that have took hold of society. To ensure the sanctity of the family, the media must correct its faults and act as a good role model for families.    

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Winter

The final leaf falls

Death and famine are abound

She comes, winter comes

[vikinkwriters-blog]

Spring

A ray from heaven

The legions of frost retreat

Life begins anew