Robin Hood's La Cosa Nostra

This is intended for anyone who likes mafia stories. Its purpose is to show that even though someone is a member of the mafia, they are still human and can fall/be in love. They can also go through the same things that normal couples have to go through (like asking for the blessing of the bride's parents).

It smelled of medicine.

Robin’s nose wrinkled as he took a whiff of the air, realizing that the sharp smell medicine and he was probably being treated in a private hospital. Mafia’s never frequented public hospitals; that was like putting a giant sign around your neck that said, “Come arrest me! I’m over here, completely defenceless!”

A little twitch of his mouth turned into a smirk, and Robin slowly blinked his eyes open. The first thing that hit his line of sight was the calm, ocean blue ceiling. The next was a warm hand enveloping his in comfort and a sweet voice calling out his name.

“Robin?”

He smiled. That voice he could recognize anywhere.

“Hey babe.” Robin wheezed out, squeezing Marian’s hand to reassure her he was really awake. The don of Nottingham wasn’t too surprised when he heard his fiancé break out in muffled sobs, her head coming down to rest on their entwined hands. He couldn’t help the grin sweeping across his face as he reached over with his free hand to stroke her brown locks.

“Boss! Boss, you’re awake!” Skippy cried running into the room, Robin’s consigliere Lil John right at his heels. Robin did a brief air salute to them as they entered.

“Hey men.” He greeted, Marian quickly looking away to dry her tears. Robin was a little disappointed when her hand slipped out of his, but she came right back so he had nothing to complain about. Lil John and Skippy looked nervous when they caught sight of Marian, so Robin immediately suspected something was up. “Any news?” The two looked at each other.

“Um… well boss, Don Richard of England is here to speak to you.” Lil John said, unaware of the actual don stepping into the room with his own consigliere, Tuck, at his heels.

“Privately.” Richard said, alarming Lil John and Skippy. His face was blank, no emotion portrayed just as his advisor’s was. Lil John and Skippy looked to their own boss, who waved them off without taking his eyes away from the don of England. Reluctantly, the two high-ranking mafia officials swiftly left the room. “You too, Marian.” Richard said, also not taking his eyes off of Robin’s prone form on the hospital bed.

Marian glanced quickly over at Robin, who broke his gaze with her father to give her a quick smile. She gave him a tense smile in return before quietly leaving the room and closing the door.

“Robin.”

“Richard.”

The formalities were thrown aside from the start, and Richard went to occupy a comfortable chair on the other side of the room. His consigliere, Tuck, stayed standing at the door. It was silent for a long time, and Robin was getting anxious. Not because the Don of England was actually in his home, in the room he was currently recovering in. Robin wasn’t scared of power, and he was pretty used to having the entire England mafia after him (courtesy of one Underboss John). No, Robin was just nervous because the father of his fiancé was in the same room as him, and he still had yet to get Richards blessings.

If he ever got them at all.

“I don’t like you, Robin Hood.” Richard said out of the blue after all the silence shared between them. Robin’s eyes shot up, and he immediately turned to the don. Richard continued on like he didn’t notice (but he noticed everything). “You’re aggressive, bold, daring, and the boss of a mafia group. You’ve killed people, you deal in illegal activities and there’s a price on your head.”

Robin opened his mouth to say how Richard was exactly like him, but a glance from the don of England shut him up. And Richard continued.

“I never wanted my daughter to marry into the mafia family. I wanted her to go to a normal public school and find a normal boyfriend who would have a normal job at a normal company. I wanted her to have a normal marriage and give birth to as many normal babies as she wanted and I wanted my grandchildren to grow up normally.” He said, closing his eyes as he envisioned the utterly normal life he wished of his little princess. A sad smile crossed Richard’s face. “I wanted her to live normally.”

“With all due respect sir—“ Richard glared at him, and Robin silenced himself.

“I know that they are foolish dreams, Robin Hood. To enter the mafia is to be tied to it forever. To be born into the mafia is to have it in your blood, and Marian’s blood will not allow her to live a normal life.” He sighed, the weight of raising a daughter all by himself finally coming to settle fully on his shoulders. Another slight smile crossed his lips, but this one was a little happier.

“And so because of this, I’m glad that Marian picked you.”

Without another word, Tuck opened the door to let his don pass by him, winking at Robin as he followed his don out. The boss of Nottingham was left sitting there with a shell-shocked expression planted all over his body. He never noticed Lil John, and Skippy, and Marian all rush into the room, frantic as to what the two dons’ were talking about. He could only smile, and say to himself:

"I'm glad she picked me too."

Robin Hood's La Cosa Nostra

This is intended for anyone who likes mafia stories. Its purpose is to show that even though someone is a member of the mafia, they are still human and can fall/be in love.

Her breath was heaving in her ears, legs burning as Marian ran through the darkness of Nottingham with Robin’s hand grasped tightly in her own. She could no longer hear her uncle’s furious shouts behind her; could no longer hear the heavy thud of footsteps chasing them. Apparently, so could Robin because he slowed to a walk, looking back at her with a roguish grin.

“So,” he began with a little breathlessness to his voice, “do I get my prize now?” Marian couldn’t help the wide smile crossing over her face, stepping closer to him. Their hands, still entwined, merely tightened their grip around the other.

“You do.” She said, reaching up on the tips of her toes. Robin’s eyes began to droop closed.

“Yes, I do.”

And so Robin kissed his new bride.

Robin Hood's La Cosa Nostra

This is intended for anyone who likes mafia stories. Its purpose is to show that even though someone is a member of the mafia, they are still human and can fall/be in love.

Marian hummed, running a brush through her long brown hair as she saw the pink fluttering across her cheeks in her reflection. Her friend, Korin, sat on the bed watching her curiously. She noticed the strange look on her friend’s face, and instantly knew something was up.

“Marian,” Korin said, calling attention to her friend. Marian seemed a little out of it to really be paying full attention to her. Korin looked down to study her hands. “Where were you yesterday? I called your cell like, dozens of times but you never picked up.” Marian froze, her brush stilling midway through her hair. The daughter of England’s don turned slowly, setting her brush back on the vanity.

“Oh. I, um, kind of went out yesterday and forgot to bring it with me.” Marian admitted. It really was the truth, just not the whole truth. But Korin was smarter than that, and definitely a lot nosier.

“Where’d you go? I was so bored at home yesterday.” The girl complained, flipping her hair back and messing with her make-up in an effort to seem nonchalant. Marian copied her tactic, turning back to her vanity to start brushing her hair again. Needless to say, Korin was definitely the stealthier of the two.

“Just… out.” Marian said, biting her bottom lip. Korin glanced at her from the corner of her eye.

“Seems boring.” Korin sighed, taking out her lip-gloss and applying a thick layer. Marian’s eyes shifted nervously. She abruptly stood up, unable to keep a secret from her best friend.

“I met Robin!”

Korin gasped, her lip-gloss stilling. Her eyes began to sparkle, and she stood up waving the stick of gloss around. “You mean your first love?” Marian nodded, a smile spreading dreamily over her lips. Korin squealed, dropping everything in her hand and rushing forward to hug Marian. “Oh my gosh, Marian!” She exclaimed, pulling back to stare seriously at her best friend. “Did you get his number? Where does he live? Did he ask you to marry him!?”

Marian laughed, fully expecting Korin to react like she did. The princess of the mafia blushed, twirling a lock of hair in her fingers. “Don’t jump ahead, Kor’. I doubt he even remembers me from so long ago…” Marian admitted, her eyes flickering down. Korin stepped back, knowing she hit a delicate subject.

“Oh.” Korin’s eyes tightened in determination, and she grabbed Marian’s arms. “Well even if he doesn’t remember, we’ll just make him fall for you all over again!” Marian was about to mention that she didn’t even know if Robin liked her so many years ago, but Korin thrust her in front of her vanity table and grabbed every cosmetic Marian owned.

“Korin!” Marian shrieked, laughing between syllables. Her friend’s hands were trying to still her head from moving in order to apply a coat of lip-gloss. It wasn’t long before the two girls were having a giggle-fest, make-up strewn all over Marian’s nice floor.

But outside of Marian’s room was her uncle John, his fists clenched tightly.

“Robin of Nottingham, huh?” John snarled, reaching into his pocket to pull out his phone. “I won’t allow it; never.” Pressing the speed dial, he pressed the phone to his ear and stalked off. “Sheriff. Arrange a shooting competition.” John barked into the phone. A wicked smile spread over his face. “Winner marries Marian.”

Robin Hood's La Cosa Nostra

This is intended for anyone who likes mafia stories. Its purpose is to show that even though someone is a member of the mafia, they are still human and can fall/be in love.

It was still, tranquil, and quiet. There was no wind, no sound, no movement of any kind.

There was nothing except the bang of a pistol.

“Now you’re getting’ it.” Robin exclaimed, slapping his younger companion on the back with a huge smile. A cutout cardboard of a human’s body stood on the other side of the open field, a single hole directly through where the heart would be. The barrel of little Skipper’s handgun was smoking a little, slightly unsteady because his hands were quivering from the throwback.

“Sweet!” Skipper whooped, punching a fist into the air. Robin laughed, and the underboss of Nottingham turned to his don. “Better watch out, Rob. I’m gonna smoke you in target practice one day.” Robin let out one big guffaw, throwing his head back and placing a hand over his face. Skipper, instead of being offended, simply laughed along with him because he knew it would take a million years before he could be as good as his boss.

“We’ll see, Skip.” Robin finally was able to choke out, grabbing Skipper’s practice pistol from him. “Now go get cleaned up. I wanna do another raid tonight.” The young man’s eyes lit up, and he quickly jogged off to head back to the house but turned back when he noticed his boss wasn’t following him. Robin waved him off. “I’m gonna practice for a few more minutes.” Skipper shrugged, but was off without another word.

Finally alone, Robin twirled the pistol in his hand a couple times before gracefully pointing his gun at Skipper’s target and shooting. The bullet grazed the side of Skipper’s hole, but otherwise flew perfectly past that one tiny shot. Robin grinned in triumph, until he heard a shriek from behind the bushes where his bullet landed. Someone shot out into the clearing, hopping on one foot because of the small cut on the side of her leg.

“Damn, that hurts! Hey buddy, watch where you’re—“

Robin’s mouth fell open as he caught sight of the beautiful young woman also staring dazedly at him.

“R-Robin?”

His throat felt dry, and for a second he couldn’t find any words.

“Robin Hood, of Nottingham, right?” The young woman asked again, edging forward with a limp in her step. The don of Nottingham jolted back into reality when he saw her limping forward, and immediately cleared his throat.

“Oh, uh, yeah. That’s me.” He replied, opening his jacket to hide his gun. “Marian, right? Of England.” She blushed, maybe with embarrassment, maybe with pride, he didn’t know. But it was obvious to Robin that Marian was awfully cute when her face tinted red.

“That’s right.” Marian confirmed, before looking down at her injured leg. She was leaning all her weight onto her other foot to avoid causing more damage to herself. “Um, do you mind if I—“ Robin flushed this time with embarrassment and shame.

“Oh! I’m really sorry, Ms. Marian.” Robin began, rushing forward and quickly apologizing. “I swear I was in the middle of target practice. I didn’t mean to—“ Marian smiled, accepting his offered hand before leaning into him, her head cushioned into his chest. Robin stopped mid-sentence, flustered but unwilling to let go of the beautiful woman in his arms. The woman who he seemed to remember from many years ago, and who haunted his every thought and every dream since departing from her in his past years.

“I don’t blame you, Robin.” Marian consoled him. “If I was in your position, I’d try to keep my body intact too if an enemy ever wandered into my territory instead of helping them when they’re down.” Robin’s face fell a little, and he paused in his walk back to his mansion. Marian was nestled close to him, but he pulled back to stare at her.

“I don’t think of you as my enemy.” Robin admitted, dead serious as he stared unflinching into her big green eyes. Marian flushed, this time because her heart was starting to hammer in her chest. She wasn’t sure whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, but as of this moment it felt oddly right.

And so Marian smiled.

“I don’t either.”

Addicted To The Hunt

This is intended for anyone who has an addiction. Its purpose is to show the dangerous effect that addiction has, and that addiction is not limited to simply drugs, or alcohol or other things like that.

Addiction. Graverobber had no particular opinion of it. If anything, he welcomed addiction with open arms. After all, his business depended entirely on addiction. The glowing blue liquid that came in a little vial. The glowing blue liquid that had hordes of desperate women clinging to his legs, begging for a hit and paying in any way they could (by money or by flesh, Graverobber had no particular preference). Ah, zytrate. Such a glorious thing, don’t you think?

Graverobber would say otherwise.

Despite already burying his entire body into the business of drugs, Graverobber actually never liked his little blue product that worked as a light bulb. He dared not to try it himself, not because a good dealer never does his own stuff, but simply because he’s seen what it does to his customers. Panting like little whores as they clung to him for a hit, willing to do anything for a spark of his gun… it sickened him. But the money was good, so why would Graverobber care?

Only it’s not the money he’s after. Graverobber cares little for the wad of cash deposited in his hand every time he fired his gun. Graverobber had small interest for the brief escape of reality in the form of supple flesh. No, money and sex was only icing on the cake of his career as an underground drug lord. It was only the tip of the iceberg.

His real thrill was the hunt.

Prowling through the darkness, a light hum always at his lips as he casually made his way around the graves. Graverobber delighted in the heavy scent of death lingering in the air; delighted in dancing on the corpses buried under him. And most of all, loved the rush of adrenaline that circled through his veins when the alarm for grave robbers goes off. He loved ducking behind tombstones when the security lights flashed a little too close, loved committing illegal acts knowing he could easily get away with it. (Gencops were a little dense in the head, compared to Graverobber).

The drug dealer whistled a light tune, prancing into the graveyard as he went searching for a coffin with a nice corpse. His boots made no sound as he stepped over the malnourished dirt. The soles of his boots were stamped all over the graveyard, somewhat to confuse the guards but mostly because Graverobber liked taking the scenic route. His ever-crooked smirk was there, hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat playing with an empty vial. Soon it would be filled with that glowing blue liquid, and soon Graverobber would have hordes of addicts at his feet, begging him for the tiniest dose.

His smirk fell a little, but Graverobber ignored the tiresome thought of selling the tiresome drug and instead focused on the hunt.

As Graverobber knelt beside a rotting corpse, watching the empty vial fill with swishing blue zytrate, he wondered a little about addictions. They were all-consuming, swallowing everything a person ever possessed that was slightly sane (though Graverobber wondered if there was such a thing as sane in this world). A curse, he would call it. A disease that once grabbed onto, you could never let go of.

“Graverobber?”

He looked up to the young girl standing above him, clutching the strap of her satchel as hints of fear flickered across her eyes. The alarms began to blare, and she gasped and crouched down next to him, head jerking this way and that. Graverobber stared at her for a couple seconds, the vial already full of his merchandise. He smirked, yanking the needle out of the corpse’s skull before grabbing his companion’s wrist and standing up, pulling her along with him. Her arm was almost deathly cold, but felt oddly right in his grasp. She shrieked a little at the unexpected movement, alerting the guards to their position.

Graverobber smiled wickedly.

Addictions are evil, unstoppable. They consume your thoughts and your actions; they give you no say in what you do or what you feel. And worst of all, you begin to need your addiction; you realize that no matter what you try, there isn’t any way you can live without it.

But as Shilo panted heavily, her long legs stumbling awkwardly as she ran behind him, Graverobber was starting to wonder if that was such a bad thing.

You

This is intended for anyone who has ever betrayed someone. Its purpose is to show how the betrayed person feels when they didn't know anything about it, only to find out later.



You pulled the wool over my eyes;
You snuck inside and paralyzed,
My every thought;
My every reason.

It was gnawing at me from the very first time
That little feeling in my gut as I stood to the side,
Listening to your stories,
To the falsehood you fed me
With your hands covered in gloves of truth

Like a dog I followed you;
Like a servant I never disobeyed
You fed me lies
And in return I gave you myself.

But your gloves started to slip,
And your tainted hands revealed t o me
The fallacy of the comestibles
That I willingly consumed.

My every reason;
My every thought;
You snuck inside and paralyzed
You pulled the wool over my eyes.

You lied to me
You manipulated me
You wrapped me in my cocoon of shame
And yet you live a blossoming life
Knowing full well of the sins that taint your hands
You, to whom I trusted;
You, to whom I once loved;
You, to whom I cannot find myself to blame.

A Bug's Life

This is intended for everyone who has ever thought someone has a weird hobby. Its purpose is to show that no matter how weird that hobby is, the person always has a reason for why they have that weird hobby.

Shilo envied bugs.

She never remembered when it started, but now it was impossible to look at all the bugs in her collection without feeling a twinge of jealousy. Once upon a glowing white moon, those bugs were cleverly darting around with their buzzing wings and tiny legs. Once upon a moon they explored new places and revisited old ones. Once upon a moon they were free.

Free. That word seemed so foreign to the little girl curled up on her bed. What was freedom? Did it even exist? In the miniscule and sheltered world of Shilo Wallace’s life, freedom was being able to wander the house alone. It was to be independent. But no one was truly ever independent.

You depended on a home for shelter.

You depended on pills to survive.

You depended on your father for freedom.

Shilo smiled bitterly, her toes flexing under the soft comforters of the bed. Her door had a lock on the outside that barred her from leaving her safe sanctuary. She had already stolen a spare key to get it open, but still. Even if she did get past the lock on her door, she would have to be very careful to avoid her stern father, Nathan Wallace. It was a good thing he was a busy man, Shilo always thought. It was a good thing he gave way for her freedom (though limited it was).

Shilo got up from her bed, stretching her pale legs over the flickering yellow light. Casually, with stifled thumps of her feet, the girl made her way over to her collection of bugs and sat down. They all stared back at her with their dead eyes, and Shilo tapped a few glass jars.

They didn’t move.

Of course, how could they? The darn things were trapped in cages, never to leave for the outside world again. Shilo wondered how they felt; knowing freedom was only a twist of a lid away. They had tasted that freedom once, felt it and breathed it and lived it. But what about her?

What about Shilo?

She scoffed, pushing off the desk and padding over to the door keeping her locked away from the rest of the world. It looked innocent enough, with its dark brown colour and brass knob. Sometimes Shilo thought she could simply twist the handle and pull, and the door would give way. She tried several times, but it never did what she wanted it to. It never gave way for the freedom that Shilo so desperately longed for.

Angry now, Shilo spun around and stomped back to her bed, collapsing on the feather mattress and reaching out for her favourite teddy bear. It was as soft as always, the fabric rubbing against her bare arms as she squeezed it to her chest. From her perch on the bed, Shilo saw the blue glow of her mother’s portrait shining through the room.

Sitting up a little, with the bear still close to her heart, she stared up at the portrait of Marni Wallace. Her mother’s blank face continued to gaze apathetically at her as it always had for all the years she suffered with this hereditary disease. Shilo never understood how her father could love this expressionless woman so much. All she had seen of Marni Wallace were pictures and possessions. All she had ever known of her mother was her disease. The woman mounted up on her wall was nothing more than a stranger; nothing more but a corpse in a crypt.

How laughable, considering the daughter looked exactly like the mother.

“Medicate immediately, medicate immediately.” Her communicator began to beep, flashing lights onto Shilo’s pale face. The young girl looked to the wrist accessory and sighed. The blue pills were still sitting innocently on one of her tables even after all this time. A glass of water lounged beside it, unmoving. Just looking at it made her sick.

“Medicate immediately.” Her watch droned again, the lights flashing faster. Shilo scowled down at it, and in a burst of anger ripped the watch off her wrist and threw it at her pills. The communicator collided with the little bottle of medication and the glass of water, making both tumble to the ground with it. Water dripped from the table onto the floor, soaking the carpet. The soft ground had cushioned the fall, and neither the cup nor the bottle broke; they merely rolled around for a short while. Her watch was also unharmed, but the beeping stopped.

Shilo’s eyes tightened.

She pounced off her bed, stalking over to the cup and the pill container, sweeping them up before chucking them one at a time at her pretty wallpaper. This time they connected with a satisfying smash, sprinkling fragments of glass all over her bug collection.

But it wasn’t enough.

With an angry scream tearing from her lips, Shilo overturned the table in front of her. It hit the ground with another satisfying thump.

Still not enough.

She turned to the transparent sheets on her bed that acted like a mosquito net, and began to pull at them until they were scattered all over the floor.

But it still wasn’t good enough.

Finally letting the fire run rampant through her veins, Shilo lunged at everything in her room, smashing and ripping and tearing and shredding. Her covers were in a state of disrepair, and her stuffed animals littered the floor with missing limbs. All the clothes she owned with thrown haphazardly on the floor, some of the drawers broken. Her mirror was cracked, her windows were shattered, and the door of her room had mysteriously acquired several new scratches. And as Shilo stood in the centre of her broken childhood, the portrait of her mother still did nothing but stare down at her blankly.

“What about the bugs?” She seemed to say with her unmoving mouth, and Shilo looked to the desk housing her collection of bugs. They sat unharmed, their dead eyes still staring at her. The bugs that had once tasted freedom; who had felt and breathed and lived. Who she caught and added to her collection. Who had been denied of what they’ve always wanted since landing in those glass jars.

“What’s freedom?” Shilo asked them, speaking for the first time since entering her room earlier today. “Can you tell me?” They did nothing but stare. Shilo smiled bitterly, stepping over broken glass and fallen furniture to grab one of the glass jars. With gentle and slow movements, Shilo unscrewed each of the lids and turned it upside down, letting the dead bugs fall to the floor. It wasn’t long until Shilo let the last bug drop and she stood in front of a small pile of insects that died a long time ago.

The door opened and an older man with long, multi-coloured hair and a ghostly white face popped his head in. He didn’t seem fazed by the chaotic mess the bedroom turned into, and merely smiled his wicked smile at Shilo.

“Hey kid, you comin’?” His baritone voice questioned, smooth and silky yet eerie and haunting. Shilo looked down at the dead bugs lying in front of her, and a small smile crossed her lips. The man, Graverobber, tilted his head curiously at her.

“Yeah, I’m coming.” She said softly, making her way slowly out of the room and to Graverobber’s side. The light flicked off, and the dark brown door with the brass knob shut quietly behind the two of them.

Shilo envied bugs.

But not anymore.

Real Valiance

This is intended for everyone who hates reading fanfictions or books that are very fairytale-like. Its purpose is to reccomend this book, "Valiant" as a read because of its very realistic view.




The neon green sword gleamed at me, centring the dark background that told unspoken tales of the dark side. Written by Holly Black (also the author of "Tithe" and "Ironside"), "Valiant" tells the tale of a teen runaway living with her new street friends in the city's underground subway system. Valerie, who is seventeen, finds there is more to the world than simply tales of supernatural creatures. And she discovers that unlike the fairytale stories of unicorns and mermaids, the "faeries" of the real world are very different; and very dark.

The style of writing Holly Black uses does not spin beautiful prose of beautiful places, but it's a rather blunt and straightforward approach to describing the slums of the city and the people who inhabit it. Despite this, it is still written very well and has also received many titles such as "Winner of the Andre Norton Award for young adult fiction" and "An ALA Best Book for Young Adults".

I find this book intoxicating and very real because it doesn't sugarcoat things or spin tales of honour and righteousness and beauty. "Valiant" is blunt and realistic; not to mention edgy. A stark contrast to many other books like, oh, say "Twilight"? And also, although very dark "Valiant" isn't completely a downer. There is a very nice conclusion that could have gone much worse, and there is a rather obvious romantic interest for Valerie in the story.

But what happens and who it is? Well, you'll have to read and find out, won't you?

The Gold Mine Of Epiphanies

This is intended for everyone who hates fashion magazines and "following the trend" in any way. Its purpose is to show that even if something is popular, it doesn't necessarily mean its stupid or useless. I mean, there has to be a reason its popular in the first place, right?




It was just lying there on the table, baiting me to sit down and flip through it. With a beautiful model dressed in beautiful clothes adorning the majority of the front page, I skimmed across all the advertisments littering the sides of the cover page. "Your Perfect New Haircut", "Spring Shopping Special", and other kinds of advice was thrown at me in cute pink lettering. Opening the "Fashion" magazine was like indulging in a guilty pleasure, which I was too happy to comply.

The first thing to hit my eyes was, of course, an advertisement. I skipped the ads, finding the table of contents and running my finger down the various titles. Besides the many pages of commercial advertising, I managed to find many articles that piqued my interest. Tips on make-up, some articles here and there, and some great places to find great clothes were only some of the useful things the Fashion magazine had to offer.

I "ooh"ed and "ahh"ed at a few of the photography compilations of clothes, and also laughed quite a lot at others. Despite many people commenting on fashion magazines in general being a fallacy that is only intended to lure you into conformity, I found it a refreshing place for new style ideas. Flipping through all the pages gave me new ideas on how to mix and match my clothing, without buying anything additional.

When you look past the advertisements in popular fashion magazines today, the tips given to you in these colour-filled pages seem more and more like a gold mine for your imagination to grow.

Uniquely Yours

This is intended for anyone whose ever just simply followed the crowd. Its purpose is to show that even though its okay to be part of a group, its also important to be yourself.




There are so many things in this world that are the same. Same hair colours, same nationalities, and also there is exactly the same clothing on the majority of the population. (Can you say Hollister?) Sure, mass production is nice and builds profit, and the mundane task of making your own clothes is now non-existent, but it seems like there's no more originality in the world anymore. Thankfully, there is a form of escape from the norm of plain tank tops and identical sneakers. There's "Bobsmade"!

"Bobsmade" is a website that advertises the personalization of clothing items. The owner, Bobsmade, lives in Germany and uses his or her artistic talent to personalize a variety of clothing and accessories. Shoes, shirts, bags, headphones, you name it, Bobsmade'll probably personalize it! Best thing about his or her work? It's waterproof! Bobsmade uses acrylic paint and waterproof pens so they won't wash away, and the paint won't crack for a long time. (Although if you want to wash away the paint, that can also be easily done.)

The prices range from item to item. Some can be as inexpensive as $33 (not including the price of the actual item being personalized) to as expensive as $117! Although, all things considered, it's not a bad price. Bobsmade takes at least two weeks to create and finish the design, and that's not including actually getting the product to you. Considering he or she ships globally as well (which takes another one or two weeks), you're looking at four grueling weeks of waiting! Talk about suspense...

But it's all worth it to finally have it with you. Your shoes or shirt that's like everyone elses, but at the same time uniquely your own. Because even though we look to belong, there will always be a part of us that wishes to stand out.

A Century Of Phantom

This is intended for anyone who likes musicals or opera music. Its purpose is to inform readers of the movie the "Phantom of the Opera", and its utterly enchanting music and horrifying story plot.




A man with a horrible face, but an even more beautiful voice and the story of his young and innocent pupil of song, and her noble childhood friend. It's a love triangle that has been kept alive for over a hundred years, originally written as a horror novel by Gaston Leroux. Andrew Llyod Webber then took it and created songs for it, effectively turning "The Phantom of the Opera" into a stunning musical that still captivates its audiences today.

The "Phantom of the Opera" is the story of Christine Daae, a young employee of the "Opera Populaire" who turns from dancer to singer in a single night. The person who pulled the strings? Why, none other than the "Phantom" of Opera Populaire, a mysterious man with a white mask covering half his face. The "Phantom of the Opera" tells the tale of a horrifying love triangle between Christine Daae, the phantom, and the young viscount Raoul de Changy.

The "Phantom of the Opera" is a musical that started more than twenty years ago by the amazing Andrew Llyod Webber. Before it changed into a musical, originally the "Phantom of the Opera" was simply a play and a story - a novel. It's a little strange to just make this story a play, when the setting is in an opera house. So when Webber wrote songs for the "Phantom of the Opera", it instantly became a hit. Not because of just the fact that music was added, but because the music was so captivating and entrancing. The songs of the musical have many different "feels". "The Phantom of the Opera", a self-titled song, is hauntingly beauitful whereas "The Point Of No Return" is passionate and raging with ferocity. Simply listening to the music struck many chords in my heart.

The cinematography was excellently done; especially the opening scene where we see the transition from the opera house of the future to the one of the past. At first, the acting didn't seem realistic to me, but I took into account the fact that the "Phantom of the Opera" took place a very long time ago (it was written in 1909). Christine Daae's costumes also dazzled me, with the full skirts and the many ruffles and lace. It prompted me to rethink my wedding dress, interestingly enough.

Overall, the "Phantom of the Opera" is filled to the brim with hauntingly captivating music and a very different theme. It has been entrancing people for a hundred years, and will continue to do so for another hundred years.

Earth's Worst Enemy

This is intended for everyone who thinks violence is horrible, and for everyone who has been violent before. It's purpose is to show that the real blame isn't on guns and missiles and terrorists; it's on us.




"EIT". Enhanced Interrogation Techniques. Another word for it would be, "torture".

Yes, you read that right. Torture.

The US CIA has been using EIT's on terrorists to gain information to "save American lives". What they haven't taken into account is that by using this acquired information, they are still killing lives. They may not be American lives, but they are lives none the less. Of course, when taken into account that a war is going on between America and Iraq, I'm fairly sure both countries don't give two shits about the other side. (I apologize for my profanity.)

It's all very horrible, yes I know. Torturing captured people to gain information to kill more people isn't morally right. It never will be. But the matter of the fact is, that it's happening and there's close to nothing we can to about it. EIT's will not stop being used simply because President Obama has revealed that they're being used in the first place. The war with Iraq won't end because you want Canadian soldiers to come back home. All the calamity in our world isn't going to go away because we want it to go away.

Because the simple truth is that violence and destruction and chaos isn't because of terrorists and guns and weapons of mass destruction. Nuclear warfare, and exploding missiles aren't Earth's worst enemy. Guns don't shoot themselves, missiles don't launch because they want to; a punch isn't thrown because our fists have minds of their own. We pulled the trigger, we pushed the button, and we threw the punch. We're Earth's worst enemy, and if you haven't realized that then you are in serious need of a reality check.

But we can try to stop it. We can rise up as a nation and make our voice be heard. We can stop trying to pick fights and stop lending our help to the bullies who are picking the fights. We can suppress that raging desire to sock someone right across the face because they pushed our buttons a little too hard. There are so many things we can do; so many things we can try. But we have to be willing to take that chance.

So my real question for you isn't "what are you going to do to stop these 'enhanced interrogation techniques'."

It's, "what are you going to do to stop yourself?"

Hijacking Makes Jamaica "Dangerous"!

This is intended for anyone who likes to travel. Its purpose is to show that just because a country has had an airport whose security has been breached, it doesn't mean the country is necessarily a dangerous place.




A plane in Jamaica that was headed for Cuba was hijacked. Luckily, all passengers got out safely and without injuries. Despite this relief, the question remains: how did the hijacker get past airport security?

An investigation is being conducted about the breach. The only thing we know at this point is the hijacker is a" mentally challenged" person, and he was able to pass all the security in Jamaica with a gun on his person. It seems like a very baffling situation, until you start to think about the options. It is most likely an inside job, with the attacker Stephen Fray having a partner-in-crime.

Of course the real issue isn't with the actual deed itself, but where it was taken place. Jamaica. Many people will probably remark that the country is now very unsafe to go to and try to avoid it at all costs. But they don't take into consideration the fact that this happens everywhere in the world. Jamaica just happened to house the wrong person in its country, and that person just happened to be "mentally challenged".

Its still unclear whether or not Stephen Fray will be properly charged for his hijacking (seeing as Vaz proclaimed him "mentally challenged), but we can only be grateful that the people on that plane weren't injured, and hope that this doesn't happen again; anywhere. (Although it most likely will.)

The Blame Game

This is intended for anyone who thinks they can get away with lying. The purpose is to show that there will always be contradictions with your lies, and even if you are never found out, it will come back to bite you in the butt later. (Karma, people.)




Madonna, or rather her spokesperson Liz Rosenburg, claims that Thomas Hinton (a paparazzi photographer) scared her horse when he jumped out of the bushes, causing her to crash to the ground. Although her injuries weren't serious ("minor injuries" and some bruises), they could have been, as the last time she fell Madonna cracked three of her ribs and broke her collarbone and her hand. It makes a person wonder why someone would be so callous as to scare a horse when his "target", per say, is riding on it.

But the worst of it is his blatant lie to get out of trouble. Honestly, Madonna would have never suffered that tumble if the horse wasn't spooked in the first place. And the horse wouldn't be spooked if there was no, oh let's see, paparazzi hiding in the bushes readying himself to jump out and scare it.

Hinton claims he was on a public road and photographed her before and after her fall. He claims he didn't see her actually fall from her horse. But if he was tipped off that Madonna was in Hampton, wouldn't he follow her around all day and snap photographs of her once he's found her? Surely he wouldn't snap photos of Madonna, take a five-minute break at a coffee shop and then go looking for her again?

Certainly not. That would be called, "losing the trail".

So it is quite obvious to believe that Thomas Hinton was there when Madonna took her fall, because he was the one that instigated it.

Adoption At A Price

This is intended for all parents. It's purpose is to express how desperate people will get sometimes for money.




Rubina Ali's father attempts to sell his child to a tabloid reporter posing as an interested Arab sheikh. This type of behaviour questions the integrity of the young girl's father, who claims "I declined" the offer of the reporter in disguise. But that contradicts the information provided by The News of the World. They claimed Qureshi demanded 20 million rupees (400 000 dollars), for the adoption of his daughter. I believe Qureshi was lying when he claimed he denied selling his daughter, because Rubina's mother claimed to have overheard his intention concerning Rubina prior to the actual meeting. Also, if he had no intentions of selling his own daughter, would he not have gone to the meeting in the first place? Quershi actually accepted to meet the man who had approached him with the offer to buy his daughter.

With a newspaper, his daughter's mother, and his own foolishness, Quershi cannot pretend to have declined the offer of the "wealthy Arab sheikh". He cannot pretend he was unwilling to sell his own daughter for money.

The Former Richest Man In The World

This is intended for all ages. It's purpose is to show that sometimes you're so hell bent on getting more that you fail to notice what you already have.




Bill Gates: (sobbing) I-I mean, how could he just take it all away?!

Michelle: But... you still have like, billions of dollars.

Bill Gates: (wails) It's not the same!!

Michelle: Oh for the love of Warren...

Bill: That's him! That's the guy who stole my title! My precious title... (sobs)

Michelle: It can't be that bad. I mean, seriously you can still be richer than him.

Bill: Really?

Michelle: Well, yeah. All you have to do is make more money, right? You could try investing in some stocks...

Bill: Warren got rich off investing. It just might work! Ha! Buffett, you're going down!

(Bill prances off to continue his scheme of reclaiming his title.)

Michelle: Rich people are incredibly baffling...

Oprah And Hot Dogs

This is intended for anyone who tends to overwork themselves. Its purpose is to show that while working hard is good, sometimes you need to take a breather for yourself and that's perfectly fine.




Oprah: I haven't had one of these in forever!

Michelle: I never really liked hot dogs. Unless my mom's friend makes them.

Oprah: Oh, is that why you got a sausage instead?

Michelle: Yep.

(Michelle and Oprah begin to eat their hot dog/sausage.)

Oprah: I almost forgot what a hot dog tastes like.

Michelle: I guess that happens when you're rich and famous and have oodles of money to spend. It sucks for us normal folk.

Oprah: I don't know about that. Being a celebrity gets a little... tiring sometimes.

Michelle: You mean in between the host talking and other miscellaneous charitable things you have to do?

Oprah: Well... yes. I was scheduled to speak at a charity convention right now, but I chose to come here and eat hot dogs with you! Is that strange?

Michelle: No. Celebrities need breaks more than any of us. You guys are under so much pressure. It's good to take a breather every now and then, so long as you don't make a huge habit of it.

Oprah: Of course, you're right, you're right. (Pause) Well I'm glad I took this opportunity. Thank you for inviting me out for hot dogs. I feel much better now.

Michelle: No problem. You paid for it, so I'm good.

Conversing With Our Father

This is intended for everyone. Its purpose is to remind everyone that no matter how much you believe your religion or your views are right, you'll never really know until you die. Because if you die and go to heaven, obviously there's a god. If not... well, good luck with that.




Michelle: I don't believe you exist.

Adam: Then why do I stand before you now?

Michelle: I dunno. Maybe you're some creepy homeless man pretending to be Adam.

Adam: You think in strange ways, child. Do you oppose our God?

Michelle: I don't oppose him. I just don't believe in him. Like I don't believe in you.

Adam: That is a puzzling statement, daughter.

Michelle: I'm not your daughter.

Adam: You have descended from me, as all the others of this planet. You are all brothers and sisters, and you are all my children.

Michelle: Yeah... that's gross.

Adam: It is what I have stated it is.

Michelle: Well, whatever.

(Silence)

Adam: Child, if you do not believe in our God, then what is it that brings you fulfillment?

Michelle: Nothing.

Adam: Nothing?

Michelle: That's right.

Adam: Surely there must be something, dear child.

Michelle: Well... I guess I kinda believe in reincarnation. Does that count?

Adam: An interesting theory, child. But our God still reins in a world of his children.

Michelle: True. Christianity and Catholicism is pretty much apparent everywhere in the world.

Adam: So you agree?

Michelle: Yeah. But I still don't think there's a god.

Adam: How do you know for sure, child?

Michelle: I don't. But I guess I'll find out when I die.

Adam: Quite a long wait, is it not?

Michelle: I'd prefer it that way.

(Adam vanishes into thin air.)

Dance Lessons With Mary Murphy

This is intended for anyone who likes watching So You Think You Can Dance. Its purpose is to put a little light on some of Mary Murphy's life before becoming a judge, and also to show that you can always start something later in life, but you just need the dedication to succeed in it.




Michelle: You were a champion ballroom dancer?

Mary: Of course. You have to be pretty damn good to judge on a TV show, I'm tellin' ya.

Michelle: That's so cool! I've always wanted to learn dance, but I'm too lazy. (laughs)

Mary: Laziness is an absolute no-no in dance. You gotta be hardworking and dedicated! Like some of the competitors on "So You Think You Can Dance".

Michelle: Those people are crazy good.

Mary: (sighs) Reminds me of my younger days.

Michelle: So what did you do after you retired from competitive dancing?

Mary: Focused on my dance school. I became a dance double for some movies too.

Michelle: Seriously?! Which ones?

Mary: "Something To Talk About" and "Dance With Me".

Michelle: Never heard of them.

Mary: You were probably too young to watch them.

Michelle: Probably. (Pause) Hey, if I started learning dance now, do you think I could be any good?

Mary: What kind of a question is that? Of course you can! It'll be harder, sure, but as long as you're dedicated to learning and not lazy, it's a no brainer.

Michelle: Cool! (Pause) Wanna teach me?

Mary: Fork up some money and we'll see.

Michelle: But your lessons are so expensive!

Mary: Tough nuts, kid.

To Run In The Rain

This is intended for everyone who prefers to look at the glass half-empty. Its purpose is to show that maybe you should try looking on the brighter side, because not only is it a nice change, it brings about positive feelings. It might even change your life for the better.




I told them it was going to rain, but would they listen to me? Nope. I told them to bring an umbrella, but would they listen? Still no. What am I, chopped liver? They should know by now that I have a really freaky way of predicting the weather; it's been happening since I was seven!

Oh joy. Now my cute new pink shirt is drenched in rainwater. And my converse. And my white pants. Hopefully that doesn't become sheer and show everyone my bunny-patterned panties. That would majorly suck, especially since I can spot a few cute guys loitering around...

Even though I'm getting soaked to the bone, I still have to admit that running around in the rain is fun. Liberating, even. The sound of my shoes against the wet cement sounds nice, and the cold rain is a nice contrast to the humidity of the restaurant we were just in. It feels good to run in the rain.

But although running in the rain is fun, dancing in it is way better.

Surprise Snaps!

This is intended for all ages. Its purpose is to let the reader look into the mind of a person with low-self esteem, no matter how much confidence they display on the outside.




The food was scrumptious. If I wasn't otherwise indulged in my nice plate of food, I probably would've noticed my boyfriend, Jeff, sneak off to snap a photo of me. He knows I hate photos! Although it is really ironic, since he's a photographer and loves taking pictures, and I'm dating him.

If I knew he was going to whip out his camera and snap, like, fifty shots of me just in this carnival alone, I wouldn't have worn my bandanna... scratch that, I'm thankful I did. My hair is a mess today.

Ha! Jeff just showed me the picture he took. An old lady got caught it in, and her facial expression is hilarious! I can see her walking away now, shaking her head and muttering about "youngsters".

Granny, you ain't seen nothin' yet.

I love how the lights of the merry-go-round turned out, though. Jeff would've complained about all the other people in the photo. "They're taking away from your beauty." Ha! What beauty? He's constantly asking me to model for him, but there's not way I'm doing that. Pictures just aren't my thing.

Maybe he could ask that granny to model for him?

...

I can't believe I just thought that. Gross!

Two Peas In A Pod

This is intended for everyone who has lost touch with someone very special to them. It is intended to show that no matter how long ago you were separated, you will always reunite with them, whether in this life or in the next.




Green. That's what I'm wearing. A green pea suit. Normally, I wouldn't mind this too much. I mean, mommy has made me wear stranger things than a green pea suit, but did she have to put me on the floor too? Woman, I can't move in this thing! How am I supposed to crawl around and stuff everything into my mouth if I can't explore this cool new place you took me to? I can already see three... no four things I want to look at! Okay maybe not look... what I really want to do is taste it and see if it's edible, but that's beside the point!

But seriously mommy, did you have to put me on the ground where I can look at nothing except the sky? And more than that, stuff me in a green pea suit? Haven't you ever heard the expression, "two peas in a pod"? It's kind of cruel to put me in a suit like this, and make me stare up into the sky where I know my twin sister is looking down at me. Sure, she died in your womb and left me all alone, and you probably thought I wouldn't know any better, but I do. I spent my first six months of life cuddled up to her, only to have her leave me just like that. I wonder if you know how that feels.

Granted, once I get a couple more years on me, I'll have forgotten about her completely; in my conscious mind anyways. I'll go on living a happy, fruitful life; one that's fun enough for the both of us. And then I'll die, and I'll see her again. She'll be really pretty, like I know she'll be 'cause she's my sister. And she'll have big white wings, and teach me how to use mine, and together we'll fly all over the world and catch up on old times.

Like two peas in a pod. ('Cause that's what we were.)

Big Enough For The Both Of Us

This is intended for everyone who has a better older or younger sibling. It is to show that even though you might feel like this (consciously or not), if you start saying "I will" instead of "I can" or "I might", you'll get to stand on that platform too.




He was standing at the top of the cliff, looking up at the serene blue sky as a tranquil smile spread over his face.

It was always like this. He would stand ahead of me - above me, and leave nothing except the dust swirling around my legs. But he's my older brother, of course he would be better than me in every way. I've come to accept that, bearing the name of "younger brother". Already, it has become the norm for me to hear how much better he is compared to me, how I should be as successful as he is or as great and moral. By now, nearing my thirties, I should have gotten over it, right?

So why do I still feel like throttling his neck every time I realize how much better he is?

I shouldn't feel this way; I know I shouldn't. Kaine has been nothing but the best to me, treating me as his equal no matter anything anyone else says otherwise. But maybe that's the reason I feel like this. Maybe if Kaine treated me like dirt, kept telling me how much more superior he was to me, maybe I could be able to get past it. Because I would know he wasn't that great if he acted like an egotistical idiot.

Maybe. But the fact of the matter is he doesn't act like that. He's like the perfect son, the perfect boss, the perfect husband, the perfect father, the perfect brother. And here I stand, just below him on these rocky cliffs looking up and wondering when I would be able to stand beside him instead of behind him. That is... if I could even do that at all.

The platform he was standing on looked like it was only for one person. It was like the universe telling me it was my fate to follow behind Kaine for the rest of my life... but I don't want that, and I'm positive Kaine wouldn't want that either.

So I don't care what it takes. Platform... you will be big enough for the both of us!

A Bookcase Of Ideas

This is intended for anyone who enjoys to write stories like I do, and who would like to get a book published. Its purpose is to influence people to start writing more, whether it be stories or something else, especially if you're serious about it.




March 12th, 2009. Delphia Richardson sat in her room at the desk of her computer, contemplating when she suddenly jumped up and shouted, "Aha!" only to sit back down and furiously write in a small green book.

According to friends, this is a normal occurrence for the sixteen-year old girl. It simply means she has come up with a brilliant idea from out of nowhere, hence why she is writing it down.

"Delpi forgets stuff a lot. That's why she writes everything down; so she doesn't forget." Says Delphia's friend, Kaya Yumen. After further questioning, Kaya reveals that Delphia "probably has an entire bookcase of her thoughts." Upon entering Delphia's room, there was a small bookcase pushed up against the far wall, but has not been inspected thoroughly to determine whether they really are just notebooks of ideas.

"I like doing a lot of my actual writing on the computer. When I get enough money, I'm going to go out and buy a tiny notebook laptop just for me. One that can fit inside my purse and that I can carry around everywhere." Delphia states, beaming as she imagines some of the notebook laptops she'd like to purchase.

Mrs. Richardson was interviewed about her daughter's obsessive habit of story writing. She replied, "Oh Deli's been writing for about five years now. Mainly lots of reading and a little writing in between, but lately she's gotten so into it. Her dream is to publish a book, and now she's sprinting as fast as she can to reach that dream."

Big dreams for a young girl. Will she gain fame, much like Stephanie Meyer and J.K. Rowling, or will she sink and drown? It's too soon to tell, but Delphia does have this to say to aspiring author's much like herself.

"Practice makes perfect!"

The Easy Way Out

This is intended for everyone who texts using their cell phones, especially those who break up with their girlfriend/boyfriend using text messages. Its purpose is to show that humanity is starting to take the easier way out, and that might not be a good thing.




Wenonah Milan was seen typing away at her cell phone after school hours on Wednesday 11th, March 2009. Her thumbs were merely a blur as they shot this way and that, devising a long text that was soon to be mailed to a friend of hers.

"I could go faster than this." Wenonah comments, her eyes still trained to her phone but flickering back and forth between the bright screen of her cell and the reporter. "But I only ever do that when it's a really important text." When asked about what would classify as "an important text", Wenonah replies it would be something along the lines of really exciting news, or vice versa.

Cell phones are a very recent invention, and were originally created as portable telephones. But technology has advanced so much, and these tiny devices are now able to not only dial and receive calls, but also exchange "text messages" back and forth at an alarmingly fast rate. Teenagers have now taken to "texting" instead of simply dialing a phone number.

"It's a lot easier to text when it comes to devastating news." Psychologist Artemis Troy states in an interview. "The person would not have obstacles preventing him or her from delivering the news besides the reaction of the person receiving the news, as it is simply a cluster of letters and a simple 'send' button."

Many teenagers have now taken to "breaking up" with their significant others over text messages, and often the victims are female in gender. When asking an interviewee about breaking up over a text message, they had this to say:

"It's cowardly." Accompanying this is a shrug of the shoulders from Nilda Otto. "But unfortunately that's where our society is headed. Instead of facing our fears head on, we fall into the role of coward and send a letter. And it isn't restricted to text messaging. Everything else applies."

Is Ms. Otto right? Is humankind heading to a path of cowardice? The outcome is skeptical, but the future is not that far away.

An (Almost) Ignored Deadline

This is intended for everyone who procrastinates until the last minute on anything. Its purpose is to show them that putting things off isn't a good choice, and can lead to lots of stress.




After school, furiously typing away at her computer on a Tuesday night is Finella Reint. She is finishing up a project for school that she has neglected to do only a few days before it is due.

After asking the anxious girl why she has bothered to procrastinate, Finella answers, "I was lazy and didn't want to work. But that's kind of backfired on me now." She accompanies this with a sheepish laugh, going back to editing her project before she prints it out.

When asking Finella's mother, Mrs. Reint, what she thinks of her daughters procrastination, she replies, "I hope it teaches her to plan things out and actually do what she has been assigned to do." At hearing this, Finella embarrassingly slams her head on the kitchen table and covers her head with her hands. She then vows to her mother that something like that will not happen again... at least not on major projects.

An interview with her brother, Scott Reint, says otherwise. "She'll do it again, and when she does she'll be stressing majorly. I hate that, because then she gets cranky and it gets on my nerves, and pretty soon the entire family won't talk to each other until it blows over."

But as Finella's teacher recieves her completed project the next day, the two can be nothing but smiles.

Dolling Up And Dressing Down - What's The Difference?

This is intended for all students in East York. Its purpose is to show that we obsess too much about hating the uniform when it is simply another pebble in the path called life.




Right after school at around 3:30 on Monday, March the 9th, 2009, Scarlett Roy was seen standing in front of her closet, tirelessly sifting through clothing as she stood in her frumpy East York uniform.

"Lettie hates her uniform," says Scarlett's mother, Mrs. Gwen Roy. "Everyday after I pick her up from school, she goes straight to her room and looks through her piles of clothing until she finds an outfit she likes and changes into it."

Mrs. Roy also describes how her young daughter will take hours in front of the white sliding doors of her closet putting things on and throwing them off after realizing they "didn't go". It wouldn't be long until shirt after shirt littered the floor, covering the nice blue carpet Mrs. Roy has just vacuumed.

"I swear she goes through at least five shirts before she finally decides on one, only to change it once she realizes the bottoms she wants to wear with it don't match." Scarlett's older brother, Donal Roy, states. "It's a good thing she's a neat freak, or else it'll look like a bomb went off in her closet."

To that, Scarlett Roy sends her brother a withering glare before going back to straightening the shirt she has just put on. The remains of her school uniform have been thrown haphazardly into the laundry basket where they will remain until the next morning.

When asked about why she goes through such a tiring routine day after school day, Scarlett replies, "I dress so sloppily in school that when I get home, I need to feel pretty again. So I always try my best to dress nice once I don't have to wear my uniform anymore. It's like... a release, y'know?"

For many of the therapists in the city of Toronto, whatever keeps you out of their office is a win-win situation.

Red String

This is intended for all ages. It is to show that even though something might not happen to you in this life, it will eventually happen in one of your next lives.



Red String

Under a tree at dawn,
Under the willowy branches
They sit and talk,
Their feathers dancing.

Sweet nothings whispered to and fro;
The melodious calls of the ivory doves.
Cocooned in the warm wool blanket;
Heads nestled in the wings of the other.

A scandalous love affair, forbidden by many;
The sweet coupling of the doves, happy and merry.
Arms torn from the other, voices shouting all night;
Soft coos as the watchers observed the sweet sight.

Separated and never to be seen again;
Joined and always in the others sight.
A love exchanged with aching hearts and souls;
A love fluttering with glistening feathers.

No matter the distance,
No matter the obstacles.
Be it humans,
Be it birds.

We are bound to always meet again,
By the red string that ties our souls.

To See And Not See

This is intended for all ages. Its purpose is to show that even though blind people can't "see" like us, they can still see in their own way. Its other purpose is also to show that though you might lose something, you will always gain something else.




To See And Not See

I see, yet I don't.

I see the rippling cold ocean lapping at my feet,
I see the call of the seagulls above.
Yet I don't see the orange glow of the sunset,
I don't see the pinkish colours splaying across the sky.

I don't see, yet I do.

I don't see the smiles or hand gestures,
I don't see the beautiful clothes.
Yet I see the chatter and laughter,
I see the beauty of the soul.

Yes, I do see.

I see the whispers of the strangers who pity me,
I see the guiding hands that lead me across the street.
I see the teacher's never-ending lecture,
I see the braille on the sheet.

But I also don't see.

I don't see the pitied looks of the crowd,
I don't see the cars that speed down the road.
I don't see the chalk and the blackboard,
I don't see the letters on the page.

But you can see, and also can't.

You can see every twitch, every smile, every gesture;
You can see all the stylish garments and bright colours.
But you can't see past the dazzling physique,
You can't see the heart that lies within.

So don't sympathize with me,
Don't commiserate.
Just as you have the gift of sight,
I have the gift of it as well.

Because I see, yet I don't.

Just One Moment

This is intended for teenagers and maybe even young adults. Its purpose is to influence them to spend more time with their parents, or do something nice for them because while the child will never think much of it, it will mean the world to his or her parent.




Just One Moment

Crunch, crunch, crunch,
Is how the leaves go
Swish, swish, swish,
Is how the river flows.

Join my journey to the top of the cliffs
And see wonders rightfully called the great God's gifts.

Up, up, up the mountain we go,
'Til we stand at the edge of the breathtaking world.

Pause dear child, in your celeritous goodbye,
And gaze out into the blue, blue sky.
Feel the whispers of wind on your cheeks;
Let the bird's call lull you to sleep.

Haste makes waste, babe of my belly;
Lie down and look up,
To heaven without the telly.

Share with me this one moment in time,
So that forever it will be engraved in my mind.