The Project That Has Claimed Me xD

[Kamilla Lestrange]

He yelled at her. They always screamed – making me want to yell, tell them to stop. I just wanted it to be silent for once. Mom is gone now. Maybe I’ll be able to hear the crickets chirp at night, like I used to when he was gone.
He told her to get out of the car. This would be their final fight and that he never wanted to see her disgusting face again. I looked at mom; I wanted to see her fight for once! She never fought; she always acted as if she agreed with what he said. But I know she doesn’t. Who could agree with that monster? He never cared for anyone but himself. He never will care for anyone but himself. He doesn’t see me and mom as people to love and care about. He sees us as trouble – people who eat his good food, spend his good money.

When she was outside, he slammed the door shut. I was waiting for mom to come around, open the door for me, and take me with her. But she didn’t. She stared at us and stood there until he started the engine. It kicked up little clouds of dust that settled on her clothes. She always hated dust but this time she let it be. As he drove away, with me in the back seat, I waited for her to run. I really thought she was going to save me too!

But she didn’t. She stood there, then slowly turned her back and walked away.

I’ll never see my mom again. She walked away; the dust seemed to eat her away. And then my father just drove, calmly, quietly. The car was silent; I was in the back seat clutching the pendant my mother used to wear every day. It dangled from her neck; I always wanted to rip it off her delicate neck. It was a piece of amber hanging on a string. But the amazing part of the necklace was the fly that was in it. It was whole, mummified like those mummies I’ve read about.

I miss her. Even though she proved that he was right – she doesn’t love me after all. I miss her. Because she was the only one that could rescue us from him. She’s out in the desert, all alone, maybe she’s hungry. But at least she’s free from him! All she left me was this necklace that was finally torn from her neck. I always thought I would be the one to rip it, it was her. But now that I think about it, she never would have stayed long enough for me to tear it off anyways.

Why did she leave the fly in amber with me? Why didn’t she just take me with her? Why didn’t we just leave?

[Kamilla Lestrange]

I chose the eye, leaving the cold, silver heart in her open hand. She had picked up the small charms from one of the graves we always saw on the side of the road. She had a drawer filled with this little trinkets, she wanted to protect them from him. I had to choose which one I wanted and the eye just enchanted me. I reached for it before I realized what I was doing. But it seemed right – an eye for a boy, a heart for a woman.

I don’t remember what we stole today. All I remember is that we had been driving along the road; we had never been caught except for once. I knew it was wrong to steal, but when I did I got her “wild, unpredictable love”. She would always hug me, give me a kiss on the forehead, and tell me how wonderful I was. And I liked those moments – I’d do anything to make sure those moments wouldn’t go away. Because they keep me safe from him. He always tells me that no one will love me, that I don’t deserve to be loved. But when I run from the malls and the blaring sirens and the running men in black suits, I know that I’ll be running into her waiting car. And I know that in that car will be a happy mom who will be ready to love me.
We always take the high ways; they’re easier to navigate because they don’t turn as much as the winding local roads do. In that car, in our escape, we always sing aloud loud to the radio and laugh. I like the way the wind feels when she lets me roll my window down, it stings my face. But it doesn’t hurt, it’s nothing like the sting I get when she slaps me.

On this high way, there were too many white crosses to ignore. When we are sure that the police men in their shiny cars aren’t following us, we take the time to stop at the grave sites on the road. Mom told me once that the ground where the white cross was resting on was the spot where someone had lost his will to live. We always stood there, our hands crossed in silence as if to remember these people we will never know.

The leaves were crisp that day, as if telling the world what we already knew. It was the beginning of fall. Mom calls it autumn. When she says it, it sounds beautiful. But when I even try to utter it, it sounds clumsy and heavy. Nothing like the light, rich, and delicate way she says it. But autumn is Mom’s favorite season – maybe that’s why it always sounds so pretty when it rolls off her tongue. Even though I’m too young to work, I know that when you don’t like something it usually sounds horrible coming out of your mouth. It sounds mean, nasty, and hard. I wonder if he hates the world and everything in it – because he always talks like that.
Because Mom didn’t want to go back, I didn’t either, we decided to spend the night in the back of her old truck. She had a blanket to cover the floor of the trunk with. We forgot her sky blue, fleece blanket once. I woke up with marks in my back – the trunk was rusty and had hills that weren’t soft at all.

Usually, we lay there and count the stars. Mom tells me that there are too many to count, but we still try anyways. This time, we got to four hundred and forty five when we heard something stumble out of the forest. The high way we were parked on was a lonely, quiet place with grass on the sides. The forest was right by us, in case I needed to go to the bathroom.

Mom and I sat up quick. I was scared, I don’t know if she was. I don’t think she was. She’s always been the brave one. She takes care of me, my mom does. I know that if anything happened to me, she’d be there to put a band aid on it and kiss it. It doesn’t make the pain go away, but I like knowing that someone loves me. He’s wrong. He’s always wrong. If Mom loves me, then I am worth something.
My fingers were clawing at her and it hurt her, because she yanked my fingers off. There were three figures in the dark; I couldn’t see them very well because the stars weren’t bright enough to replace the flash lights we had forgotten at home.

She stood up and hopped out of the trunk – like a bunny rabbit running away scared. The three men, I could see them now that I had crawled towards the other end of the trunk, were drunk. They looked just like him – their eyes were red like they were bleeding, their hair was ruffled and stuck out crazily, and they all leaned towards the right or left. Normal men, I know, always had clear eyes that smiled and stood up straight because they were proud and strong.

My mom’s right arm was behind her back, she was talking to the men. They wanted something but Mom was arguing with them. They were getting angry – but drunk men always got angry. I wasn’t surprised, I was tightening myself like I always did when I waited for him to hit me. My eyes were closed so tightly that they hurt. He was enough to hurt us – three of him wouldn’t be good at all. I opened my eyes after a minute or two, I opened them real quickly because I heard my Mom whisper my name. She whispered it real softly, like she does when she rubs my back after he stumbles into another room muttering things I don’t want to hear. I still couldn’t see her face – that scared me a little. Mom had never hidden her face from me. She always shared her smiles with me – when she was mad she let me see her eyes so I would know when to stop. But now I noticed her arm was waving, her fingers were wiggling towards the front of the car. I looked at the front end of the trunk – there was a small window big enough for me to crawl through. So I did, I just wanted to get away from those men.

But then my mom started screaming – telling me to turn the engine on. I scrambled towards my seat, almost falling when my mom slammed her door shut. I was quick enough to stick the jingling keys into the holes they belonged in. My mom was mad, I’m pretty sure, because she didn’t say anything but turned them on very quickly. Then, she bent down. I thought she was going to give me a pat on the head – reassure me that I hadn’t done anything wrong. But then the car lurched forward, hitting one of the men. He was sprawled out on the hood – I screamed and she smacked me, telling me to be quiet. I didn’t say a word as she drove the car over the drunks that looked so much like him.

If only she’d do that to him.

[Rowan Dalton]

All-in-all, I thought that both of these were very interesting. They held my attention throughout the whole entry, and I could connect with the little boy's emotions and form a sort of bond with him, if you get what I mean. There was a lot of feeling in each of the entries, and they were both written quite well. Great job, Ella m'love~

Now, since you want a critique, that's exactly what I'll do. :3

First, grammar.
You've got a lot of fragments, and example of which is here;

"She never fought; she always acted as if she agreed with what he said. But I know she doesn’t."

Technically, you're not supposed to start sentences with "but", "and", "or", etc. A better way to phrase this would be something like "She never fought; she always acted as if she agreed with what he said, but I knew that she didn't."

That brings me to another grammar issue -- you switch from present to past tense frequently throughout the entries. It would make more sense if you stuck to just one tense throughout the entire thing. ^w^

Other than those two mentioned, I don't see any other grammatical issues.


As for the actual content; there's little I can say here, since I think it's quite perfect already. The only thing I'd suggest would be to possibly add a bit more detail? Throughout the entire first entry, for example, I saw the main character as being a little girl instead of a boy. Also, the first diary seems to take place after the second one, but I'm not entirely sure since they're posted in reverse order. Might just wanna clear that up. x3

That's it!
As I said, very interesting & well-done. :3 <33

[Kamilla Lestrange]

Women and children, they are the worst things to be. They are the ones who are manipulated, used, and then cast aside. They are seen as burdens or goods that can service an evil one for a minute or so.

Susie Salmon was a child. She was also a female. And if women and children are the worst things to be, what would life as a female child give? It would only grant you pain, embarrassment, and denial. I was a child once – although that seems so long ago. I know what it is like to be treated like a doll – pretty to marvel, so easy to break. But I was never a doll, not like Susie was.

Before I killed her, I told her to tell me she loved me. “The end came anyways.” It always does. They cry and choke through the gags that I’ve expertly set up for them hoping that maybe they will be the first ones to be let free. But after caging them and using them, I can never set them free. I kill them to set them free! The end is painful, but the terrible lives that were to be lead by them would be even worse.

She was a tiny thing, but she wasn’t tiny enough. I had to dispose of her still, lifeless body and so I retrieved the sack I had bought a few days ago. I carefully cut up the body; my razor peeled her limbs away slowly and steadily. Her blood did not stain the sack like I had predicted; it wasn’t until I tossed the sack into my basement that her blood started to seep and ooze onto the floor.

“What you got in there, a dead body?” There is a sinkhole in town. That sinkhole has become a popular place to toss trash away – now it is Susie’s grave. I drove there in my old truck, the body in a sack which was in a safe which was in the trunk. I told the woman, who had charged me twenty dollars to toss away the “empty” safe, that my safe was empty and useless as I did not know the combination. She and her husband joked about the weight of the safe. “What you got in there, a dead body?”

I’d love to see their eyes bulge and their veins pop when they realize that they were right.

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[Kamilla Lestrange]

Two days before Christmas, I decided to make a tent like the Dogon and Bambara of Mali construct. I was outside, constructing the posts that would make the frame of the shelter when Mr. Salmon approached me. For an hour, we worked in silence. For an entire hour, we worked to build this tent that had suddenly become an infatuation of mine.

I went inside after an hour. I went inside to verify the location of my carving knife – the knife that had ended the life of Mr. Salmon’s daughter. The blade used to shine like the stars that I once watched with my mother, but when I held it in my hand it was heavier. The girl’s blood had stained the metal black, adding weight upon it. It was ironic – the blade was heavier but my heart was not. Why should I feel regret for anything I have done? I have spared women and children from their miserable lives that were to come!

Seeing the blood crusted knife, reminded me of a time when I had read a piece about the people of Ayr. When a couple was married, a tent was constructed in their honor and draped with sheets as beautifully as possible.

When I came back outside, Mr. Salmon practically attacked me with his questions. I had gone back inside, retrieved some white cotton sheets, and come outside to drape the frame of the tent with. I gave a quick one word answer to his “What is that? What is that?” But when I passed a stack of the sheets to him, for us to work together again to create a bridal tent, there was a strange shock. It wasn’t the type of shock you received from electricity and static, it was a shock that startled both of us. It was after that shock that he seemed to look at me strangely.

He accused me of knowing something. The first time, I simply ignored him. I continued on the bridal tent. I did not avoid his eyes or his gaze, in fact I held them. I felt no regret or fear, despite the fact that Mr. Salmon was taller and stronger than me. I expected him to stomp away angrily, like a temperamental child, but he stayed and we continued our work in silence.

The word that shattered the still air was her name. He uttered his dead daughter’s name when I suggested he go home. The second time he accused me of knowing something, I told him to go home. I couldn’t help him, I told him. And then I retreated into the bridal tent we had just finished. I did not wait to see if he walked back home. I sat in the center of the tent – the tent that we had just built as, what our neighbors would consider, friends.

[Rowan Dalton]

Waaaw. Perfect.

I love the two recent entries with all my heart. ALL OF IT. >D

There's seriously nothing I'd suggest fixing; they are amazing. Both of them left me wanting to know more. Desperately wanting to know more.

I'm all "omg what next what neeexttt?" x3

That little boy grew up to be one hella scary adult.
oWo

[Kamilla Lestrange]

LAST POST

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He knocked on my door today. He asked me about the conversations I had had with Mr. Salmon. I explained to him that we had been building a bridal tent and he asked the expected – what is a bridal tent? I told him that I do it every year, a tradition in honor of my late wife. I told Len Fenerman, the man who is in charge of the Salmon case, that her name was Leah. The last officer who had interrogated me had been told that it was Sophie. And the next investigator will be told that the name is Susie.

He apologized – they always apologize and I smile a sad smile that pleases their empathetic hearts. I provided a little anecdote. “In the past, I’ve done it inside, but I tried to do it outside this year.” I offered to show him where I usually erected the tent. “In the basement. I can show you if you want. I have all of Leah’s belongings down there still.”

Len was uncomfortable then. He doesn’t understand how it is to see someone die. The ones who see death, crime, and villains everyday are ignorant when it comes to the experiencing the scene. I’ve seen it – I see it every time I watch my “wives” struggle for the last breath. I close their eyes, dismember them, and then bury them in places like sinkholes so they can never be found. The police let them go. The women and children do not matter in this world. They are there solely to be twisted and molded to fit the mold society has set for them. I set them free, I break the mold. I make sure they are never forgotten, for who can forget a blushing, rambling girl who was suddenly captured and taken away?

When my mother left, I knew I would never forget her. When I bury the bodies in swamps, toss the bodies into oceans, I know that erasing their physical memory will ensure that they were loved. My mother is dead, that is certain. But not knowing where her decaying corpse is haunts me. We men like to feel powerful and omniscient and by submitting to me, the girls find a way to finally break out of their terrible lives – even if they never live long enough to have the satisfaction imprinted in their eyes.

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[Kamilla Lestrange]

eight grade writing assessment. practice test.
should cell phones be allowed in school? hell yes!

Once you enter the air conditioned atrium of Hopewell Middle School, you are required to shut down your cell phone. The administrative staff refuses to acknowledge the positive influences phones can present but rather dismisses them as possible threats claiming that they provide a massive distraction that just cannot be ignored.

At Hopewell Middle School, every student is in danger that has been amplified by the absence of emergency communication. By eliminating phones from the entire campus, incidents such as the massive death count at the Virginia Tech Shooting can occur again. When a mentally disturbed and armed student entered the college campus last year, thirty three students – including the assassin himself – were shot before the school emailed alerts to the student body. Instead of demanding an effective evacuation through intercoms, phone calls, or text messages, the school chose a slow, meandering way of communication that required students to be in their dormitories on their computers at a bustling time of day. During the Columbine High School massacre in 1996, students were taken hostage and their status of living could only be verified through phone calls. For ten days, America watched a silent school erupt in sporadic gunfire. Anxious parents were in a frenzy that could only be quelled by phone calls made by students who hid in fear; they called the radio stations, local police station, and their parents to reassure them they they, the students, were still living and that they desperately needed help.

While the cell phone can be a crucial means of emergency communication, it can also be effectively used in secured situations as well. The cell phone has basic tools – such as a calculator – that can aid students on a daily basis but it also has several unique features that can be enabled as well. The cell phone has swift internet. News, quick facts, and history – it has all been captured and contained on the Internet. Even teachers own blogs that are updated daily with homework and study guides. The Internet has become deeply imbued into America’s learning curriculum; the cell phone allows the internet to be portable and efficient – even more so than the slimmest Mac Book Air.

To rip away the Internet would be similar to an atrocity; children of the digital era can be expected to forfeit their iPods, PSP’s, and laptops for brief instances but the cell phone has become sacred. It is not just a tool and an emergency dial; it is a social connector as well. The texts and calls will not stop because cell phones have been banned. They will, instead, be transported about on hidden phones. Instead of struggling with cell phone attached students, Hopewell would benefit of the principles manipulated cell phones and their addicts into responsible students. Cell phones are distracting but most students can work through most distractions. By encouraging such admirable behavior, cell phones can be allowed and used freely. When given the opportunity to use such treasured items, students will tire of it or cease to stop fighting for it. When cell phones are banished, their allusive powers are only amplified.

By realizing the destructive behavior strict cell phone rules can emit, the staff members of Hopewell Middle School can contort that power to promote responsibility. Decreasing the stigma concerning phone usage can transform cell phones into a positive influence on education, safety, and Hopewell as well.

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