The Great Yokai War

Hey guys! Sorry I haven't posted in awhile again =-( I have A LOT of work to get done in the next five weeks, but I just wanted to tell you guys about this movie I's Japanese, very cool! Maybe we could watch it sometime when we have another Dragonminds meeting? =-) Have a great day!And I miss you guys!!! xoxo
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Robots in Grocery stores

It was a beautiful morning as I walked into the grocery store. I sighed as the automatic doors opened for me. I had an hour to open the store. It was just me, and it was the first day ever of running the robot associates. They were the new thing invented. It looked liked the future had come. It was about time! Still there is no flying cars whatsoever. I am still disappointed about that. Though I did hear rumors about them being made. They are going to cost an arm and a leg, but I don't care. I want my flying car! I punched in the time clock. 6am. The store open at 7am. I walked behind the customer service desk, and hit the red button that turned on the robots. My manager had programed the robots what to say and what to ask on what was on sale, and if we were giving donations. I know this would be a pain for some customers, but if they didn't like it, Uscan was still available. But for how long? I wondered.

The robots came to life. Their metal bodies making churning noises, and their bodies rising. The cash registers sprang to life. Even though we had robots, we still had baggers that were humans. Sure robots were the new thing of the future, well the present I should say. They were the latest thing out now. Most stores would be surrounded by robots, and then work places wouldn't need humans. Then how were we to make our money? By people learning how to run the robots. Oh sure we would still have tech support jobs and clerical and junk, but just having robots thrilled me.

The robots were standing tall, straight and proud. They were naked, and only had on a name badge. I had felt they deserved names. So I gave them each name badges. No numbers. My manager thought I was crazy. Well who cares what he thinks. I like these robots.

7AM. The first bunch of customers seemed to like the robots. They got used to them pretty quickly. One customer commented on how speedy and safe they were. They put the perishables in a separate place.

My phone chimed. Someone was having trouble at a register. Or a robot I should say. I hurried over and one of the baggers said that the robot had shorted out. I knew what to do. I fixed him right up, and he began working.

"There you go. Paul is good as new." I said with a smile. The bagger smiled and continued to work.

I sighed. Today was going to be a successful day. Just how long until someone complained about the robots? How long would it take to dislike something so horrid? My body quivered. I had hoped the robots would at least last a year.
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    bored bored

Dusk Thought

The white circle haunting its way through skinny, cracked limbs of trees and the smell of frigid ice blowing in the blustery coming of evening. Can't you just imagine the color of wind? Is it animated smokey hands grasping each twig and limb of trees and the chimneys of each house forcing its way across the land? Does it accidentally leap across the open road and slap the side of our car? And what of the pallid moon? Out during the sun's reign as a warning that the Earth moves, another day has been removed and she, the moon, will be queen of dark dreams.
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    mellow mellow
longing for you

(no subject)

A Writer’s Voice

Slip the lean paper stick into my mouth and head out into the wind with book in hand.
Slip the camouflaged coat onto my lean frame and head out into the wind with book under arm. The wind, it whirls and it swirls and it smites the flame on my cigarette.
Whispering wind, what are you saying to me? What was the spoken whisper to do for me? I cut across the sidewalk to lean against a building to re- light the lean stick. The flame illuminates my face in the dark and the wind, an ocean roar tickling in my ears; what is it whispering? I am almost home with the book, but that whisper of wind, a sweet sorrow like firm tickling voice; what was it saying? It has as much meaning to me as the empty swooshing sound of hovering dragonfly wings. And so I walk slowly lingering in wind which was coiling my hair, calling out gibberish. So what it whispers is what I wish it to say, I said so silently into the night, and wind comes back more forceful, moaning. I am floating, hovering now looking at the universe and smoking and looking and realizing, I am my own universe and I must get home; I must while the night still lives before work the next day. The whisper of wind says what I want it to say, words hover like delicate transparent wings on the puff of a breeze in my mind, hover and ready. Precious life is mine to express and only mine. The wind is my own voice and I make it say whatever and then I write it down and it becomes, a written marvel.
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Here is a poem! I hope you guys like it! Let me know,k?!

Memento Mori

One day we'll never again look upon the sky;

never more glance upon the sea.

One day we must say goody-bye, and

forget whatever was and what will never be.

The sun and moon and stars in time, too, shall fade

as the years slowly slip away.

There is not a soul exempt;

there is a debt that we all must pay.
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(no subject)

This place is dead! We need to have another challenge or something.. to keep the creative juices flowing. I've been feeling inspired all week..Yet I don't know what to write. If I start something I know I'll just not finish it. Ugh. I could always write short stories :D

my library challenge submission

 Me and my friends were talking about cars one day. That brought up a bunch of old memories of our old rusty car. I remember sitting in the gray car with dad. Our countless trips to school. He often made me late for school. "It was the cars fault. It's old and rusty. It backfires on the high way. When you go to put on the breaks, it stalls a few feet before the light." That didn't help much in getting me out of detention. All the principal said was "Please get your car checked out." Dad refused to get Old Rusty checked out. It was a perfect car. I kept hammering him about the breaks. It took a lot of persuation(sp?) until he fixed the breaks. "What about a paint job dad? To hide the rust and junk?" I asked hoping to change his mind. He shook his head no. "I'm sorry darling, but the car is like a son to me." He charrished that car, called it his own, took very good care of it. He even washed it once a week, even in the bitter cold. There was one thing that to do; he refused to cover up the rust, and deformed colors that formed on the car over time. He always said "Those deformed colors are a symbol of aging. You see we are all going to have deformed colors some day darling." That made me want to hurl, but I knew what he meant. He and that car were tight. They held a special bond. They knew how to tick each other off. Whenever the car would start to back fire, curse words would fly from dad's mouth. I've witnessed it. "Don't you ******* start on me now!" With a pat on the dash board, the car was good to go. They reminded me of an old married couple. Always bickering and what not. Yes dad loved that old rusty car. 

Years later old pictures of dad sat on our book shelf. Dad had passed away and wanted me to have the pictures, to remind me of  everything we shared with the car. Most importantly he wanted me to remember how much that car was rusty. Every time I see an old rusty car, I think of dad and his rusty car. I never look at rusty cars the same way.

The Escape

The rusty old car is all she could afford and she stood beside it having second thoughts about leaving. her torn faded jeans let too much of the bitter cold autumn air and her thick black hair needed combing; she had dressed quietly, in the dark, a spontaneous last minute thought. She was not going to stay; they were too cruel and she knew it as abuse one must not fight. No, one must flee and relinquish thoughts that this was cowardly. The car was bought two days ago by her in secret and it sat on the other side of the road, across from the house, shedding flakes of red rust. They would walk by, her family, and point and stare and ask, what is that? who parked it there? It was old and coughed like an old man with a chest cold when she started it up yet, it was her only means of escape. Four hundred and seventy-five dollars it cost her. The greasy man who sold it to her was honest when he said it was a good ol' car but it won't get too far. All she cared about was getting far enough away and then she could walk. She was seventeen and in a few weeks would turn eighteen. However, her impatience and the insufferable abuse made her decide now was the time.

She left everything in her room, her stuffed animals, her tv, her posters, her stereo. She left it all except three books of poetry, pen and paper, and her laptop. The bicycle would not fit anywhere on or in the old car so she had to leave it behind. She inhaled the cool air sharply " this is it" she said. as she wrestled to open the rusted door, she cut her finger and a few drops of crimson blood splattered onto the pavement. she shook her finger in pain then, climbed into the car. She shut the door and turned on the coughing old man who sputtered at her in grumpy choking defiance. as the car slowly awoke, she looked up and there stood her father, in front of the car, his robe open. He was as hairy as grendel and lumpy as old mashed potatoes. He said not a word; her heart pounded in her chest and the panic gurgled in her intestines. He had the pistol, oh God, he had the pistol clutched in his claw.

"I knew it was you who got the car" he growled. "turn that off Donna and come back into the house." She shook her head violently and he jumped angrily onto the hood of the car, knocking a pancake-sized piece of rust off of the hood. She quickly locked the doors and he raised the pistol at her from the other side of the wind shield glass. She screamed with no voice and tears blinded her sight. Slam, her foot landed like three tons of pressure onto the gas petal and the car roared like a lion, thrashing its mane from side to side, knocking her father off of the hood. Never before had she heard and felt such power; maybe she underestimated the old car. She rapidly switched to reverse and then back to drive yet, her father was up on his feet again and he threw himself in front of the car waving the pistol. The petal appeared to press of its own accord as the car roared a mighty sound from the engine and leaped forward growling. The thump of her father underneath was soft and ended within a few seconds. She was crying and as the car sped away, her with it, she looked back in the rear view mirror dreading the worst. As the car flew down the street, the form in the road grew smaller and the tiny man in the road got up, and limped back into the house. She sighed in relief, but now, she would have to hide. He will tell lies now; make it out that she was the abuser and she tried to kill him even though the truth was, she only wanted her life back. She only wanted to be free.