What's Your Favorite?

So,

I have a publisher who was curious to hear of my Re-telling of the Little Red Riding Hood tale and was wondering if I, perhaps, wanted to do a whole series of fairy tales from different character's perspectives. Here is my list so far of ones I was going to attack, however, if there is one that you feel I left out, by all means, let me know!

Rumpelstiltzkin

Three Little Pigs

Princess and the Pea

Hansel and Gretel

Frog Prince

Emperor's New Clothes

Elves and the Shoemaker

Ugly Duckling

Snow White

Sleeping Beauty

Repunzel

Goldilocks and the Three Bears

Cinderella

Jack and Beanstalk

So let me know if I missed any big ones (I know there are some I can't do: Pinocchio, Little Mermaid, and Beauty and the Beast being the most popular)

I won't tell you whose perspective I'm doing each from, since that would give too much away ;)

Something New?

So, here is the prologue of a new book idea I had the other day. I know I haven't written in a while, due to shows, but I am locking myself in my room until September 20th. Though my main goal is to continue working on the Alexus Martin book series, I had this idea randomly and thought it best to write it down.

This is a very rough draft, I'm sure there are typos and mistakes all over the place, but I am trying to figure out if this is even worth spending my time to work on. Let me know what you think.

Prologue

I never asked for this.

I had no desire for this darkness that resides in my veins. Most people would envy the immortality. The eternal youth. But I can’t appreciate the seduction of the subtle perks with such a black soul.

I wish I could describe to you what it feels like. Most would call it a hunger, but I remember what hunger feels like to a human. It’s so much more than that.

Humans become hungry because their bodies need food to survive.

For my kind the hunger goes deeper. Our souls need the blood to survive.

Humans might devour or inhale their food, but my kind… we ravish.

That’s how I was turned, in any event.

I know that, ever since Bram Stoker, a romantic idolization of being bitten has engendered in popular culture. As thought the sexual energy residing behind the penetrating bite was alluring.

And maybe it’s different in other cases. But as I’ve mentioned, I wasn’t the luxury of a choice.

I was nineteen when it happened. A sophomore in college.

I lived on campus, sharing a cramped room with three other girls. We weren’t the closest friends, but we got along just fine. Amanda was the nerdy science type while Brie was all for sorority pledging.

In hindsight, I appreciate the irony of it happening to me when Amanda worked late and along in the labs and Brie pranced from party to party. The two of them always walked alone at night. I was the good one – I called for police escort every time.

Well, every time but once.

I guess that’s how fate works, though. Patiently waiting for that one time.

I had been studying late in the library with a group of friends. As we were leaving, complaining about the stupidity of general education classes, we all began walking together along the main path. My dorm was the closest to the library. My friends offered to see my to the door, but the building was right in sight. I urged them to continue on, they still had quite a trek to their rooms. I promised I would be fine.

I promised.

I jogged down the well-lit side path as my friends disappeared out of sight.

I almost made it to the door when I was grabbed from behind. A frozen hand clamped over my mouth. I was so surprised I don’t even think I tried to scream until I’d been dragged to an isolated spot where no one could hear me.

Remember what I said earlier about the whole seduction part of the bite being a load of crap? Well, it is. Unfortunately, the sexual arousal part of it was not crap. Listen, I’m not here to go into gory details, but let’s just say my soul was not the only thing I lost that night.

Again, looking back, I understand I was meant to die. And I would have, if it hadn’t been for her.

As I lay there, assaulted and seeped in my own blood, I could my body convulse, begging death to take me from this sickening world.

Instead, I was sent an angel.

The moon beamed upon her alabaster skin, illuminating her delicate figure past the cloudy haze of my losing consciousness. Her vibrant red hair seemed to reflect the blood surrounding me – pulsating with a new sense of life.

“Come now,” she crooned. “Don’t give up that easily.”

She knelt down by my head and bit her forearm.

“Open up.”

My mouth snapped open at the command, eager to please the magnetic hold of her silver gaze. She placed her dripping arm over my mouth and ordered me again.

“Drink.”

I closed my eyes as the thick syrup assaulted my tongue. Imagine every delicious meal you’ve ever had. Now try to pick out that one bite that was the most savory. All those bites from all those meals were reflected in her blood. Drinking from her was the most satisfying feast of my life. Wryly appropriate for my last meal. Well, of my mortal life, anyway.

Her blood slunk into my veins, corrupting my purity with the haze of strong wine.

My convulsions subsided as I lost consciousness. And that’s the last thing I remember about my old life.

Oh.

My attacker?

Yes, I remember him. It’s funny, that’s another fact the fiction writers got wrong: memories. The stereotype of mortal life being a blur is a complete fallacy. Your mortal memories are the strongest. I see them play before my eyes constantly. It overpowers my senses, nearly knocking me down with the suddenness of the flashback.

The strength of our mortal memories are part of our punishment, you see. A reminder of our lack of a soul. An admonition that we no longer have a life, that we are dead.

So, yes. I remember my attacker vividly. I don’t think I could ever forget that face, even if my mortal memories did dull. I wish I could erase that part of my life. But the violence of the deed is engrained in my memory for eternity.

Study Group

Study Group

“Nicole, can you pass the ketchup?”

“Sure, Blake.”

“Hey, do you know when our next O3 club meeting is?”

“Thursday,” I replied. “When do you think we’ll get our tests back?”

“Oh, God. Never I hope,” laughed Blake.

“No! I hope we get them back right away!” Nicole insisted. “I mean, though, we all know I’m going to an ‘A’ again.”

“Yeah, too bad for the rest of us.”

“Well, maybe if you and Sam studied as hard as I do, you would get ‘A’s as well.”

“I do study, Nicole. I just don’t have your knack for science. Not all of us can be geniuses ‘Spock’.”

“Woah, the two of you calm down,” I interrupted. “We don’t need to be fighting over something this stupid.”

“Well, you may think science grades are stupid, but they matter to some of us, Sam.”

“I’m not saying they don’t – ”

“Well the both of you sure act like don’t care. I mean, I do all the work in our group projects anyway.”

“Nicole, that’s just not true and you know it.”

“Fine, then on our next project you two can do the work together and call me when you’re done!”

“Nicole! Wait!”

“Dude, did she just bail on us?”

“Looks like we’re on our own this time, Blake.”

“We’re screwed aren’t we?”

“Yup.”

“Do you want to buy her the please-forgive-us present this time or shall I?”

“Split you fifty-fifty.”

“Deal.”

Worth A Thousand Words

Worth A Thousand Words

“Dawson Company. How may I direct your call?”

“Paul Carpenter,” a sympathetic voice implores into my headpiece.

“One moment,” I reply as I push the barely worn button to Paul’s cubicle.

I peer over my desk to watch Paul. I’ve noticed a change in his disposition ever since his wife left him three months ago, pregnant with someone else’s child. I never got the full story, but I know better than to pry when it comes to Paul.

I can feel my brow crease with concern as Paul runs a shaking hand through his thinning hair. He slowly removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. With a steady nod he hangs up the phone.

Paul gingerly replaces his glasses and picks up the picture on his desk. I instantly know which picture it is – the only picture. The one of Paul standing with his daughter on her graduation, dressed in her uniform, standing next to her country’s flag. His daughter smiles so brightly she almost outshines the grimace in Paul’s eyes – the desperate twinkle imploring her to reconsider, to choose a different life path.

Paul turns the picture face down on his desk before slowly standing up. Ever so methodically he put his coat on and heads towards my desk for the door.

“Going to lunch Mr. Carpenter?”

“No, Stacy,” his voice cracks on my name. “I’m going home… not feeling well…”

He trails off as his feet lead him out the door.

The Second Adult

The Second Adult

December 25, 2009

Don’t you just hate Christmas? I don’t mean the getting presents parts, that’s fine, but the seeing relatives part. And I don’t mean the relatives that you see everyday – parents and siblings – those guys are fine. I mean the grandparents, aunts, uncles, and hoards of annoying cousins. And it comes right after Thanksgiving. I mean, it’s bad enough we have two major family-gatherings per year, but do they really need to be back to back?

“We’re almost there,” my mother says from the driver’s seat of our red minivan.

I hurry to hide my plastic, purple diary in my luggage – I don’t need my cousin Brett stealing it like he did last year – I can continue my rant later. I zip my bag closed just as the car rolls to a stop.

“Mommy, I have to potty,” I hear my little brother whine from the backseat of the car.

“Well, someone’s got a small bladder,” I mutter and am granted with a small giggle from my younger sister.

“Claire,” my mother warns in her scolding-voice, “help Ben get his mittens on so his fingers don’t freeze and take him up to the house. Make sure he gets it in the toilet bowl. Then come back here immediately unless you want your stuff left in the car.”

“But what about my big bag? That one is too heavy for me to carry up the hill.”

“Well, that’s why I told you to pack only what you could carry. If you want to pack books, that’s your prerogative. You know the rule in this house is that everyone carries their own luggage.”

“Ben doesn’t carry his own luggage,” I retort.

“Ben is four, you’re fourteen. Now, come on Claire, you promised you were going to behave on this trip. As the oldest, I really, really need you to be the other adult on this trip, remember?”

My mother’s hazel eyes beg me to cooperate, and as much as my teenage instinct is to rebel, I know just how much she needs me to be the other parent right now.

“Mommy, potty!” my brother’s outburst interrupts the guilt I was beginning to feel.

“Okay, Ben. Let’s go,” I reply. “You got your gloves?”

Ben’s small body leans over the car’s consol, proudly holding up two mittens shoved on the wrong hands.

“Oh my god, Ben. What are you, retarded? The thumb goes in here. You’ve got the hands backwards.”

“Claire, don’t call your brother ‘retarded.’”

“Even though it’s true?” Alice pipes up from the back.

My mother’s hands fly up to her temples, trying to rub out the headache that is probably forming from our bickering.

“Alice, your brother is not retarded, he’s just four. Come on guys, can we please just get inside and unpack in peace? Claire, get your brother to the restroom, he’s doing the pee-pee-dance.”

I shove open my car door and pull Ben over the consol the rest of the way since the car is packed too full for him to get out his door. I place the blond munchkin on the snow-covered ground with a crunch. I grab his now correctly mittened hand and lead him up to the house, his small form hopping from foot to foot as he continues his pee-pee-dance while compensating for his Michelin-Man snowsuit.

I lift him up to ring the doorbell when we reach the top of the hill where the old, large house sits. Ben gyrates as we wait for someone to answer. I hear footsteps stumble towards the door and can smell the relative before the door opens.

“S’mry Chrissmiss,” Uncle Ted slurs jovially.

I roll my eyes. It’s not even three o’clock and Uncle Ted has clearly been at the bottle for a while now.

“Hi Uncle Ted,” I begin in the falsely welcoming high-pitched voice I save for relatives I dislike.

“Chlara! My favrite lil’ niece!”

“It’s Claire, actually. And can Ben and I come in, please? He really needs to use the bathroom.”

“’Course!” Uncle Ted smiles as he gives us room to pass. “Iz slike I always say, when you calls, Mother Nature’s gotta go!”

Ben sprints for the restroom before Uncle Ted can finish his sentence. I start after Ben, but am stopped by a stampede of Christmas sweater wearing relatives.

“Oh, Claire! How you’ve grown! I swear you must be another inch, at least.”

“Finally, we can start the appetizers!”

“You haven’t changed a bit have you?”

“It’s about time that ungrateful mother of yours got you here. The rest of us shouldn’t have to suffer because she insists on living so damn far away.”

“Sorry,” I interrupt, “but I have to make sure Ben is alright in the bathroom.”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” my bitter, blue-haired great aunt Myrtle speaks up. “Every boy’s got to learn to go on his own sometime. We don’t need him making a hobby out of paired bathroom travels.”

“I didn’t know you could make a hobby out of a bodily function,” my second great aunt Doris replies.

“Doris, if anyone knows about making a hobby out of bodily functions it’s you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that remark, Myrtle.”

“Oh please, you caught the clap so many times it amounted to applause.”

I wince as I try to maneuver my way far from this awkward conversation and out of the mass of Santa and Reindeer themed wool, praying that Ben isn’t re-decorating the room with his urine. I almost make it to the edge of the pack when a strong hand comes down on my shoulder.

“Need some help there, Claire-Bear?”

“Uncle David!” I scream as I burry myself in his open arms. Uncle David helps pull me out of the mob just in time for me to see Ben returning with my ten year old Cousin Greg.

“I sent Greg to make sure Ben, was all right,” Uncle David reassures me. “How’d it go little man?”

“I went pee-pee!” Ben replies with excitement.

“Did you make it into the potty?”

“Yes.”

“Did you wash your hands?”

“Yes.”

“Way to go, little man!” Uncle David winks at me as he holds up a high-five for Ben to hit. “Does your mom need help getting stuff out of the car or has your dad got it?”

My gaze drops to the floor at the mention of dad.

“I don’t know about mom, but the rest of us sure need help with the car. Dad didn’t come.”

Uncle David frowns.

“Why not?”

I glance nervously at Ben and Greg who are hanging on every word I say. I know I have to relay this delicately so that I don’t tip off either of them.

“Daddy’s on a business trip with his secretary.”

Uncle David’s eyes double in size while Ben and Greg remain unchanged; my euphemism seems to have done the trick.

“Well, let’s go help your mother then,” Uncle David says with a new tinge of concern.

The four of us maneuver around the crowd of relatives still gathered in the middle of the hall, unaware that I escaped their grasps a full ten minutes ago. We slip through the door and begin the trek down the steep slope, meeting my exhausted mother and sister halfway.

“Hey, Jamie, need a hand?”

My mother drops her bags at the sound of Uncle David’s voice. She runs to embrace her older brother with tears in her eyes.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Uncle David reassures her. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“It only happened yesterday,” my mother explains as she wipes a tear from her cheek. “We were beginning to pack and he – ”
“Why is mommy crying?” Alice interrupts, tears starting to form in her own eyes, sympathetically mirroring our mom’s sudden emotional response.

Uncle David gives mom another hug so that he can whisper in her ear, but not quietly enough for me not to hear.

“Let’s get you inside and then we’ll find a place to talk.” Uncle David releases his hold and turns to his son with a mock-military command. “Sergeant Greg, do you think you can rally the troops to come help Aunty Jamie with the bags?”

“Yes, sir!” Cousin Greg salutes as he dashes back up the hill.

“Come on, lil’sissy,” I smile as I bend down to wipe away Alice’s tears. “Let’s get your stuff inside so you can have some hot chocolate, okay? Ben, can you grab your lunchbox of Leggos?”

Ben runs back to the car and returns with his plastic Transformers box. Alice nods to me with a final sniff and together the three of us continue up the hill. I glance back at my mother momentarily to see that look she wears when we’ve done something good. It’s a look of pride. And though I know this is going to be the longest and most painful Christmas ever, I know it means a lot to my mother to watch me mature right in front of her eyes; to start to become the woman that I will someday be.

Partners

Partners

“So, do you come here often?” Portia asked as she tried to ignore Lonnie chomping his gum.

“Oh, sure. All the time,” Lonnie shouted over the loud techno music, running a heavily ringed hand over his greasy hair.

“I can see why,” Portia lied back, inconspicuously trying to plug her nose so as to protect it from the stench of cheap cologne covering B.O.

Portia buried her face in the menu, trying to charm him with her eyes. She knew the information he had was more important then her life, but she still felt compelled to remind herself. If she was lucky, he would keep drinking, giving her enough time on a bathroom excursion to slip the mixture into his drink before the appetizers showed up.

“So, what do you suggest I try?” Portia batted her lashed innocently while adjusting her shirt to give him a promising flash of cleavage.

She smiled as she caught his gaze flicker downward, certain her trick had worked. She leaned in closer.

“Well, your rack – I mean, the lamb rack is great here but – ”

“Eh-hem.”

Portia jumped in her chair. She hadn’t seen the stranger enter. A sign, which did not bode well, given her years of training.

The stranger silently passed Lonnie a note and left.

“What’s it say?” Portia inquired as she watched Lonnie’s face redden.

“Filthy bastards!” Lonnie shouted as he stormed from the restaurant. “Hey! You! Come back here! What’s this mean they’re onto me?”

Portia started after Lonnie in attempt to distract him, but the deep voice that buzzed into her earpiece stopped her.

“Get out of there now.”

Discreetly twisting her head, Portia spoke into the microphone that had been attached to her earlier that evening.

“With all due respect, sir, I think I can still salvage this operation – ”

Portia winced as the voice of her superior intensified.

“I ordered you to retreat, Agent Spencer. Now.”

Portia quickly put on her raincoat as she withdrew her gun from its holder. She was careful to slip out the back, checking her surroundings in case the note-delivering man had any friends.

“Where do you want me to go?” Portia asked.

“Copy that, Agent Spencer. Report to Agent Hart’s vehicle behind the surveillance van.”

Portia tried to keep her calm as she crossed through the waterfall of rain to the black sedan, but she couldn’t help slamming the car door shut as she got in. Portia replaced her gun in its holster before dropping her head in her hands.

“Sorry, Hart,” she muttered when she finally looked up.

Her partner’s caring eyes found hers.

“Don’t worry about it, Spencer. Chief Bradford already has someone tailing the guy who blew your cover. We all know you tried your best.”

“But we should have had him! That was the best lead we’ve had in months, Hart. You know as well as I do that Greasy Lonnie is The Horseman’s dirty man. We just needed me to retrieve the key off him and we would have been able to trace The Horseman’s storage facilities. I mean, who knows how many other heads he has locked away? We’ve only reclaimed those few by chance. Those units could lead us to other murder victims!”

Grant Hart nodded.

“I know, Spencer. But it wasn’t worth risking your life. You know that the second The Horseman thinks the FBI is onto him he will move if not destroy any potential evidence. It’s better to wait and see if Lonnie figures out you’re the plant before we risk putting you in danger. That way we’ll know how to play him better.”

Portia sighed.

“Yeah, I guess. I’m just not happy about having to wait through more paperwork. I much prefer being in the field.”

Grant chuckled.

“Don’t we all?”

Portia returned his smile, watching as his gaze flickered from her face to the leather she was soaking.

“Sorry about getting your seats wet,” she apologized.

Grant shrugged.

“Eh, it’s the FBI’s car anyway. I’ll just charge them for the cleaning.”

Portia laughed for a brief second before the outside chill finally crept through her coat to her skin.

“Jesus, sorry, Spencer. You must be freezing. Here.”

“Thanks,” Portia replied as Grant turned the heater up to max.

“So, how bad was that for you?”

“How bad was what?”

“Pretending to flirt with Greasy Lonnie.”

“Oh, disgusting as always. But, as I’ve told you several times, I’m always happy to use my feminine wiles to help in our investigations.”

Grant frowned.

“I know, I just… I don’t like seeing you exploit yourself that way.”

“I think that because I volunteered to be the bait, you can’t exactly call it ‘exploiting.’”

Grant shifted his stiff body away from Portia, placing both hands methodically on the wheel of the car.

“It’s just difficult for me to hear creeps like that making moves on my partner.”

Portia leaned over the console.

“It’s very sweet that you’re so concerned for me, but I promise, I would drop kick that sleaze-ball long before he ever laid a hand on me.”

“Unless you were ordered to go that far undercover.”

Portia narrowed her eyes, trying to recapture the focus of her partner’s gaze.

“And your point would be…?”

“Nothing,” Grant clipped. “No point at all.”

Portia’s steely stare fixed on Grant until he couldn’t ignore her any longer. Grant floundered for the right words in silence for several seconds, yet the crackling of the radio saved him from needing a reply.

“Come in Agents Spencer and Hart,” Chief Bradford’s voice barked through the speaker.

Grant’s hand shot to pick up the radio.

“Agent Hart speaking.”

“Agent Raleigh has tracked the unidentified accomplice to an abandoned warehouse by the old pier. I want all agents to retreat until we can find out more information about this place.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And, Agent Hart?”

“As riveting as your conversation with Agent Spencer is, you might want to tell her to turn her wire off.”

“Yes, sir,” Grant replied as two blood-flushed spots colored his pallor face.

Portia’s still-defrosting hands fumbled under her drenched garments for the cord that was so surreptitiously taped to her body. Portia let out a small cry when the electric box shocked her dampened fingers.

“Did that creep hurt you?” Grant demanded, stopping mid-engine ignition.

“No, it’s the wire,” Portia assured him. “It just shocked me. I’m fine, though. Really.”

Grant nodded and turned his attention back to starting the car, though the concerned crease in his brow remained. After a couple of rain-related sneezes, Portia began to ask Grant a question when she was cut off by his grab for the radio.

“This is Agent Hart. Permission to speak, Chief Bradford.”

Portia was glad to hear that the Chief of Criminal Investigation sounded just as surprised by Grant’s outburst as she was.

“What do you want, Agent Hart? You’ve already been given orders to return to the office.”

“I understand that, sir. However, I think if Agent Spencer catches pnemonia she wont be very valuable to this investigation.”

“So what are you suggesting?”

“Permission to return Agent Spencer to her home before I report back.”

Portia shot Grant a murderous glance before grabbing the radio from him.

“Allow me to retract that suggestion, Chief. Agent Hart should have thought to ask me before he went an-and – ”

Grant stole back the radio as another round of sneezes came over Portia.

“As I said, sir. Permission to take Agent Spencer home first.”

Portia glared at Grant in the few moments it took Chief Bradford to come to a decision.

“Permission granted, Agent Hart. But you had better return to the office immediately after.”

“Yes, sir.”

A timid smile tugged at Grant’s mouth as he replaced the radio back into its holder.

“Great,” Portia sighed, “that means I’m going to have to do all that paperwork over the weekend.”

“No you won’t. I’ll fill in what forms I can to lessen your load.”

Portia’s gaze softened at Grant’s offer.

“That’s really sweet of you, Grant, but I’ll get it done.”

“Yes. With my help.”

Portia rolled her eyes.

“You just don’t give up do you?”

“No. You see, if I gave up, I would have no excuse to visit you during the weekend.”

Portia smirked.

“Well, maybe if you just asked, I’d invite you over for dinner sometime.”

Grant’s head snapped in her direction.

“I – I didn’t mean to – that is I would never put you in a position that would compromise our working together in anyway.”

“Which is exactly why I am putting you in that position. Listen, Grant. We can keep subtly flirting or we can just take the next step.”

Grant nodded.

“Right then… well, here you are.”

Portia reluctantly glanced at her house through the curtain of rain.

“Um, yeah, thanks for the trip home.”

“No problem,” Grant smiled. “So I guess I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“Absolutely.”

Portia smiled as she dashed through the downpour, glad that something good had come of her evening after all.

Happy Halloween Guys

Hey guys,

So here is a two page short I had to write in class and (since it was foggy a few days ago) I was in the Halloween mood when I wrote it. Hope you all enjoy.

But Just Ourselves

I don’t know where I am.

I don’t know how I got here.

I don’t know my name.

I have no memory of anything before this moment in time. I opened my eyes and here I was. In this white padded… room? Yes, a room, that must be what this place is called. Even though it’s rather small to be a room. Yet, I find the fact that I can identify this box as a room to be reassuring. Well, it gives me some encouragement at the very least.

I am suddenly conscious of my cognitive process. I can form words… form coherent thoughts… the word education comes to me…. But education from where? I understand all the connotations that come with the word, but without any memories, it is nothing more than a dictionary definition in the colorless textbook of my mind.

But as I lay here, reflecting upon the meaning of the word, a gradual calm spreads through the tension of my muscles, relief that I seem to be educated. I will need all the education I can rouse to get out of here.

It seems impossible really.

An enigma. A riddle without an answer. No, not a riddle – a joke. A cruel joke played at my expense.

I’m stuck in this room with no windows and no doors. This white padded cell holds me prisoner. The reason? I still can’t fathom why I’m here, or how I came to be trapped in the first place. I know I must have been somewhere before this moment in time.

Birth.

The simple definition is recalled from the back of my mind. I understand that I must have been born at some point, but a startling image comes with this word. I can see a woman – no, not any woman – a wife.

My wife.

Abruptly, I remember the pain of her squeezing my hand. I remember her harsh words screamed at me in the delivery room. I remember the smell of sweat and blood as she brought our child into the world.

Our child. Our son.
Birth: the word now has context for me. Unlike the word education which still rests numb on my tongue, despite the feeling that comes with the word. The feeling like I’m missing something.

Work. This word also holds no meaning for me, yet somehow the two words are connected. Work and education. Odd that these words hold no recollection for me… no sudden memory presents itself for my viewing.

Birth, wife, child, son… these are the words that mean something to me, even if I still can’t remember, can’t fully comprehend, their significance.

Love. That’s it. That’s the importance behind these words. The significance that is missing from my other vocabulary. A factor that only increases my need to get out of here. To escape from this white-cushioned confine.

I reassess my predicament, trying to use what education I can muster to attempt an escape. There must be a way out of this container. But as my sight adjusts to my dark surroundings, a new word comes to me – a new word that ceases all prospect, nay, all hope at escape. A new word which better defines this white-padded prison where I will spend the remainder of my days.

Coffin.