Oh, It Works, Alright

Attention Women!

 If it hasn't already happened, then I feel it's my womanly duty to let you know that in the very near future, your butt is going to become enormous and your breasts are going to sag. It's an inevitable happenstance in which very few are able to escape the wraths of, and I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news for those of you who aren't aware that our bodies suck. If you're one of those, as many of us are, who still hate this anyway, then fear not.

 You aren't alone.

 I mean, why shouldn't you be angry? It's no secret that women in magazines are artificially perfect, and we all have been told time and time again that they're photoshopped, that they aren't real, women don't look like that in real life. So why is it, then, that of the top five health concerns in women, three of them stll have to do with our self image? Shouldn't we know better than to compare ourselves to one another and to hate our bodies just because somebody decided there was a perfect way to look?

 The top three of the five women's health concerns include self consciousness, depression, and eating disorders such as anorexia and bulemia. So what's the problem, right? Why do we, as women, keep getting suckered into believing we don't look beautiful enough even when we're told time and time again that there is no such thing as a perfect woman or a perfect body?

 I can't pretend the solution is a simple fix. There are many contributing factors, and, most of the time, it's because our own friends and our own family are telling us, "Why yes, you look great, but you know what would make you look better?" Sometimes they do this subtly, telling us we look especially pretty one day. I don't know about anyone else, but don't you prefer to be told you look great every day? Notsofunny enough, the times I'm most complimented is when I wear makeup differently, or when I curl my hair, wear a dress, so on, so on. I'm not the only one, I know this. I don't hate compliments either, but I do hate anti-compliments, which is what leads us to the biggest anti-compliment of all:

 Consultant products geared toward making you 'more beautiful.' I'm looking at you, Mary Kay and It Works skinny wraps.

 I wasn't going to post this, I wasn't ever going to say anything, I was just going to silently loathe them all by myself and never let the world know. Mostly this is because I have a lot of family in the skinny wrap industry, and friends with Mary Kay, and I didn't feel it was right to go against them because you should be supportive of family, right?

 Right. Which is why I've decided to post this after all. So that they never have to feel belittled, not good enough, not pretty enough because someone else tells them they need one of these products to be better.

 Why bother saying anything? Won't going against the product inevitably lead to not supporting their work? Won't that sever the family bond, big or small, so that I can selfishly declare that I hate beauty consultation products so deeply, so passionately that I'm convinced that I would rather drink a pint of blood from someone with AIDS before purchasing their product?

 That's not my intention, and if that is what they get out of this then I hope to be understood. My goal is not to sever anything, but to repair what's being damaged. They don't mean to, and I don't even think they realize they are doing it. And that's what this is about: being aware of not just what you are selling, but who you are selling to, and why I have no doubt in my mind that it has damaged more than one person you care about, even if they don't know they were hurt.

 I can't speak on behalf of anyone else, but I wish to shed some light upon what these products has done to me. Funny how something I've never tried can be so damaging, but I assure you, I doubt I'm the only one.

 Scenario A: About a year and a half ago I posted a picture of Facebook to show that I had poked my own hole into my belt because I had lost enough weight from eating healthy and exercising that the holes in the belt were all too big for me. The picture showed the slight smidge of my stomach. Pale, I admit. Some hairs around my belly button that are blond, probably. The first comment on my success of getting to a healthy weight was thus:

Great! Now all you need to do is wrap it to tighten that stomach!

 Um... what?

 Great, your friends say. You look fantastic, they say. But do you know how you can look better?

 Because even when I was 5'9, sans stretch marks, size 6 human being, there was still someone telling me how I can be better. Now, I don't think the remark was poor intentioned, because the point of networking is to look for oportunities to sell your product, right? Right.

Scenario B: Upon attending a Mary Kay party, my sister relayed to the consultant that her "problem areas" were wanting to hide the circles under her eyes and that she wanted a face lotion with SPF in it. The consultant touched on neither of these. Why not? Could have been an easy sale to find the exact solution to a beauty problem but... wait... selling those products is easy, since you want those, but don't you know these are the things you really need to be beautiful?

 Ntworking means inviting all your friends, making sure everyone knows about what you do and finding those small moments to make a sale, because that's how networkers make their living. I know. I get it. But if you take nothing else from this, take this sentence:

 You are not a typical networking associate. You are marketing a product that sells because women are already vulnerable to the effects. I mentioned it: top causes of women's health concerns have to deal with body image. A typical networking business does not victimize, it targets. Typical networking companies are ACN networkers who sell internet to people who want better prices: that is their target. CutCo sells to individuals who habìtually use knives and could really use a good set. Scentsy sells candle wax, Simply Fun sells board games to encourage family bonding. So at what point does a networking company become a victimizer instead of just a targeter?

 When it can keep breaking what's already broken. Yeah, It Works really does work. Of course it works: because every woman hates something about her body already, because self image issues already plague an entire gender, so how can a product not work when it promises that they won't have to deal with their bodily disease of being an average sized woman if only they try this one thing? Because it's really great, Hannah, that you can be proud of your body, but because you are woman, you should know that your body can always, always get better? Try this Mary Kay cream: it will make you look like you didn't age a single day, because aging is bad.

 I'm not saying that's the intent of the companies. I'm not even saying that it hasn't changed anyone for the better or that it hasn't helped anyone make their body or face look better. By goodness, I'm sure some lucky woman out there looks phenomenal because chemicals reacted with fat cells just perfectly, "And it was only $25 to get started... but, oh yeah, it takes an average of 6 wraps to see best results," or, "You canwork your own hours and make as much money and..." ding ding ding, winner!

 When the creator of beauty companies created their company, did they say to themself, "I want to give women the opportunity to feel better about themself out of the kindness of my heart." No. They wanted money, so they picked something they could sell and made it happen, and nicely enough the target of their companies was obvious.

 Here's an irony of the fashion industry: they're telling us that we have to look a certain way only when it's convenient. But isn't it always convenient, you ask? Sure, when Abercrombie declares it markets towards skinny girls and Hot Topic sells the perfect dresses for getting that gothic look. The point is, ladies, the fashion industry is such a hypocrite. They get away with it, you see, because of that convenience factor.

 Let's all turn to the front page of our Wedding Catalogue. The front page because this is the page that tells you how to pick your wedding dress based on your body shape. Fear not, ye women who have been blessed with the hourglass shape: you look great in the big poofy ballgowns and essentially anything that isn't skin tight. Save those mermaid dresses for the girls shaped like an ironing board, because your butt is way too big for that dress. Okay, fashion industry, so you were right about the fact that I didn't look so sexy in the halter top dres but... hey wait a second... you're recognizing that women have different body shapes now? And, in fact, you'll even tell me how I can best dress to look hot on my wedding day, no matter what I do look like, even if I'm not that perfect model shape?

 Here's the thing. Fashion companies, beauty consultants, skinny wrap distributors, they all know that certain things aren't for everyone. I will not vouch for one more than the other, but since I hold this close to me, know this: It Works because they tell you it will work. Mary Kay wants you to buy their product because they get commisions, not because they want you to get the foundation so they don't have to continue looking at the zit on your face. They leave out how much it might work for your case because it's not convenient in their case to recognize our differences in body shape. Instead, it's more convenient to make you feel bad when 12 wraps later, $30 of eyeliner and $60 of face cream later, you look no better, so here: have this wedding dress catalogue and find a dress and hairstyle that matches your shape and face because you simply can't be perfected by these standards. It Worked, see? You'll look great in any of these dresses.

 Like I said, I know makeup consultation products and skinny wraps weren't allegedly born to make women feel bad. In fact, I'll agree they were made to make people feel better about the way they look. It's toned stretch marks and this foundation stopped oil-y skin, and that's great. I believe in women feeling good about themselves, and if Mary Kay is what makes them feel better, go for it! Be bold! Feel beautiful! But do not be suckered into the comments where you are told you need something in order to tone your stretch marks or make your hair longer. Know the difference between what is being sold and who it's being sold to.

Why You're Reading This

In my Writing Fiction class we have to write a little at least every day. Today I found my entry extra amusing, so I thought I would share it with everyone, as I may or may not do with some of my other more interesting ones.



If you're reading this it's because you smell really, really bad.

So bad, in fact, that I shirk at the idea of being anywhere near you. The way your blood flows under your skin makes my stomach churn in disgust. My disdain for your body and general appearance makes my head spin so much that thinking a thought about you makes me dizzy.

I know you showered this morning, or maybe it was yesterday, but I don't care. You're rank. The odor of your shampoo makes me nauseous, the soap you use too powerful for any one nose, assuming you used enough for me to smell it at all.

The point is, reader, you smell so terrible that the thought of eating you, your heart, your face, sounds like the least appetizing buffet one could ever come by. It would be like going to a steakhouse and ordering a salad without dressing.

So, I didn't eat you, and that's why you're reading this. I didn't eat you because I'm not a cannibal, and I'm not a cannibal because you smell bad.

On Auto Mechanics

There's a french writer named Guy de Montaigne who titles all of his essays "On ______", and since this isn't really a writing post I'm telling you this writing fact. You're all so very welcome.

But really, I kind of just wanted to rant today, because I don't think I've ever had a good experience with an auto mechanic. As much as I'd like to believe that gender roles are dispersing and that it has nothing to do with me being a girl, all the evidence indicates otherwise. Every. Single. Time.

When the alternator (translation for the car illiterate, like me: this is what makes your battery run, so when the alternator gives out the battery can't... charge? translation of translation: Your car won't start.) in my car gave out about a year ago, we towed it to a mechanic I used a couple times before. He charged me up the wazoo for the fix, and I found it for much cheaper elsewhere just by calling and telling him, "Look, I need the alternator replaced and I'm not stupid. I have the new alternator, how much to fix it?" Let's just say, having an old car sucks sometimes.

My power steering gave out last Thursday, and at first I had a bit of a hard attack because it sounded like I was running over a mechanical cat at first. So, of course at first I was like, "Oh no, poor mechanical kitty!" but then I reasoned this was silly, and instead I wondered what was wrong with my car until turning the wheel was about as fun as shining an old pair of tennis shoes, bad analogy and all. So, at least I figured that out all by myself. It was the next part that became tricky.

Let it be known to any female who doesn't know a thing about cars that there is an easy way to figure things out without having to do much. It can be done in an easy five steps, as follows:

1. Be female. If you are, like half the population of earth, male, this might require more effort, or you might just have to use other means. For that, I'm sorry.

2. Have problem. This can be anything from a flat tire to having your power steering not work, but there should indeed be a problem. Or, there doesn't have to be a problem if you want to get a laugh, or if you're hoping to meet your One and Only via Car Problem Diagnoserosa. Though uncommon, the movie Are We There Yet? proves this feat to be possible. Hopefully minus the electrocution.

3. Pop open the hood of your car. This tells other drivers passing by that there is a problem, too.

4. Stand in front of hood and look like you have no idea what you're doing. If you're me this is easy because you don't. By no means should you touch anything inside, because it might confuse people into thinking you do know what you're doing. Instead, you can look inside all confused-like and bob your head in and out of looking. Scratching your head might not hurt either. Or, you can put your phone up to your ear and bite your nails while looking off into the distance.

5. Wait no more than five minutes. Zing! (And when they ask if you need help, you should probably say yes. probably. Unless you like to be confused.)

Speaking of doing it as a joke, I think it might be kind of fun to just pull off on the highway and try this, just to see how many problems you can fake diagnose your car with by telling the people who stop, "Uh, there was a weird noise" or "There was some steam coming out from the hood." I may or may not try this. One day.

Anyway, after the boy who stopped told me that the pump was probably out, I decided to find the cheapest rate. This, I thought might be okay, because often when one asks about pricing the salesperson realizes they're competing. Today, I felt like such a nuisance to the salesman.

"Heeey, this Jose! How can I help you, man?"

Okay, one, Man? I haven't even spoken yet!

"I need a new power steering pump for my Infiniti G20, '92. How much?"

"Uh, lez see here... we have on in Salt Lake, can be here by 10:30 AM tomorrow. Is good with you?"

"Awesome. How much, though?"

"Oh, is _____ with ______ we'll refund if you bring the old one back. You sure it's a pump you need and that it's not low on fluid?"

Okay, I might not know TONS about cars, but I know enough to realize how stupid this question was. "Gosh sir! I didn't even think to check! Good thing you asked, because I was too stupid to think about the easy solution before ordering a new part," is what I think he must have expected me to say. Instead, I go, "Um, yeah. I checked the fluid."

"Well, was wrong with your car? Is hard to turn?"

And I'm sure he expected me to say, "No, it's really easy to turn. Like, as easy as doing donuts in ice. I'm just asking for a new pump in case one day I need it. You know, to be safe, because you just never know."

But, because I'm not passive aggressive enough to pull that off, I said, "Obviously."

And then, what bewilders me most is that he told me to come into the shop to order it. I asked if I could over the phone, and he goes:

"Yeah, you can, I jus' wanna make sure it's really what you need."

Okay. Really?

I'm thinking: "Hey, I just told you my car is broken. Which is why I'm asking you for a part... because my car. is. broken."

If I was meaner, I would have said so, but I'm not mean to people I don't know (to their face), so I just said, "Okay, I guess I'll come in later."

But I totally wasn't going to, so my brother in law called in later and asked for it, and they didn't tell *him* to bring the car in *just in case*.

I really don't know what all this ranting is for, except to tell you that I'm so frustrated with jacked up prices that magically go down for males, for all the unnecessary inconveniences that males don't have to endure, and mostly to whine that my car needs fixing tomorrow which means I have to either play candy crush in the shop all day or walk home. And maybe someone might feel a little sympathy and offer me a ride back.

Smiley face.

Anyway. I guess the good thing about having an old car is that I'm learning a lot about them. I now know about mufflers, alternators, tires, power steering, and oil changes. Hooray!

Next post will be more awesome, I promise.

Water After a Day in the Sahara

Saturdays, I said? Saturdays it is.

Actually, it just happened to work out that way. I wrote tonight, and it's for practice since I don't know where I'm going with this. I do know, however, it won't be a long piece. I'm thinking it will be a 3-5 part piece as an exercise. The good news is:

Hooray! I'm finally writing again! (Just in time for finals to start but... let's not talk about that.)



Untitled

            I did it because Emma said she’d never kiss a boy with virgin lips.

            My best friend Danny will tell you that it was because he convinced me to do it, but that wasn’t why. Yes, he did tell me to, but he was kidding. He didn’t actually mean for me to do what he told me to, it was all fun and games.

            Standing of the porch of Emma’s house, the porch light glowed purple from previous Halloween decorations, even though that was over half a year ago. Danny and my friend, Greg, were with me, huddled in a bunch around Amber. Her long, blond hair drew most guys in, such as Danny and Greg, but somehow her flirtatious voice and sexy eyes repelled me. Emma, on the other hand, sat on the white porch swing, her legs bringing her slowly back and forth as she poked into the conversation here and again.

            Emma was beautiful. Her short, auburn hair was cropped up in a braid, and her eyes glowed purple under the porch light. I couldn’t help but continue glancing over in her direction now and again, but I had to refrain most of the time so that she didn’t know that I kept staring. At appropriate intervals I would crack my knuckles, clear my throat, laugh a bit louder, and everything else I could do to both keep myself occupied and wonder if she paid attention to what I did.

            Mind you, the kissing discussion was days before this night. It was a night I had her alone on her couch going over math homework. I helped her since she couldn’t comprehend numbers the way my mind did, and I was happy to since we were in the same college course anyway. We only got on the subject because one of her roommates came in the door and ranted a long story about her bad boy-kissing experience she’d just had. Then Emma said it.

            “I don’t know you do it. I would never kiss a boy with virgin lips.”

            This shouldn’t have bothered me as much as it did because Emma and I weren’t a thing, so there was no rational reason for me to be upset. Somehow, I was anyway.

            Back to the conversation on the porch. I keep losing myself in the point, here. The point was on the porch, and the story started on the porch. Where Amber twiddled her hair, and Danny fiddled his thumbs, and I did all I could not to piddle and make a fool of myself in front of Emma.

            “Josh would be good at poker,” Amber said, blinking her long, sexy eyelashes in my direction. Sometimes I think I annoyed her when I didn’t give her the proper attention she required, which is why she ever bothered acknowledging me at all. “Have you played, Josh?”

            “Yeah,” I said. “I played. No good. Danny calls my bluffs.”

            “What? We haven’t played before,” Danny said, but then raised his eyebrows. “I see what you did there.”

            I was the smartest guy I knew, yet I couldn’t seem to figure out how to get the attention of the right girl. Hoping I impressed her with my pre-planned wit, I turned to look at Emma, but she focused on chipping the polish off her fingers.

            That was when, out of nowhere, a white car pulled up and came to a screech in front of the house. Since it was well past midnight, nobody else was out, nor had anyone come by for at least an hour. Needless to say, all our attention turned to the white car as the passenger window rolled down and a girl with long, shiny red hair leaned out the window.

            “Hey. You want to kiss me?”

            I remembered that she said it that way. It wasn’t, “Come kiss me,” or “One of you want a kiss?” so none of us knew who she was talking to.

            “Who’s that?” asked Greg. I didn’t know, and neither did Danny, so together we shrugged.

            Amber giggled and I caught myself staring at the girl in the passenger’s seat. Not because she was outstandingly gorgeous, but something else. In fact, from that distance I would have rated her a 7 out of 10, or a 6.4 at the lowest.

            “Should I do it?” Danny asked, chuckling. “I’m tempted.”

            “You should,” Amber said. “Don’t you think one of them should, Emma?”

            Since the attention was on Emma, I allowed myself to look back and stare this time. It’s okay when she was the one talking, right? Instead of responding, she shrugged. “Danny kisses everyone, so who cares.”

            “Maybe I should, then,” Greg said. “She’s pretty.”

            I don’t know what got into me. Maybe a flash of stupid, maybe some other form of blank brain. All I remember was walking toward the car and watching her face transform from a 6.4 to a 8.3 the closer I got, and by the time I stood right next to her she was a 9.2, but still not the most gorgeous being on the planet. Her eyes were grey and sparkling, her skin looked soft, and her long red hair dazzled me. That was why the only thing I remember thinking when I leaned down was that I would never kiss another girl as pretty as her again. So I did it: I kissed her for a few short seconds, then pulled away from her lips. Mine tingled in a weird way where they both begged for more and questioned why I stopped.

            I also hadn’t noticed that, in that time, Danny came right next to me and patted me on the back. “I believe you just took his first kiss, madam,” he said to the red-headed girl. “With that said, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

            The reality of the situation caught up to me. I flushed, embarrassed of myself. What had I done? It had been my first kiss, and I bet she knew it by the way my lips hadn’t moved much. What shocked me most was realizing that I gave my first kiss to the most beautiful stranger I’d come across, and I didn’t mind, somehow.

            Then, with dread, it occurred to me that Danny had come in to take my place, so my time had come and gone. There would be no competing with his brooding, masculine frame compared to me average one. He was tall, dark, and handsome, I was thin, white, and “cute” as some girls would say. Whatever that means.

            “I’m available for dinner. Meet here at seven?” she asked, her grey eyes sparkling more.

            “He’ll be here.”

            Then the white car and the girl with long red hair drove away. It wasn’t until Danny pounded me on the back again that I realized he didn’t set himself up with her, he set me up.

            “Josh,” he said after the back pound. “You must be out of your head tonight. Either she was one helluva beautiful girl to you, or you’re one helluva’n idiot. I like your style.”

            It wasn’t until I turned around and saw Emma and Amber curled over on the porch, laughing, that it dawned on me: Emma noticed me.

Quote of The Day

I heard successful bloggers do something special that makes them really successful. It was kind of fancy:

Blog.

Oh yeah. I don't do that, do I? Sometimes, when I get bored of stalking all my friends on the Facebooks, so I stalk myself instead. On my blog. And it's cool.

For now, I'm going to try to do it once a week. Saturday sounds like a good day, yeah? I don't have a life anyway, so what else am I going to do besides write to all of you about all of my amazing writing adventures?

Today, I offer a quote from Robert Frost. I used to have a bunch of quotes on my wall (not Facebook... I mean I wrote them on my room wall) and this one is my favorite:

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature's first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold
Her early leaf's a flower
But only so an hour
So leaf subsides to leaf
As Eden sank to grief
So dawn goes down to day
Nothing gold can stay.

And a bonus quote from The Outsiders:

Stay gold, Ponyboy.


A bien tot!

Modern Day Awesome

I cringe a little bit every time I look back at my old stuff. Not because it's horrible beyond repair, but because I have learned so much from taking a class from author Carol Lynch Williams that my old stuff, in comparison, is... just...

Okay. Terrible. Absolutely wretched.

(And she's probably dead now because I just used an adverb. Shoot, I did it again.)

Anyway, in lieu of writing less crap and more awesome, I've decided to install a short snippet from my most recent scene. Even though it's a chick lit, this scene should appeal to any audience, as I intended for a funnier piece to detract from all the drama that goes on before this scene. I think you'll be able to catch on.

Pending Titles:

How To Screw Your Life Over (And Make it Look Intentional)
    [My personal fave, but the title's a bit lengthy]

Square as a Pear

Confessions of a Dramaholic

For now, we'll call her: Untitled. I feel this is very original.

Chapter Eight

            Dr. Mullins leans backwards in her chair, and I imagine her sticking her feet up onto the cheap wood desk but it doesn’t happen. Her pink lips form a straight line on her mouth, which is good because sometimes when she opens her mouth all I can concentrate on is her teeth. They’re gopher teeth. “So, Jenny tells me that your dad is getting married. What do you think about that?”

            Ugh. Why does Jenny have to make our business everyone’s? I keep telling her that the more she blabs to the Mullinator, the longer I get stuck in her office looking at a picture of Garfield until she pries enough feeling out of me and allows me to go back to class.

            Or, in this case, to lunch. With my friends. So I can tell Gretchen that Trevor is a no-good sleezeball before he breaks her heart, too. But, after last week’s incident, I’ve been sentenced to lunch with my most favorite person in the world. You know, if my most favorite person in the world was the shrink with long red hair caged up in a bun, held in by a scrunchy. Who even uses those anymore?

            In lieu of needing to get to the cafeteria today, I prepare a speech. “Gosh, Analise,” I say aloud and position myself in the chair the way she has in hers. Continuing my best impersonation of her, I continue, “You’ve been such a good sport in class and haven’t punched anyone in a whole week, so I’m going to let you out for real lunch today.”

            “Nice try,” Dr. Mullins says, raising a blond eyebrow that complements her carrot hair. “I’m paid to make sure you don’t bottle everything up, Ms. Jenkins. If we can talk about this, I’ll let you go to the last ten minutes of lunch with your friends today.”

            I don’t give up, despite this. I need out now from the old-lady-smelling room. I continue, saying, “Analise, tell me. Your mother’s death, have you talked about it with anyone? Oh, and look here. Your teachers tell me that last semester you kept up on your schoolwork, but this semester we’ve had a few worried about you because you’re falling behind.” And then, in my best accent, I add, “And how does that make you feel?”

            I clear my voice so that I can continue, this time acting as myself. “Oh, you know. Feels numb. I used to care about grades, and stuff, but now I don’t. I have one friend, I think my dad is a selfish snob for moving on four months after my mom died, and no, I don’t like talking about my dead mom. So, we good, Mullins? A-O.K? Square as a pear?”

            Once again, I clear my voice and I concentrate on the ceramic cat on her desk to help me transition back into my impersonation of her. “I understand, Ms. Jenkins. Analise, do you know what the five stages of grief are? Can you explain them to me, please?”

            I drop the stiff pose and slouch a little bit in my chair this time, mocking the typical teenager. In most cases I would never mock an adult like this, but Dr. Mullins doesn’t seem to mind, and I’ll admit it’s one of the reasons I tell her stuff at all. “Yeah, I know. Acceptance, anger, bargaining, blah, blah, blah. Can I go now?”

            Dr. Mullins smirks, then leans forward on her desk, her fingers interlaced. “Very cute. But sure, let’s talk about the stages of grief. Which one would you say you’re at now?”

            “Um. Anger. Moving onto acceptance, which is why I’ve been good.”

            “Maybe. But if that’s the case, why do you suppose you don’t like talking about your mom? Do you think, maybe, it has some elements of denial in it?”

            “No. I don’t like talking about it because I don’t like people feeling bad for me. I’d rather get a hard slap across the face than have someone pity me.”

            Dr. Mullins picks up a clipboard she has on the desk, writes something down, then puts the clipboard down. My eyes avert to the clipboard, but her scrawl is unreadable so I give up on trying to decipher her psycho-whatever of me.

Die Anyway? Among the Living?

I haven't edited this post or anything, but I had this dream during my nap today. It's unusual only because I hardly ever have dreams in the first place, and when I do I hardly remember them, and if I do remember them, they never have a conclusion. But this one had all of the above!

All I remember of the dream was that there were a group of nutso guys that would set up an "invisible audience" outside of houses, then the audience would get a kick out of watching them raid people's houses and kill everyone inside. So me and my group went through houses but had to keep moving around so as not to be a part of it, but because there was the Rick guy from The Walking Dead I kind of assumed it was after the zombie apocalypse and there was no government still to put an end to the act.

The piece is a loose interpretation of this, and is as follows:

                After the apocalypse that nearly drowned out the human race, groups are still fighting to gain back the civilization they lost from the Flesheaters during a 7-year fight for survival. Cosette, an unlikely survivor lucky enough to have survived with a group of people who are about the closest thing left to humanity finds their small attempts to colonize in vain when another group of uncanny survivors are making sure that nothing, dead or living, goes unscathed in the world. Now she and her group must band together once again to escape their increasing wrath in order to restore hope to humanity, all the while finding out that some battles are lost before they even begin.

As to not spoil everything, that's all I'll give for now (as well as the first chapter), but I want to know if anyone thinks it's worth writing or if it's better off to keep as a dream. 

Anyway, I have two titles in question because for now I'm going to stick with it.

1. Die Anyway

2. Among the Living

But enough of my ranting, here's a first draft of Chapter One

                Hugo died in his mind. I remembered the image of him sitting on the chair after Mark and Jason chased him into the hospital building, and I dragged myself in after them because I felt like I had to contribute something other than scavenged food. His arms clung to the arm rests, the veins in his arms popping out as he creased the brow in his forehead and stared forward absently.

                “Hue, it’s time to go outside. Vince said if you’re not out there in ten minutes then we’re moving on without you.”

                I never saw his eyes look so crazy before. He was usually just quiet and hung around me fiddling with a stick in his hand or carving one with his knife behind the rest of the group. I’d taken some comfort in having him linger by most of these past seven years, even though I knew he wouldn’t have been the most dependable if something were to happen. I just liked him anyway, though.

                Hugo’s eyes met mine as he gave a cold glare then with a breath that sounded annoyed he said, “You. Don’t lie to me. Is it over?”

                I kept silent for a second and glanced to Jason because I felt like maybe he would step in and answer for me, but he just turned and waited for my response.

                “I… I don’t know,” I replied, a bit confused. “I mean. Vince said it is.”

                “Well, I’m not asking Vince, gringa. I’m asking you what you think.”

                I still didn’t know what I was supposed to say. “Look, Hue,” Jason started, but Hugo wouldn’t have any of it as he stood up and pounded his fist against the nearby wall.

                “She can answer herself, I know she talks once in a while considering that she has a hard time shutting up when everyone else is trying to sleep. Is it over, blondie?”

                I was a bit hurt, to be quite honest. I guess even though he never said much I had still kind of thought we were friends. Before, I’d never gotten any indication that he found me in the least bit annoying or stupid. When I tried to tell jokes, he would smile at them, and when I would ask questions he would at least respond. Being as self-conscious as I am, I would even tell him that I was talking too much and promise that I wouldn’t talk anymore, but he would shrug and say, “I don’t mind it. Nice to fill thoughts with words sometimes, amiga.”

                I tried not to show my hurt, though, when I reminded myself that it was time to stop acting like a child and to start acting my age. “You saw what was going on last time we got to Salt Lake. I’d say that was a pretty good indication that even if it’s not over just yet, it’s close. It’s been at least a month since we’ve seen a Flesheater, which, you know. Is saying something. I think Vince is right.”

                “You know what else we haven’t seen?” he asked as a maniacal chuckle escape from him as he paced across the floor, away from all of us and towards the window. He tugged on the blinds, opening them up for all of us to see the starry night sky and vast desert of nothingness. “Compadres. People. Indication that God isn’t some sick-minded joker and we’re in some alternative reality where we’re walking aimlessly, continuously afraid and waiting to see what’s at the end of this hell-bound nothingness.”

                “Vince thinks-“

                “To hell with Vince! My family is dead because of that son of a gun. But of course he’s fine and dandy because he has his wife and brother with his gringa little daughter.”

                I kept silent, even though I knew Hugo was wrong. His family was a group of flesheaters. I guess it had never occurred to me that maybe he hadn’t seen that in them.

                “Hey, Hue, man, we gotta head back down before the group leaves without us,” Mark tried after a few minutes of silence.

                “Go then, I’ll catch up when I feel like it’s right for me. Maybe. If I feel like coming.”

                Jason and Mark exchanged a few glances then nodded as if coming to an unspoken conclusion. “Alright Cosette, come on.”

                Though I was admittedly a bit sad to see him go, I turned to leave with Mark who gave me a meaningful glance as if to say he was sorry. Mark was, after all, the only person who I knew without any uncertainty who cared for me at all. Back before the Fire Age began, I worked with him while I was working in a minimum wage call center to help pay for college. At the time he was kind of a joke to the office because he spoke loudly, but he was everything but annoying. Now he still had a bit of his humor to him, but there was also a caring side that I never would have guessed he had if I hadn’t been stuck around him for the past two years.

                Before I walked out, Hugo’s voice came behind me saying, “Just a second Cosy, I just want one second. Alone.” Because I wasn’t sure if we had the time for this, I looked to Jason and Mark for permission and they both nodded to say it was okay. They walked out and Hugo asked me to close the door, so I did.

                “Come here, I don’t want them to hear,” Hugo said, his voice sounded deeper as he closed his eyes. “It will just take a minute.”

                I came over to him, a part of me hoping he was about to offer an apology or something. A hopeful part of me even wanted something along the lines of, “Thanks, gringa. You’ve been a good friend to me over these years. Who knows, maybe we’ll run into each other again some day.”

                My hope was shattered when suddenly my back was being pressed up against the wall and I was staring into bloodshot eyes, his hand gripped around my throat and cutting off all the air from entering into my lungs. Pure shock kept me silent for a second, but after a few seconds I processed what was happening and attempted to scream, but to no avail.

                He brought his lips close to my ear, then whispered, “Like I said, it will only take a minute,” at which point I tried clawing myself free from his grasp but I might as well have been an ant trying to move a boulder. I finally gained enough sense to beat against the wall behind me.

                I wish I could say I felt afraid. But that was an emotion that I had become completely void of over the past couple of years. All I felt was stupid for having fell into the trap. Seven years of surviving an apocalypse of flesh eating humans and I meet my end from the living. Typical.

                I guess I had become unaware of everything else going on around me because I was too set on choking to death, but Mark and Jason had come in the door and the next thing I knew the grip around my neck had loosened but he didn’t stop staring. In fact, he was still staring as he dropped to the floor as if he were a 3-D mode of the Mona Lisa that looked every which way you went. The first breath of air felt as if I swallowed too much water and I had to choke it back out. All of this happened before I even realized what had just happened as I glanced to the corner of the room, Mark hand extended upwards with a gun aimed my way and a dead body was at my feet.

                For the first time, I understood what Vince meant when he kept saying, “We don’t need worry about flesheaters anymore.” With the third kill in a week within our already small group, it was clear that the living were hardly anything more than serial killers who no longer get their fill.