Originality

The ability to think creatively or independently

To have something that stands out against the others. Something which modern writing should have. After thousands of years of tropes and phrases, have we simply run out. Relying on the same formula we notice in a piece of writing that gets popular. We are so focused on success we have simply forgotten what made that literature great in the first place. Take any romance, fantasy, or post Hunger Games Dystopian fiction and you'll realize they are all pretty much the same. Same generic protagonist, same generic love-interest, side characters are becoming more same faced as well. But why, anyone that has some knowlege of literature is bored of and has grown to loathe this consistent redundancy. This is because creative writers have become less creative, they feel like they have to rely on the tried and proven cliche's to get their name across. Books aren't they only ones either, blockbuster movies, TV shows, games, hell, even the music industry. The imagination is the one thing that is infinite, the options out there are countless. We have the ability write about anything. So why don't we use this gift, and make something incredible.

Humanity is pointlessly straining against invisible barriers that we ourselves created, pulling at loose strings until our semblances of plans unravel altogether, our millennia of bad habits unable to be broken until someone decides to make a change. But that someone is only the seed. For a real movement to start, we need to change the minds of millions, billions, even, to make an impact on our stubborn world, or things are going to remain exactly the same, and by the time humanity has come to the realization that the way we’ve been hurdling much to fast into the future is a huge mistake, we’ll be past the point of no return. Our planet will be beyond saving, the billions of puzzle pieces we were trying to put together scattered far and wide across the empty wasteland that will become our world, the shattered remnants of what used to be our planet now only a shell of its former glory, reduced to nothingness by the very people that used to call it home but now are only memories of what could have been but no longer will be.

When I was in fifth grade I, along with a few friends, were very much into the world of alternate realities, past lives, and different dimensions. I had an entire past life, full of love, friendship, tragedy, and all the aspects of real life now. I built an entire world with their help, including a runic alphabet, profiles on the traditions of many of the other dimensions, and characters. I recorded it all in a notebook along with my age, the age of my past lives and my current life combined. This notebook holds the entirety of the alternate universe I made with my friends. Along with this complex universe, we devised a "time paradox." This time paradox stated that history would go it's course until reaching a turning point, where from then history would go in reverse. Different names, different groups of people, but same underlying principles behind it. None of us ever fully established when the turning point would occur, but it was sometime in the early 2020s. Since 2020 is approaching, and this challenge popped up, I wonder..

could fifth grade me have been right?

If so, prepare yourselves.

We're going to get to relive the best (and the worst) parts of history.

Hey you! You owe me!

” Show us ya tits!”

I whistled at you... Stuck up bitch!

Fuckin smile,

What’s your problem? Don’t be a cunt.

You owe me! I whistled, I’m up for the hunt.

You walked past on purpose, dressed like a slut.

It’s not fair to tease me...ugly mutt,

You owe me! Don’t run!

You’re making it worse,

This could go easy, or with you in a herse.

Shut the fuck up! Ill hit you harder,

Don’t bite my hand, I thought you looked smarter.

You owe me! Stay down, or I’ll crush in your head

you won’t look so sexy broken and dead.

You could have worn more, not danced in a club,

You could have left early, not got drunk.

You could have said hi, just a little flirt,

But now here you are, face in the dirt.

You’re pissing me off, Why are you crying ?

You broke your own wrist, just stop fighting.

You owe me!... Be quite, I’m almost done,

I own you.....Be quite, you are here for my fun.

Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my life,

You’ll keep your mouth shut, just like my wife.

Why’d you stop moving, you’re such a shit lay,

Get up now!.... I’m finished, walk away.

Get up! Get up! We’ve had a good time,

You never said no, come on now you’re fine.

Fuck!! Just blink, Where are you staring?

Breath! Do something, that siren is blaring,

You left me no choice, I’ll strick this match,

Burn up quickly now, cover my tracks.

You owe me women, Don’t give me up,

Just dissapear, vanish, you fridgid slut.

I’ll kick you once more, because you exist.

Now I’m a killer because of you bitch.

“Get all you need at Lincoln Mall!”

The highway billboards used to say.

Closed stores, dry fountain, cobweb pall.

Bright lights and Christmas trees and all

The toys my eyes, still young, surveyed—

All I could need at Lincoln Mall.

No sign back then of fatal lull.

“Whole town is here!” And yet, one day,

Closed stores, dry fountain, cobweb pall.

Beside my mom I’d clutch my doll,

Throw coin in water, “wish I may

Get all I see at Lincoln Mall.”

I sat on Santa’s lap, so tall,

But elves and train weren’t there to stay.

Closed stores, brown trees and cobweb pall.

A door unchained so that I may

Come back to where thrown pennies lay,

Seek what I miss at Lincoln Mall.

Dead stores, dry fountain—that is all.

My Irish forbears indentured themselves for land in newly-free America and then farmed for several generations. It was not an easy life. I cannot imagine they filled a warm basin frequently: too much water, too much heating over fire for a full-body soak. Even when they did, if they did, quickly using a cloth in a cooling tub cannot compare.

Hot water streams down onto me in near perpetuity, limited only by the capacity of a tank that rapidly reheats. Its design still follows the basic principles Edwin Ruud developed in 1889, after he left Norway to settle in Pittsburgh: the automatic, storage tank water heater. My great-great grandfather lived within 50 miles of the prototype. He probably died before using one.

Morning or night, 50 gallons await, a servant sitting beside a bell he hears when my hand turns the faucet, and then it streams down onto me. Weighted hair flips about as I scrub in shampoo. The nozzle’s pressure offers a light massage for my back, shoulders, chest. I focus on the droplets’ caresses as they trail through my hair and across my skin, finally dripping to the ceramic below me to swirl around my feet, carrying with them grime, dead skin, and cares. I am warm.

As a male, I have been conditioned to consider my body in terms of actions performed: this throws, this grips, this runs, this lifts. Females, I understand, have been conditioned to consider their bodies in terms of appearance. Showers encourage us all to consider how our bodies feel, to inhabit ourselves and connect to the physical instead of the mental for at least a few minutes. If, that is, we consider them.

Never overlook the miracle of hot, running water.

come with me

he said

so i followed

as i always have

like when I was ten

and my cousin told me to smoke this

and when I was seventeen

and my girfriend said

you have to go

to college

and so

i smoke

i'm in debt

and now

i’m

walking

behind this man

down this dark alley

where i’ll probably die

and this is just how

i’ll alway be

till the

end

He

poked

a mountain

of lipstick covered

cigarette butts

the only evidence

he could find

before the

school

bus

came

Poppies were her favourite flower. A little bit wild, especially interesting and brave enough to grow almost anywhere. That is why Poppy loved her name. It suited her and reminded her of all the most wonderful things she could be. Poppy’s mum loved flowers, and named her daughter Poppy to honour both her beautiful new babe and the delicate flower that prevailed in any and all terrains. Growing up in the country, Poppy and her mum had an enormous garden. It sprawled across their yard, and crawled along the exterior walls of their house. It grew flowers of every variety, leaves of every shade and texture, and generously offered fruits, herbs and vegetables throughout the year. Poppy and her mum worked hard on their garden, every day they spent time tending to new plants, pruning old ones and pulling out the pesky weeds that appeared like a dropped stitch in their otherwise perfect patchwork quilt. They would flop down on to the garden swing after each gardening day, wiping their flushed faces with the backs of their hands. Almost always they would forget they were wearing their gardening gloves and smudge dirt across their foreheads. Gleefully painted with their precious garden earth, Poppy and her mum would lean on each other as they made their way inside for a cold drink. Poppy loved nothing more than gardening days shared with her mum, those days, like a long sleepy hug reinforced everything warm and comforting between them.

The garden gave and took from them with perfect gratitude. Turning it’s face toward the sun and rain, it continued to grow lush and green with gratitude.