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Write That Book,
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 There is a strange sensation that creeps through you once a bullet enters your body. At first, it is simple and understandable. You feel fear, a burning sensation on entry and the pulse of pain that fills your core. However, I felt a shock through my body, almost electrical in nature. I was going to die, but what mattered was what I did in the next few minutes.
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 I flattened myself on the ground, feeling the blades of grass curl around my arms and legs. It was unpleasant at first, but I had to do what my father told me. I quickly grew used to it, the dirt on my clothing, the discomfort of small rocks. However, it was necessary to ensure we weren’t seen.
 The day that was so easily remember, at least if we had the choice, we would have. So much sadness...so much anger. We were crippled by emotions, lies and weakness. On one hand, it would reach that point sooner or later, but the way we went, it was what doomed us to this torment.
 The door swung silently on its hinges and Death entered the home. The cold air of home welcomed him and was ready to warm it with the logs he carried. Within moments, Death’s home was made warm and bright with the light of fire.
 We tapped our feet softly as the music played. The tune welcomed us into a surreal fantasy that took care of us better than anyone else had in a while. You would think a classroom without its teacher would be louder, but we all sat with earphones blaring music. Each one alone, writing, studying or at least pretending too.
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