The prison of the mind
Posted 09-24-2008 at 07:02 AM by Leiv
Ok heres my next story sorry its a week late but didn't like the one I wrote last week. This one is a bit less raw than usual but as always needs work. I hope you enjoy it 
When I was young I was asked to do a paper on the morality of Euthanasia, at the time I naively saw it as a sign of personal weakness to resort to suicide. Just the thought of not fighting to the bitter end appalled me. I had been brought up admiring the final stands of histories heroes. How the Spartans fought at Thermopylae, how George Washington refused to accept defeat during the cold winter in Delaware. So to me it was sub-human to give up and not only accept but embrace death. Wolves went off to die on their own in shame and solitude, not people. I was truly adamant in my belief that I could overcome any illness; I would either fend off the disease or die fighting. I truly believed, and in fact still believe that I could fight through any pain. I also used to be comforted with the knowledge that with today’s medicine, physical pain from a terminal disease has become little more than a specter. But little did I know at the time, what would occur two years ago.
Ten years ago a new disease was first diagnosed, SD. The scientific name however is Sensual Dystrophy or more commonly known as Tucker’s disease, named after the first victim to suffer through this latest medical torment of this all too real nightmare. The effects of Tucker’s disease actually sound more like a hypothetical proposed in a college ethics class rather a real possibility. You see the disease slowly attacks your nervous system destroying your brains ability to recognize the sensual information that is sent to it by, eliminating each sense, touch, hearing, sight, smell, and taste. One at a time each sense will disappear. But the aspect that makes this disease truly diabolical is that your thinking, reasoning, intelligence and overall awareness are left completely intact. It may at first sound like a blessing, nature’s natural tendency towards a just balance. But in actuality it becomes a false hope. Normally from the time of diagnosis it takes roughly two years for all your senses to completely disappear, leaving you a soul within an empty husk. But the disease is fatal in the “loosest” sense of the word. The first victim is actually still alive, if you can call it alive. He lives in Kentucky, his wife and children in charge of the soul sucking task of watching the respirator’s endless pumping. The only conformation that the man they loved is still in his body is the occasional brain wave scan to make sure he is not comatose. It is almost comical that the disease is described as painless. And that could be perceived as a fair enough description, as the whole process is physically painless, minus some minor phantom feeling. You see the first senses to go is touch.
It has been two years since I was diagnosed with Tucker’s disease, and even now in the darkness of my severed mind, the details are scarred into my thoughts. I had gone for a checkup with my surgeon; about half a year prior I had accidentally sliced into my wrist gardening. How I had hurt myself would be comical, if not for what was looming. While I dug a hole for a pair of red and white snap dragons, the sudden crackle of a crow distracted me. And as I glanced behind my shoulder I accidentally slammed the spade into my wrist. I was later told that I had severed the median nerve and two tendons. After more than half a year of extensive rehab my right hand was once again starting to function, but I still had to attend a weekly physical rehab session and a monthly check up with my doctor to see how the nerve progress was doing. The feeling was strange, otherworldly even. I could see my hand and touch my hand, but except for the occasional phantom pain, I couldn’t feel a thing.
It is pure poetic irony that the diagnosis of what would eventually become complete paralysis, was first diagnosed while checking to see how the feeling in my hand was proceeding.
As I lay here in darkness, I can still vividly see that one particular moment, as if I was watching from the seats of one of those old cinemas. The surgeon’s prodding and poking of my hand to check for something called two point feeling. I remember my boredom waiting to get out of the hospital, after all I had never severed a nerve before and everything seemed perfectly fine to me. I even remember that the doctor’s hair looked recently cut, and messily parted to the left.
Then the words, which would become a trigger for the curse that my life has become, were spoken with an eerie calm by the doctor. “Your hand has not progressed as far as we would have hoped; I would like to hold you overnight for more observation.” I remember the false reassurance that those words held. Now that I think about it the way my mind reacted to this unsettling circumstance was astounding. The way my mind started to race to its own justifications and conclusions was simply remarkable. Maybe my nerve had run into scar tissue, or perhaps I had some rare benign disease that caused my nerves to re-grow at a slower rate and would eventually land me in a medical journal.
But during that one lonely night dark thoughts began to creep into my head. It was something about how the doctors and nurses looked at me, a slight strain in their upper lip when they smiled and how their eyes occasionally darted around when they looked at me as if the solutions were hidden beneath my bed. And while my conscious mind was strict in its belief that I would be fine, my subconscious was substantially less certain in the same belief.
And that one night became the physical incarnation of Dante’s Inferno, fully equipped with words “abandon all hope ye who enter here,” inscribed in some dark region at the back of my mind. And that dark nightmare filled night, turned into a week and that week has turned into two years. Apparently Tucker’s disease is not particularly common; only about one in every thirty million people actually has it, lucky me.
Funny enough out of two years of hopelessness and close to a year of silence it is that one phrase that most haunts me. But at the time it seemed completely harmless. As I sit here in isolation, the only confirmation that I still exist is that I haven’t stopped thinking, it’s that one phrase that plagues my thoughts, “your hand has not progressed as far as we would have hoped; I would like to hold you overnight for more observation.”
The first thing to go was the majority of my feeling, I remember it took just a few short months and it had practically vanished. Ever so gradually, and yet rapidly, a hypocrisy of torment, that slipped from my body like water from my palm. Every day I would wake up and feel a little less, the sensation in my body a little more dampened. But I never acknowledged the loss of feeling, It was like the growing of hair, it grew you knew it did but you didn’t realize it until that one day in the mirror. For me the mirror was a spring shower. I can distinctly recall that I had walked down the driveway to go fetch the mail, and as I briskly walked down the driveway I stopped walking and looked up. It was raining. I knew it had been raining, I had seen the tiny droplets collide with the
When I was young I was asked to do a paper on the morality of Euthanasia, at the time I naively saw it as a sign of personal weakness to resort to suicide. Just the thought of not fighting to the bitter end appalled me. I had been brought up admiring the final stands of histories heroes. How the Spartans fought at Thermopylae, how George Washington refused to accept defeat during the cold winter in Delaware. So to me it was sub-human to give up and not only accept but embrace death. Wolves went off to die on their own in shame and solitude, not people. I was truly adamant in my belief that I could overcome any illness; I would either fend off the disease or die fighting. I truly believed, and in fact still believe that I could fight through any pain. I also used to be comforted with the knowledge that with today’s medicine, physical pain from a terminal disease has become little more than a specter. But little did I know at the time, what would occur two years ago.
Ten years ago a new disease was first diagnosed, SD. The scientific name however is Sensual Dystrophy or more commonly known as Tucker’s disease, named after the first victim to suffer through this latest medical torment of this all too real nightmare. The effects of Tucker’s disease actually sound more like a hypothetical proposed in a college ethics class rather a real possibility. You see the disease slowly attacks your nervous system destroying your brains ability to recognize the sensual information that is sent to it by, eliminating each sense, touch, hearing, sight, smell, and taste. One at a time each sense will disappear. But the aspect that makes this disease truly diabolical is that your thinking, reasoning, intelligence and overall awareness are left completely intact. It may at first sound like a blessing, nature’s natural tendency towards a just balance. But in actuality it becomes a false hope. Normally from the time of diagnosis it takes roughly two years for all your senses to completely disappear, leaving you a soul within an empty husk. But the disease is fatal in the “loosest” sense of the word. The first victim is actually still alive, if you can call it alive. He lives in Kentucky, his wife and children in charge of the soul sucking task of watching the respirator’s endless pumping. The only conformation that the man they loved is still in his body is the occasional brain wave scan to make sure he is not comatose. It is almost comical that the disease is described as painless. And that could be perceived as a fair enough description, as the whole process is physically painless, minus some minor phantom feeling. You see the first senses to go is touch.
It has been two years since I was diagnosed with Tucker’s disease, and even now in the darkness of my severed mind, the details are scarred into my thoughts. I had gone for a checkup with my surgeon; about half a year prior I had accidentally sliced into my wrist gardening. How I had hurt myself would be comical, if not for what was looming. While I dug a hole for a pair of red and white snap dragons, the sudden crackle of a crow distracted me. And as I glanced behind my shoulder I accidentally slammed the spade into my wrist. I was later told that I had severed the median nerve and two tendons. After more than half a year of extensive rehab my right hand was once again starting to function, but I still had to attend a weekly physical rehab session and a monthly check up with my doctor to see how the nerve progress was doing. The feeling was strange, otherworldly even. I could see my hand and touch my hand, but except for the occasional phantom pain, I couldn’t feel a thing.
It is pure poetic irony that the diagnosis of what would eventually become complete paralysis, was first diagnosed while checking to see how the feeling in my hand was proceeding.
As I lay here in darkness, I can still vividly see that one particular moment, as if I was watching from the seats of one of those old cinemas. The surgeon’s prodding and poking of my hand to check for something called two point feeling. I remember my boredom waiting to get out of the hospital, after all I had never severed a nerve before and everything seemed perfectly fine to me. I even remember that the doctor’s hair looked recently cut, and messily parted to the left.
Then the words, which would become a trigger for the curse that my life has become, were spoken with an eerie calm by the doctor. “Your hand has not progressed as far as we would have hoped; I would like to hold you overnight for more observation.” I remember the false reassurance that those words held. Now that I think about it the way my mind reacted to this unsettling circumstance was astounding. The way my mind started to race to its own justifications and conclusions was simply remarkable. Maybe my nerve had run into scar tissue, or perhaps I had some rare benign disease that caused my nerves to re-grow at a slower rate and would eventually land me in a medical journal.
But during that one lonely night dark thoughts began to creep into my head. It was something about how the doctors and nurses looked at me, a slight strain in their upper lip when they smiled and how their eyes occasionally darted around when they looked at me as if the solutions were hidden beneath my bed. And while my conscious mind was strict in its belief that I would be fine, my subconscious was substantially less certain in the same belief.
And that one night became the physical incarnation of Dante’s Inferno, fully equipped with words “abandon all hope ye who enter here,” inscribed in some dark region at the back of my mind. And that dark nightmare filled night, turned into a week and that week has turned into two years. Apparently Tucker’s disease is not particularly common; only about one in every thirty million people actually has it, lucky me.
Funny enough out of two years of hopelessness and close to a year of silence it is that one phrase that most haunts me. But at the time it seemed completely harmless. As I sit here in isolation, the only confirmation that I still exist is that I haven’t stopped thinking, it’s that one phrase that plagues my thoughts, “your hand has not progressed as far as we would have hoped; I would like to hold you overnight for more observation.”
The first thing to go was the majority of my feeling, I remember it took just a few short months and it had practically vanished. Ever so gradually, and yet rapidly, a hypocrisy of torment, that slipped from my body like water from my palm. Every day I would wake up and feel a little less, the sensation in my body a little more dampened. But I never acknowledged the loss of feeling, It was like the growing of hair, it grew you knew it did but you didn’t realize it until that one day in the mirror. For me the mirror was a spring shower. I can distinctly recall that I had walked down the driveway to go fetch the mail, and as I briskly walked down the driveway I stopped walking and looked up. It was raining. I knew it had been raining, I had seen the tiny droplets collide with the
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window before heading out. I could hear the rain all around me, the constant splatter against the cement. But I couldn’t feel my clothes sticking to my skin or the tiny cold pinpricks as the rain collided against my arms. It had taken seven steps for me to realize that there was something wrong, seven steps of blissful ignorance, shattered by harsh reality. I fell to my knees quivering, I couldn’t feel the heat of my tears nor feel them upon my skin, but I knew I was crying that much I was certain of.
I never thought I would miss anything so much as I did the rain on that day, it’s funny how it’s those little things that are the ones we miss most of all when they’re gone. On what I assume to be daily biases (without sight or sound it has become difficult to tell time) I think about all that I have lost. The cold shower of rain upon my skin, the sound of a pencil tapping against a desk, the quick flash of darkness that breaks your vision when you blink, all have left me as other friends left before. When I still could hear and see I would stand out in the rain wishing ever so desperately that just one cold splash would get through my fleshy armor. The loss of feeling progressed even farther, until finally do to the destruction of the nervous system I began to loose my ability to move. Within two months of that my revelation with the rain, I had become a paraplegic from the neck down. I was confined to a prison of a plush bed. Soon after my family hired a nurse for me, the young lady was very good, kind and non-judgmental but she would soon become a symbol of my newfound indignity and helplessness. Every time I glanced at her, the shoulder length black hair, the white uniform, all I could think about was the depths I had fallen to. The only reconciliation that it seemed god had decreed that I would have, was the fact that from the neck up, I was still fine as the last vestiges of feeling was snuffed from my body. I had become a soul trapped within a body with only one window, which was doomed to close. Where my loss of feeling had been gradual if somewhat quick, the loss of hearing was almost instantaneous; it was like my eardrums had been shredded by some monstrous explosion. One night I drifted off to sleep, my nurse helping me go through the rituals that we impose upon our selves before we embrace slumber. I remember the last thing I heard was the soft flutter of a moth’s wings. I have never and will never feel the same level felt such panic as what I experienced that next day. I woke up and at first nothing seemed wrong. Then I didn’t hear the birds, they had become something that I had become accustomed to watching and listening to in the mornings, it was one of the few luxuries I had left in life. The chirps and craws would blend together to form a symphonic natural song that resonated in my ears. But now they were gone, banished from the sensual realm by an unwelcome master. My eyes must have looked like that of a wild beast, darting and swiveling frantically in their socket as if my by straining my eye as if to look for sound, silently screaming for its return. The nurse noticed that something was wrong and came over to see if everything was alright, I saw her lips move the concerned expression on her face, and smelt the slight fragrance of her rose perfume. I don’t remember screaming but I was told later that as soon as I saw the nurses face I didn’t stop until she was forced to inject me with a tranquilizer that forced me back into the horror land that sleep had become. I woke to a mind that had been cowed. The loss of hearing was horrible, but paled in comparison to the sense that my bod… no that I was disappearing. I hold no grudge to the nurse but as I have stated she became the symbol of my indignity. It seemed unethical for her to just drug me to in order to calm me down. But in the brave new world of easily accessible medicine, the drugs were your friends. She probably looked at the monitors and saw that my heart rate had suddenly spiked, and all I did was yell, she of course would have had no idea of what was going on. My hearing came back later that day, and would continue to come and go as the days passed. But every time that my hearing vanished and returned, it returned fainter and less defined than it had been before. It was a slow torture; never knowing when my ears would fail me again, and every time they did, the fear that I had heard my last sound was a chilling reminder of my fragility. I didn’t bother to learn sign language or reading lips, why bother as soon my sight would leave me as the other senses had left me before. My hearing finally left in a non dramatic fashion, over the weeks the spots of time in which I could hear became short and far between until finally it just left permanently. I don’t remember the last sound I heard. For the first few weeks I had tried to remember every sound that was around at every moment, so that when my hearing did leave I would at least hopefully remember a sweet melody or my mother’s voice when I was trapped in silence. But my vigilance faded and by the time my hearing finally quite my attempts to notice sounds around me had become token at best. And so I missed out on the last thing I ever heard. There had been a new experimental technology that was being used for people born blind and deaf. It worked via a hook up directly to the brain which was then connected to a keyboard. The machine would then trigger the language part of the brain and make words actually pop into your head. Then all you would have to do was think the words in response and those words would be transmitted to a little black box that sat above the keyboard, this box would translate your words and acted as a kind of mechanical voice. It was all very confusing to me; I was a poet after all and not a computer scientist. It was named the Audio Neural Communication Device or ANCD for short. I however I had named it the Helen Keller machine, after all when you are in a bed unable to move or hear and about to loose your sight, political corrects for seems a little unimportant. As I new it was only a matter of time before my sight would fade, I volunteered for the experimental study. In the mean time I was communicating with my family and nurses through a the use of a white board and marker, they would right me a message and hold it up in front of me, and in return I would respond by simply talking. At first I actually found it comical, but like a new toy its novelty soon wore off. Up until this time I had managed to not fall into a depression, which I am told is common symptom with a terminal disease. But it was the pain I saw in my loved ones, their eyes sparkling as their eyes watered slightly, furiously scribbling down their thoughts on a white board. This is when the idea of euthanasia finally crept its way into my mind. I didn’t want it there, but there it was either way, in the darkness of night it was a demon that whispered into my ear. During the weeks in which I could hear, I furiously debated with myself over having the Helen Keller machine implanted in my head. I figured it would by prudent to reach a decision while I still had my sight as it would make the transition easier. The problem was that due to the size of the device, I would forever after be confined to my |
 
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bed. I would never again be pushed around the sensations of the park like a baby in a stroller, and it was with this dreary thought in mind that I volunteered for the surgery. For the next week I sat, impatiently waiting for Helen Keller to be implanted into my head.
The day of the surgery was straight out of a science fiction film, after spending two nights at the hospital to prep for surgery, I was pushed along the long wide halls of the hospital, admiring the grotesque colors that only medical facilities used for their decorum. A large table, draped in medically green cloth, was stationed at the center of the operating room, great domed lights hung above the bed casting their shadows to the floor. Next to the bed lay a display of uninviting instruments upon a small metallic stand, while what I assumed to be the ANCD was on a larger metal stand against the opposite side of the medical table. I was hoisted onto the table by a pair of doctors, and then put under for the surgery. The only other time I had ever had surgery in my life was for the wrist injury that had preceded this event. I remember waking from the surgery in immense pain, this time that wasn’t a concern. I woke up and was utterly lost, the last thing I remember was being asked to count backwards from ten, then awaking in my hospital bed. With what I will describe as a Herculean effort, I managed to roll my head to its side. A long black cord appeared in my vision, which my eyes followed to a matching black box that sat to my side. With that, it all came rushing back to me; it was if my thoughts had been hiding behind a veil of grogginess only to be sucked in by that moment of revelation. My eyes went wide at the realization of what was now written in front of me. “WE ARE GOING TO TURN ON THE ANCD TOMORROW” was written in large blue capital letters. I noticed one of the doctors lean over and begin to erase the message, and then he began to scribble down another. “BY THE WAYBLINK 2 TIMES FOR YES 3 TIMES FOR NO.” The excitement that had been building for the last couple of days had no vessel for its escape. I could not jump or scream, clap or even laugh. WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE YOUR FAMILY NOW?” Those words provided the conduit for all my excitement which released itself as two of the most pronounced blinks of my life. So overdone that would have made the overacting of the 1920’s proud. After my family came and gave their comforting words of encouragement, which during the year of slowly becoming a bane upon them, had become rather predictable. The excitement left as the energy and strength drained from my body, the surgery and events of the day taking their toll as I finally fell asleep. With my family and doctors around me the switch that would start the ANCD was activated. It was unexplainable, but I will attempted to explain it anyway. It was as if a buzzing went whirled through my mind, not so much a sound or feeling, but a sensation that appeared out of nothingness, and hovered in the doorway of between reality an non existence. It was like an electrical jolt right to the brain; actually it was an electrical jolt right to the brain. But it wasn’t painful but rather energizing. The most similar feeling I can think of would be the jolt you get when you unexpectedly taste an extremely sour candy, but with an electric feeling. While I was lost in wonder over this new something, I noticed words and thoughts popping into my head. “How are you?” At first I couldn’t tell where the thought was coming from, but then I realization that my eyes were closed dawned upon me. I slowly opened them and noticing my doctor sitting with the keyboard on his lap; a small smile on his face. “Just think out your words.” The words just flashed into my mind, as if I myself had thought them. I thought the word fine as hard as I possibly could. The doctor’s smile widened and I saw him begin to pound the keys again. “Very good, both ways of speech are working fine I will be back later to see how you are doing.” It was hard to notice sentences, and I could already tell that the words that were being used were very simplistic, but for the first time since my diagnosis I believed I could finally managed, It was a good thing that I had the implant so soon, because a week later my sight began to leave. It faded away similar to the way I that I had lost my feeling but far more quickly. It took just a week from when I first noticed my eyesight blur to when it completely disappeared. This time there was no feeling of regret, or loss, just a sad and solemn acceptance, as I held the final image of my parents in my head. Once my sight left the ANCD became even more confusing. It might have already been the slight touch of insanity and depression that came from my three primary senses disappearing in just over a year, but I started to lose my grip on which were my thoughts, and which were people talking to me. I just could no longer keep track. I felt like now that all of my physical ability had been taken away from me, my mental stability was likewise being stripped. It was exactly at this point that I decided I couldn’t do this. I couldn’t cope with both my body and mind being ravaged and shattered by this disease. The ANCD which had been a blessing was a curse in disguise; it was as if the Lucifer himself had been the final cog in the machines creation. I had lost the use of words as the machine only in its experimental stage was only set for primitive language. I had been a poet in my pre Tucker’s disease life, but now in this state of half death, my words had been destroyed. It was 1984 enforced not by doublethink but by a disease. With a machine that spouted false hope of a change for the better. It was at this point that I privately talked to the doctor about the possibility of euthanasia; he said that he was completely against it and would not discuss it again. With laws how they are, I didn’t blame him, much. If he was caught he was looking at first degree murder charges after the euthanasia laws of the 2020’s. The government had fully sided against euthanasia; thanks mostly do to the medical advances since the turn of the millennium. The main argument for euthanasia had gone out the window. With new pain medication and laser technology, cancer rates dropped dramatically, and the pain was able to be reduced to a level of almost non existence. Alzheimer’s was really the only well known terminal disease anymore that caused serious problems, but the government had still ruled completely against the idea of medically assisted suicide. Over the next year I fought against the insanity that was creeping into my brain, during that time my final two senses disappeared without me even noticing. In the mean while I desperately sought a way to end my life without my family’s knowledge. Outward emotion had been lost to me as my new voice mechanically echoed my through a tiny black box. And while the ANCD vocabulary recognition had been upgraded several times it still paled in comparison to the expansive list I had once had. Words had been my art, now they were a fleeting fancy a luxury that some higher power had deemed unworthy for me to retain. My body was my temple as cliché as that sounds, but now has |
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become my prison. My mind was me, now it has become a breeding ground for insanity and a dwelling for the darkness of my new thoughts. Mind of matter could not exsist, when the mind was being systematically destroyed. I could no longer bear not knowing if thoughts where mine or someone else’s being implanted in my mind. I could never know if what I was thinking was being brokenly broadcast to whoever was around me by an emotionless machine. Paranoia seeped between the folds of my brain, was my mind now an open book, people were idly typing these thoughts of death and insanity into my brain, breaking me down and trying to see just how much I could take. I could no longer even tell if I was asleep or awake. Was I dreaming I was loosing it, were my thoughts actually thoughts, or dreams? What was the difference, I didn’t know yet I had to know.
After a year of this most cruel and unusual of tortures I could no longer live in this indignity, a bane upon those around me. A once bright and happy mind reduced to insanity. Forced to confront what I had done to the people who cared for me. And what I was about to do. Two weeks ago I specifically asked for my father to visit me alone. It took every ounce of concentration I had left to suppress everything else, and empty my mind of everything except for the conversation at hand. That “talk” with my father was the worst of my life. While I couldn’t see and hear the emotions my father expressed I could imagine. If I would have hade any control over my body, I would have cried, maybe I had, but I had no way of knowing. My emotions where tearing apart my soul. The pain was worse than anything I could have felt when I could still feel. But all my father could see was an immovable husk that looked like his son. After my father left I imagined what he looked like, how the sadness would have spread across his face, His black hair disheveled from grasping it with his hands in despair. And my heart broke, it was odd with the lack of any physical sensation, you would think you would be immune from pain. But what I had just gone through with my father had hurt worse than anything else I had ever experienced. My father had agreed to do me this last kindness, the last act of love he would ever do for me. And there was no way for me to repay him. I was destroying my father for my own selfish ends, but I could no longer go on. Days ad become eons, I could o longer tell the difference between being asleep and being awake, life and death no longer held meaning. The day before my father arrived, I requested a recorder be hooked into the ANCD, thankfully the machines vocabulary had finally achieved close to the same level as my own. But the memory of this recorder is soon to run out. I have spent the last two weeks slowly recording the events of the last two years. I have edited, and reedited my work numerous times as I have come to view this as the last literary piece that I will ever contribute to society. But if this is being heard it hopefully means that I have finally been released from my mortal prison of insanity and pain, into a state of bliss and rest after two years of the worst torment that could be imagined. I have no idea what has happened outside my mind. Even my conversation with my father could be something I dreamed, or in the insanity of mind, concocted to try and deal with the circumstances of my life. The only thing I have left to say is to my family. With all the love in my heart --Daniel. And so I sit here in darkness, reciting my stories into a metallic box plugged into my brain. I am shut off from everything around me, a planet with a population of one and nothing else. Pondering if I am dead or alive, as each day it becomes harder to tell if these are thoughts or echoes of the past reverberating through my broken mind. And here I shall sit until the end of days, alone in a world of darkness, entrapped within my own mind. |
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The ending needs some work, but just changed it from something else
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asdgfthis was great. I loved it. keep up the good work, have u got more of these??
:) |
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leiv your amazing
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I love this story
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Now, thats what i was talking about...that might be one of the best stories you have written I'm sure if you present that one in your writing class you'll get good reviews...
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wow the story is great you should consider writing a book
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the story is great good work like always
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1 word.....WOW... its AWESOME! good work leiv...
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thank you for the compliments everyone, still think it needs some work and trying to find somewhere to send it for publishing any suggestions?
And new story will e up next tuesday |
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a new story even thogh i never read it
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Agreed ending a bit messy, the voice is quite strong. Um.. feel 100% free to disregard but I don't think you necessarily have to explain how there is record of his thoughts. Overall, I really like this.
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Recent Blog Entries by Leiv
- Requiem for Tomorrow (10-30-2008)
- The prison of the mind (09-24-2008)
- Echo (09-10-2008)
- The Obsidian Tower Ch 1 (06-01-2008)
- The Obsidian Tower (05-28-2008)
