Gloria smiled to herself as she stepped off of the concrete and onto the worn dirt path. There had been heavy rain that year and now was the first time she'd been able to come back to her sanctuary. Jogging in place, she readjusted her ponytail before continuing down the trail, her long legs stretching and contracting with motion. Around her, the vestiges of fall still lingered in the bright leaves and berries. The bony structures of the trees were beginning to show through the autumn finery, however, revealing the skyscrapers and busy city around it. The smell of mulch and rotting vegetation tickled Gloria's nostrils with spicy vivacity, urging her to run faster. Soon, the sounds of the city were behind her as she submerged herself in nature. Only the culverts, draining holes for the rain and sewage of the city, belied the perfection of the illusion.

Aunt Melody had always loved cats. Not just the real thing, mind, but cats in any sort of representation be it picture, figurine, tacky plastic toy or nasty knitted thing she picked up at some table-top sale or from a charity shop. Over the course of my lifetime – forty-two years and some – Aunt Melody had gone through more than a dozen assorted moggies of all sizes, shapes and colours. She had also gone through two long-suffering husbands and several would-be life-partners who, upon realising that in Aunt Melody’s scheme of things her cats always came first, not unreasonably found this level of inattention a tad too much to swallow and soon departed. If Aunt Melody was hurt or upset about the change in her circumstances she barely showed it to me or any other member of the family.

Memories. In the darkest of times and the most tragic of situations, they can be a man’s only solace. In a sea of storm clouds, memories are shining beacons of light. They are the light that warms you and shields you from the cold. They are the light that guides you, makes you hope for a time when things were better, and for the strongest of us, it forced us to act and try to make that hope a reality. For ourselves and the whole of mankind.

And so I stood there, watching the abyss. A big gaping hole that had swallowed most of Europe. I was safe, I thought, unlike whatever fate had met those who had been taken away to the depths. Death most likely. I was unsure whether I should feel relieved for my own well-being or sad, so I decided to carry both. However, the sadness I felt was not nearly as genuine as my relief. I think the only time any person would feel otherwise would be the scenario in which a child is lost to the parent. I am no parent, so I cannot confirm this, other than to trust those who have told me how it is to be one.

Jasper knew that he was in trouble. This had been the fourth time he'd fallen asleep on the job, and since "baldy" himself had been sent to retrieve him, Jasper knew that, this time, the boss meant business.

"Yeah, it's me, and if you don't wake up, you'll meet my boot too."

"Alright, alright! How'd you find me here anyway?"

The two shipping yard workers were tucked away in one of the numerous back alleys of the New Axum Intergalactic Shipping and Merchantile Port of the planet Oban. This alleyway in particular was riddled with trash from the residents living in the apartments above. Jasper had been laying on a makeshift bed of waste bags and torn garments and, despite the spaceships roaring overhead, was sleeping rather peacefully until Bill arrived.

You make it so hard to believe that it's true
After how ever long it's been since I've heard from you
You promise to call so that we can spend time
But it's always on your terms and never on mine

Once upon a time, in the far off land of Chester, England there was me: A small town girl who had no place to belong. My Aunt Dannie had been in a car accident and was not able to provide for me any longer. I was 13. My parents were on another one of their mysterious trips when it happened. They took a plane to Hazel Grove but that took 8 hours. They then drove to Chester, England. After enrolling me in a private boarding school in Seattle a year later, they left once more. My name is Gwendolyn Marie Sounde, and this is my story.

The problem with being Death: I can't help but be distracted.
And, as I've said before, I make distraction my holiday. That's all you can do, in a profession like mine. Maybe that is why I chose to holiday on a train heading away from Molching on a frostbitten day in 1939 Germany.
Why I rode next to the woman with the desolate face, as blank and white and unmarked as the ocean of snow speeding past the window, with the train swimming on among the stillness of it all. Hers was the face of nothingness.
And knowing.

I've always thought of blogging as a type of journal writing(though I follow several that aren't) and have always been unsure of what to write.
Last year, I bought a journal. It has a magnetic flap, is covered in flowers and pastel colors. It's completely different than my composition notebooks!
After several months of figuring out what to write in it, I realized that it was going to be my 'Secrets of Happyness Journal'. Since then, every time I make a discovery about happiness, meeting my goals, or just simple joys, I write it in that notebook.
The weird thing is, they are remarkably similar to blog entries! Maybe this coming year will lead to me posting them in my very own blog and helping someone else find their very own'happyness'{e:smile