This one is slightly different from the first I.I.W I wrote. Instead of being depressed and trying to rid myself of it, this is me trying to find the inspiration I need to update my stories. If you don't get the first paragraph, go to my first I.I.W and read the last paragraph. And Remember! This is not a story, these are just thoughts and ideas I get at random.

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It had been four years of bliss and contentment, but another warmonger was elected, I should have known the peace would never last. The day of the attack, it was a massacre. Men, women, children, none were spared. We lost everything, family and friends. I was caught in the evacuations when I saw him slowly sink into anguish and anger. He had a hidden power only I knew of, ever since that day we met in the park six years ago, but standing before a field of corpses, he looked powerless. I watched helplessly as he knelt next to his mother’s body and I was afraid. The power pulsed behind his deep turquoise eyes; I could feel each pulse and knew that I would lose him soon. A single tear fell down my cheek as he rose to his feet, hatred etched across him face. I pulled something out of pocket and ran to him. I grabbed his arm and tried to get him to look at me. But when he gazed my way, I could see that he was already gone. This was not the man I had come to love. This man had rage in his heart and murder in his eyes. I wanted to stop him, but he power was growing too quickly. I do not think he was even truly aware that I was there. His turquoise eyes were glowing and I could feel the strong pulse of power under his skin as it consumed him. I discarded what was in my hand, kissed his lips and held his body close to mine as he lost all control. With a scream of immense sorrow and mourning that broke my heart, he released the power that had built up inside of him. In a matter of seconds, he ended the war. When the dust settled and his mind cleared, he glanced down at his feet. A pile of ashes was all that remained of me. I watched, hovering above him as my essence was still somewhat attached to what was left of my physical form, as he panicked and searched in vain for me. All he could find was a single, dried lily; the same lily he had delivered to me the day after we met at the park. I never did know who he truly was; all I did know was that I have loved him ever since that fateful day when I saw his enigmatic eyes.

Have you heard? Pharmaceutical companies have come out with a new medication. It is suppose to help end the corruption in your heart and make you a better person. The drug is called Humanity. Have you read the warning label? It says, Warning: Over dosing on Humanity may lead to depression, a strong sense of self-importance, disregard for the well being of others, and the need to destroy. Please do not feed to animals. And I think the common side effects are apathy, taking life for granted, the need for attention from others, and over dependence on others to provide for you. I don’t know what the dosage is; it varies from person to person from what I am told. My teacher said it is a drug to control and brainwash Americans. I haven’t seen my teacher for three weeks.

The last hero of the Lakhota Sioux, descendant of a proud line of Wiciska warriors of the Teton, a son of the same line that bore Tatanka Yotanka, and protector of the cultural inheritance of the dying race. The Teton people, one of several Sioux tribes and among them known as warriors, buffalo-hunters. From the beginning when the first of the Pte, Buffalo people, were created with contribution from each of the great spirits, until today, the Lakhota influence has extended and wormed its way into the heart of land and immigrants culture that has built itself atop the Great Sioux Nation they share with their sister tribes, the Santee and the Nakota. Long has this hero watched over his people; during their struggles with other tribes and when their pale-faced adversaries arrived from over the vast ocean. His greatest defeat was the massacre led by U.S. troops that killed over 150 Sioux, and another 150 or so fled and were believed to have died due to exposure to the cold. This would become known as the Wounded Knee massacre, the last great resistance of the Sioux against their oppressive neighbors. Now, the hero waits and protects what are left of his people until the promised return of PtesanWi, in the hopes that she will bring back prosperity and help restore the Lakhota to their former glory. He sits upon a hill in the grassy plains of what is known as Nebraska, adorned by his warrior’s gard. White feathers painted with shades of red and blue, beads braided into his deep chesnut locks, a quilled breastplate of bone drapes down his chest contrasting with the deeply tanned and red clay stained skin, ecru leather pants from buffalo hide, a colorfully beaded spear, a bow and quiver decorated with colorful strings and beads with arrows that strike true, and a single necklace of a circle with a cross in the center painted white, red, blue, and yellow. Many years has he fought to stem the slaughters wrought by the Wasi'chu, but as his people’s hope faded, so did he. Now, on the brink of oblivion, he prays. Prays for his people, prays for guidance, prays for a miracle. Battle and struggle is all he has known since he was elected by Wakan Tanka to protect Skan’s Buffalo people, but modern times have changed. The war against his people are no longer waged with arrows and spears, but words and law from politicians. PtesanWi must return soon, or this hero will fade, and with him, all of the Lakhota Souix culture and pride, enabling the Wasi'chu’s final defeat of one of the greatest and most resistant Native American tribes in history.

Scooz. Hyperneurotic scatterbrain with the mentality of a headstrong four-year-old. Grace of a three-legged giraffe. Playful and spontaneous as a squirrel high on angeldust. Fierceness of a starving tigress. Schizophrenic tendencies. Libertarian meets communist. Desires peace, but lover of conflict and controversy. The anger of a rabid wolf with the foundation of Buddhist monk. Imagination that rivals Peter Pan with the patience heroin addict losing their buzz while stuck in line at a 7/11. Lover of puzzles, problem solving, and logic. Failed math student. Mind, a psychiatric playground. Scooz.

Testimony of a troglodytic soul. Draped in nocturnal shadows that skirl tragedy and misery, the darkness indulges in a dejected creature’s isolation. Jilted by the society that created him, this pitiful creature has no where else to go. Unheard cries echo in the depths of the void that is his soul. Dreams have died, affections have been lost, elation has faded and all the rejection has finally taken its toll. The reverberating clatter of a breaking heart rings in his ears. A pool of thoughts gather in the recesses of his mind and he remembers…what life was like before the eternal cold, what it was like before the unwavering gloom consumed him, he remembers what it was like to love and be love. Tears cascade down his cheeks for each memory wrought by his monotony and remorse. Only one thing remains. A flash of silver out of the corner of his eye, a gasp of surprise, and the wait; the wait for death. Like a bird freed from its cage, his soul stretched its once bound wings and took flight, reveling in its liberation. Such affliction it had suffered, but no more; it has shed its fleshy husk and tasted freedom again. Never again, the soul proclaims, never again.

How to make the perfect spider web: First, you’ll need a spider, a devious individual dependant on the essence of others to sustain it. Next, you’ll need somewhere to build this web, preferable where plenty of edible creatures pass through, naïve creatures who cannot see or do not recognize the web. Then, you have to have a strong substance to make your web with, something that you can catch your prey in so that they are too weak or too ignorant to fight their way out of. I would recommend something sticky so that once the prey it caught, they have a hard time getting loose, but before they can break free, they get caught into more of the sticky material until they are completely entangled. Finally, the chosen spider can use more substance to wrap the prey up so that there is no hope for escape and they cannot see the light. Some of the most successful webs made are those made of lies and the best example, Bush goes to the White House.

Dismal tumults echo and bounce off the walls like savages capering around a blaze. The cacophony rises with a virulent rhythm then suddenly the vociferation drops into a serene pulse. Hallucinogenic moonlight, like a spoon full of psychotropic bliss, desensitizes the mind and body. The world decelerates as renegade ricochets cavort until they juxtapose all other palpitations. Sensations like rivulets of molasses creep and crawl through out the deteriorating husk worn, awakening dormant parts that ravenously crave and must be slaked. Makeshift skins fall to the ground, revealing all of the allure…and repugnance that was hidden. Counterparts and non-counterparts affix to one another until they become cumbersome, sodden, wheezy masses, trysting under the sway of the elixirs roving through their life lines. When day breaks through and weary beings stir, there is a single individual whose apprehension is palpable. Next time, don’t take your eyes off your drink.

A glowing white beauty arises from her day time alcove, but this is no angel. She haunts the star lit night with a vengeance unparalleled. Her remains rot beneath the earth; betrayal murdered her, but the need for revenge reserved her essence from the next life to allow her retribution in her former life. Her incorporeal appearance has changed her. Deep chocolate eyes are now a fierce amber like poisoned honey. Rolling waves of brunette locks have been transformed into ebonesque drapes that cascade down her narrow back like a blackened waterfall with a makeshift moonbow reflecting off each curve of her tresses. A body once ripe with curve is now emaciated into an almost skeletal-like figure. The only thing protecting her transparent corpse from exposure is the tattered, blood stain dress she wore from the night of her murder. A single necklace adorns her elongated, graceful neck, a silver chain with a circular pendant. The pendant has a picture of white rose and on the back it is inscribed, “To my wild Irish rose, love Michael”. She has long forgotten her life that was, all except for the betrayal and her only purpose left on this plane of reality, retribution for the life that was stolen from her and empty existence she lives now. Long has she shed herself of petty sentiments like happiness, desire, excitement, love, envy, compassion, avarice, irritation, mourning, angst, sadness, and depression, no longer is she plagued by heartache. Only wrath and resentment remain, driving her to carry out her final mission. She is a revenant, spirit of vengeance revisited from death to claim a life, his life, for the one stolen from her. So, a warning to all the men: Beware the woman you choose to deceive, because every rose has its thorns.

Voices of the mountains, which kiss the sky, chant as one with cadences strong as a raging fire, calming as a mellow breeze, mysterious as the ancient stars in the firmament, and as crestfallen as Caesar as the blade held by his faithful Anthony tore into his back, Socrates as he lay dying in his prison cell from poison, Marie Antoinette as the guillotine blade fell upon her once opulent neck, and Chopin as his fingers danced lingeringly along his piano keys to what was to become Nocturne. Such harrowing melancholy the world has brought upon itself and all they can do is observe and wither under the eroding howl of time, the bane of all creation. Mountains, the timekeepers of the earth, the first historians who witnessed the inhabitants of the water crawl onto the land, the extinction of the dinosaurs, the first bird fly, the first man walk, the first fire shot, and the first nuke dropped. They are giants, gods even among the miniscule creatures of the earth. Mankind thinks to have conquered these immobile, colossal foundations of their mother earth, but as gradually and as unquestionably as the daystar rises in the east every morning, they will fall to the ground, signaling the end for all.

“What ever happened to her?”

“She was excommunicated and assassinated with a dagger to the back by three-toed, half-baked harridan who was given the clap by a borderline Parisian.”

“Oh.”