Hello! I'm Shelby Notmyname and if your reading this I know you like Muse so I wrote a poem about it

Science and info you couldn't imagine

Oh,! I'm in a scientific haven

with the muse's that make you giggle and smile

you get so excited you read a minute a mile!

You anxiously wait by your mailbox for hours,

If it doesn't come your dinner feels sour

There's Urania, Pwt, Feather, and Bo

and Mimi, Chad, Aeiou, Crraw, and Koko

They are all different but in their own way

they help you understand info on Muse day

Don't under estimate or else pie

Courtesy of Kokopelli will hit your face Oh My!

The first Rail Grinder race was on a dock that went in a square shape, running off from the beach, then making two right-hand turns and running back onto the beach again. The three drivers who dared to participate had to sign death warrants beforehand. All three were killed.

That didn’t stop Mulletman, a former bartender from South Nowheresland, who proposed the idea for the race. Even after the Central Nowheresland Police made it very clear to him that if he ever sanctioned such an event again, he would get a life sentence. Mulletman had had two other illegal operations involving alcohol in the past, and the police never scared him out of stopping.

As illegal and life-threatening as these races were, the following year, 1965, the event was sanctioned another place, this time moved to a strip of a 15-year-old highway that was to be torn down. The seven drivers who participated all came out with their lives, in a 4-lap event that stretched from one end of the closed-off highway, including a concrete bridge, then over the grassy median and back down the other way.

Year after year, Mulletman would hold these events for shady characters who would risk their lives for a couple hundred dollars in cash. Every year he changed his location, including making stops in South Nowheresland and East Nowheresland. The police continued to attempt to shut down his operation, until Mulletman mysteriously disappeared before the 1975 event. Short-lived urban legends sprang up everywhere following his disappearance, and the operation, which earned the name “Rail Grinding,” after the infamous 1973 event, in which the drivers tended to almost break through the guardrail upon exiting a U-turn, was continued by one of Mulletman’s old friends, known only by the initials “L.B.”

L.B. made the event a strictly South Nowhereslandic event, sanctioning it in parts of South Nowheresland where the law was scarcer. The name “Rail Grinding” caught on fast, and soon more than one event a year was taking place. Many of the competitors were guys in their mid-to-late 20s who drank and didn’t have regular employment. Usually, cars used in the races were ones at least five years old, and sometimes had enhanced horsepower or stiffened springs to get an advantage. But this was allowed- the only rule L.B. decided to enforce was no shortcuts.

Our story begins at the traditional track, an unfinished highway in northeastern South Nowheresland; the first event of the 1983 was sanctioned there, and the largest audience yet showed up. L.B. always managed to get a huge crowd by never putting a price on seeing the show. The winner traditionally received a sum of money that rarely penetrated the thousands, and the other competitors would get an amount of money that was a fraction of what the winner got.
Our focus was a man in his mid-20s who drank and did not have regular employment, and drove a rusting 10-year-old Ford Torino, who came to the series with almost no expectations.

-Well, I didn't exactly write this story, but my friend Luke C. did, and i just wanted to share it with you. This is just the prologue, but I'll be back with more later.

Heres a really short poem that I wrote:

It just rained,

the grass is green,

the sky is blue,

the flowers blossom,

just like you

This is my poem. PLEASE COMMENT!!!! I would like constructive comments, but if you have something destructive to say, support your ideas.

We are lost/ In a world of silence/ Measured with words/ Where feelings are trusted/ And neighbors are not/

Where logic rules a world/ Grounded by chains of reason/ Unable to reach/ wing of imagination/ And the keys/ Of hope, peace, and love/ Are locked away/ In a cage of darkness/

Humans are pieces to play with/ On a game board/ By rulers too big/ For us to oppose/ And monsters of our own creation/ Haunt our dreams/

The dreams that were the key/ To our destiny/ But those dreams/ Were left behind/ Muffled away and stowed/ In a dark trunk/ Or in an old room/ Left on fragments of memories that were/ Put away on objects of no importance/

Hope is just a bright spark/ That resides in our hearts/ Deep down/

And then/ There are those keys/ And those wings/

And as the chains break/ And our dreams come rushing back/ We think/

"How wonderful it is to be free!"/ "This light is pure joy!"/ "What wonder is around us!"/ "We are truly alive!!!"/

That creepy lady had been at the science fair. We had given her 6 rides in the port-o-john when she insisted we hand it over. Taken by surprise, we ran for it- into my house, into my kitchen.

    Well, Miss My-Wish-Is-Your-Command wasn't going to put up without a fight. Before you could say "Now What?" she had burst in through the door and stared to look all intimidating and glared down at us like she was a schoolyard bully.  I did the only sensible thing I could have done: I threw an onion. Soon we had an every-person for themselves, extremaly dangerous onion battle, me vs. creepy lady. Luckily, she had terrible aim. That was when I noticed her advantage: she had easy access to the knives. As if reading my thoughts, she began to grin nastily,and lobbed the chef knife with all her might. . .

Ok, I know this is from a guy's point of veiw but I just had inspiration while reading a book and wrote this. Please tell me what you think.    

I stare into her hazeleyes

And I hold her whileshe cries

He broke up with heron the phone

I found her sobbinghere alone

I only wish that shecould see

All inside, she meansto me

Out of her face, Ibrush her hair

And let her know I’llalways be there

She gives me a small,sweet smile

I haven’t seen her dothat for a while

She seems glad to knowI care

Our eyes meet, and fora while, we stare

Her eyes areshimmering astoundingly bright

Even more so in theamazing moonlight

I feel drawn to her,like a pianist to Mozart’s symphony

Could she feel thesame as me?

It seems so, for she tooleans close

Her eyes shut and herhead tilts just so

We kiss passionatelyand my head goes reeling

It is an odd, butpleasant new feeling

And now I realize withan awakening jolt

I love Holly, is thishow it felt?

To love a person morethan one’s self

It’s all very out ofcharacter for me

To feel anything morethan greed

But for some strangereason, I welcome the feeling

It gives me a calm,sense of well being

I long to have her bymy side

Not just now, butforever in time

Short story I wrote a while ago...

And the Darkness Is Gone

Struggling. The water is swarming around me, churning. At least I can still breathe. But that will not last. Paintings are swept off their hooks, and crumple. Millions of dollars gone. Benches and chairs and tables, even glass cases are broken, smashed against the wall or otherwise dismantled. But the safety glass in the windows holds. That stuff must be bullet-proof. As long as it holds, I am doomed. 

The museum is in lockdown mode. I had miscalculated the security system, and when hit the water pipe with a hammer, all the doors and windows shut, leaving the room to fill up with the water; terrible, terrible water. The painting I wanted is long gone, one of the first to be smashed. And no one is about to pull me out now. 

The lights go off. I scream, and fight to stay above water. Now the water has become less of an invasive species. Now it is purely my enemy. With the lights off, it's just me against the swirling, churning darkness. It's like being in a bowl with an egg beater working away at the liquid inside. There is a few feet left before the water hits the ceiling.

The worst part is, I know I deserve it. It is my fault that this has happened, that the darkness is rising, rising like blood out of an open wound. I was the one who tried to outwit the security, tried to make the painting my own. Tried to get a free lunch. There is no such thing, as they say. As they said.

I dive underwater, head toward the window. The darkness envelopes me inevitably, and I strike the window to no avail. I use my pocket knife, but it does not penetrate and I cut myself in the process. There is no pain; I am too numb and full of adrenaline. My hand snags a passing piece of metal, and I bring it against the glass. It does not crack. I strike again and again, filled with the rage of a dead man who has seen his salvation. The pounding against the glass is my heartbeat, my lifeblood. I surface, breathing the little bit of air above the darkness. The darkness rises to fill the room.

I laugh, in hysterics now, after seeing the top of a tree outside. The glass has to shatter soon. It can't last all of this. I beat harder, my arm working harder than it ever has before. I bang my finger, breaking it, but it does not hurt. Boom-boom-boom-boom. I kick the window in desperation, losing some of my air. I scream and my mouth fills with water. One more hit... I can do this, I CAN DO THIS. One more... I raise my arm and prepare to bring it down one last time.

And the darkness is gone...  

She crept quietly down the alley, her back pressed against the cold brick wall of the factory. Her knife was strapped to her thigh. The pressure of the weapon reassured her, but nevertheless, her heart was beating rapidly as she approached the back door. As he had promised, the door was left unlocked. She opened it a sliver and slid her thin body through. The door was gently closed, and she set off down the dark corridor. Although the darkness was thick and threatening, she dared not strike a match for light. As she reached the corner, she heard the metallic clicking of steel boots. They did not match the footsteps of the one she was here to see. Nervously, she flattened herself against the wall.

Was this an okay story so far? Feel free to criticize.

I know a bird named crraw

Whose poetry should be against the law

What's this? Someone impersonating me?? I like the poem, though! --Kokopelli