The Terror of Trump

A/N: The Terror of Trump. This is a highly subjective article, and please do take this into consideration. 

There are many different kinds of presidential candidates for the upcoming selection, but most often the choice is really between two. Whoever the democratic party picks and whoever is picked by the republican party. The democratic party can still go both ways regarding Hillary vs. Bernie, but I believe that the republican party has already made its decision. They just haven’t gone public with it yet.

If they do pick, who I as well as millions of others believe they will pick, they have picked someone, who’s a compulsive liar. He’s ignorant, a racist, talks down to women and is basically a bully.

He’s Donald Trump, and I still cringe when I consider him the next president of the United States.

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A Close Reading of Pride and Prejudice

A/N: An Academic Essay for the letter Mr. Darcy gives Elizabeth in the iconic story of Pride and Prejudice.


There are numerous possible methods on how to analyse the iconic love story of Pride and Prejudice by the renowned Jane Austen, and a historical criticism is merely one of the more obvious ones.

I will, however, not analyse the entirety of the story, but rather centre most of my focus on a selected extract. For this extract I have chosen the letter, which Mr. Darcy presents to Elizabeth as his way of explaining and justifying his actions. The extract takes place about half-way through the story and it can be argued that it is the essential turning point for not only the relationship between Mr. Darcy and Ms. Elizabeth Bennett, but also for the story as a whole.

The letter is the result of Mr. Darcy overcoming his pride and realising that his unwillingness to accept the foolishness of Elizabeth’s relations has cost him his chance of extraordinary happiness. This realisation is brought on by Elizabeth’s refusal of his proposal of marriage, something which his pride deemed an impossibility. The letter itself also has the consequence of Elizabeth herself overcoming her prejudices towards Mr. Darcy, which has stemmed from a accumulation of personal pride, an unwillingness to give up her introductory impression of him and unverified rumours created by a charming, but duplicitous man by the name of George Wickham.

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Over the Graveyard, Original Vs. Edited

A/N: Okay, this weeks post is about editing! Me editing someone else’s first draft.

First of we have the original version, but if you’re not interested in that, you can just skip it. If not, please comment and let me know if you agree with my changes!

Original Version


The wind howled through the trees, the rain whipped the ground, and the darkness had swallowed the forest like an angry giant from ancient times past, rolling in along with the thin, crescent moon to cover all the land in deep ink. Somewhere not far from here was the graveyard, where cracked headstones reached out of the ground like broken teeth biting at the sky, covered in moss and rot; names barely readable after so many years of neglect. No one remembered who rested there; everyone had forgotten. Even the priest, who didn’t even seem to care. The church tended to the new graves alright, but not the old ones. It seemed no one cared about those. It was a shame: when we forget the dead simply because we did not know them personally, when we pretend the distant past matters less than the recent past, we lose part of ourselves. We must remember if we want to have a chance to improve ourselves. This is true for all humans, everywhere: In this matter, we are one.

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A Doctor’s Confession

Her name was Stephanie Johnson, and she was one of the most renowned brain surgeons on the East Coast. She was calm, collected, professional, and during her six years as a doctor she’d only ever had two patients die on her table. A new record. Sure, she worked some long hours, but she loved her job. She loved the feeling it gave her to feel like she could defeat sickness itself. It made her feel powerful. Invincible.

Sometimes she felt lonely. Not often, but occasionally. It wasn’t like she’d never had a boyfriend, but there just never seemed to be time to work on her relationships, and eventually the men started getting sick of never being prioritized. She had a lover though, who came over a couple of times a week and left before dawn, and she had her girlfriends. Doctors from the same hospital. Mature women, who liked meeting over a lunch or a cocktail.

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One; Mother

A/N: I will most likely read this poem again in a couple of weeks and cringe. If you guys cringe as well, I suppose it’s as good as reaction as any 😉

And furthermore; Happy Birthday, Mom!


The world is still new and I stare with eyes from The Tinderbox.

Marvelling over snow crushing beneath me, sun warming above me.

And that little sound the microwave makes, when the minutes are out.

And over the dog; greeting me with a cold, wet snout and a wetter tongue.

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Strangers in a Bus

A/N: Okay, this one is officially fanfiction to Once Upon a Time, but it can just as easily be read as an original story. Meaning that even if you aren’t a fan of OUAT you can still (hopefully) enjoy it.

Robert was well aware that he was a bitter man. But how could he not be with an ex-wife, who to this day called him up at random intervals to tell him his many short-comings as a husband? And how could he not be bitter with an estranged son and an empty house?

And now, after a gruelling day in court, his car had broken down and he had to take the bus of all things. Dirty, foul and filled with people, who were constantly falling into him like it he didn’t had trouble enough already leaning on his cane while simultaneously making it appear as if it was merely for decoration. Robert bit his teeth together as yet another stop forced the very heavy woman across from him to stumble and fall into him, surrounding him with the cloy smell of her perfume. Robert had enough.

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She was eaten by zombies.

If she hadn’t been in too much pain to look back, she probably would have wished she’d stayed at home rather than going with her friends to this desolate island. She’d been a member of her schools Paranormal Activity Club, and they’d decided to spent their vacation looking for anything paranormal. Like werewolves and vampires.

Now being slightly scarred by a werewolf would be kind of cool, and being bit by a vampire would be hot as hell. But this?

Death by zombies. Lame. And painful.

Continue reading “Transformation”