The Books vs. the Movies

So, lately, I have been re-reading the Harry Potter series that I finished in the seventh grade. I’m not too sure what, exactly, made me want to do so, but here we are.

I am currently on the seventh and final book – “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows” – of the popular series, and I realized that I had nearly forgotten why I adored and enjoyed these books as much as I do. However, in comparison, I have come to dislike the movies because of my recent delve back into the Wizarding world; I understand that a movie’s budget can only go so far, but there are countless small details within the books that could have been incorporated into the films. For example, the main character, Harry Potter’s, cousin and uncle are blonde in the books, and in the movies, they both have very dark hair. It is miniscule differences in characteristics like this that cause me think to not ever watch the movies again, though I watched them all from the time I was in fourth grade.

In the books, a very crucial detail about the main character is that those that knew his mother, Lily, before she was killed when Harry was a year old, always told him that he “had Lily’s eyes” but looked just like his father, James, who was also murdered at the same time as his wife; he had the same face shape, messy, black hair and stature as James but had Lily’s green, almond-shaped eyes. In an interview with J.K. Rowling, the author of the series, she states that the actor, Daniel Radcliffe, that portrayed Harry Potter in the films’ eyes did not have to be green – the actor need not wear colored contacts every time he was on camera; she simply stated that it was very important that the actress portraying Harry Potter’s mother have the same-colored eyes as Radcliffe, whose eyes are blue, yet whenever Harry sees someone else’s memory that included his mother when she was 14 or 15 years old, the young girl that played her had dark brown eyes.

Personally, I am always a bigger fan of the original books, rather than their movie adaptations, because for as long as I can remember, I spent my free time laying in bed and reading a book. When I was younger, my parents never really let me watch the “Harry Potter” movies past the third one because it was a bit more violent, but I ended up watching the fourth one anyways and finishing the series around the time “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Pt. 2” came out in theaters. I was always a huge fan of the series, but re-reading the books has really shined a light on the comparisons of them against the movies. And I can say for a fact that I still greatly prefer the books to the movies in this case – well, in most cases.

from daydreaming guitarist to daydreaming poet

i grew up surrounded by music – not your typical childhood tunes, though. my dad raised me in a pool of heavy metal and classic rock, throwing me in before i could swim, and my mom cheered him along from the sidelines as my older sister shook her head with distaste. to this day, if you mention a child listening to rock music, my dad will grin and tell you about the time he looked in the backseat and saw me in my booster seat, headbanging to the Metallica song he had playing.

so, naturally, i listened to music any chance i got: on the bus, sitting at home, during car rides, while waiting at the dentist’s office. i grew to admire the guitarists of each band i listened to and aspired to be like them – to be in a band of my own as the lead guitarist and travel the world, meet countless new people. i even began to learn how to play the instrument in fifth grade but never kept up with it.

one year prior, though, my teacher, mrs. scott, gave the class a writing assignment. i cannot remember the exact prompt she gave, given my terrible memory and the fact that this occurred over eight years ago, but i do remember that the assignment required a horror/mystery-inspired theme (i believe it was october at the time). being the natural reader i was, many different plots swam in my brain, and i had a difficult time choosing which to write out. eventually, i finished my paragraph or two and turned it in. later that day, my teacher approached me and told me how much she loved my writing and the use of the phrase “blood-curdling scream.” in retrospect, she probably just admired that a fourth-grader even knew the term “blood-curdling,” but being the nine-year-old i was, i did not know that; for the next few days or so, i was beaming with pride, doing everything i could to mention to others that mrs. scott had liked it so much and that she had also displayed it for everyone in the school to see on the wall in the hallway outside of her classroom (which she also did with a few other students’ works, but i had never made it there before). i also can recall her showing the paper to other teachers, discussing how well i had written for an elementary student.

from that moment on, i decided to start writing. but i still wanted to play in a band. as the years passed, though, i never really learned how to play the guitar, and i began writing more and more as the days went by. eventually (around eighth or ninth grade), my guitar went to my sister because i stopped wanting to play it for a living, and my dreams transitioned to ones of keyboards, ink pens, and loose notebook paper. so much so that i applied to an arts high school in my tenth grade year, specifically with the purpose of going for writing, and got in.

my dreams are nowhere near the general vicinity of my future, but i never imagined i would be where i am now, especially when i was in fourth grade, proud of the use of “blood-curdling scream” in a paragraph-long story. but to this day, i do not know how to play the guitar, but i will never give up on my dreams of writing.

“Cell” by Stephen King

Cell is a novel written by Stephen King, published in early 2006. The book is set inside of an apocalyptic world and follows a New England artist named Clayton Riddell in an attempt to reunite with his son and soon-to-be-ex-wife. At the beginning of the novel, a mysterious signal broadcast is aired over the global cell phone network and turns the majority of humankind into mindless, vicious animals.

Within the first part of the book, titled “The Pulse,” Clay stands behind three women (which he calls Pixie Light, Pixie Dark, and “the woman in the power suit”)  in line at an ice cream truck and sees them spiral out of control, as well as a man with his dog in the park near where he stands. Pixie Light holds a peppermint-colored cell phone, and Pixie Dark listens to the conversation going on as her friend holds the phone so they can both hear. The woman in the power suit is holding her phone to her ear and attempting to speak to a woman on the other end when suddenly, she pounces on the man inside of the truck and kills him. Then, Pixie Dark kills her, neither of them using a thing but their bare hands to do the deed. The friend, Pixie Dark, only catches a small portion of the broadcast and begins wandering the sidewalk, asking, “Who am I, who are you?” repeatedly running into a light post.

Clayton soon meets a man named Tom McCourt, who helps him with one of what they take to calling the “phone crazies” or “phoners” that comes after the two of them with a steak knife. The men soon make their way to the hotel Clay is staying in, where they find a young girl, named Alice Maxwell, hiding. Eventually, Clay convince Alice and Tom to let him venture on his trip to find his son, and they decide to go with him. The three catch disturbing hints about the activities of the phoners, who still attack non-phoners on sight.

They arrive at an academy with only one remaining teacher and just as many students. Jordan, the 12-year-old computer geek, and the teacher, Charles Ardai show the small group where the local phoner flock goes at night: they pack themselves into the Academy’s soccer field and “switch off” until morning. Together, they all assume that the phoners have become a hive mind and are developing psychic abilities and soon decide they must destroy the flock, and, using two propane tankers, they succeed in doing so.

That night, all of the survivors share the same horrific dream: each sees him- or herself in a stadium, surrounded by phoners, as a disheveled man wearing a Harvard University sweatshirt approaches, bringing their death. Waking, the heroes share their frightening dream experiences, dub him “the Raggedy Man,” and soon learn that he is the metaphorical spokesman of the flock.

(to be continued…)

roses and tampons

what do you do when your favorite flower becomes something you suddenly dread looking forward and seeing?
when you can only think of your mom and dad and distant family members telling you that you are blossoming into a “young lady” – a thing you never wanted to be in the first place – every single time you look at its petals?
what is there to do when the thing you once found absolute beauty in becomes a thing you grew to despise when you were eleven and have done so since?
when the petals are torn, falling away and no longer the stunning hue you have always admired?
what can you do when the stem has lost its coloring, and it doesn’t give you that feeling that you could never accurately describe with words any longer?
when the crimson-hue of the same type of flower starts to look like the mess you see during “that time of the month” that brings nothing but pain and quite a bit of hatred for being born the way you were?
who can you go to when the very thought of those things brings nothing but sudden sadness, unimaginable pain, and visions of an optimistic future that may never come?
when nothing seems to help you through the dark thoughts your favorite flower seems to drag along with it?
where can you go for peace when they scream at you how you will never be the thing you wish to be, only the “little girl” your parents want you to be?
when you know you will only continue to blossom until you have sprouted into the thing you were always told to be growing up and that you always knew you could never, truly be?
when no one and nothing seems to help with the forever-haunting presence of it, lurking in the very back of your mind and never ceasing to remind you of the times to come that you know could never go the way you want?
what remedies will be effective for the impending sense of disappointment whenever you look down to see those flowers or the things sitting on your chest that weigh what seems like a ton and make you ache all over with a terrible pain?
what do you do when roses become tampons?


the future has always scared me.

I always thought I’d never live to see 16, and my friends and family wouldn’t really care that I was gone.

that I would just be the kid that faded away at age 13 that no one really cared all that much about because I was “weird.”

I thought if I did have a future, it would consist of a crappy job that I hate, forever stuck in the small town I grew up in and always despised, being criticized by the members of my family that I never saw about the tattoo I got last week or how my hair is now.

I thought my future would be terrible.

that it would be the type of future everyone deliberately tries to avoid for themselves.

I knew my writing would go nowhere, regardless of how much I love it or how hard I tried to make it become something.

it would always be doomed, and I would never be able to stray from the path I was placed on at birth.

but now, I know differently.

and it’s still utterly terrifying.

the unknown scares me, and my future is exactly that – unknown.

I’ve always been relatively good at math and thinking logically and solving problems and searching among chaos for something specific, but this is one that I cannot solve.

I can’t combine the numbers right or find the piece or the specific thing that I need.

the future is something I cannot see.

I could end up flipping burgers at mcdonald’s when I’m 30 or a writer before I hit 25, my dream career.

living in a decent apartment or moving back in with my parents by the time I finish college – assuming I even get into one and complete it, that is.

which brings the question: college dropout or graduate?

working in the field of creative writing or putting together terrible poems in the room I sleep in now at my parents’ houses and waking up at 3 p.m. to go to work with rude people and an ice cream machine that’s always broken?

all alone or able to surround myself with a few close friends and those I care for when I need them and even when I don’t?

am I doomed to wander back to that path, or will I remain off of it for the remainder of my life?

how many people will come and go?

will any remain five years from now?

will I?

Valentine’s Day – and Why I Hate It

I, honestly, cannot stand Valentine’s Day. And you would probably think that it’s because I’m alone for the so-called “holiday” for the first time in a couple years, but I assure you that that is not the case here.

I’ve always despised the tradition of only showing someone that you love them, or you appreciate them, on only one day of the year. I believe that if you truly feel one of these ways about them, you should show it to them 24/7, not on the one day everyone else decides to take part in annually. You should give them things they like randomly, if you can. I don’t like the entire giving others chocolate, flowers, teddy bears and heart-shaped everythings people exchange on February 14th, and I cannot stand the fact that no one seems to realize just where Valentine’s Day originated.

Ancient Romans celebrated the feast of Lupercalia, an annual festival done to avert evil spirits and purify the city, between Feb. 13 – 15th by the men sacrificing a goat and a dog, then whipping women with the hides of the animals they had just sacrificed. The women would line up for the “romantics” – who were both drunk and naked – to hit them because they believed it would make them fertile, and young men would draw the name of women from a bowl. The two would then be “coupled up” for the remainder of the festival, if you understand what that means, and sometimes longer.

Emperor Claudius II also executed two men – both named Valentine – on Feb. 14 of different years in the 3rd century A.D. Their martyrdom was honored by the Catholic Church with the celebration of St. Valentine’s Day. Later, Pope Gelasius I muddled things in the 5th century by combining St. Valentine’s Day with Lupercalia to expel the pagan rituals.

So, you see, Valentine’s Day is not about flying babies that shoot people with arrows to make them fall in love or chocolate, flowers and teddy bears; it’s about the sacrifice of animals, the abuse of women, the glorification of said abuse and the execution of two men on February 14th. It’s amazing to me that people are perfectly willing to blindly celebrate a “holiday” and continue the traditions of it, without ever bothering to simply look up the facts of its origins on the internet to find a reliable source. I understand you want to show affection to those you care about, but maybe try doing that all the time and not just on the anniversary of Lupercalia and the cruel execution of two different men who happened to have the same name.


I wrote this while listening to a song titled “Rope” by DED, and it includes the line, “I’m not afraid of you, I’m afraid of what I might do.” This made me realize that I feel the exact same way for people in my life.

It’s always been difficult for me to make new friends or converse with people I have not known for a number of years, and I used to tell myself that was because I was terrified of other people. But I realize now that the real truth is that I was scared to get closer to people and open up to them and do something stupid like – I don’t know – trusting them? Letting them in and telling them everything about me and getting attached as I have found that I always seem to do? I’m afraid of what I may or may not do to those people I have grown close to because I have realized from past experiences that things are bound to go wrong at some point, and the end is usually not too far from the downfall. I’m scared of getting too close and being absolutely devastated when they decide to move on – of attaching my rope to them, only to have them tear it to shreds before the knot is completely tied. I always thought that I was afraid of them, but as it turns out, I’m afraid of the possibility of being deeply affected by their leaving my side – of over-reacting to a simple turn of their backs and wave of the hands.

I am terrified of people leaving me. Terrified of eating meals alone and being deprived of human interaction, which takes about a day to occur in my mind. If someone does not want to speak to me or spend just a millisecond of their time with me, then I immediately feel as though I have done something wrong to upset them and that I should try and figure out what it was that I did to try and make it better because I absolutely hate having people I care for not care for me in return. I always feel over-attached and as though my emotions are simply far too much that any other person would be willing to withstand.

Over the last couple of months, I have been on a roller-coaster of believing things are getting better and deciding they are only getting worse. I thought coming here would give me new friends, new opportunities to branch outside of the shell I have been hiding in for the last five years of my life. And it did exactly that for a bit. I was becoming part of a small group of people I was content with. But then, something happened – as usual, right? – and being the new addition, I began to feel as though I was being cast out. And honestly, it’s getting to the point where I’m not too sure what I can do anymore and so I just decide that staying away is best. So that’s what I’m doing.

black rose

in a field of dandelions,

you are a beautiful black rose.

and dandelions are

gorgeous, of course,

but they cannot even begin to

compare to your beauty.

you are the type of stunning

that makes people drop

their mouths in amazement

and stop whatever they

are doing to watch you move.

your petals are a bit torn,

but some find that adoring.

you have been replanted more times

than you or I can count –

dug up, shredded to pieces,

stomped on repeatedly

and eaten by wild animals.

but you always seem to

re-bloom in the same place.

people admire you,

and you do not even know it.

you are unaware of how many

lose their breath when they see you –

a dark face of black

inside a sea of bright,

nauseating yellow and white –

and come to a halt,

just to look at you for a moment or two.

you have no clue how many

have walked up to you

and tried to pluck you from the ground

and have pricked their

fingers on your thorns

because the amount of

beauty you possess

causes them to forget

that roses have thorns.

they see how gorgeous you are,

and they choose to erase

the fact of the flower itself

and its thorns’ –

your thorns’ –


you captivate them.

you poke them without

realizing what you are doing –

it’s not like you have a choice

to be the way you are

and to have those thorns.

it’s not like you enjoy

bringing pain to those

who adore you.

but it happens anyways.

it happens because you are a rose,

and roses have thorns.

it’s almost like a defense mechanism.

like the rest of you knew

the hurt that was to come,

so it grew thorns to protect itself.

or either it was exhausted

from being plucked from its home,

and so, it is preventing

any others from doing it again.

your thorns are your

only form of staying safe –

of keeping your beautiful

petals barricaded.

they have been your wall,

and they will continue to be

until someone gentle

enough comes along

and asks you if you are okay

with them cutting your thorns off –

until someone is soft with you

and has your permission

to tear those walls down.

because without your thorns,

you are vulnerable.

and the last time you allowed yourself

to be vulnerable,

someone tore you apart

and took every ounce

of your beauty for themselves.

insomnia of you

(This is a poem I’m debating to read at coffeehouse in December, and I’m not too sure I want to yet. But here it is anyways. Also, it’s pretty sappy and/or cheesy, and I am not sorry one bit.)

it’s 11 p.m.,

and i want to go to bed.

but like in every other sappy love poem, i cannot.

and it’s because of you, naturally –

it’s because you are running through my mind

like a marathon runner on the track.

your voice, especially.

how it cascades through my entire body

as you talk about the simplest things.

how i could sit next to you all day,

listening to you talk about absolutely nothing

and never want to leave.


it’s 12 a.m.,

and i’m still sitting here,

still trying to close my eyes –

the curtain that forever remains transfixed on your own orbs.

that ocean-gray color that drives me beyond mad.

when they look at me,

i get this feeling of paralysis;

i am afraid that if i move,

they will, too,

and they will never set upon mine again.

because my eyes are green,

and this shade of green

and your shade of blue

do not mix too prettily.


it’s 1 a.m.,

and i see your gorgeous smile now.

and i know it isn’t there because of me,

but i can dream, right?

actually, no –

i cannot.

i cannot because you will not let me.


it’s 2 a.m.,

and i am replaying that song we both really like,

learning every last word so that

i have a reason to talk to you again today.

isn’t that pathetic?


it’s 3 a.m.;

i know all of the words to the song.

can you tell that i have not slept –

because of you?


it’s 4 a.m. now,

and this is making my head hurt.

see what you do to me?

you crush every thought that is not about you

into a place inside my mind –

you cram it all together in one small room

and make yourself grow,

so that you take up every inch of space available to you

and even that that is not yours to take.


it’s 5 a.m.,

and my eyelids feel a bit heavy,

so maybe i will get some sleep after all,

no thanks to you.


it’s 6 a.m.,

and you never did stop screaming at me.

of course you were not actually screaming;

you were simply whispering in my ear,

repeating the statement of a reality i do not desire to face.

maybe i should sleep –

i have geometry soon.


it’s 7 a.m.,

and i have not slept for even a second.

i have to go to class now,

but of course that will not stop you

from lingering in the back of my mind,

with your jaw-dropping eyes,

your beautiful smile

and that voice that makes me melt.

that voice that is also sending that message,

reminding me of facts i wish i could ignore.


My name is not mine to claim.

It is a thing given to me – forced upon me.

It is something I have absolutely loathed my entire life and wished that I could change since I was eight.

It is a thing of strain, of distress and discomfort.

My name is a broken record that somehow still manages to play through my parents’, my other family and people I know’s mouths,

despite its cracks, tears, the missing pieces and the fact that it was lost many years ago.

It is a thing that is supposed to be a part of me,

and yet, I cannot help but feel that no one around really cares to listen

and notice how I close my eyes, grit my teeth and flinch when they say that name –

how every time I am forced to say that name, my tongue feels grimy, my teeth clamp down on it and my stomach twists with nausea.

It pierces my insides and forces me to hear my parents saying it, when it knows I crave it to be gone and that we could all just forget about it;

I wish it could be seen that I am sick inside, the name having gotten into my system so many years ago,

infecting me with its contents that would make any human being feel unwell.

Brewing inside of me for so long that my body has become its permanent home,

the cancerous cells inside of my mind and my soul –

the very bane of my existence –

have been tormented for so long that I know no else besides this pain I feel from the abyss of hurt and suffocation.

It is a demanding, horrendous nuisance that will forever remain in its home that it has buried and settled itself into.

It will be there until I drop –

until my heart stops, my mouth no longer inhales or exhales, and my pulse is moving as steadily as the staircase I walk down every day.

My name is something that will forever stay with me, no matter where I go, who I meet or what I do.

It will always be there, lingering, screaming yet whispering itself to me: