One

Well.
This will be my first blog ever. As I create this, I am eating a dinner of salsa and stale tortilla chips. I wish I had some cheese.
There is one week left until the Palm Beach County school system unleashes the force of approximately 176,335 minors upon the unsuspecting populus. Some lucky folks will not spend their summer in this sauna of a state. I, being just that lucky, will be among them.
School is almost over, which means work is beginning; that is, if I can get a job.

Here is some prose I wrote a few years ago. I hope that it is enjoyed.
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You could fit a dead body in there, you know. Two dead bodies, if you pack them right. Just right for bad Mr. Hesson and Jameson. I don’t think like that! I never think like that.Of course not, but they killed your mother. You know they did. And if she isn’t dead already, then she will be soon. Go on. Your fishing knife is in the drawer. Do it.“No.” I said. Hesson’s gaze turned to me suddenly.
“No what?” he asked. My breath caught in my throat, suspending my answer.
“No socks. My mom forgot to wash them.” I turned and sifted through a pile of clothes.
“Hurry up.” Hesson said. He was young, but his suit gave him years beyond his own. I wondered if he had a family.
Do it! It’s in your blood. Kill! Then put him in the suitcase.Remember your father?
Daddy? Yes I remember. I love him.
Do you?
Yes, I’m just like him.
Then kill if you’re just like him.
No! I’m not bad.
No, you are not bad. They are bad. They are evil. You love your mommy and daddy?
Yes.
Kill.
Okay.
“ I have to get some underwear out.” It was hard to look at his face as I spoke. I did not want to see him. Hesson had kind eyes. It hurt me to think that a man with such kind eyes could kill my mother.
“Okay. So get it.” He said blankly.
“Well...” My silence blossomed a pink, adolescent embarrassment in my cheeks.
“Fine.” He said, turning. Grateful for the relief from his stare, I opened my top drawer and felt underneath my clothes. I felt around, farther back. My fingers grasped at the cold metal handle and my palm, grateful for it’s cool, slick surface, embraced it.
I flipped it open and slowly turned to face him. His back was still turned. He did not see the knife in my hand. He bobbed his head and hummed to himself. Some song, some song he knew. Some song I, undoubtedly, knew as well.
Kill him. Kill him now!
I don’t want to kill him!
Fine! You don’t have to kill him. Just hurt him. Plunge it in.
Where?
Towards the left side under the shoulder. It’s all right. Just do it.
But isn’t that-
Do it!
All right.
I raised the knife, ready to counter bone with all the velocity my young hand could gain. Closing my eyes, I brought the knife down. His skin gave in. He had seemed so strong, but now was all too mortal. How softly and smoothly the knife entered his skin, without a noise. It was poetry in motion. A dark, beautiful poetry.
He didn’t even let out a gasp. He turned to face me. The look in his eyes was dumb, pleading. His mouth seemed to gulp at the air. His tongue writhed in his mouth and, in his throat, there was a deep, unintelligible noise, a humming. I closed my fist tighter and tighter until I could feel my own blood trickle out from beneath my fingernails.
The first man I ever killed was, by far, the most remarkable; his face and eyes were full of poignancy and remorse, his hands reaching in a picture of perfect desperation and humanity. As he fell backwards onto my dresser, the knife plunged deeper into his body. The tip of the blade shone on the other side of his chest. It was small, the knife that killed Hesson. A little silver secret, just between us.