WROTE OR WRITE:

As many writers before me, I have the desire to write. The obvious thing why a writer becomes a writer. Little or no detail is placed in the work. One might consider them self a writer from writing a list of stock cars. They do this commonly, so the consumption is that they are a writer. They believe that by doing this process over and over, they are a writer. Making a simple list, a child can make. The rightful title for them is "stock keeper". I define a writer as powerful yet, detail worker. One whom puts every once of effort into his or her work. When mistakes take place, they edited. Flowing of keys, pencils and keys make a writer. The flowing of these things merge into a ocean of detail and accuracy. You can get a book,newspaper, or magazine article. Within my writing you will learn my point of view. Things will be said, and be remembered. The foundation of detail, and definition will play a major role in this writing. Enjoy...WROTE OR WRITE. This is the sequel to DANIEL'S NOTEBOOK( Some attentional logs from the NOTEBOOK, are inside as well. This is just the for you readers to get a feel about how I write.

To Family, and friends.

All things are possible to him that believeth.

-Mark 9:23

The Writer:

LOG ONE- Challenge:

Challenges can come in different shapes and forms. Yes, one has to face challenges daily. Why do we have these burdens apon us? They test us, and challenge us to see how good we are. Everyone once had a challenge to prepare for. If not prepared we rush recklessly, into something we know little of. Even when prepared we know little of the real, not false challenge. Faith, and working hard can guide you threw challenge. The challenge can seem pathless as a darken wood. But work, and faith provide light.

Her hands grow wet with nervousness. Her hand slipped nearly off the pen. With the tighting of a index finger, and thumb she counties writing. The road to be finished is long. Bumps, and pot holes come. The pen looses its black liquid, and some white scrape marks occur. She shakes and scribbles over the marks. The liquid returns. Letters run over the white skeleton marks. She counties writing without a moment of rest.

The past holds much to her present. The hot mid-year days where long. She sat there on the porch of a old brick house. A black pen, and a white note pad. A timer sat before her on a small chair, with a glass of lemonade. With a sip of the liquid she would write. A red eye horse fly would land close to her hand, but simply, she would brush it away. Her mouth grew dry. She would sip on the lemonade, multi-tasking. Her hand never would never stop moving. The timer would go off, and the practice.

Now the time to prove herself has come. The mid-year days are behind in memory. She entered the room. Shelves stood high, stacked with books. The pale white lights overhead, cast long shelf shaped shadows. She enters, a bald-point pen in her hand. She walks across the room. Others at their own writing stations don't bother to look up. If they did, they would look forward at a ticking timer. She sits down her mouth dry. Before her, a boy already had began his work. His pen glided across the paper before him. His concern was not on her. She sat down. She was over five minutes late. With a uncapping of a pen, the girl's test begins.

She looks at the paper. Thin black lines stood up on rows, on the paper. The title: YOUR CONCERN OF THE WAR IN IRAQ. With the licking of dry lips, she begins.

The timer course of counting down, continues. Her hand flows, even if the pen looses ink. Words come into organization, and order. They flow across the paper with thin yet flowing format. Their meaning come into play. The timer ticks, as words are molded. With a clear mind of thought, she counties writing.

Time seems to slowed its flow for her. Despite this she know she must hurry. Those long hot mid year days will not be forgotten. The effort she placed into the work she wrote, and practiced will not be forgotten. With the soft grinding of molders she writes. Periods, communes, are placed onto the paper. Her hand moves steadily, with effort. Then the ending comes, with much time gone. She scans her paper with nervous brown eyes. In a uncanny unison, timers go off. There dings echo threw a dead silent room. Pens, pencils, fall onto tables. The boy before her, stands up with a stretch. She does follows his footsteps, with a yarn. Silently the room is empty. The time of judgment was coming on with swift wings.

LOG TWO- Rise above:

Can one rise above? Can one prove him or herself to others? We always wonder this, for it happens often. The answer is yes. Even if rising above another's standards, one can go beyond that. If one where to put effort and accuracy into what they do, they can over take much. They even can become a legend of their own.

Nothing could hold back his effort. He pushed his body to the maximum. He toiled to the point that sweat felt like the stingers of wasps. Down the dusty road, he would run. His legs would tighten, muscles would strain forward. Despite these factors he would grind forward. Nothing would be a obstacle to him. His body was his own enemy, yet he moved forward.

The time had come. The sun blazed threw a window, from the east. He arose. He bathe, his body, and his teeth became brushed. He stretched as he left the bathroom behind. With the pulling on of pants, and two white shirts he was ready. He greased his waved hair, and brushed it. He knew then he was ready. He grabbed his book bag from the conner of his room. He exited his room. Standing there was his father, outside his doors. The man scanned his son with a smile. He extended his hand, with a bag in it. His son took the bag with a smile. The two wrap each arms around each other. His father pulled away. "Good luck". He said. His son nods, and exits. The screen door, opens, and closes with a wooden clap.

Time seem to gain acceleration. The bus ride, seem to be a blur, and the first two blocks seem to be a blur. The words from a announcer on the television set, where all that he remembered.

The principle sat speaking in the screen. A young tall lanky, individual he was. He pushed his glasses up and began to speak. He pointed to the screen with a false smile. "Hello North High Foxes! Try outs for full safety will take place today! Please report to the field during lunch. Food will be provided". He said. The pledge, and moment of silence was done, and the lesson began. Soon the bell rang, and hour of lunch began to take place.

He walked threw the hallway, till the gym was reached. He passed threw the gym, his eyes turned to the new cheer leaders. The female coach scorned the newcomers. Some of the girls look up. Some of them giggle, others wrinkle their noses with discuss. He returns their signs with the rolling of his eyes. He then jogged threw the gym and exited threw a old worn door.

The sunlight blazed in his eyes. He walked down a series of bleachers, and stairs. He made his way to a empty locker room. In a flash, the top shirt, and pants where gone. They where replaced by a under shirt and shorts. He then stuffed his gym, and book bag into a tall empty locker. He grabbed a pair of worn scrapped up black Nikes, and placing the the new ones in the locker. He closed the locker. In a flash of white, he exited the locker room.

He jogged out to the left end of the field. He sat in between a running-back and a o-lineman. They looked at him with a smile. They both where his own class mates. It was the third of school, and the three hardly knew each other. The big lineman extended his hand. After a trade-mark high five they spoke. "Good luck trying out. Rodger Owens , o-lineman. Freshmen". He said. He turned to the running-back and back to the lineman. "Micheal Blanner. Full safety, freshmen". He said doing the same high five to the running-back."Joseph Welson. Running back, freshmen". The three encouraged one and another and looked down. The tall coach looked up at the bleachers. He woar a simple white shirt, tucked into jogging pants. Before him sat, other trying out freshmen. They talked and laughed. He placed his whistle to his mouth and blew. There was a chorus of stopping voices. "First up...defense. Full safeties vs. sophomore receivers. Give me your name. After that pieces of cotton, put on a helmet, mouth piece, and armor. If you last threw that, next practice you will wear pants, and pads! Move it". He roared. Micheal looks at his newly appointed friends. "Good luck". They say in unison. Micheal steps down from the bleachers unto the field.

He scrapped on the armor. He remembered the long hot days as he ran. He had pads, scrapped across his body with bricks tied over them. With this thought his molders, soon grinded.

He walked before the coach. Some of the sophomores, voices lower. They talk under their breaths. Some of them laugh, some of them nod. They where either providing confidence, or discourage. They looked up at Micheal silently. The coach looked at Micheal, with scanning. "A six-three freshmen. Not bad. Whats your name boy"? He asked looking down at his clip board. "Micheal Blanner sir". He said putting on his helmet. His breathing was more tighter under the helmet. The coach nods. "Alright...good luck". He said pointing towards the field with his black Paper Mate pen. Micheal nods and jogs onto the field. He stood before a much taller, and built receiver. Behind him stood a junior quarterback . The receiver points to Micheal. "Good luck..little boy"! He said. Micheal smiles under his helmet. He narrows his eyes. "We will see, you over-used I think I can catch boy". Said Micheal. A whistle sounds.

The receiver rushes forward. Grass and turf fly side ways. Micheal steps back. The football launches forward, from the quarterback. The receiver catches it, as his shoulder tares backwards. He falls backwards. The receiver stands up. With a under hand toss, the receiver, gives the quarterback the ball. Micheal points to the receiver. "Hmph! Run long! Come on"! Said Micheal. The receiver turns back to the quarterback. "Hail Mary". He said turning back to Micheal. The coach looks on from the side line. He shakes his head as his lips locked around the whistle. He blows it, his eyes focus on the three players. The players eyes where locked onto one and another. The receiver dashed towards Micheal, his eyes widen with anger. Micheal runs backwards, eyes locked on the receiver. Wordlessly, they turn to the direction of the quarterback. With the wiping of the quarterback's arm the ball spirals threw the air. The time flow, seemed to be slowed. The receiver, sprints past Micheal. Micheal runs full speed as the ball is arm length, away from the receiver. There seems to be a pause, as the receiver's arms stretch out. Micheal's course takes him to the side of the receiver. He dives side ways...the ball's spiraling movement hits his hands. The whistle blows. Micheal stands up. The receiver looks at Micheal. He then smiles. "Good job, I mean for a freshmen". He says he says jogging up to Micheal. There was a chorus of cheers from the stands. The quarterback, despite a intercepted ball, claps. The coach roars across the field "You are going to start this season Mike! I haven't seen no freshmen, ever, intercept, a ball on the second play"!

From that warm late summer day forward, Micheal was a prodigy. Even his sickly, weak, mother would come and see his playing ability. Grass and turf would fly, balls would be knocked, or caught away from receivers. If Micheal's luck would high, a blitz would send a running-back falling. Even after falling short on his last game, Micheal was known. The skill that poured from him was uncounted. Travel to Oak Valley Georgia. Here the story of the Young Great One. Here them, as the players talk. None has yet to compare to him. After all he was accepted into the University of Georgia. Despite the difference, in plays, and players, Micheal always putted on a performance. From there this tale ends, of the one whom came to greatness.

LOG TWO- ALONE:

We all are alone in our minds. Our thoughts, feelings all are different patterns. One does not share the same thoughts of another. We sometimes wonder why this is true. No man or woman is the same. Even twins of a same mother think different. At times we are alone, we loose all that we know all around us. Why? Because we simply think different, and that changes much. We sometimes loose our self, along with loosing others around us. This is Alone/.

The blackens him. He silently regrets what he has lost. The entire world before his sight are but shade and shadow. Despite the bleakness the boy strides forward. What is lost to him, troubles him. To whom, he loved and cherished, tempted him. The ones who tempted, him from plunging into the darkness. Happy are the voices in his ears. Voices of the ones, he loved and lost. Now they are far, and gone. Once his loved was cherished, by them. They return his feelings equally. Now they are no longer there. He cries, into the darkness. Words cannot be said, or made to that is around him. Then a tainted, thought catches his attention. He seems as a specter, and monster of his mind. Caught in his mind are the laughing ones, whom knew him only by criticism. The ones whom celebrated, and worshiped the boys fall. Their cold snickers, and whispered words play through his mind. Despite the coldness of their hearts, they are imagined. By this, the boy feels warmth. The very ones whom plague, the boys mind, provide spiritual warmth Loosing his sanity is what they almost caused. Now they are invisible blankets wrapped around him.

His attention turns to the blank heavens. Dual lights form. They multiply, with uncounted speed. With a wipe of a ragged sleeve tears are vanquished. The forms of the lights are revealed. They are the pale, white, and turquoise lanterns of the night sky. They are the siblings, of the burning sun. They also are the underlings of the bright pale face moon. They are the pagan gods of the ancient cities of Rome and Athens. The boy looks down unto the revilement of his surroundings. A cold, ghostly wind blows across the pathless landscape. A bleak, pale world is all that is before him. Loose gravel, and sharp stones are scraped under boot covered feet. Landmarks are a damned forsaken thing in this landscape. No hills, grass, water, or streams are there. Nothing would be the proper definition of the land. The boy knows hope is there. Hope is there as there is light. Faith accompanies its bother hope. The boy feels confidence, yet he is lost. The toxic burden is apon his shoulders. He is Alone.

P2 COMING SOON...!

LOG FOUR- CAST OUT AND ACCEPTED:

What if everything you do is smiled apon. What if your work, feelings, and looks are acceptable. Hmph. As time go by people look apon you as a shining light amongst the darkness. You gleam shows far, and bright into the future. What if you make a mistake...and all fails. What if that one mistake causes you all. What then will happen? You will cast out as a over used cracked and dry sponge, and threw away. Does the phrase "Another man's trash, is another man's treasure", has any meaning to you? When being casted out, you will be pulled once again, in.

The warm salted drops of water, flow from her eyes. The effort she threw fourth was useless. She cried, and her tears turned warm as blood. She stand there...pondering in her thoughts. Just by one missed letter she fails. As a leper she is cast out. Her parents, friends, and teachers all look down apon her. Once a genius amongst others, she is now looked down apon. For a one letter, is missed she is forgotten.

She was sat high, and looked low. The audience sat silently as the lights overhead, blazed apon her. To her, she was as Zeus, as he looked down from Mt. Olympus. Every word, she conjured from her mouth was a lighting bolt. The lighting would strike the earth with force, Clapping would take place, as she smiles and nods. Her course would take her from center stage, to her seat. With a sip of water she would ready herself again.

Others sat around her. Some sat with their hands folded in their laps. Some could not help but to whirl nervous thumbs around. Nervousness poured from their face, in the form of a salted liquid. They would arise and leave their seated positions. Some would return with a deep breath of relief. Their counter-parts would leave in disgrace. Sometimes a dual pair of parents would exit, the silent auditorium. If not, a entire family would leave in defeat. Time soon faded past, as seats where emptied. The voice of the announcer, deep breaths, claps, and soft sobs filled her ears. Soon the final round emerged.

Across the row he looked at her. His blue eyes scanned her. His hands sat neatly in his lap. The only movements he made where the pushing up of his glasses, and the sipping of bottled water. He ran a signal hand threw his curly hair. His eyes where focused apon her. He arose from his seat. She watched in slow motion. The announcer's voice echoed threw the .still air of the room. He sat behind the desk his figure scanning the Western Dictionary. The boy looked at him his eyes looked. He adjusted the microphone to his standards. The announcer looked up, his brown eyes gleaming in the signal white lamp light. "Please spell phalanx". Said the announcer pointing to him with a uncapped bald point pen. The boy clears his throat, with a balded fist to his mouth. "Definition please". He said lowering his hand. "Phalanx- def 1: A well armed infantry unit, armed with spears or pikes. Def 2: A notable used ancient Greek warfare tactic". Said the announcer. The boy nods, and whispers the spelling to himself. He looks up with a bright gleaming smile. "Phalanx: p-h-a-l-a-n-x. Phalanx". Said the boy. "Correct". Called the announcer. The boy smiles and exited mid stage. He sits down his calm blue eyes locked on her.

She arises from her seat. She walks to mid stage. She looks forward to the audience. Her mother and father silently looked at her. Across the room there was another couple. They whispered, and looked at her with nervousness. Both pairs of adults where on edge. In total there where six remaining people in the auditorium. She takes a deep breath, and waits for the announcer's echoing voice. "If you get a correct spelling for this word, it will be a draw. From here the both of you will head to national, where you will compete." saids the announcer his pen scanning the pages of the dictionary. She nods, licking dried nervous lips. "Please spell hectogram". Said the announcer. The girl nods and leans towards the microphone. Her does not show the true tension that dwells in her. "Definition please". She saids. The announcer leans forward his eyes gleaming in the lamp light. His voice was clear, yet stern. The girl had not asked for a definition the entire five rounds. This took him by surprise. "Hectogram- def 1: (Also known as kilogram): known to be the base symbol of mass with the International System of Units. Def 2: A unit used to measure mass". Said the announcer. The girl looks off to the side. Letters where mixed in her head. She soon piece together, what seemed to be the correct spelling. She place the letters behind one and another, as if she where lining building blocks. She took a deep breath. "Hectogram: h-e-c-t-o-r-a-m...wait"! She cried her voice echoing threw the silent room. The announcer shakes his head. "The rules state that a mis-spelling cannot be gone over. I am sorry. Contestant 167, will move on to the State Level". Said the announcer. The girl's head drops in disgrace. Cheers come the eastern end of the room. The boy is from his seat and leaps from the stage. The girl looks up, to see her parents shaking their heads. A door closes in the auditorium, as someone exits. The girl leaves, her head fallen with shame. She runs threw the drawn down current. Walking threw a dimly lit back stage, she makes her way out the auditorium.

She walks down metal stairs her low high healed shoes tapping against the metal. She then exits a door, with a push of a trembling hand. She stands leaning against the door. Her body trembled with anger, and burning frustration. Foot steps sound within her ears. She looks up to see a approaching man. He woar a three piece, jet black suit. He adjusted his tie as he approached. At first the girl mistaken her for her father. He smiled as he reached into his coat pocket. He drew his hand out, with a small white card. He extended his arm forward. The girl took the card and looked at the man. "Yes sir, how may I help you". She said looking at him with near watering eyes. Her voice shook with sadden tension. "Jessica Quadra correct? I am from Special Dreams Foundation". He said extending his hand. Jessica took it, with a dry smile. "Yes. I have seen your commercial a couple time". She said shaking his hand with a firm grip. "Why are you upset? One letter? Come on! Even someone intelligent as you can slip up. I was wondering if you where interested in a weekend tutoring program. Its for late elementary students, and middle school students, with ADHDs. We will pay in a full fifty dollars a hour. Aren't I the rude one. My name is Kenneth Allen". He said still smiling brightly. Jessica smiles the forming tears are halted. He begins to walk away. "Keep that number, and information. Give me a call sometime." he called. He exited out glass doors at the end of the hall. Her parents make their way up to her. They look down at their daughter. "Try again next year". He said sternly. Her mother nods. Jessica hands her father the card. He reads it, and hugs his daughter.

She knew her friends and teachers saw her fail that day. It didn't matter. Time passed and soon Jessica was full time staff member of Special Dreams foundation. She even received a full four year scholarship from the foundation. It seemed when she fell, she was picked up. If she lost any friends that cool fall evening, she would make new ones. If teachers lost their confidence in her, she would be taught by others. Even when being cast out she was pulled back in. Seven years from that crisp fall day, she was the president of Dreams Foundation. Even with the great loose everything, they can always regain more.

You like the logs? Please write your reviews. I hope that I entertained you with my work. It seems to me that I would love to more writing for the community of Fiction Press. Well folks thats all, farther information below. MORE LOGS COMING YOUR WAY FROM THE ORIGNAL: DANIEL'S NOTEBOOK. COMING SOON IN MID AUGUST!

-Daniel Mapp A.K.A: The Quill