Panther

I am like a panther I prowl, I roar. Through the night patiently I wait for my prefect moment to strike. Slowly, I wait I anticipate, wanting to be fed. Hungry starving for more. I see what I want I gaze upon it my eyes flare with intense and passionate desire, you look into my eyes you know that I'm on the hunt and that my methods are ruthless. Stil,l waiting for the that moment, before I pounce. Holding back raw instinct with my all, I spring with no hesitation... I never stay hungry.

Genesis 3:14


I blink.
I’m sinking. I’m drowning. This sea of cords. This flash of light. The sensation of falling. Fill my soul with the emptiness of everything.

The idiot who assigned me to this rig was heavy on the bottle, his speech thick with slurs and hiccups like a troubled road.
“You sure I’ll be okay up there?” I questioned him feverishly, my palms wet with indignant nervousness.

“Why wouldn’t ya be? It’s just a box.”

“People die in elevators all the time.” Stubbornness poisoned my lungs, charcoal forged from a immovable mountain.

“Not 32A.” He belched, back to his Jim Bean in a blip.

Adam took the fruit from Eve. He took the bait; he was foolish. His world turned upside down in a sick twist of fate. Eden is still smoldering.

Madam, I’m Adam, I whispered to myself. The sound of that palindrome was soothing amid the destruction that swallowed my surroundings. Those words can be spelled the same either way, reversible, interchangeable. This instance was permanent, however.

There wouldn’t be an exit.

Snap. The inhuman squelch of wire echoed throughout the lone chamber. My grip was completely severed from its intended location. The end was nigh.

I blink once more.

I’m in a hospital bed, surrounded by candied flowers. A flick of blue eyes, like cerulean embers. A smirk.

“Look alive, sunshine.”
Oh, the irony.
It takes the darkest of tragedies for love to come back running, doesn’t it?

Life is an elevator, and we’re all ascending and descending, but one snip of our wires can change everything.

Vestigal (Devour)

He has no legs
Because he is going nowhere
He has no arms
Because he doesn’t do a thing.
*
He’s only got the simplest eyes
Because there’s very little he will see
He’s got nothing but a mouth now
Because all he does is feed.

The Storm

“It’s awful cold out. Today I let the cat in and I had to defrost him in the microwave.” Laughter erupted from the backseat as the car roared down the highway. Entirely focused on twirling her doll, the girl giggled, “Tell another joke mommy.”
As the mother continued amusing the little girl, the driver glanced in his rearview mirror and saw the storm fast approaching. But this was not just any storm; this storm contained violent thunderheads and carried with it a layer of ash so thick that it made Pompeii look like a sandbox.
“Daddy? Where are we going?”
The father looked back at her in his mirror and calmly answered, “We’re going on vacation sweetie.”
His wife glanced uneasily at him. The weatherman said it would be the worst storm in history. The only hope was if civilians could head to the coast. The family arrived at the military bunker, hidden away in the cliffs of the coast. The father lifted his young daughter in his arms and, followed by his wife, approached the MP.
“Hold it right there.” The MP stopped the family, “Name?”
“We’re the Eriksons’.” The MP consulted his list, and not finding his answer on the first page, flipped to the second. The father looked back to see that the storm was getting closer.
“Alright go ahead in; but the ship’s almost full.”
The family hurried aboard the waiting vessel. The furry sides of the ship shifted with the strong winds that were beginning to buffet the sides. As the family buckled in, the ship was propelled into the air. After a very hard landing everyone emerged from the ship. The family looked back to see a giant holding a long pole with large bristles at the end move over their previous home.

Tommy

Dexter sprinted through the house on all fours. Bleeding and exhausted, he panted desperately for air. Each breath opened his wounds and blood splattered onto the floor. The figure closed in, knife in hand. Dexter barked frantically one last time...then silence consumed the house.

"Tommy!" yelled his mother, walking through the front door, "I'm home." She could hear Tommy doing something upstairs and wasn't sure he'd heard her. "Did you feed Dexter?" she called again.

Tommy walked downstairs nonchalantly, drying his hands on his shirt. "He ran away."

"What?" she gasped, "Which way'd he go?" Tommy pretended not to hear her; instead, he grabbed a black hoodie and put something in the front pocket; she assumed a flashlight. "Check the cul-de-sac, I'll check the woods," she said anxiously.

"Be careful," Tommy replied, grinning.

"Dexter!" she cried, stumbling into the woods. It was nearing sunset. The woods were dark and empty. "Dexter!" she was frightened and the feeling of being watched consumed her. She remembered the unsolved murders that had taken place in these woods at least as long as they'd lived there.

A tree branch snapped. She jumped; then turned...nothing.

"Stop!" yelled a voice in the distance. She gasped and turned. A man was running towards her with something in his right hand; it looked like a knife. Her legs collapsed and she fainted. When she awoke, the man was lying on the ground next to her...dead. In his right hand was a cell phone. Tommy hovered above him, slowly running the barrel of his father's gun through the blood-stained mud. He was smiling.

When Tommy saw that his mother had wakened, he walked slowly to her side and sat down.

"Why did you shoot him?" she cried.

"I thought he had a knife."

She paused, "Then how'd you know to bring the gun?"

Untitled

Red Canvas Shoes


Guinevere’s maroon shoes were soaked. The cherry material was permeated with a liquid, blending to and transforming the original color to a more saturated scarlet. Her indigo jeans were covered with russet splatters and random wet patches around her calves. She had just sauntered through the automatic doors of the convenience store, burgundy shoes squeaking on the tiled floor. As she strode through the store she was given multiple looks from fellow customers ranging from concern to extreme cautiousness. She approached the cashier with her assorted items. “It’s a rough night outside, huh?” Guinevere looked up at the middle-aged woman and then looked at her nametag. “Yes, Janice, it is. I wasn’t expecting this kind of destructive, tumultuous weather in September.” The cashier looked off guard, as if weighing her next response. It appeared that she chose not to answer at all. Janice looked at the items she had rung up; there was a lemon container of Lysol wipes, violet rubber gloves, and a box of heavy duty trash bags. “That’ll be $10.62, please.” Janice held up her hand warily as she accepted the money from the haggard girl. Guinevere accepted her change and grabbed her bag rushing out of the store. After arriving at her home, she charged through the door whilst ripping open the Lysol container. “Thank God you’re here; I thought the stain was starting to set.” Guinevere’s mother was bent over a mess of red and brown. “Yeah, it was cheaper than I thought, here. Next time you want to use the ketchup bottle, don’t squeeze it while it’s still closed, and if you do, do it away from my soda. My jeans are ruined!”

When My Eyes Close

It's awful cold out. Today I let the cat in and I had to defrost him in the microwave.” Grandpa Lee jested trying to comfort me after knowing he had been sent to the hospital.
“Grandpa you aren't home,” I acknowledged, trying to cease my tears. “You're in the hospital.”
“I know,” he replied grasping my hand. “I was trying to cheer you up.”
Tears poured down my face as Dr. Shepherd appeared, “Are you ready for surgery, Mr. Brown?”
He brought his wrinkled hand to my face and kissed my cheek, “I love you more than anything, my squiggle-bottoms,” he muttered in my ear, indirectly avoiding the doctor's question.
“I love you, too,” the only word I could render before he let go of my hand and the doctor wheeled him away to heart surgery.
The waiting room was scarce of company; I was the only one there. I tried to keep myself occupied, not thinking of all the possibilities that could happen during surgery. My eyelids slowly drifted closed and a scene unfolded before me. I was in the operating room observing my grandfather's surgery. All of the sudden something went wrong, the blood stopped circulating and he began to flat-line.
“NOOOOOOOO!” I yelled in despair as the doctors scrambled. “You have to save him.”
The surgeons frantically used the paddles to shock his heart. His body jolted into the air, but to no avail, he was still flat-lining. They tried again, but this time I woke up.
Dr. Shepherd poised looming over me, rattling my shoulder. A solemn look crossed over his face and I knew what had happened. Tears flooded my eyes as he spoke the unwanted news.
“I'm sorry, we did all we could, but we couldn't save him.”

Prejudice

“Rainbows are just colors showing off. It’s a pathetic cry for help!” screamed Cool Gray to his brothers and sisters, also varying shades of gray. None of the colors were invited to this sermon only the Shades, Black, and White.
“Oh the colors aren’t that bad. They didn’t choose to be that way, they were born colored. We should treat them all the way we treat each other!” Black shot back at Cool Gray.
“Oh, come ON!” Cool Gray erupted, his cheeks blackening with rage, “You only say that cause you get to combine with all of them! You’re a disgrace to us all, so are those forsaken mongrels that you produce!”
“Now now, Cool Gray honey” replied Mother White, “Be nice to your father. The Colors are beautiful just as each and every one of you in your special ways.”
Now Cool Gray was mad. His eyes were pitch black, displaying his animosity to the crowd of shades gathered in front of him.
“Mother, Father, you only accept them because you still get recognition! Us grays don’t ever get attention. You’re symbolic, you’re used, you’re important. We don’t get such use, we don’t get noticed, and we don’t get used. We’re hated.” Cool Gray growled, frothing at the mouth into the microphone on his stage. The darker, bolder shades in the crowd erupted with approval of Cool Grays sermon and call to action.
“We should revolt! Kill the colors!” Cool Gray shouted into his microphone pumping his clenched fist into the air.
The crowd erupted into cheers. The crazed crowd of bold grays lifted their monotone pitch-forks and torches alight with gray flame and charged screaming at the rainbow, leaving Black, White, and the dimmer grays in the dust behind them.

To Start a War

Hordan stood in the crowd of people, all dressed in their Sunday best, who had gathered at the rally, smiling with anticipation. The crowd erupted in cheers as the councilor approached the podium, his neatly combed blond hair gleaming in the sun. “My friends, we have gathered here today to talk about a great danger to our….”
Hordan sighed. He’d grown tired of the councilor’s constant attacks on how much of danger he and his kind were. He trembled with anticipation, history was about to change for the better of his people.
“Witches, they call us” Hordan muttered in disgust, “wizards, warlocks and devil worshippers. We are the next stage in human evolution, they will learn to either step aside or be crushed by our might. All it takes is that first step, and I’m happy to be the one to take that step.”
The next few seconds were frantic as Hordan finished and rushed through the crowd, his palm glowing pale blue. The bodyguards drew their flintlock pistols and moved to protect the councilor, as the blue light blasted out of Hordan’s hand, the noise of the initial blast sounding not unlike a cannon blast. It moved faster than their eyes could follow, pulsating and making an odd humming noise as it flew straight toward its target, cutting through the guard’s torso before emerging from his back and passing through the councilor’s body.
There was a collective gasp as the two collapsed to the ground and lay still, not a single spec of blood. Hordan was soon brought down by the security. All the while he was smiling, oblivious to the screams of the people and the cries of a new widow. With the death of two men, a war would begin, and an era would end.

Extended metaphor


I am a ticking clock that is young but still age though the years. Easily broken and easily fix but later on breaks down do to age and it will never be the same. All different types of clocks. Very old ones and theirs new one’s that people seem to pick out the must but that’s only the young one. The swinging of the pendulum, the cherry wood, and the sound it make’s when it hits noon. Reminds me of the other people that had die and the thought of the other people that had die and what they might have done in their life.
Victoria M.

Dream Again

She closes her azure eyes, the sound the of the old violin washing over her. The melody mournful, yet joyous, softly suggesting a new hope building in the aftermath of disaster. A tear slides down her face as she remembers what she has lost and begins again to dream.

Baby's Bottom

The long curvy driveway whirls its way through mass amounts of trees and some occasional poison ivy. The hard black asphalt smooth, some may compare it to a baby’s bottom. Even though the sporadic pot hole may come along, nothing can stop me from rampaging at 80 mph.

The wand

The wand seemed plain enough- the smooth, wood-like material was a dull bronze color, and a simple black cloth wound tightly around it.  A strange, powerful essence expelled outward from it- as if its own force was simultaneously propelling you towards and away from it at the same time.

Abstract to Concrete

A good writing ages like a human body; it starts as an infant, growing, and developing. Eventually, after many mistakes, you reach your apex. Then, you head downhill. You approach 90, worn out, passed around so many times in life, everyone's just waiting for you to die.

backpack


Backpack
Its bright, red body bounced against his back as he made his way to class. The backpack, obviously new, resisted tightly against the pull of books and binders. He gripped its black straps tightly with anticipation. As he walked, pencils in the mesh side pocket shifted slightly to an angle.

Glass

Glass
The glass fell to her feet in a hail, slicing through the air with a shudder. They twinkled haughtily as they plummeted, reminding her of how easily beauty shifts to destruction. As the shards slammed into the concrete one by one, she thought she could catch a brief reflection of herself on the mirrored surface--and she was disgusted.

A Mirror and a Canvas

I could clearly see my reflection upon the azure surface, rippled by a passing breeze. Geese splashed in the distance, flapping frantically away when a rowboat with a blissful young adult couple silently glided by. A piece-by-piece representation of the deep blue sky painted itself across this glittering canvas.

Grandfather Clock

The old, oak grandfather clock sat abandoned in the damp, decaying basement. The time stopped at a little after quarter past eight. The wooden door was worn where many calloused hands held it open in order to wind up the smooth brass hands.

Abstract to Concrete

Castle
The looming structure of stone dominated the lonley field. Surrounded by masculine towers with blank stares, it fends off any sense of welcome or warmth. With empty halls and bare walls, the ancient cavern holds nothing but memories.

A captain and His Vessel

The red and white sailboat glided across the sleek black surface of the moonlit waters, making a sloshing sound as the waves lapped against the sides. The captain stood at the wheel, wind blowing through his hair on this chilly night, where the stars shone brightly.

Abstract to Concrete: Song




Flooding the room with artistic vision and balance, four minutes feel like a grandiose eternity. The walls swell with insurmountable power, the drywall sensing vibration with earth-shattering intensity, concerting clarity. The fading ghost notes of a foreboding measure dives out of focus. Silence collapses the joviality; thoughts conjure a smile.

Book

Grazing her hand on the worn down, dust infested spine of the book, she delicately picked up the book afraid that the old pages would fall out. Tracing her finger tips over the bold cursive title, she finally opened the book waiting to be in the world of the book.

Castle

Serving as a lone sentry, the cool stone of the towering fortress stood unyielding, embedded into the cliff face. The tower's spires reaching out to the sky, like a child's fingers reaching for the hand of its mother. Iron doors, encased in walls cry out with protest when opened.

Alabaster Castle

The castle stood atop a hill, its alabaster bricks gleaming in the afternoon sun. Positioned across the parapets were guards, marching back and forth in their steel armor. Walking through the old wooden gate were soldiers, marching down hill and into the desert below, their footsteps loud as a thunderclap.

The Nature Of the Weapon

The Soldier gripped the cold steel hilt of the life ending tool of destruction. The side of his handheld cannon called a gun, emblazoned with the unforgiving insignia of the army. The symbol glowed in the sun, boasting his beliefs as he charges into a valley of chaos.

Ancient Castle



This beloved elder, 500 century old castle has open everyone to the ancient world in which people used to live within its great structural boundaries. The cracking and leaking walls shown the number of many days and nights it has still stayed. The paintings contain the memories of the lost people.

My Life as a Broken iPod


I am an aging iPod, ready to break at any minute.
When you first got me for your birthday, we were inseparable, admit it. We spent hours alone in your room listening to your favorite music and blocking out the world.
We had always been best friends. I talked you through your little tantrums by playing your favorite songs and I got the attention that I was built to receive.
Lately however, and ever more frequently, you’ve been leaving me behind; whether it be on the charger for days on end, or sitting on the counter waiting patiently for someone to listen to me.
My voice was the songs you now take for granted and my soul was your playlist. I know everything about you but what can you tell about me? If your soul fell apart, which it had on numerous occasions, I could have you put back together in the time it takes to drive to and from the mall. Can you say the same about me? If I snapped right now and fell into pieces in your lap, could you even begin to put me back together? I guess we’ll find out.
Oh now you want to listen to me as you hop into the passenger seat of your mom’s car? Now you want to remember all the good times we had and bond more than you were ever able to with a real person? Too bad.
Halfway there, I freeze; no big deal, right? Wrong. You push the play button with no response. You push it again, transferring your growing unease and frustration into the force you put on me. Your grip tightens, that hurts. You don’t care.
Apologize, that’s all you have to do. Just say that you’re sorry for leaving me in the cold, all alone and I’ll work again, I promise. We can make this right.
You turn me over and flick my back…OK, it’s on.
My screen goes white and so does your face. I have no problem breaking myself to spite you. You squeeze harder, irritating both of us to the point that while I may work fine later in the day, this experience will always stay with us.
You’re here. As your mom pulls into the parking lot, you curse me silently in your head. I watch your eyes and hear every word. In a fit of frustration and rage you snap off your headphones and toss me into the cup holder. Without thinking twice, you walk into the grocery store.
A half hour later, you get back into the car. My battery’s dead, I have no more fight left. The fact that I am hurt is plain to see and you realize this with remorse.
You take me out of the cup holder and place me gingerly in your lap. Gently, you wet a small section of your shirt with the water bottle you just bought and run the damp, soft cloth across my screen. As you wash me, you remember how it used to be, how I got you through some of the hardest times in your life.
After the decay of neglect has been washed away, you carefully place me into your jeans pocket. I’m right where I should be.
When you get home, you take me into your room and plug me into your stereo. My screen lights up and the charging symbol appears in the top corner. You push play and we relive what we had lost for so long. Friends forever.

The Game

My life is a softball game, seemingly simple yet utterly complex. On the the surface it's easy, the goals clear. One, two, three, you win. But how it turns out depends on the players. I am the pitcher, the reluctant star of the show. The game is in my hands. My parents are the coaches, supporting and encouraging, wanting me to win. The catcher is my sister, my partner in crime, willing to do anything to help me succeed. Infield and outfield, made up of my friends, helping me out when I fail. It's a well-oiled machine, always moving forward, making progress. Then something happens; A hard grounder, a gapper fly ball. Errors made, by mistake or on purpose Or a new rule comes into play, throwing a wrench in the system. The machine has broken down, the game could be lost. I roll with the punches, keep going, persevere. Because until the final out is called, I'm still in this game.

Bag Of Skittles


I’m like a bag of skittles I go through different moods each day. Instead of seeing the rainbow, you see me. Same goes for when you taste the rainbow, you taste my extravagant writing! I’m red when I’m mad, green when I’m ill, purple when I’m a mystery to everyone around me, I’m yellow when I’m glad, when I’m orange I’m cautious about everyone and thing around my environment. If I wear to add one color I would add a rainbow color to describe me. As for the bag I come from it’s my outer shell of protection against the dangers of the world.

Carol--Extended Metaphor

I am bare feet, slipping hurridly out of my shoe entrapments to escape the claustrophobia. I dig my toes into the soil so I can better feel all I walk on. Sometimes I feel too much—a jagged rock that slices the meat of my heel with a hiss, the sting of a thorn that wedges wickedly underneath a nail. But I walk farther on, directionless, with the knowledge that I’ll soon grow callouses to combat the shifting terrain. With each step I feel the kiss of the world grace me, and though I am uncertain about my destination, the freedom of walking with out restrictions keeps me trotting forward.

Sky of Love


I am a sky of love, continuous without a pause. The weather varies drastically, yet the cherishment never stalls. The clouds always clear, and sunshine is amongst her. The sky’s capabilities are beyond her wildest dreams. There are planes, birds, and of course, pollution. No matter the vast amount of smog, me and her seem to find those sunny days. Sunny days always come, yet those rainy days are always needed In her and I’s sky of love.

Jacket around my heart

My heart is a jacket,
Or rather
The outside is
Buttons locked into place,
Rough tough covering,
Shielding every surface of my Heart
Shielding it from the fire,
protecting it from the world.
This is the outside of my heart.
This jacket is stiff-
It does not allow this heart to move,
To beat for anyone other than it's self.
But the inside,
The inside of this heart
Ss a soft, young, tender heart,
easily wounded, a roll fresh from the oven.
Innocent, protected.
Unbitten by this cruel world
And so the jacket shields it, protecting it from the pain and agony of the world.

Not my best piece, but I think it's pretty good.
Love and Huskies,
2ctheocean

The Wind-Up Toy

I’m like a wind-up toy, When you keep me running, I’m dazzlingly entertaining, For an unsure time amount of time, Before they get bored with me, And allow my old gears, Grind to a halt, When all the sorrow, memories, and self-doubt swirl throughout, My lonely mind, My empty desolate mind, Left to ponder questions, Certain to lead to pain, I sit in a dark corner, A box, Waiting for someone to entertain, Waiting for someone to wind me up again

I Am A Dolphin

I am like a dolphin, playful and free Having fun whenever I can, but working when necessary Gliding through the water in streamline Freely playing with those around me My mind filled with complex thoughts, just like theirs Intelligent and brave that’s how I am Like dolphins, tough on the outside But kind and loving deep down Graceful at times, but rather clumsy Splashing around enjoying freedom Until I get captured again Taken to a cage and held captive Not allowed to play anymore Stuck constantly working, like a caged dolphin.

I am a lake.


I am a lake; shallow at the edge yet deeper as you go. There is no notion of how my thoughts formed. You do not know what lies inside. You’re not aware of what has been tossed into me – what has been added or removed. My surface is shattered when sticks, stones, and other unmentionables are thrown into me. The rain replenishes what has been taken away. I am a lake – darker and colder as you go. I am bottomless – that is how it looks. But the bottom is filled with rocks – I’ve been there. I feel the rocks, brushing against my feet on a daily basis, constantly reminding me of their presence. On the surface I am calm and smooth, but underneath I am a turning sea, floating and moving.

An Unsharpened Pencil

I am an unsharpened pencil, waiting to make my mark. With each New Year comes the turn of the sharpener bringing me closer and closer to my point. Yet as I get closer to my point, the sharpener slows in the face of uncertainty. I want to leave my mark on the world for someone to find, but where? I have nicks and am missing paint in a few places, no longer the brand new pencil I once was. After facing life in the real world, I have found that it has been unyielding. Yet I carry these imperfections proudly knowing that they mark my past and will influence my future. Suddenly the future is no longer so uncertain and the sharpener begins to pick up speed revealing more of my true self until finally, the real me is revealed. I am a sharpened pencil, ready to make my mark.

Reeling In



I am your trusty cassette tape, loaded with stories, purpose. I could be your favorite album or your disdained compilation; it’s the perspective that carries me home. I’m a victim of endless copies, fakes and imitations. I am the original. I am a work of art. I am played. I am stopped. I am paused, mid-sentence, mid-verse.I’ve been discarded, my reels twisted, frayed, damaged. The tape you place on me for a makeshift label is yellowing at the corners. It’s beleaguered, antiqued, and hardly legible. Words have been crossed out. Fresh phrases penciled in almost too methodically. It’s the final product that matters, and it’s the complete picture you treasure. I am placed on deck; I am always waiting for my spokes to spin, moving for the sake of motion, to get somewhere. You travel along my roads every day, hearing the words almost echo through your skull with deafening vibrato, memorable, irrevocable. The reels drag from overuse. The playback is messy, incoherent, dodgy. But it’s the flaws you’ve grown to expect, close to home like warmth and security, familiar sounds that only remind you of me. The click resounds through the room; the first side has reached its conclusion. I am flipped over, I am reversed. With the one-eighty comes one-eighty degrees of a new perspective. There’s a whole other side to me. All you have to do is listen.

A Unique Bite

I am a cake, colored like a rainbow I consist of many hues, many sides to me
colors that people like
colors that others don't


they layer on top of one another:
A passionate red,
An enthusiastic orange,
An energetic yellow,
An envious green,
A melancholic blue,
An arrogant purple...
I am conscious of my outward appearance
As I have so many colors
I feel that I stand out
I cover myself in a blanket of frosting,
An attempt to blend with other cakes around me
But I know I'm different
I know I can never be like them
Never be them
I'm always standing out
Always unusual
But I accept that fact
And admit that
Not every cake is the same,
We all have our very own flavor.

I'm like the Earth's moon; there's only one of me.
I wane with the seasons, every few months I'll be born again, with the same face but remembering everything that happened before.
As people move around me, I stay still, near ageless, floating distantly, watching and waiting, but never making a move.
People have seen me, asked about me, looked at me and talked to me, and they have treaded my surface to see what I am like.
I continue to watch patiently, looking at my friends who are around me, but I stay still, even as they move on, even as they forget me.
Sometimes, you won't even see me, but I am still watching.
Sometimes, I'll block the sun from your eyes, if only for a second, and let people see me as I step out of my place, only for a minute, and then I return to my hiding place.
You may look at me, question me, tell me anything, and I'll never tell another soul.
Who knows, maybe someday I'll just drop out of nowhere, and make my mark in history.

Gamer

My life is video game
I don't use cheat codes it all takes skill
I got no time for mistakes
Push forward don't turn back
From Start to Finish
It's a perfect run
Victory is the only destination
Every challenge defeated
Every baddie brought down
I've got the high score
And it don't end now