Creativity Galore
‘Mental health’ is a term that is often tossed about (usually incorrectly!) these days, but what exactly does it mean? Well, mental health is the condition of your mind, or your outlook on life. Your mental health is exactly like your physical health--you need to take care of it in order to be able to deal with life’s difficulties. Your mental health can be affected by many things, including your family, your school, your social life, your freinds, abuse of drugs such as alcohol and marijuana, and bullying.
How do you know if you are mentally healthy? That depends on how you feel--in general, do you feel safe, in control, and optimistic about your life? Are you able to live life happily and without fear? Sometimes we can have days when we feel sad or angry for no reason (especially during the teenage years!) and with all this talk of mental health, we may believe that when we have these feelings, we are not healthy. That is completely incorrect! It’s perfectly fine and even natural to have bad days--having a good mental health does not mean that you feel good all of the time, but rather that you don’t let things that make you feel bad get in your way and hold you down. It’s only when these bad days go on for weeks or even months at a time, or when someone finds it difficult to face challenges most people find ‘easy’, that we call it ‘mental illness’. What exactly is mental illness? A mental illness is a condition that causes disorder in a person’s behaviour or thinking. Just like physical illness can affect different parts of your body, mental illness can affect different parts of your personality, and just like physical illness can be treated, cured, or tolerated without too much difficulty, so can mental illness. There are many different kinds of mental illness, but I’ve only outlined the two that are most common in Ireland: Depression and Anxiety. Depression: Around 400,000 Irish people have depression, and you’ve probably heard the word an awful lot. Depression is a mood disorder characterised by low mood and a wide range of other possible symptoms which vary from person to person. It can be treated with counselling and/or medication. People with untreated depression often notice that their depression comes and goes in waves--they might feel depressed for a few weeks and then feel fine for another few weeks. If you are suffering from depression, you can feel sad, angry, isolated, lonely, or even scared for weeks or months at a time. You can feel tired all of the time and be sleeping irregularly (too much or too little). You can be indecisive and feel as though your thoughts are slowing down. You may lose interest in your friends or in your hobbies, and you may feel as though you are worthless. You may even get physical symptoms like tummy, chest or headaches. Often depression can lead to self-harm or suicidal thoughts or actions. If you or someone you know has a lot of these symptoms every day for a while, you should speak to a trusted adult and ask for help. Anxiety: About 13% of Irish people suffer from anxiety. Anxiety is normal, but it becomes a problem when the body’s natural fight-or-flight response goes into overdrive, and reacts to things that most people don’t find dangerous or threatening. If you suffer from anxiety, you may suffer from panic attacks, which are moments when you feel extremely scared. You may feel unable to breathe during a panic attack, and you may also have a pounding heartbeat or chest pains, dizziness or feeling faint, sweating, a ringing in your ears, hot or cold flushes, or a fear of losing control or even dying. A panic attack may be brought on by situations you find to be stressful (of which people with anxiety may have more) such as an exam, speaking in public, dating, making a phone call, ordering at a restaurant, using a public restroom, meeting new people, etc. It’s important to remember not to force someone with anxiety to do something they’re uncomfortable with, because you may trigger a panic attack for them. If there’s a history of mental illness in your family, you have a higher chance of developing a mental illness--but don’t worry! By taking care of yourself and watching out for the signs, you can hold off or even prevent mental illness. And even if you cannot stop it, there is a huge support network for mental health issues out there (I’ve listed some of these below). When we’re not feeling very good, we may feel the need to hide these feelings from people that care about us. We do this for a number of reasons: because we’re afraid of what people will think, because we don’t feel like we can trust these people, or because we just don’t think they’ll understand. Take it from someone who’s been through it before: the very best thing you can do for yourself is to talk to someone. Whether it’s a parent, a friend, a teacher, a guidance counsellor, a doctor, or even a stranger, it’s so important to talk about our problems with someone and to get help. This is especially important if you’re feeling as though you want to hurt yourself. If you’re worried about a friend, the best thing you can do is to be supportive and to be a good friend. Try to talk to them about what they’re feeling; ask them how long they’ve felt this way, and ask them if they’ve thought about hurting themselves or committing suicide, and do your very best to help them. By speaking openly about mental health, we make it easier for people with mental health issues to ask for help and to live their lives to the fullest. Talking about how we feel helps to remove the stigma (the fear) from mental health and helps those affected to heal and live the best life possible! Support Services: Samaritans: 1850 60 90 90, www.samaritans.org Childline: 1800 66 66 66, www.childline.ie Teenline: 1800 83 36 34, www.teenline.ie Aware (Depression support): 1890 30 33 02, www.aware.ie Pieta House (Self-harm/Suicide support): 01-60 10 000, www.pieta.ie Bodywhys (Eating disorder support): 1890 20 04 44, www.bodywhys.ie Console (Suicide bereavement support): 1800 20 18 90, www.console.ie Grow (Mental health support): 1890 47 44 74, www.grow.ie Mental Health Ireland: www.mentalhealthireland.ie Dundalk Outcomers (LGBT+ support): 042 93 53 035 TENI Helpline (Transgender support): 085 14 77 166 SoSad (Teen suicide support): 041 984 8754
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Lieutenant Konstantin Yegorovich Pronin, 86, May 9, 2011. Victory Day celebration in Moscow, Russia. Konstantin comes to this place every year, remembering the faithful day with his comrades from before. This year, he was the only person from his unit to show up. It has been 4 hours. Gregor is not here. Gregor has never been here, but he has always been with us here. Ivan is not here. Not even Dmitry is here. Dmitry, he who promised me on that day that he would outlast me no matter what. This bench, this park, it has been the one place I have ever relied upon. The army pushed me away, my family grew apart from the grizzled veteran put upon them. Every year I come to this park, every year I think of the old times. The brutal times, the violent times. The times when I had a family. It was halfway through October, 1939. I put on my finest clothes, hugged mamma goodbye, laid a flower at dad’s grave, and then joined the Red Army. I was not a communist, nor a fighter against the bourgeoisie. My hands held mattocks, not rifles. And yet, on that day, I fulfilled my conscription and became a part of the largest army to ever walk the earth. It was all an adventure at first; I was on the bus ride to Moscow with my childhood friend, Georgi. We laughed many a time on that bus, placing bets on who would kill the most Nazis. I didn’t get to talk to him again until 1947, when I was admiring the artisanal tombstone on his grave. I was commissioned into the 43rd Armor Brigade, in part because I was a shoddy rifleman and short in stature. Russian tanks needed small men; it matter little if they could shoot well outside their metal beast, for no man was ever likely to escape their metal coffin should it be put out of service by the enemy. We all knew these things at the time, of course; our “great soviet steel” was rusting and thin, our “fighting troops” thin and sickly. But at the time, it seemed little a deal; the war was a foreign thing, many borders away, and our rusty equipment was put towards the back of our thoughts by our jokes and bonding. We grew close in that division; by the end of 1940, I was a Captain experience, at least by Soviet standards. I commanded a group of 3 men, and was the first of my devision to lead a T-34, the Russian supertank, into battle. With these three men I bonded and trained, learning of their lives back home at the village and their dreams and talents. Gregor, the 21 year old from Siberia, was cold and strong. Being the oldest in the group, he always seemed to take on an air of responsibility. He would follow the radio broadcasts, listening to news regarding the Anglo-German war. Ivan, the young muscovite, was naïve and young. Barely 17 years old, he lied his way into the army, determined to serve his mother proud. Young as he was, he served as an amazing driver, and without his sacrifice none of us would be here today. Dmitry was the joker in the group, and the one who kept us sane. Without his banter, we would all have lost morale before the war even began. Indeed, soon enough these 3 men replaced my parents as my true family. With them I suffered through the rationings and the terrifying radio news bulletins, and with them I laughed and learned and lived, for 3 years. And then the war came. The 22nd of June, 1941 We all expected it, but we didn’t, really. We didn’t want to expect it. Even Gregor was surprised; he had placed his expectations towards 1944 at the earliest. But sure enough, the reality of wartime life soon fell upon us all. Gone were the practice-rationings, instead replaced by real ones. Training time undertook a grim and tense atmosphere; at the training grounds, when there was once laughter, there was now only silence. Every man knew that the metal plates they were shooting at could soon be replaced by a German instead, and Germans were much more inclined to shoot back. The in-between was all a blur; a frenzy of training, where poor young men with barely 4 hours practice are promoted to Officer and given control of a squad. Entire town-worth’s of men pass through my once humble base, barely 20 rifle rounds of practice given before they’re sent off to kill a German. And yet, we never spoke of this amongst ourselves; Dmitry’s joker attitude took on a touch of dementedness. His eyes would fly rapidly from spot to spot, eagerly searching for what to say to lighten the mood. Most of the time, he need the morale boost more than we did. He was a comedian telling jokes not to make his audience laugh but to verify his existence as a human being. Ivan grew wiser faster than any teenager should have to, and Gregor talked even less. I did my best to hold them together, to keep our fighting strength, until we were to receive the dreaded call to battle. It was September. The letter came early in the morning. I read not the body of the letter, for I knew what it said : “By the glory of the Union and our leader Stalin, we call to arms you and your men to fight the invaders for the survival of our nation”. No, I cared only for the information provided below; there was one name any man dreaded to read on that faithful paragraph. Theatre of deployment : Stalingrad Stalingrad, the dead city. How many months had we fought over that piece of land, painting it red with our blood? Every day our radios telling us cheerfully how “the offenders have nearly been repulsed.”, how the battle is all but won. Yet all that ever returned from that town is death. Thankfully, my letter read not Stalingrad, but instead “Romania”. This was the norm for smaller fronts; Stalingrad had become such an ensnarement that the town itself became the name for an entire battle, yet the quieter areas were referenced only by their respective countries. We knew the protocol well; from the day the letter was received, we had 7 days to form up and roll out of base. The next 3 days were spent in sullen preparation; I gave them the fourth as a recreational one, knowing full well it could be the last 24 hours of peace they ever get. I wrote my last letter to Mama, put on my finest clothes, and became a part of the greatest war to ever engulf the world. It was anticlimactic, really. You expect to be towed up and immediately thrown into the grinder, shots firing away at you, but it was really just a month of waiting and preparation followed by a few hectic moments of death and destruction. I’ve no need nor want to recapture the month of waiting; it was the usual, cleaning equipment, maintaining the tank, digging trenches. Then finally came the moment of glory and blood and death and emotion. April 5th, 1942. Turda, Romania. It was a small town, occupied by the enemy force. I was assisting the 12th infantry brigade in liberating the strategic town; it was within artillery distance of a crucial airfield, meaning that it had to be taken back at all costs. I was the only one of my squad briefed on what was to happen; they drove blind into battle under my control. We were the first division sent in, for only heavy armour could clear out the machine gun nests that would otherwise mow down our soldiers. Our 76mm main cannon made quick work of any buildings that stood in our way; I remember it clearly. In that small, hot, cramped death machine, 4 men functioned as one. My orders weren’t filled out consciously, instead the driver acted as the legs would in response to the brain. The gunner fired as if it were me pulling the trigger, the loader chambered each shot in perfect synergy. We had reached the epitome of mechanized death. And in that moment, though I walked through the valley of the shadow of death, I feared no evil, for they were with me. It is a strange thing to be proud of. I killed people. We killed people. And yet, I never felt so alive. Through the flames of a burning encampment we rode, a messenger of death riding on tracks of steel, our shots ringing clear into the crumbling town. We were a horseman of the apocalypse. But alas, horsemen are not invincible. We may have rode in the most advanced piece of mechanized steel our nation has produced, but it did not grant us invincibility. At around 1400 hours, turret facing 23 degrees north by northeast, a German Panzerfaust anti-tank rocket hit the right front hexagon of my turret. Launching shrapnel at the main gunner and I, it completely destroyed the gunning optics, rendered me unconscious and bleeding, disabled our radio and shut down our offensive. Gregor, the loader, was killed instantly when a piece of shrapnel entered his cranium, piercing the skull but then failing to exit, thus bouncing inside his skull, destroying his brain. I lost most vision in my left eye and all hearing in my right ear, and gained mild scarring along my neck. I was later informed that Dmitry and Ivan supressed an internal fire while simultaneously pulling us out to safety, falling back upon allied positions. But in the process, Ivan was severely burnt; the fire consumed his left leg and reproductive organs, a sacrifice that earned him the Merit of Lenin and the eternal gratitude of Dmitry and I. The only memory I have of that day is Dmitry standing over me in my bunk, promising me two things: That I would recover, and that he would now outlast, since I took such a beating. Even then, sedated and confused as I was, I remember laughing. And laughing, and laughing, and laughing, and it being the funniest joke I damn ever heard, because nothing ever messes up your sense of humour as much as a brush with death. Soon enough, the whole We later learned the Germans had made one last push into the very area we were struck down in; had we not escaped, I would not be telling this story. We did not dwell on Gregor’s death, for we knew he was not the only good man to die today. Without his excellent aim, even more men would have been chewed apart by the dug-in machine guns. He was awarded The Red Hammer medal, an award given posthumously to those that drive forward the cause of the Motherland. We were all separated afterwards; I was no longer fit to command a tank, but instead was assigned to train future commanders myself. I like to think I saved lives in my teachings, but I can never know for certain. Ivan was honourably discharged from service and received the highest care in Stalin National Intensive hospital, being a pioneer subject and patient in the use of plastic surgery. Dmitry went on to serve as a combat engineer, miraculously surviving his redeployment to Stalingrad, being one of only 5% of troops to do so. He came back changed, but alive, and for this we were all grateful. I spent the next 6 months recovering in the Belarussian Vetaran’s hospital, communicating every week by letter with my comrades. We decided to meet up in some form once the war was over; and such it came to be that the Victory Day celebration in Moscow served such purpose perfectly. The first time we met, it was emotional, awkward, painful. Dmitry was the first to break the ice; soon enough we were reminiscing of the old times, catching up and telling stories that were previously too long to fit into a letter. We made a pact that day; each year, we would come to this commemoration, each year we would remember the old times. And each year we did. Every year, we would lay a rose for Gregor, tell the same old stories to ourselves. And yet, we loved it, for it was our past, our legacy, and our contribution to the world. But yet, it seems I have outlasted the pact. In time, I outlasted the army’s need for me, too, and faced an honourable discharge as a lieutenant general in 1975. My biological family, being little more than that, did not take me in; how could they, when I was so different from them? And so, I lived peacefully, each year looking forward to that day when I could finally re-unite with those who meant so much before. Yet we falter throughout the years, as health left us slowly. Communicating went from hard to impossible, as addresses changed and dexterity left our hands, making letters impossible. And so, here I sit. It has been 4 hours. Gregor is not here. Gregor has never been here, but he has always been with us here. Ivan is not here. Not even Dmitry is here. Dmitry, he who promised me on that day that he would outlast me no matter what. Once upon a war… She was hungry. She was tired. She was cold. Her mother had disappeared into the outside world and hadn’t returned, and this frightened her. Her brother mewed weakly beside her, both shivering despite the warmth of the den. Her other siblings lay still beside her. They had been weak and had not survived the night. A glimmer of light blinded her barely opened eyes, causing her brother to squeal. A strange, deep murmuring sound came from outside the den, followed by a sensation of floating. She remembered this sensation; it was when her mother picked her up to carry her to this den when the old one was broken. Mewing softly, she dug her tiny, needle like claws into the soft flesh, hoping that this mother wouldn’t leave her. Listening intently, she could only make out a few noises, but they sounded comforting. This new mother cradled her gently against its chest. It smelt nothing like old mother, but it was a smell she would learn to love. She was carried away from her den, away from her brother, away from her lifeless siblings, and into a loud, smoky place. She coughed on the dry, chalky air and was stroked tenderly by her new mother. It wasn’t long before the new mother put her down on a scratchy but soft surface. This was a strange den, the walls were weak and smelt of wood but it was warm and dark and the new mother smell was everywhere. She curled up, digging her claws into the den, hoping that maybe this new mother would feed her soon. Her wish was granted and new mother arrived with strange, watery but sweet milk. Content, she lay down on new mothers chest, listening to her heartbeat. It was strong and steady, nothing like old mothers quick and jittery pulse. She tried to crack open her eyes, but all she could make out was a bright blur. “Miss Haps.I think I’ll call her Miss Haps. Hey John! What do think of Miss Haps?” new mother called out, her voice loud yet comforting. “Mishaps?” Another voice replied, sounding much deeper than new mothers. “No! Miss Haps, cause you know, she was born in the wrong place at the wrong time” new mother started to stroke her now, her rough fingers brushing against her soft fur. “Yeah, that’s a good idea Frank” Frank… So that was new mothers name. It was a nice name; a friendly name. New mother stayed there for a while, murmuring the name Miss Haps to her. It was another nice friendly name, but she suspected that it held another meaning. Strange name or not, it was her name now. She was Miss Haps. *** Miss Haps liked new mother, she liked her a lot. So she was surprised when she took her out of the safe den and into the cold air. Her surprise cleared up quickly though, as she could not keep her eyes open long enough to make out some distinct shapes. New mother, Frank, looked nothing like her, so she began to suspect that new mother was in fact, new father. Male or Female, Miss Haps loved Frank. Frank liked to take her new places to feed her in peace. The milk he gave her was not as nice as old mothers, but there was always more if she wanted it. As she grew, she began to explore outside her den. Frank didn’t like when she did that. Once, she had clawed her way through the soft side of the den and played with the string on the bed, but Frank had grabbed her roughly and placed her in a pocket. The next time she was put back in her den, it was cold and hard but her blanket was still scratchy soft. When she was big enough to keep her eyes open though, he let her explore when he was there. There were other things there, things that looked like Frank but weren’t Frank. Most of them were friendly, they pet her and let her sip at their milk, but some of them kicked at her and threw stuff at her. Frank didn’t like when they did that. The world was so confusing, but Miss Haps liked it. There were always new smells, new things to chase and at the end of every day, she would curl up on Franks lap while he stroked her softly. Life was good, and she began to forget about the day when old mother had come home covered in sickly sweet blood or the night when old mother didn’t come back at all. Frank was both her mother and father now, and his friends were her friends. She had also begun to suspect that Frank was not like her. He was very tall, taller than old mother could ever have been. He walked on two feet and had no claws or fur. And what Miss Haps found very odd was the fact that he had no tail. Frank was very different from her, but she loved him all the same. *** Miss Haps loved Frank, but she loved herself more. She pitied Frank; who couldn’t climb, or hunt mice or balance very well. And he was sick. Every night she would lie beside him for a while, before going off to do her own things; but recently she had been staying with him more and more. He coughed all the time, and had a strange smelling wound on his shoulder that pained him. Miss Haps worried for him. She was almost full grown, but she didn’t want to leave him just yet. Some of the other men had disappeared. John, a very nice man who was Franks best friend, had vanished a week ago and somebody had cleared away his stuff while she slept. A new man; Liam had put his stuff on Johns place, but he wasn’t very friendly towards her. She missed John, and Gavin and Oscar. They had been kind to her, giving her some of the food they got from the truck. She wondered where they went, and pondered on weither or not the loud noises and smoke from outside had to do with it. She had gone out once, when someone had left the door open; but she hadn’t liked it. Inside the building was nice and safe, and the air was clearer. She shifted slightly, getting more comfortable on the scratchy blanket. Frank had gotten her a bigger box and placed it under his bed for her, but she liked to sleep in the bowl filled with strange round shaped balls of metal. *** Miss Haps was happy because Frank was happy. According to him- “the war is over!” She didn’t know what this war was, but everyone was celebrating. Frank seemed both happy and sad though. He had packed up all his stuff- his torn and tattered books were the first to be put away, followed by his photograph and his other paraphernalia. He was getting ready to move, but it didn’t look like he was going to be bringing her with him. This worried her, how long was he going away for? Why couldn’t she come with him? Soon enough, her answer came. Frank gathered up the few handmade toys he had made for her, and put them in her box with the scratchy blanket. He hugged her tight to his chest, and whispered softly in her ear. “I've got to go now Miss Haps, and I can’t take you with me. Your gonna go stay with Conrad now, he’ll look after you” It was then and there that Frank, her mother and father, friend and protector left her, confused and curious as too what was going on around her. One after the other they left, all petting her softly on the head, some giving her a little sliver of fish or milk. Even Liam petted her softly as he was heading out the door. And then, there was nobody and she was left all alone. She mewed weakly, upset over the big change. It wasn’t the first time she was left alone, but they always came back, or at least, most of them came back. But this; this was final silence. There was no chance of them just running back it, throwing their stuff down and playing cards. Laughing as she tried to swipe at their hand, cursing her as she knocked the deck off the table. There was nobody to tickle her under the chin, nobody to scratch her behind the ear, there was nobody to rub her belly. There was nobody to pick her up when she slept on top of something she shouldn’t. There was nobody to frantically search for her when the guns started blazing in the night. There was nobody to praise her when she caught a mouse. There was nobody. She was alone. The Old Gods Return by James Any time humans cause a reptile, bird, mammal, or fish to go extinct, a kaiju-sized version of it appears in every city with over 1,000,000 people. Just go with it okay The first bunch of creatures begin to manifest, cities are immediately in chaos as gargantuan creatures start ravaging the streets. it's got to be dealt with by the military, nobody else has the firepower. Soon after the initial catastrophic losses, cities around the globe have all introduced early warning systems and set up an elite task force set to deal with these huge creatures whenever one begins to manifest itself. Sirens sound, activity in the streets as citizens begin to evacuate and hide indoors. 10 figures all in some kind of high tech exo-skeletons are all that's left. The beast finally gains consciousness and begins to move toward civilian areas. The female voice of the suits AI finally administered the squadron wide command. "you are clear to engage". Commander B. Chowtime leads the Hong-Kong KJDF-B025, the task force in charge of regulating the life of Kaiju attacking the Hing-Kong area. With such a high population density, the first attacks caused massive damage. Chows own brother was killed in the first attack, a giant sewer rat had eliminated roughly one third of the business districts skyscrapers before being taken out by the military. The thoughts of the destruction of that fateful day lingered in his head. Todays target? a duck. as odd as it might seem, a rare duck species was eradicated during territorial disputes between Pakistan and India. The pulsar rifle in his hands trembled with his arms, in anticipation of the onslaught. The smoke was clearing, and the duck was moving. Titanic crashing sounds were the only sound in the now eerily quiet city. The smoke mingled with the cities native smog, creating a cloying cloud containing a kaiju. Lt. A. Surge began firing shots, not even sure if they were hitting the target. It was obvious, however, that they were working as the duck charged at them from the shadows. Surge was being targeted, and his position didn't help: standing in the middle of a Hong Kong street in sleek blue and black exo-armour firing plasma shots at 206 RPM,until his mag ran out. The colossal duck had charged forward, snatching surge and tossing him aside like a ragdoll. The suits visor cracked, showing Surges face. He was terrified, but the duck forgot about him after a the demolitions expert began barraging him with grenades, most of which missed and shattered off the ground. The duck was furious, unsure of who to target. Surge was the obvious target, but went unnoticed by the titan, allowing him to escape. The scout was sprinting around, the suit enhancing his unnatural speed and agility, helping him spot weak points. The previous enemies were easier, Chow thought to himself. 'always go for the eyes and that's take care of ' em'. But then again, previous attackers couldn't move in three dimensions, as the duck could. The suit felt heavy as he began to move behind cover and begin shooting. The duck, now dazed by the constant explosions, began to panic and start flying. The wingspan of the beast was easily 200 meters, allowing the creature to take off. At least, they would if he could get space. The cities narrow roads constriced his flapping ability, meaning that bullets tore through the wings membrane, replacing the animals greatest asset with something that resembles a bloody big bird costume. Now more panicked than before, the duck began charging wildly down the streets. A robotic voice sounded out from the reciever in his helmet, but the cacophony caused by the duck drowned it out. He got the message, however, when a digital overlay alerted him that Surges vitals had dropped, and that the suit was picking up higher than usual pressure. This meant only one thing; and that was that Surge was trapped beneath the rubble the duck created. The duck was no weaker than before, but it could still attack. Its fighting prowess was proven when it managed to connect with scout and knocked him into an apartment block, rendering him unconcious. there were 8 people left, and they were rapidly running out of ideas. The two major players had been either killed or knocked out, and demo had nearly run out of ammuntion. The suit was warning him of the duck drawing closer, and Chow was running out of ideas. His pulsar rifle wasn't incredibly effective with pot shots, and the duck was nearly on him. The shining armour had drawn the ducks attention, and now he was the target. Chow went numb at the thought of dying like this, but he knew it was inevitable. Untying the belt of high explosives slung across his soulder, the primed the bombs and hurled it at the beast. By a freak accident, the belt collided with the animals face, triggering a violent explosion and knocking Chow back several hundred yards. The last thing Chow experienced, asides from the ringing in his ears and the blurriness of his vision, was the familiar female voice inside his suit. ''Error: vitals dropping. Supplying adrenallll--III--- Error: Errooooooorrr--- Shutting down.'' It had been 4 weeks since the duck attack, and Chow had only woken up from the medical induced coma 3 days ago. News of the Hong Kong squadron success had spread around the world. Some lesser cities such as Kinshasa in the Congo, and many shanty cities such as Calcutta were demolished. The legendary squad KJDF-B025 went down in history, after a record breaking fight with the kaiju. Even the American army had problems with the duck. Chow was curious as to the state of his team mates, as several were close to the duck at the time of detonation. How could he have been so foolish as to sacrifice his team for what, a stupid kaiju? He was relieved to find that they all survived, but surge was nearly killed and would never be able to fight again. Doctors and nurses took him cards and gifts by the sackful, leaving them at the end of his bed. Chow grinned, revealing his usual toothy smile slight less tootyhy after hitting the ground as hard as he did. 'all in a day work, eh?' THE TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS OF WAR by Daniel TO BE DELIVERED TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC BY HIS MAJESTY KING GEORGE VI 1900 HOURS, OCTOBER 24TH, 1939 PEOPLE OF ENGLAND: I cross your threshold today once again to speak to you in these times of woe. There is no point in deception; the battle is hard. We are fighting them on the trenches, we are fighting them in the skies, and we shall never give up. I know how you feel. You may be faltering; your determination may be weak. No words will bring back your dead or cure your wounded. And yet, here we stand, powering on. We have not surrendered, or lost ground, or been put to shame. And for this I can only thank you: Thank you for your determination, thank you for your understanding, thank you for fighting for what is right. You stood up to the challenge when the strength of Great Britain was put into question, like your ancestors have done before you, and their ancestors before that. But we stand firm! Our nemesis is tough, but we are tougher! In these troubling times we have managed, now more than ever, to unite under a common flag. Our factories produce naught but the finest for our brave troops, in quantities unseen before on this earth. Our staunch allies of France stand bravely at their Maginot line, waiting for the foe to throw themselves upon it like waves unto an impenetrable rock. Our air force, now flying daily bombing runs, is annihilating the opposing morale. Never before, in all of Britannia’s long life, has so much by so many been owed by so few, as our brave airmen take to the spies to smite down our foes. But this is not a mere progress update. Instead, I have yet more to ask of you. I ask you, as King George the Sixth, King of Britain and all her colonies, to stand ever fast against the times before us. We will not find it any easier. There will be mourning, and grief, and destruction all yet to come. This I cannot deny. But one thing I can say in earnest: We shall prevail. It shall not be a single soldier, nor a single battle, or a single war. No, it shall only be the one and only, our Great Britain. It is our great nation that shall emerge victorious in the end, of this I can assure you. And it is now that I ask you to keep the hope; we shall never lose, for we know we are right. With god on our left side, and pride on our right, we will never falter. We will hurl back the enemy, not with just our soldiers, but with our souls. We have never been defeated before. Our navy is, as it always has been, unmatched. Britannia rules the waves. The enemy pays four-fold for any losses they inflict upon us. It is now that I urge you, as your king, and leader, and countryman, to remain strong. We are the unassailable fortress of purity, fighting against the great evil consuming our European brethren. We shall prevail against any odds. It is now I ask you to hold hope against the future. Our victory is assured not by our military strength, but by our strength as a people. Without hope, without strength, we will fall. It is you, the Englishman of today, that shall win us this war. Of Cats and Dogs by Zoe-Lousie I was going to write a heartfelt piece about my unachievable dream of being able to fly. But, since everybody expects me to, I shall instead write about something that I have loved since the day I born; and always will - Cats. “Are you a cat or a dog person?”, a question I end up getting asked everywhere I go. I am most definitely a cat person. I despise dogs. I know the dog fans reading this are probably shaking their heads and listing off the loveable qualities of a dog. I understand that they do make good companions and I understand why other people like them. I just don’t. What others see as loyalty, I see as complete blindness; a dog will follow you to the ends of the earth even if you treat them like the dirt under your shoe. What others see as ‘cute’, I see as a lumbering creature with the elegance of a potato. Cats are the essence of elegance. They have the easiest lifestyle; do what they want, when they want, where they want. They make the perfect partners to people with busy lives and make the perfect lap decoration. Most authors prefer cats, as they are less work, and will curl up with you when you need to get down to business. Cats are so much less work. They clean themselves, exercise themselves and they don’t need training. Basically, cats are independent. You don’t need to be there 24/7. If, for example, you are in an accident and have to stay in hospital for a week; poor Fido is going to be hungry, dirty, restless and will probably have chewed up half the house while you were away. A cat however, has caught its own food, cleaned itself, found somewhere comfortable to sleep and found something amusing to keep themselves entertained. Dogs attract insects- fleas, mites, flies, etc. Cats repel them. A cat of mine used to climb walls just to dislodge a spider and its web. Again, feline curiosity comes into play- they will hunt anything that moves. The same cat that dislodged spider’s used to chase my sister around the house. Houses with cats are scientifically proven to have less insects or vermin living in them. Swallows avoid the rafters, mice stay away from the crevices, moths find another source of light to live near. Cats don’t beat around the bush. If they want to go outside and the exit is blocked, they will sit pointedly next to the door until you open it. If their hungry they will paw at their food bowl. It they want to be stroked they will place themselves on your lap. None of the constant whining as they run around the house, seemingly at war with every breakable object in the room. With a cat, you’ll never be left guessing what is wrong. Face it dog lovers, cats are funnier than dogs. The internet is filled with cats- grumpy cat, cat meme’s, nyan cat, so on and so forth. Dogs need a stage, and an audience; cats are just humorous on their own. In the long run, their curiosity makes them wise, but up front, they just look plain hilarious. Dogs are expensive to keep. All the food they seem to just breathe in, all the expensive vaccinations, all the toys you spend money on just so they can be torn to shreds. Cats are much cheaper to house. They eat less, and if they are still hungry, will simply go and find more food for themselves. Vet costs are much lower, as their elegance and incredible sense of balance prevent them from falling into sticky situations. What I find most interesting are the toys. Ever seen a dogs play things? Chewing strips of raw hide? Torn up tennis balls? Dogs toys don’t last. Cats on the other hand, cherish their playthings. They will first destroy the wrapping it came in and then stockpile. Rubber mice and jingly balls will last a lifetime, and will always be found tucked away somewhere safe. Cats bring you presents. Birds, mice, frogs. I once had a calico that brought me home a march hare and later, a live peacock. You may not like these presents, but it shows that your frisky feline is looking out for you. They don’t think you can hunt for yourself, so they do it for you. Dogs will simply present you with half a rubber ball that they want you to throw for them. The loyalty of a dog is nothing compared with the devotion of a cat. Can anybody reading this claim that their neighbour has complained over your cats hissing keeping them awake? Nobody? Didn’t think so, okay, how about this. How many people can say that they’ve had complaints over dogs barking? Even the nosiest cat is quieter than a dog. Dogs announce everything to the world, cats only vocalise when they are content or when they are upset. Cats are intelligent. Don’t try and deny it. Even when playing it is obvious who is more supreme. A dog will chase any old ball, where as a cat is only ever interested in the moving red dot that is a laser pointer. Which sounds more advanced? Day or night, a cats ballet around the room as they bat hopefully at the single beam of light is always entertaining. Having to keep stooping down to pick up a slobbery tennis ball and throw it once more is not. Dogs can be good pets, but they are noisy, constantly looking for approval, and hard work. As soon as a guest sets foot through your door they are all over them, which can be incredibly annoying. Cats however, are usually out of sight, only really venturing out to greet guests discreetly. Overall; cats have manners. Cats look so much better than dogs. Dogs have been bred to have ‘squishy’ faces, docked tails, short limbs, no hair and so on. Cats are the image of perfection. Millions of years of evolution has created this perfect being. They have the most intriguing sense of balance, are able to climb any surface, have an elegant tail that swishes about like the ends of a ball gown. Their fur is always so soft, like somebody captured a cloud and attached it to their skin. Cats are magnificent- lions, tigers, leopards; any one of these beasts can kill you in a heartbeat, and still look fantastic doing it. There are many more reasons why I prefer cats to dogs, but to list them all would be to write a book. So, to all you cat lovers out there; stand up for what you believe in. We are too few, and too far between. A war is coming, a war between the cat fanatics and the dog fans; it is up to us to make sure that the superior species survives |
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