Wrist

Her wrists were so innocent. White, soft skin, like they were the day she was born. Veins of life seen through the surface, perfect and untouched. No tension, no hate, no devestation that would be obvious at the sight of the rest of her. But feeling around in the darkness, she picked up her wrist, and felt the inside of it with her fingertips. Her hands were cold and her arm was warm. The blade was cold, and the blood was warm. It slowly came in, and the sensitive skin over the veins reacted to the slightest touch. The skin was tight and unmoving as the blade stroked it, sinisterly toying at her fate: two inches down, two inches up, pausing at the base. After a while, this rubbed a sore spot. She clenched her hand, and unclenched it. The blade came down, pinching the first millimeter of skin it came in contact with. Then it pressed harder, leaving a whiteish-pale green mark that eventually melted into the pale pale rose pink that they use to describe kids' clothes in magazines. She was left undecided what to do with the knife.

Depression

It's kind of  sad and scary when the  TV is starting to look like your Social Studies textbook.  What does it say about our lives, country and future? How do you feel when the only difference between the pictures hanging up in class, and the photos on the news, are that ours are in color. Do you feel... okay? Do seventy years solve a problem? Do they erase a repeating decimal? Do you think the people living in Hoover-villes pictured their grandchildren out there, living in tents, just like them, for the same reason? We all thought this was behind us, and we were better than that. It was all history. Well it's not. GUESS WHAT, ITS NOT! Because we are still not smart enough to let go of our greed, and too ignorant to realize this is all still possible. Nothing ever happens twice but disasters reoccur. Welcome to the Second Great Depression.