For the past six months, you have seen me, scrutinized me, formed opinions of me. You see me through my writing. My writing is diverse, and I have proved myself capable of dealing with almost any genre. I have shown that I can cope with writing the gruesome, the romantic or the comedic. You might see me as a person similar to Tyler Harris, a character I wrote about several times before.

I am not. I am not this calm, diverse person my writing might imply me to be. I am but a shy, fourteen year-old boy whose ability to write far exceeds his ability to talk. Social topics flee my mind, replaced by fantastical scenarios.I find it hard to talk to people, as I’m so often caught up in my own head. If you searched Michael Bengougam on facebook, you’d find a kid who rarely status-updates and has no profile picture. I am a man with no face or voice, but I have the most beautiful brain. I have the most eloquent hands. I have the most passionate heart. I may spend my days in school, but ficly is where I belong.