20th anniversary: Has any new information cone to light?

I've been busy lately and wasn't able to follow any of the news surrounding the 20th anniversary. Has anyone (parents, friends, survivors) provided any new information? I think @screamingophilia said that she saw some of the survivors give speeches at a church or something, and I'm curious if anyone else has heard anything new.

This article was posted by one of Dylan's teachers. I refutes some of what Sue claims in her book.

Dylan apparently wrote a very violent short story in creative writing class a couple of weeks before the massacre. According to Judith Kelly his former creative writing tutor at Columbine, Dylan had written about a “god-like figure” dressed in black, brutally gunning down fraternity-type boys aka jocks.

This was a quote from the alleged story. “If I could face an emotion of god, it would have looked like the man,” Dylan wrote. “I not only saw in his face, but also felt eminating [sic] from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness. The man smiled, and in that instant, thru no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.”

barrcode88 wrote:

Dylan apparently wrote a very violent short story in creative writing class a couple of weeks before the massacre. According to Judith Kelly his former creative writing tutor at Columbine, Dylan had written about a “god-like figure” dressed in black, brutally gunning down fraternity-type boys aka jocks.

This was a quote from the alleged story. “If I could face an emotion of god, it would have looked like the man,” Dylan wrote. “I not only saw in his face, but also felt eminating [sic] from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness. The man smiled, and in that instant, thru no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.”

Yes, it is quite interesting that sweet little emo Dylan wrote a vicious story about slaughtering a bunch of "jock-preps," isn't it?

(By the way, this is not new information. The story was released to the public along with the rest of the 11K many years ago.)

Here's the full text. Evidently, Dylan had not quite mastered the concept of paragraphs:

Quote :

The town, even at 1:00 AM, was still bustling with activity as the man dressed in black walked down the empty streets. The moon was barely visible, hiding under a shield of clouds, adding a chill to the atmosphere. What was most recognized about the man was the sound of his footsteps. Behind the conversations and noises of the town, not a sound was to be heard from him, except the dark, monotonous footsteps, combined with the jingling of his belt chains striking not only the two visible guns, in their holsters, but the large bowie knife, slung in anticipation of use. The wide-brimmed hat cast a pitch-black shadow of his already dimly-lit face. He wore black gloves, with a type of metal spiked-band across the knuckles. A black overcoat covered most of his body, small lines of metal & half-inch spikes layering upper portions of the shoulders, arms, and back. His boots were newly-polished, and didn't look like they had been used much. He carried a black duffel bag in his right hand. He apparently had parked a car nearby, and looked ready for a small war with whoever came across his way. I have never seen anyone take this mad-max approach in the city, especially since the piggies had been called to this part of town for a series of crimes lately. Yet, in the midst of the night life in the center of the average-sized town, this man walked, fueled by some untold purpose, what Christians would call evil. The guns slung on his belt and belly appeared to be automatic hand-guns, which were draped above rows of magazines and clips. He smoked a thin cigar, almost a sweet clovesque scent, eminated from his aura. He stood about six feet and four inches, and was strongly built. His face was entirely in shadow, yet even though I was unable to see his expressions, I could feel his anger, cutting through the air like a razor. He seemed to know where he was walking, and he noticed my presence, but paid no attention, as he kept walking toward a popular bar, The Watering Hole. He stopped about 30 feet from the door, and waited. For whom I wondered, as I saw them step out. He must have known their habits well, as they appeared less than a minute after he stopped walking. A group of college-preps, nine of them, stopped in their tracks. A couple of them were mildly drunk, the rest sober. They stopped, and stared. The streetlights illuminating the bar and the sidewalk showed me a clear view of their stares full of paralysis and fear. They knew who he was, and why he was there. The second largest spoke up "What are you doing man … why are you here?" The man in black said nothing, but even at my distance, I could feel his anger growing. "You still wanted a fight huh? I meant not with weapons, I just meant a fist fight....come on put the guns away, Fucking pussy!!" said the largest prep, his voice quavering as he spoke these works of attempted courage. Other preps could be heard muttering in the background "Nice trench coat dude, that’s pretty cool there".... "Dude we were just messing around the other day chill out man" . . . "I didn't do anything, it was all them!!"... "come on man you wouldn't shoot us, we’re in the middle of a public place" Yet, the comment I remember the most was uttered from the smallest of the group, obviously a cocky, power hungry prick. "Go ahead man! Shoot me!!! I want you to shoot me!! Heheh you won’t!! Goddamn pussy." It was faint at first, but grew in intensity and power as I heard the man laugh. This laugh would have made Satan cringe in Hell. For almost half a minute this laugh, spawned from the most powerful place conceivable, filled the air, and through the entire town, the entire world. The town activity came to a stop, and all attention was now drawn to this man. One of the preps began to slowly move back. Before I could see a reaction from the preps, the man had dropped his duffel bag, and pulled out one of the pistols with his left hand. Three shots were fired. Three shots hit the largest prep in the head. The shining of the streetlights caused a visible reflection off of the droplets of blood as they flew away from the skull. The blood splatters showered the preps buddies, while they were too paralyzed to run. The next four preps were not executed so systematically, but with more rage from the man's hand cannon than a controlled duty for a soldier. The man unloaded one of the pistols across the fronts of these four innocents, their instantly lifeless bodies dropping with remarkable speed. The shots from the gun were felt just as much as they were heard. He pulled out his other pistol, and without changing a glance, without moving his death-stare from the four other victims to go, aimed the weapon out to the side, and shot about 8 rounds. These bullets mowed down what, after he was dead, I made out to be an undercover cop with his gun slung. He then emptied the clip into two more of the preps. Then, instead of reloading and finishing the task, he set down the guns, and pulled out the knife. The blade loomed huge, even in his large grip. I now noticed that one of two left was the smallest of the band, who had now pissed his pants, and was hyperventilating in fear. The other one tried to lunge at the man, hoping that his football tackling skills would save his life. The man sidestepped, and made two lunging slashes at him. I saw a small trickle of blood cascade out of his belly and splashing onto the concrete. His head wound was almost as bad, as the shadow formed by the bar's lighting showed blood dripping off his face. The last one, the smallest one, tried to run. The man quickly reloaded and shot him through the lower leg. He instantly fell, and cried in pain. The man then pulled out of the duffel bag what looked to be some type of electronic device. I saw him tweak the dials, and press a button. I heard a faint yet powerful explosion I would have to guess about 6 miles away. Then another one occurred closer. After recalling the night many times, I finally understood that these were diversions, to attract the cops. The last prep was bawling and trying to crawl away. The man walked up behind him. I remember the sound of the impact well. The man came down with his left hand, right on the prep's head. The metal piece did its work, as I saw his hand get buried about 2 inches into the guy's skull. The man pulled his arm out, and stood, unmoving, for about a minute. The town was utterly still, except for the faint wail of police sirens. The man picked up the bag and his clips, and proceeded to walk back the way he came. I was still, as he came my way again. He stopped, and gave me a look I will never forget. If I could face an emotion of God, it would have looked like the man. I not only saw in his face, but felt emanating from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness. The man smiled, and in that instant, through no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.

While looking for the text, I stumbled upon this little tidbit on Cullen's site. He just couldn't resist tossing yet another turd into the Columbine punch bowl:
[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

Quote :

Perhaps most interesting is that there is only one killer in the story, who seems a lot more like Eric than Dylan. Dylan narrates the story from the point of view of a bystander, watching the very confident killer from the sidelines. He (the narrator) is enthralled.

The descriptions of how he feels at the end are quite telling, describing the face of God.

The killer seems a lot more like Eric than Dylan?

Quote :

He stood about six feet and four inches, and was strongly built.

That sounds an awful lot like Eric, doesn't it?

He also didn't seem to have grasped what the word 'contradiction' means. 'The town, even at 1:00 AM, was still bustling with activity as the man dressed in black walked down the empty streets.' Well, damn, Dylan, which one is it? Bustling or empty?

LPorter101 wrote:

barrcode88 wrote:

Dylan apparently wrote a very violent short story in creative writing class a couple of weeks before the massacre. According to Judith Kelly his former creative writing tutor at Columbine, Dylan had written about a “god-like figure” dressed in black, brutally gunning down fraternity-type boys aka jocks.

This was a quote from the alleged story. “If I could face an emotion of god, it would have looked like the man,” Dylan wrote. “I not only saw in his face, but also felt eminating [sic] from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness. The man smiled, and in that instant, thru no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.”

Yes, it is quite interesting that sweet little emo Dylan wrote a vicious story about slaughtering a bunch of "jock-preps," isn't it?

(By the way, this is not new information. The story was released to the public along with the rest of the 11K many years ago.)

Here's the full text. Evidently, Dylan had not quite mastered the concept of paragraphs:

Quote :

The town, even at 1:00 AM, was still bustling with activity as the man dressed in black walked down the empty streets. The moon was barely visible, hiding under a shield of clouds, adding a chill to the atmosphere. What was most recognized about the man was the sound of his footsteps. Behind the conversations and noises of the town, not a sound was to be heard from him, except the dark, monotonous footsteps, combined with the jingling of his belt chains striking not only the two visible guns, in their holsters, but the large bowie knife, slung in anticipation of use. The wide-brimmed hat cast a pitch-black shadow of his already dimly-lit face. He wore black gloves, with a type of metal spiked-band across the knuckles. A black overcoat covered most of his body, small lines of metal & half-inch spikes layering upper portions of the shoulders, arms, and back. His boots were newly-polished, and didn't look like they had been used much. He carried a black duffel bag in his right hand. He apparently had parked a car nearby, and looked ready for a small war with whoever came across his way. I have never seen anyone take this mad-max approach in the city, especially since the piggies had been called to this part of town for a series of crimes lately. Yet, in the midst of the night life in the center of the average-sized town, this man walked, fueled by some untold purpose, what Christians would call evil. The guns slung on his belt and belly appeared to be automatic hand-guns, which were draped above rows of magazines and clips. He smoked a thin cigar, almost a sweet clovesque scent, eminated from his aura. He stood about six feet and four inches, and was strongly built. His face was entirely in shadow, yet even though I was unable to see his expressions, I could feel his anger, cutting through the air like a razor. He seemed to know where he was walking, and he noticed my presence, but paid no attention, as he kept walking toward a popular bar, The Watering Hole. He stopped about 30 feet from the door, and waited. For whom I wondered, as I saw them step out. He must have known their habits well, as they appeared less than a minute after he stopped walking. A group of college-preps, nine of them, stopped in their tracks. A couple of them were mildly drunk, the rest sober. They stopped, and stared. The streetlights illuminating the bar and the sidewalk showed me a clear view of their stares full of paralysis and fear. They knew who he was, and why he was there. The second largest spoke up "What are you doing man … why are you here?" The man in black said nothing, but even at my distance, I could feel his anger growing. "You still wanted a fight huh? I meant not with weapons, I just meant a fist fight....come on put the guns away, Fucking pussy!!" said the largest prep, his voice quavering as he spoke these works of attempted courage. Other preps could be heard muttering in the background "Nice trench coat dude, that’s pretty cool there".... "Dude we were just messing around the other day chill out man" . . . "I didn't do anything, it was all them!!"... "come on man you wouldn't shoot us, we’re in the middle of a public place" Yet, the comment I remember the most was uttered from the smallest of the group, obviously a cocky, power hungry prick. "Go ahead man! Shoot me!!! I want you to shoot me!! Heheh you won’t!! Goddamn pussy." It was faint at first, but grew in intensity and power as I heard the man laugh. This laugh would have made Satan cringe in Hell. For almost half a minute this laugh, spawned from the most powerful place conceivable, filled the air, and through the entire town, the entire world. The town activity came to a stop, and all attention was now drawn to this man. One of the preps began to slowly move back. Before I could see a reaction from the preps, the man had dropped his duffel bag, and pulled out one of the pistols with his left hand. Three shots were fired. Three shots hit the largest prep in the head. The shining of the streetlights caused a visible reflection off of the droplets of blood as they flew away from the skull. The blood splatters showered the preps buddies, while they were too paralyzed to run. The next four preps were not executed so systematically, but with more rage from the man's hand cannon than a controlled duty for a soldier. The man unloaded one of the pistols across the fronts of these four innocents, their instantly lifeless bodies dropping with remarkable speed. The shots from the gun were felt just as much as they were heard. He pulled out his other pistol, and without changing a glance, without moving his death-stare from the four other victims to go, aimed the weapon out to the side, and shot about 8 rounds. These bullets mowed down what, after he was dead, I made out to be an undercover cop with his gun slung. He then emptied the clip into two more of the preps. Then, instead of reloading and finishing the task, he set down the guns, and pulled out the knife. The blade loomed huge, even in his large grip. I now noticed that one of two left was the smallest of the band, who had now pissed his pants, and was hyperventilating in fear. The other one tried to lunge at the man, hoping that his football tackling skills would save his life. The man sidestepped, and made two lunging slashes at him. I saw a small trickle of blood cascade out of his belly and splashing onto the concrete. His head wound was almost as bad, as the shadow formed by the bar's lighting showed blood dripping off his face. The last one, the smallest one, tried to run. The man quickly reloaded and shot him through the lower leg. He instantly fell, and cried in pain. The man then pulled out of the duffel bag what looked to be some type of electronic device. I saw him tweak the dials, and press a button. I heard a faint yet powerful explosion I would have to guess about 6 miles away. Then another one occurred closer. After recalling the night many times, I finally understood that these were diversions, to attract the cops. The last prep was bawling and trying to crawl away. The man walked up behind him. I remember the sound of the impact well. The man came down with his left hand, right on the prep's head. The metal piece did its work, as I saw his hand get buried about 2 inches into the guy's skull. The man pulled his arm out, and stood, unmoving, for about a minute. The town was utterly still, except for the faint wail of police sirens. The man picked up the bag and his clips, and proceeded to walk back the way he came. I was still, as he came my way again. He stopped, and gave me a look I will never forget. If I could face an emotion of God, it would have looked like the man. I not only saw in his face, but felt emanating from him power, complacence, closure, and godliness. The man smiled, and in that instant, through no endeavor of my own, I understood his actions.

While looking for the text, I stumbled upon this little tidbit on Cullen's site. He just couldn't resist tossing yet another turd into the Columbine punch bowl:
[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

Quote :

Perhaps most interesting is that there is only one killer in the story, who seems a lot more like Eric than Dylan. Dylan narrates the story from the point of view of a bystander, watching the very confident killer from the sidelines. He (the narrator) is enthralled.

The descriptions of how he feels at the end are quite telling, describing the face of God.

The killer seems a lot more like Eric than Dylan?

Quote :

He stood about six feet and four inches, and was strongly built.

That sounds an awful lot like Eric, doesn't it?

Yea, I don’t understand where Cullen would’ve gotten that it was Eric. It is so clearly Dylan doing the observing and the killing.

SandraSmit19 wrote:

He also didn't seem to have grasped what the word 'contradiction' means. 'The town, even at 1:00 AM, was still bustling with activity as the man dressed in black walked down the empty streets.' Well, damn, Dylan, which one is it? Bustling or empty?

Was it bustling in the bars and not on the street? I’m grasping at straws here lol

I think Dylan was a very good writer and storyteller. He really did off and paint a good picture. He wrote this one poem about going through an attic I think after a murder I’ll have to find it at some point today. But it was really good I thought.

But now I don’t really care about paragraph formatting, fonts... The printer messed up in one of those papers and instead of re-printing he just drew an arrow and wrote the printer messed up...

Even in his diversion essays he didn’t use paragraphs. His contempt for the program is quite palpable yet he still got out early. I agree with people saying it was the halo effect from Eric.

[You must be registered and logged in to see this link.]

Maybe it's this?

I also thought the story was good. Did teachers like Dylan?

It was a different one. It was shorter, kind of a poem I think.

Found it!

Gunpowder by Dylan

The room smelled of gunpowder among other combustible chemicals, sacks of buckshot possibly piled up along the desk and spilling out onto the floor, there to trip the unwary visitor. The black powder scented air covered the room and made fine black dust settling over the Federal shotgun shells and the shell-making machine. On the bed, the unused, unmade, old tried bed, were his tools, the AB-10, the Uzi lying there in hibernation. Back on the desk, as I meet 9mm bullets and magazines onto the floor I found among the chemical stains and burn marks, an ancient photo album, open to pages of people at the beach. These people were in the midst of a vacation I presumed, a time of happiness. Yet, on these pictures, a withered black X through some peoples’ faces. The scent of ammonia and gunpowder overwhelmed me, as I went to a window to let some air and light into the dark, abandoned room. The blinds didn’t work, so old and I eventually cut them down with a large knife, one I found sitting by the bed, set as to guard the room almost. There was dried blood along the tip of the blade. Cabinets caked over gallons of deep rock and the canned goods, stockpiles of green beans, chile, soup, beer and corn.

"I would have to guess about 6 miles away. "