The cheap mirror does wonders to my mind, helping me criticize every inch of my skin. Hating every flaw. Even as I cover the acne scars and random freckles, I still make myself want to throw up the breakfast that I never ate. I was disgusting, to the bone. I plaster my ivory skin with base. Powder. Bright red lipstick. Mascara. Eyeliner. All in a weak attempt to make myself look pretty. I couldn't even 'make up' my appearance with the very cosmetics that were supposed to make me a Barbie. I'd give anything to be a Barbie. So pretty. So lovable. "Hurry up in there. I've got to take a piss." Michael muses, head peaking in from behind the paneled door. "Well, isn't that lovely." "You know you want to see what's in my pants." I laugh. "You wish!" "Whatever. Are you almost done applying the makeup you don't need?" "Yep." I turn to him, giving a small smile. "Does it look okay?" "Yeah, it looks fine. I just wish you wouldn't wear that shit." I roll my eyes and step out of the bathroom, making my way to the window. It seemed to show the New York snow in a more beautiful way then it already looked. Glistening. Fluttering. It was really quite a sight, and with how the snowflakes settled on the very tips of skyscrapers, it almost looked like a winter wonderland. A kingdom of snow, that me and Michael ruled together. I feel his chin rest on my shoulder, but he doesn't say a word. Reaching backwards, I feel for his hands, and bring them to wrap around me. He nuzzles into my neck, and I suddenly get this feeling; this wonderful, warm and fuzzy feeling that makes me feel at home. His lips press to my cheek. "So, my mom wants to meet you, Mike. She wants to cook dinner for you tonight." "Oh really? How does she know who I am?" ... ... middle of paper ... ...shattered souls of the dead, you can always help. Always. You have to try to get anywhere in life." "I just don't see the point in it anymore." I raise a brow. "You try to sing, didn't you?" He nods. "And look where you are now. You've toured with One Direction. You written songs with All Time Low; all because you tried." Michael doesn't respond, and I do believe that I've won, for once. He looks down at his hands again, then back at me. "So, I finally get to see you eat?" I tense, focusing on the people crossing the street, and the more rude drivers honking at them. "Shut up." I hiss at him. "Start eating and I'll leave you alone." "No you won't." "You don't trust me?" He simpers. I give another sickly sweet smirk. "Stop scaring the living shit out of me and I'll trust you again." Neither of us speak another word to each other the whole ride there.
Alice Munro Writing can often be considered a reflection. Sometimes authors resonate with certain experiences or aspects of their life, and express them through the art of writing. Alice Munro, a renowned short story author, creatively displays this technique. It is important to first understand that Munro is a writer of fiction, yet her writing has chronologically progressed through situations and experiences in her own life. Being a Canadian native, Munro is often compared to great Southern writers such as Faulkner and OConnor due to her ability to place her characters in confrontation with tradition.
“Oh wait, I totally forgot he doesn’t know that I’m fighting in this battle with him, man sometimes I’m so ignorant,” I addressed.
There I was running around and playing while everyone grieved. I had no knowledge of what we were gathered for, all I knew was that it was fun to pretend I was Alice in wonderland. The halls and walls lined up with flowers and flowered ornaments all throughout the house. The house wasn’t as dull as it would usually be, it was alive with colors now. My little black shoes shiny and cute with a big black bow right in the center, and my sparkly fluffy dress stood out from all the others. This vivid yet faint memory of what I thought was a family reunion was really my grandmother’s wake. My mother’s eyes swollen and red from all her crying, I thought if she would only eat something maybe she wouldn’t feel like crying so much. I remember standing
“I’m not the cook Marlene is, considering what she is going through, I won’t ask her to prepare something, but Mom, if you’ll help me, we can make something for us,” Jerry said ready to go the kitchen.
It was a beautiful summer day when it happened. I was enjoying the fresh air and the amazing view of Walden Pond. The sun was shining and a slight breeze blew across my face. I love standing still and listening to the swishing of the leaves and the soft feet of animals running through the grounds.
When I first started leaning to read words I was very enthusiastic and I was so proud of my self, I was a reader now but was I reading or just lifting words from the white paper full of dreams and hopes. I still remember the days sitting with my mom on the dining room table reading together. Reading with my mom from early days I realise that language is very much like a living organism. It cannot be put together from parts like a machine, and it is constantly fluctuating and evolving. Language is a living organism that grows, it exists only in interaction with others, in a social interdependence. Different cultures
We all go through things. Sometimes it even has such a strong impact that it changes our lives forever. I didn’t always have it so easy growing up. I was born with vocal cord paralysis, which caused me to have a soft, hoarse, and breathy voice. I was short, I was skinny. Despite these things, I was a happy kid with a normal life. I was a cheerleader. However, something happened when I was just 9 years old. Something that changed me forever. In "The Year of Magical Thinking," Joan Didion states “life changes in the instant. The ordinary instant.” She means that things happen when you least expect it. No one expected it, but I was diagnosed with scoliosis. This medical condition took a huge toll on my life.
If I ever had to do it all over again, I would never have chosen this life. But, I am not sure I ever had a choice. This was what I was thinking when running through the market with a block of salt tucked under my torn shirt. I have never attempted salt thievery before, and I already regretted it. It is very simple to steal, but to steal and get caught is another thing. If my brains weren’t blown apart with the merchants rifle, and literally end any future thought, I would remember to bring some of my orphanage buddies. The Merchant was only a few steps behind, which was quite ironic considering he was not aware of my thievery until a puny, butter faced noble’s child informed him of my actions. I was about to zoom into a dark alley (where I could hide), until a bald man outside an italian Pizza Joint stretched his foot out in time to trip me.
I woke with a start, only to find myself engulfed in darkness. I stand to try to walk, but hit my head on a hard metal ceiling. A smell lingers in the air makes me gag. The odor is bitter and distinct; blood. Suddenly a burst of memory appears in my confused mind… two days ago they chose me… Cass Taylor to go into, “The Labyrinth”, and I realize why I’m in this dingy, dark place. Every three years they pick thirty of the best participants from our community to go into, “The Labyrinth”, and find the finish line, obviously. I’m sure it sounds easy right? Well let me tell you it’s definitely NOT. The maze has many deathtraps, monsters that you couldn’t possibly imagine, pits, dead ends, and much, much more. Oh, and I forgot to mention that the maze MOVES… night and day, nonstop. The maze never stops twisting, turning, churning, and trapping. We also have the choice to kill other participants to increase our chances of finishing, or to remain peaceful and mind our own business. None of the participants in the past have come out of the labyrinth, well
A new school year, a new district, a new kid; this spelled the recipe for disaster in one’s social life especially my social life. Leaving all of the memories behind to make space for the new memories to come, be it good, or be it bad. Hawthorne High School, also know as my new environment for the next four years, is where I would have to restart my social life over again. I made the choice to leave for Hawthorne High for the engineering academy, knowing very well none of my friends were coming along with me. With a new school came new friends and new experiences as one might expect, but what nobody told me is that not knowing anyone is a disadvantage when it comes to school. If you have no one to help you out with your homework or your studies, school and work becomes a much more strenuous task. I had to make friends once again and me being a very shy person didn’t help my case.
Today was the day, months and months of practice and rehearsals leading up to today. The advice my mom had given me still running through my head, whatever happens it's part of the show, the audience does not exist, live the show. I was ready, as the opening music number was just starting up i walked on to the stage and the show began!
Keep your eyes focused: Do not just look at what is directly in front of just your car; look further ahead. For a movement of traffic a few cars at the front. This will to act gives you time if there arise
Growing up I didn't get the sense of wearing make up, I have always been the boyish girl in every barkada. Choosing video games between makeup and barbies were a natural for me; it only started in the end of my highschool where I began to familiarize myself with makeup. I cant keep up with makeup artists every event that
What stylistic elements of a story hook a reader into deciding whether a novel is enjoyable or not? Are there certain techniques an author uses that make someone more likely to read their work again? Creative writing depends on an intricate relationship with reading where an author uses language to create the world for the reader to interpret who in turn recreate it for themselves (Scott 8). For this imaginative transference, so to speak, to happen, the author must make a series of stylistic choices involving structure, diction, syntax, rhythm, and tone. When used effectively, these elements allow the reader to participate actively in the creative relationship and immerse themselves in the story. Authors Lewis Carroll and Hilary T. Smith use
Fairytale is one of the intricate genres in literary history. It is impossible to say exactly when the first fairytale was created. They have been in practice since the beginning of time. The famous scholar Jack Zipes agreed that evolution of fairytales could not be determined. In his book The Irresistible Fairytales, he says: “It is impossible to trace the historical origins and evolution of fairytales to a particular time and place; we do know that humans began telling tales as soon as they developed the capacity of speech. They may have even used sign language before speech originated to communicate vital information for adapting to their environment”