I land in Philadelphia alone on Christmas’s eve. Out of the airport, I spot immediately his scruffy look. Mike is staring at me shaking his head and I can’t stop but laugh at his gesture. “Buddy!” I yell opening my arms. He still shakes his head incredulous. “Once an asshole, always an asshole” he says giving me a manly hug. Mike Hart is my old university guinea pig. I was his tutor during the last year, though we have the same age and now he works as an agent for Philadelphia FBI. “Emma would think otherwise.” “You mean “miracle girl”? The one who is making you an honest man?” he jokes meanwhile we enter inside his car. “You wish.” “Ok, let’s talk about business. We don’t have much time and I have to go back at work after this lift. I was able to set you an appointment at 3 PM. They have no idea about what’s going on in NYC. The O’Shean are playing coy. We are trying to get ‘hem in jail from a long time. Your collaboration is precious but…” he tells me riding both to the motel. …show more content…
“More or less. What is your epic plan?” “I will just go back to my job as a lawyer. Kol will help me, somehow. My ‘pa is relieving, we never were able to fit together in the same business. Hopefully, his favorite kids will be grown up enough soon to be his golden boys.” “I am sorry,
Darry couldn't believe this moment was finally here. His little brother was graduating at the young age of sixteen-going-on-seventeen.
It’s quite unfortunate that I get into the situations that I do. We went and visited the man on Howard Avenue today to collect the $10 dollars, and Lorraine doesn’t even want to cash the check! He will surely know that the L & J fund isn’t real if we just dispose of it. He invited us to the zoo tomorrow, and I suppose we will have to have to go, as some form of forgiveness for stealing money from old people. We didn’t really steal it though. He gave it to us. Then again, I suppose fraud is considered a sin anyway, so that leads me back to the zoo thing. Lorraine hates zoos, but they don’t even mean enough to me to even bother hating them. It’s just something that’s always been there, and I’ve never really given them much thought before. Kind
“You’ve never heard of me? I'm not surprised, as to why i'm called Herobrine, I prefer to not discuss my personal life with someone who i’ve just met.”
“Jamereo is cut from a different cloth. but I feel you. We’ll ride in your car.” Naquesha grins.
"Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste." Rolling Stones - Sympathy for the Devil Well, I'm neither a man or wealthy and have questionable taste, but this is what comes to mind when I'm asked who I am! I usually end up blurbing something garbled, and laughing strangely before trailing off into awkward silence. This my friends, is why I write.
I'm writing to you all because I've done a very foolish thing I've boarded an EDS as a runaway. I know it was foolish and irresponsible on my part but i... I wanted to see my older brother Anthony... I didn't know I'd would be jettisoned...
We began to walk towards the house. Upon entrance nostalgia hit me. I remembered the walls lavished by a primitive country wallpaper border the old lady before us. The oak floors and the main corridor that led to the kitchen and the dining room. We had plans that one day we’d knock down the side wall and create a mini bar.
The sun broke through the clouds on that crisp April morning as we drove to school. That morning felt off, a feeling that I had felt only one time before. The world moved too fast for me and I struggled to catch up. The raspy voices of the men on radio show thundered over the speakers in my father’s truck as we approached the school.
There is something unique about the way children are capable of love. It’s never measured or compared; it has no obligations or expectations and isn’t tainted by materialism or the delusions of grandeur that we attach to adult relationships. That sort of raw admiration comes from an innocent place where we haven’t yet learned to erect emotional barriers. It is a blissful ignorance, unaware of the pain that disappointment or rejection can bring. It’s sad that the hard knocks of life beat it out of us.
experienced a euphoria of déjà vu here we go again. For a moment I had to shake my head to snap out of it then joined my husband in conversation. All the single ladies gathered for the catching of the bouquet. Turning backwards I threw the bouquet over my shoulders the young ladies were rolling on the floor for the bouquet.
I clenched my dad’s hand until my knuckles turned white, clinging on for safety. I didn’t even consider the idea of him not being there. I looked down in awe at his monstrously large hand attached to my tiny one. While everything and everyone else was shivering, his hand remained warm and comforting. As we wandered through the crowds swarming outside Camden tube station he looked down at me with reassuring eyes.
Title??? I thought I was safe. I thought that I was safe with her. I guess I thought a lot of things
They lied, the council lied, they totally knew way more than they were saying, was my first thought as I regained consciousness, boy those portals really can knock you out. I was lying on my back in a field, I opened my eyes only to find it was nighttime. A shadow loomed over me and before I knew it I had whatever or whoever it was pinned. I looked down to find Blake. “Sorry.”
She proceeds to tell me how great the man and the little girl’s relationship is, “She’s practically a daddy’s girl, to her he is her hero and the greatest man alive.”
When discussing the poetic form of dramatic monologue it is rare that it is not associated with and its usage attributed to the poet Robert Browning. Robert Browning has been considered the master of the dramatic monologue. Although some critics are skeptical of his invention of the form, for dramatic monologue is evidenced in poetry preceding Browning, it is believed that his extensive and varied use of the dramatic monologue has significantly contributed to the form and has had an enormous impact on modern poetry. "The dramatic monologues of Robert Browning represent the most significant use of the form in postromantic poetry" (Preminger and Brogan 799). The dramatic monologue as we understand it today "is a lyric poem in which the speaker addresses a silent listener, revealing himself in the context of a dramatic situation" (Murfin 97). "The character is speaking to an identifiable but silent listener at a dramatic moment in the speaker's life. The circumstances surrounding the conversation, one side which we "hear" as the dramatic monologue, are made by clear implication, and an insight into the character of the speaker may result" (Holman and Harmon 152).