It was a strange night, there seemed to be a chill in the air: my skirt tangled around my soot-covered legs. I tightened my grip on Iris’s Hand. I felt her tense up as we walked thought the ashes. It created a white fog as we stepped closer to the photo. The corner of the frame stuck out of the dust and ash. Burnt tables, furniture, ceiling are scattered around. I picked up the frame slowly, brushing of the debris. The gold frame was still intact. Iris’s lip quivered. I wanted to hug her, comfort her, tell her everything will be okay, but I can’t lie. I gently placed the photo in her quivering hands. I looked at my own hands and they- not only covered with black ash- where shaking violently. A single tier went down her cheek and left a clean, pale line against her darkened skin. The sirens were roaring far behind us. They were late, again. It doesn’t matter anyway. They will never believe us; they never will, even if it’s under their nose. The only thing the authorities will ever do is lock us up in a foster home. “I don’t want to go back.” Iris almost inaudibly whispers. “I don’t, either.” A wave of sadness and nausea hit. “We should run.” She nodded and placed her hand in mine. I pulled her out of the ashes. Iris clutched the frame to her chest. The sirens were getting ear-piercing, the closer they got. I glanced at Iris for reassurance. She nodded, making her final choice. Still holding her hand, I dragged her with me. My feet pounded rhythmically against the pavement. I viewed my surroundings. The suburban houses looked the same in the darkness of the night. Dark, haunting trees loomed over our heads. The wind blew though the trees making them look like they are breathing. As time went on and we kept running, the forest s... ... middle of paper ... ...f my scalp and cry in despair. I could not let Iris down. I reached her, but I was useless. She was tied to the base of a tree. Her face was covered in blood from scratches all across her face. I was right in front of her, tugging at the ropes. NO! No! I couldn’t do this one more time. She was pleading for help in her eyes; she was begging for me to save her. She tugged and pulled. It was to late to try anything. The roots of the tree were on fire. She slowly burned. My face was burning from the heat. My hands were blistering. My lungs threatened to collapse. I fell to the ground sobbing and pleading. Misery overwhelmed me. Does a person deserve this? Her screams echoed in my ears. The shrieking kept ringing, taunting me. This was agony. I wanted to die with her. I was useless. I realized at this moment I deserve nothing. Nothing but pain. And pain is what I got.
She thought about her family, and the neighbors, and the town, and the dogs next door, and everyone and everything she has ever met or seen. As she began to cry harder, she looked out the window at the stores and buildings drifting past, becoming intoxicated suddenly with the view before her. She noticed a young woman at the bus stop, juggling her children on one side of her, shielding them from the bus fumes.
He just turned and left without a word. I touched Lennie’s grave. The rough touch of the wood deflecting to my fingers. I walked back to the ranch. Everyone was asleep. I wanted to run away tomorrow but I couldn’t let this chance pass up. It also prevented any chance of Candy following me. I tiptoed out of the room and went straight to the woods. I made sure to mix myself in with the shadows of the trees. I saw the river and It felt like I did it...until I felt something grab me by my neck. I quickly got flipped over and pushed to the ground.
If what does not kill us makes us stronger, then Hope Solo is made of steel. In Hope Solo’s novel Hope Solo: A Memoir of Hope, she is not afraid to speak the truth no matter what people may think of her. Hope learned during her younger years to be open to different ideas and not get discouraged by life’s challenges. She has faced countless obstacles in both her personal life and professional career. Although her persona is very intimidating, Hope is a daddy’s girl, honest, and straight-forward. Throughout her career, many people have mistaken her candid remarks as hateful comments, and she has been labeled as being difficult and bombastic. Even though her critics argue that she is outspoken and lacks maturity as a sportsman, Hope Solo shows in her biography Hope Solo: A Memoir of Hope that she is an inspirational female athlete because she has risen above extreme adversity and continuously challenges herself to be the best.
The void in his hopeless eyes was immediately filled with anger. "I didn't kill anyone!" he yelled and tried to lunge at him but the boy was held back by the chains, "I tried to save them but I was too weak to do it on my own! You all left my friends to die..." he lowered his head as tears welled up in his eyes and flowed down his cheeks. "I begged and begged," his voice
cold, harsh, wintry days, when my brothers and sister and I trudged home from school burdened down by the silence and frigidity of our long trek from the main road, down the hill to our shabby-looking house. More rundown than any of our classmates’ houses. In winter my mother’s riotous flowers would be absent, and the shack stood revealed for what it was. A gray, decaying...
I stepped into the middle of the road and just stood there, the lights stretching in either direction, glowing in the deep chilly air. I could see my own breath, could feel my own warmth as it formed right there in front of me. Behind me, our house looked dark, faint lingering of I'd walk a million miles, and I wasn't even sure if it was really playing or if I was imagining the familiar, the same way a bright light remain when you close your eyelids, the way I imagine that the sight of an eclipse would burn its image into your eyes forever(pg.
I heard a blood-curdling scream and I jumped. I felt silent tears running down my heavily scarred face, but they weren’t out of sadness. Mostly. They were a mixture of pain and fear. I ran into the eerie, blood-splattered room and screamed as I felt cold fingers grab my neck.
As she looked out the window she saw that the ash had started to fall. Eventually, the ash reached about one and a half feet. When she went outside she had to wear a mask because the air was toxic. It didn’t even look like earth. She felt like she was walking on the moon. Nothing looked familiar with the black ash covering everything. Home no longer looked like home. She felt lost in her own yard, the mountains behind her were covered in ash. Everything she knew was different.
The Hero’s Journey is a basic template utilized by writers everywhere. Joseph Campbell, an American scholar, analyzed an abundance of myths and literature and decided that almost all of them followed a template that has around twelve steps. He would call these steps the Hero’s Journey. The steps to the Hero’s Journey are a hero is born into ordinary circumstances, call to adventure/action, refusal of call, a push to go on the journey, aid by mentor, a crossing of the threshold, the hero is tested, defeat of a villain, possible prize, hero goes home. The Hero’s Journey is more or less the same journey every time. It is a circular pattern used in stories or myths.
One sunny, cold winter day, two boys named Zane and Dusty went to the park to play in the snow. Their parents told them to stay away from the wall ledge.
Make a wish is impacting kids all around the world, from sending them from disneyland, to making them police officer for the day or helping them meet their icons (favorite Celebrity).
Her spry, Timberland-clad foot planted itself upon a jagged boulder, motionless, until her calf muscles tightened and catapulted her small frame into the next stride. Then Sara's dance continued, her feet playing effortlessly with the difficult terrain. As her foot lifted from the ground, compressed mint-colored lichen would spring back into position, only to be crushed by my immense boot, struggling to step where hers had been. My eyes fixated on the forest floor, as fallen trees, swollen roots, and unsteady rocks posed constant threats for my exhausted body. Without glancing up I knew what was ahead: the same dense, impenetrable green that had surrounded us for hours. My throat prickled with unfathomable thirst, as my long-empty Nalgene bottle slapped mockingly at my side. Gnarled branches snared at my clothes and tore at my hair, and I blindly hurled myself after Sara. The portage had become a battle, and the ominously darkening sky raised the potential for casualties. Gritting my teeth with gumption, I refused to stop; I would march on until I could no longer stand.
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
In a flea market, a shoe box filled with photographs. This is all we have. Whose lives might be recovered, if only the box had been labelled? I found it laying in a corner of the street, near an old manor where we live, my brother and me. There were men and women neatly tucked in pressed suits and fine linen dresses. They are our family, I imagine. Nameless faces attentively listening to our stories, witnessing the cold lifeless concrete of a flea market; it’s parched landscape that otherwise looks beautiful in the orange twilight. We have more money than it can last us a lifetime, but it cannot buy us our family back. I stare enraptured as strangers scurry down their separate ways, unknown to the solace they and the nameless faces in the photographs provide me, but my brother, he hates them. A single conversation with him, and one would say he hates the face of humanity itself. “Never trust anyone,” he constantly warns. “They leave you when you need them the most.” Our parents leaving us had scarred him deeply. He does not like coming here, but I know that there is a small part of him, albeit hidden away, that craves for company. On this particular day, the sun bathes me in sunlight from behind my brother’s head making me squint up at his silhouette. My thoughts are interrupted by a loud crash of porcelain china doll falling of our stand, its pieces damaged beyond repair. Dozens of dolls lay on our stand that my brother bought from a rather expensive antique store, in a futile attempt to blend in with the rest of the commoners.