Asch's eyes flew open as he violently sat up from his previous lying position, his chest heaving; the shadows of the recurring nightmare he had just endured still lingered in the depths of his mind. "Not again," he moaned. Even though a cold draft swirled around the room that he shared with his infant sister, he was in a sweat. He waited for his heart to stop racing, and threw the threadbare quilt that served as his bead spread off of his legs. Standing up, he combed his fingers through his dark hair, doing the best he could to tame the messy tangle that had evolved from his fitful tossing and turning. Creeping towards his humble dresser, he winced as the mildewed floorboards creaked beneath his feet. Glancing over at his baby sister, still asleep in her crib, he breathed a silent sigh of relief, and gathered his clothes and bags. As soon as he shut the door to the bathroom behind him, he exhaled, this time audibly. Turning the faucet on, he wrinkled his nose as the stench of sulfur filled the room. "Ugh - That's new," he coughed out, hurrying to cut of the faucet. It seemed that he wouldn't be taking a shower this morning. He dressed, and quizzically looked in the mirror as he slipped on his cargo shorts and shoes. His mind still foggy from sleep, it took him a few seconds to realize that he had his white V-neck, emblazoned with his golden emblem, on backwards. A slight red tint arose in his cheeks as he quickly put the shirt on correctly, grateful that no one had seen the mistake. As he slipped the last vial of dust into his baldric, he picked up Blademerang, his weapon, slowly sheathing the double edged short sword across his right shoulder. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine as the familiar shing of the blade being s... ... middle of paper ... ... Please do not torture me with the past by reminding me why you are here today in the place of my son." His hand instinctively reaching up to grasp his bandana, Asch's happiness from receiving the birthday present wilted as he listened to Vernon, who was only speaking the truth. Not daring to open his mouth again, the two sat in silence once more. Thankfully, the tension-filled car ride was coming to a close; out of the tinted windows, Asch could see the airport, growing ever bigger in his field of vision. He quietly checked his scroll for the terminal number going to Beacon, and made sure he had his student I.D. card that served as his ticket onto the airship. Content that everything was ready, he restlessly sat in the cruising limousine, fiddling with his throwing knife as his future loomed ever closer in the form of an airship bearing the famous crest of Beacon.
In the early nineteenth century during the presidency of Andrew Jackson and the debate of the Indian Removal Bill came one of the most important accomplishments of the Cherokee Nation, their own newspaper written in their own language. This experiment in Indian journalism began on February 21, 1828 in the Cherokee capital of New Echota. The paper employed a minimum staff of three to four people throughout its duration, often dismissing and rehiring printers. However, the most noteworthy of these were the people who first employed by the paper: journeyman printer John F. Wheeler, printer Isaac Harris, and editor Elias Boudinot. These men helped to further Cherokee nationalism by using a simple syllabery script, developed by a mixed blood Cherokee named Sequayah, that allowed the Cherokee language to be written.
“Suit up, we’re leaving.” Alex instructed over his shoulder as he pulled heavy black combat boots over his feet. Mark stepped into his Aegis, tightening the familiar straps and checking the various pockets in his vest for the usual packets of herbs, bits of various stones and metals to use in trade and assorted maps of several worlds. Next came the two throwing knives which he slid into a sheath hidden in either sleeve. Then he slid his Cutlass into the weapon belt around his waist, along with a short sword and Saxe knife. Two more dagger were placed in both boots and two more swords in crossing sheaths across his back. When Mark looked back Alex was just putting the last weapon in his sheath. He looked back at Mark with grim determination.
Eudora Welty establishes “The Worn Path” in the midst of the twentieth century – in an era where African Americans were not considered as equal to white Americans. Welty tells the story of Phoenix Jackson, an elderly African-American woman, who makes a lengthy voyage into town to get medication for her chronically ill grandson. For most people the journey from the countryside to a town in a city, would not be very difficult. However, the fact that old infirm Phoenix is faced with hindrances and some racist attitudes of people she encounters along the journey; she endeavors onward despite frequent hindrances in her path that include her own deteriorating health and the grandchild’s slim chance of subsistence.
I’m glad we have Maurice, my mother’s younger brother here today. Ella, her older sister, unfortunately couldn’t make it, but I know the news of my mothers death hit her hard. And I know that she prayed with all her will, for my mother.
First came the pride, an overwhelming sense of achievement, an accomplishment due to great ambition, but slowly and enduringly surged a world of guilt and confusion, the conscience which I once thought diminished, began to grow, soon defeating the title and its rewards. Slowly the unforgotten memories from that merciless night overcame me and I succumbed to the incessant and horrific images, the bloody dagger, a lifeless corpse. I wash, I scrub, I tear at the flesh on my hands, trying desperately to cleanse myself of the blood. But the filthy witness remains, stained, never to be removed.
This story, written by Sherman Alexie, is about a young man named Victor who is dealing with some life changes. It is clear to see that how he reacts stems from experiences as an adolescent. For instance, when he heard about the death of his father in Phoenix Arizona his actions displayed a non-caring approach. His urgency to travel to Arizona was not out of concern, love or care for his father, but to claim what was left behind by his father’s estate. This exhibited his greed and self-centered attitude.
I will tell him that his father has come, that an angel brought him back from Heaven for a while”
I cuddled my baby as close to my chest as possible, whipped the streaks of tears from his cheeks, and kissed his peach fuzz forehead. I started to hum a lullaby while rocking him in my arms. I had gotten so caught up in the moment, that before I knew it, he was fast asleep.
“Not. I mean no. I’m stuck,” she replied in a breathy voice. He laughed low and rough, warm puffs of his breath hitting her as his hands groped the waist of the skirt again. A few tugs, and it slid down her body to the floor. His blue eyes staring up at her, while her skirt lay puddled in a soft heap on the floor. She struggled to control her breathing.
An unexpected blizzard last Friday forced me to alter my itinerary and take refuge at the Over the Edge Hotel. Moments after checking in, I discover the Hotel’s Hideaway bar and then ordered a Burgundy. Then sauntered to the secluded inglenook and sat down, at the same time as a nonagenarian eased himself into an overstuffed wingback chair opposite me. I noticed immediately his extremely long, vivid white hair and beard, the twisted walking stick inlaid with precious gemstones that aided his gait and the opulent cloak, worn across his narrow shoulders, which swept the floor gracefully. I sit there in a pair of skinny jeans, loafers without socks, and a sweatshirt with a small hole in the sleeve desperately trying not to stare at the elderly dude.
I watched in horror, my eyes widening, as August gasped and stumbled to the floor. OUCH! August looked like he was about to cry, eyes filling with tears.
“I haven’t seen you in so long, my dear.” He told me with perfect suavity, ignoring the glimmer of shiny metal protruding from my jacket sleeve. I kept a knife there always, never believing in my ‘supernatural vampire abilities’, though there were few. Swiftness, immortality, the upside of a nocturnal life. A creature of the night, an abomination to Christianity, and most other religions. My blade dipped into my skin, scraping it slightly and sending a shiver of euphoria, the kind Jexi didn’t miss. He rarely missed anything. That’s why I was sitting here, next to him, getting a high from a dagger as I was submerged into the murky dangerous waters that was this conversation.
Eulogy for Son The Death of a Child. Not many people realize that the death of a child is NOT in accordance with God’s NORMAL scheme of things. It is not a natural. God did not mean for a child to go first. A child buries the parent.
"Wright, you cannot be serious about this. I have never considering you having these types of feelings for me. I do hope this isn't some sort of trick Larry put you up to." He eyed Phoenix questionably, watching intently for any sign of this being an act. It was possible he was imagining it, but Phoenix did not look like he was joking. The slumped posture--even more than usual--and the eyes looking everywhere but him. They appeared to be moist. Appeared. Which meant that it could still be his imagination, but each second of silence was rising the doubt meter another notch. "Wright?" He said the name softly, as if afraid of hurting his friend albeit rival.