Blood Trail Monologue

As I ran, I felt my foot come down on top of a moss filled rock, and I knew I was in trouble. The slick moss ripped away from the slab of granite and it sent me flying. I knew the fall would be inevitable, and took the it as best I could and prayed for some luck. Branches ripped apart my face, snapping from the contact. Blood flicked up into my eyes. My shoulder made contact with the trunk of a tree as the rest of my body dug into the mud. My legs flipped up over me, crashing into piece of granite bulging out of the ground, pain traveled its way up my leg.

I would have this answer in a matter of moments. The Tutsis took me to a clearing on the beaches of Lake Kivu. I looked around and realized that we were close to the neighboring country. I saw a wide landscape without major obstacles and wondered what it meant. The guerrillas were tense; however, tough men are used to facing bad times. President Paul Kagame handed me his weapon, whispered in my ear and pointed to the Congo, and at a military village, precisely. Then, I knew why I was there: they gave me a target of opportunity, a prominent Hutu official, who was on the other side of the lake, wearing medals and insignias. I stretched my fingers and took some deep breaths a few times. I placed a homemade projectile into the rifle, a redeeming bullet, once kissing its vile metal. I estimated the distance across us and the strength of the wind, making a ritual to focus on myself. I did not want to miss that shot. Perhaps, I would not have another opportunity like that. In my thoughts, I saw dead Twas children lying on the ground, raped women, and tears coming out of Rose Kabaguyois's eyes. Nevertheless, having painful images in my head, I could not succeed. Therefore, I thought about flowers. The

I wish I could pull myself away, But you’re almost as bad as nicotine. You’re a drug that I fell into, And can’t drag myself out of. I just can’t quit.

They've been drinking. What started as a few sips of mulled wine with their winter solstice celebration had quickly became a few glasses once Master Hawkeye went upstairs to be alone with his memories. They laugh, cheeks rosey and tongues heavy. He can’t imagine he could be sitting any closer to her, and with every chuckle and belly shaking laugh, their shoulders brush against each other. They're under a thick afghan, thighs pressed against each other from knee to hip, feet dangling off the couch and tangling up every so often.

Evan watched the scenery flow by in a blur of color. His eyes grew heavy and the pounding in his head was unbearable. The train rocketed through mile after mile of undulating prairie grasses. Touched by the colors of autumn, the fields glowed like fire. The monotonous view and rocking train soon caused the boy to give into the sleep he both craved, and feared. And again he dreamed…

Then they went away for the weekend, mom and dad, and things got bad, real bad. I thought things were bad before, but that weekend was hell. My parents arrived home to flashing blue and red lights and me crying on the doorstep; all cuts and bruises and torn clothes and him being bundled into the back of a police car.

The day is gone again and night is closing in. I spent today in bed with vacant, blinking eyes that stared at pale blue walls as shadows crept around the room like clouds the wind has streaked across the winter sky. My vision wandered to the windowsill where motes of dust would dance in piercing beams of light as white and crisp as cotton sheets, but warmer than they ever were, now thin and worn to threads. I should have done a thousand things today. I should have studied calculus or cleaned the house or walked through puddles in the rain or sung a song I used to know.

As I was walking home for a long boring day at school I saw an inkblot. It looked like someone was being stabbed, I was petrified. I didn’t want to look at my ink blot , but after thinking about it I figured out that there might be something I can see. I ended up looking at the inkblot anyway.

It was another beautiful Sunday, dry, this young man just got out of church, and he got a page that there has been a fire. Leaving immediately he would never have prepared himself for the long night ahead of him. Arrived at the station and opened the doors this young man texted his mother telling her he was headed to a fire, things were going by so quickly. As the time progressed, all he could do is make sure the flames didn’t continue to spread, with nothing but boots, and a backpack sprayer full of water to put out the flames that were stretching for as far as the eye could see, not but knee high yet the effect it had mentally was petrifying. Through the trees and debris he could see flames as high as the trees, except there were no trees, what once was close to two hundred acres of trees has now been turned to ash by an extremely dangerous force. After all the men had left at about four in the morning, trying to sleep was impossible, he was worn, tired, couldn’t breathe because of smoke inhalation, and the images of the destruction caused by a single flame were haunting him. Silently he realized the true dangers of flames. He

In a Mercedes roadster, there is a protagonist of a tragic hit and runs. The man reveal himself, a six feet seven tall, dark curly hair and a chevron mustache. In addition, beneath his Nascar merchandise tank top, I inspect his tattoos; particularly, there was the one across his shoulder bone---an aircraft diagram of a Glider. It was stand out because the ink is still fresh, vivid and nearly glint under the sun.

But light should not give me such a fright, so what have I to truly fear?

Oh starry fair maiden where did you go? where did you escape to I don't know, where could I I see your show since you can't glow, you're a wanderlust storm, I can't feel your melody I want you here with me

“Brooke it’s not that hard, you can do it.” That is the deep and stern brotherly voice I hear when I’m trying to carry out any task at hand. Hunter has always inspired me, even though we may seem like we hate each other all the time, he is the type of person who is dedicated to whatever his task is. Everyone knows that he would go out on a limb for you, and he is only a phone call away. Hunter will put everything he has into the farming and livestock that he raises, because that is what he loves to do, it’s his way of life.

On a cold Fall morning, up in the misty mountains of Northwestern Oregon, everything is still and silent. Almost as if time had been frozen. The birds have yet to start chirping. The silence had been broken by the sounds of an ax being swung into a dead standing tree. The man stands there, swinging his ax with precision, making sure he hits his mark every time. The steam of his breath rises into the cool, damp air as he swings. With each blow of the ax, the tree starts leaning more and more in the direction it wants to fall. With one final swing, the tree begins to creak as it falls and hits the ground with a loud crash. The man sticks his ax into the tree stump and sits down on the fallen tree to rest. He wipes the sweat from his forehead

Once I reached the top, an unexpected feeling of terror coursed through me. Glancing around anxiously, I noticed sombre portraits staring down from behind layers of dust. I couldn't help but feel that someone was watching, following me. Whirling around, I saw nothing but the faces in the portraits staring at me. I swallowed a nervous whimper and continued into the dark until I was outside the only room on that floor. The door was all that stood in my way now, shielding me from the potentially perilous room beyond its thick oaken panels. My hands trembling, I guided my finger slowly around the once delicate