Damp Orange Monologue

Dark themes are on the rise in young adult literature, and parents can’t help but wonder if this is due to the abundance of these subjects in adult literature. Literary critic Meghan Cox Gurdon’s editorial “Darkness Too Visible” and author Sherman Alexie’s response “Why the Best Kids Books are Written in Blood” have contrasting views on this subject. However, with the superior techniques Alexie Sherman is more effective. Both authors use themes and style in their writing, but with his superior use of persuasive techniques Alexie Sherman’s article is ultimately more effective.

Staring at the screen, the young author sighed in frustration, her fingers once again failing her as she was distracted by the din of the news on TV. Resigned, she shut it off and turned back to her blank document wishing for the ability to channel her emotions towards the high expectations placed before her, as well as the stigmas. She was growing tired of the starkness of the world around her.

I’ve never looked at a book the same. I now allow myself to get lost amongst the words, the characters, the scenes; they all become real in my mind. I have a hunger for books and the stories that can remove me from my surroundings. It came to my attention much later on, that the boy on the road probably didn’t even know what he was reading – the title was English and he most likely spoke Mandarin. It was just a way to escape his

Take heed, this book will usher you deep into the minds of the characters. In the garden of good and evil, of war and peace, you will taste and see the agony of hurting hearts and broken minds.

The low ceiling cowered above and the black plastic chairs formed a restless crowd around me. From my seat, I could smell the acute scent of cleaning fluid, whiteboard markers, and the nauseating perfume of the girl sitting next to me. Like so many other students, she exuded concentration. Her brows were drawn as her hand moved rapidly over the testing booklet, only pausing to reposition herself or cast an almost imperceptible sidelong glance. The effortlessness of her actions furthered my anxiety as I began tapping my foot uneasily against the speckled linoleum floor. Through the dusty shades that hung precariously in front the only window in the room, I could see the outline of a solitary building shadowed by the dense gray fog that clung to the courtyard outside. At that moment, I would have given anything to be able to run and scream at the top of my lungs. I had an inexplicable urge to break free from the confinement of that room and what it

I still remember the dreadful day of pain, seared into my memory for all of eternity. The salty smell of blood filled the dark and smoky air. Gunshots rang through the air, echoing through the trees; yet the white flag flew high above us. Bullets rained from the sky knocking leaves and needles from the tree limbs and cut perfect circles through our tepees. An infant cried out hidden in the blood of his dead mother. Then, in the shower of deadly metal, a silver raindrop passed through the infant’s head and for one fateful second, everything became silent. Yet the rain of death persisted causing even more fatalities. I remember running as fast as my legs could carry me, trying to keep up with the rest of our people while doing my best to hide from the rain of death falling from the heavens.

An idea was tracing through the back of her mind, and so she thought to try and best and quickly she could manifest how she felt. Several minutes minutes of failure of preforming such mental acrobatics propelled Katie towards the decisive choice of going to her closet. As she opened the mirror door, Katie gazed into her own ocean green eyes, and revealing a bounty of tired clothing nobody really wore. Her slender arm reached a slender hand to grasp an engraved brown leather booklet.

I felt the eyes of the other students burning holes through my skin. There was no escaping from reading in front of class, not this time. My voice stuttered, my palms sweated, and my face turned red as I looked at the blurred words on the page. I tried and failed to make sense of the book in front me. I wished, I was invisible.

A mellow infusion of sweet, succulent Pineapple combined with malty Black tea, and speckled with Sunflower petals offers a veritable taste of paradise itself. Subtly sweet and slightly tangy, this yellow brew is an irresistible exotic treat on a sweltering warm day.

In the novel, The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, a common theme shown is that words can impact the reader and characters throughout the book. Words can contain the power to build people up by encouraging them, inspiring them, bring hope to them, or provide knowledge to them. Contrary, words can discourage, degrade, defeat, or bring people down. Within this book, both sides are presented and change the characters in different ways, for good or bad. Both usage of words can leave an imprint or effect on other people’s feelings or thoughts.

The sky is terse as if it were painted cobalt blue, a hymn to life. I'm walking with uncertain steps to the TLC, wrapped in a woolen cloak like a witch fallen victim of her own spell. It's one of those days; a tiny homunculus of the caves, survived the ice age, is relentlessly punching my right eardrum. The view is blurred, and I can barely walk straight and conceal the anguish that overwhelms my reason whenever the damn caveman gets out of bed on the wrong side.

Smith’s sweet perfume danced happily through the air, luring me into her room the following day at school. Once again, we turned in our essays and awaited the dreaded comments. Her constant nail tapping was a tension building clock, a constant reminder of the doom that awaited us all. She always selected her “victims” for each new day, and then focused on her helpless “prey.” With magnetic eyes, she would irresistibly and forcefully draw students’ attention to her. With each point of her finger, I waited for her nail to lift me out of my chair and onto my feet. Eventually, it did. “Well, William,” she always had to recognize the writer before the humiliation could begin, “I’m quite impressed. You read my ‘red pen advice’ and actually applied it when

Perhaps I am not drunk enough to get this sufficiently down on paper, but I am here now, come back to something which only I must endure on my own. I listen to your songs and feel as though they may be an insurmountable hill that I shall not ever find peace upon again. And oh, how they once brought me comfort and knowledge. But if only I could have had just some parts of you, the music would have been one of the best. From your songs and albums I have learned more of you and your enormous soul and love than had you ever spoken the feelings aloud. Then from the cacophony of your heart’s truth set to tune, we stumbled upon a few melodies with which to call our own- songs invented purely for the two of us. Now, in the aftermath of what has been real, I cannot fathom to listen to the Yellow Songbirds no more. In all of it and for what ever must come next, I am afraid that I will never be able to hear some things again without a shiver of pain and remorse.

The bright tangerine bottle is always easy to spot in my cluttered handbag. When I click back the cap my senses are flooded with the smell of exotic fruits and tropical islands. The fragrance is slightly artificial but that is to be expected with any body cream. You can’t bottle sunshine, but the geniuses at Bath and Body Works have come pretty damn close. The moisturizer is feather light, and leaves the perfect amount of residue to ensure the hydrating effects last against the dry valley air. After applying it to my cracked elbows, I can instantly feel the soothing effects of the Shea butter sinking into my cells. The aloe returns my skin the healthy radiance of a girl who doesn’t sleep of a heater in her room.

I sat in the very back of the classroom shielding my face with any book that was in sight. That way wouldn’t get called upon to read, but I guess my camouflage of books wasn’t good enough. I was assigned a part in the book to read and I could tell you, I was not happy. As we began to read I could see that my character’s part was starting to inch closer and closer. My heart started to beat out of my chest and the more my throat started to knot up. I was having second thoughts about even coming to school that day, but as I began to read, I started to get more into the book. It began to catch my interest and from that point on I started to realize it was more than just reading a book word per word. There was more to the story than what the paper full of writing would