Because I love you, and beneath the uncountable stars
I have become the delicate piston threading itself through your chest, I want to tell you a story I shouldn’t but will and in the meantime neglect, Love, the discordant melody spilling from my ears but attend, instead, to this tale, for a river burns inside my mouth and it wants both purgation and to eternally sip your thousand drippings; and in the story is a dog and unnamed it leads to less heartbreak, so name him Max, and in the story are neighborhood kids who spin a yarn about Max like I’m singing to you, except they tell a child, a boy who only moments earlier had been wending through sticker bushes to pick juicy rubies, whose chin was, in fact, stained with them, and combining in their
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Max arching his neck with his eyes closed, now,
and licking the boy's round face, until the boy unchains the dog, and stands, taking slow steps backward through the wet grass and feels, for the first time in days, the breath in his lungs, which is cool, and a little damp, spilling over his small lips, and he feels,
again, his feet beneath him, and the earth beneath them, and starlings singing the morning in, and the somber movement of beetles
chewing the leaves of the white birch, glinting in the dark, and he notices,
Darling, an upturned nest beneath the tree, and flips it looking for the blue eggs
of robins, but finds none, and placing a rumpled crimson feather in his mouth slips the spindly thicket into another tree, which he climbs
to watch the first hint of light glancing above the fields, and the boy eventually returns to his thorny fruit bush where an occasional prick
leaves on his arm or leg a spot of blood the color of these raspberries and tasting of salt, and filling his upturned shirt with them he beams
that he could pull from the earth that which might make you smile,
Love, which you’ll find in the fridge, on the bottom shelf, behind the milk,
in the bowl you made with your own lovely
I kept writing. It was hard, but I could get everything off of my chest. I could explain to people what had happened to me. I could tell my English teacher. It was a little hard, but I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. Greasers didn’t cry.
Max Heartfield, his mother, Mrs. Alexis Heartfield, and his brother Jason Heartfield live in a nice brick Tudor, on 768 Lakewood Drive in Atlanta, Georgia. Max was a regular nine year old boy. He went to school, had friends, and most of all he had his best friend Oliver Hunter living next door to him. Life couldn’t be better.
The beginning I lived in a little town in texas only having 250 residence and i was one of them just at the beginning my adulthood and I finished school just 3 years back. I had life going great until that night when I died and it was all caused by my rival “Willy Morgan” when he came to my house looking for a fight and i gave it to him it was a fist fight it was the brawl of the century until Willy took out a knife when i saw the knife I quickly grabbed a glass bottle and whacked him right on the cheekbone causing a deep cut on his cheek, blood dripped on the floor boards he was furious he stabbed me once in the heart and it was over. Now that i’m a ghost I’ve dedicate my whole life to haunt Willy Morgan and that’s just what i’m going to do
I am writing to you on the behalf of the terrible accident that happened the other day with me and your darling son Theodore. I just wanted to clear this up for you, so you don’t have to report it to the state generals office. Here is what actually happened...
It had been a nice sunny warm weathered day here in Mississippi. It had been for a while now and everyone had been outside working, harvesting, and growing their cotton, it had been a little tough for our family after the depression. Cotton prices had been lowered and it had just been hard for everyone around this town. We are white and I guess we have a little more than most folks especially them colored folks. There is this family the Logan family first things first their black
A couple of bandits gets the drop on kitche together with the lieutenant. The goldfields' are in their dray and to the pairs alarm, eventually exhibit themselves to the highwaymen. They are now all held at gunpoint. Padre has been absent on one of his recurrent roams, returning to see what is transpiring from an unseen remoteness.... He sneaks up on one of the bandits and draws his revolver on him, beseeching to allow these honest people be, and get on their way...
The year was 1942 right smack dab in middle of World War two. One of many spies was out in his humble 1,200 square ft house. Jack, as very few people knew him wasn’t always like this, exclusive, irritable, longing for a friend. Jack probably the best artist ever, he was always being hounded by fans and reporters, until he was painting with some very flammable paints, when a very unaware man came in and started to smoke long story short he caused the Paint to explode in Jack’s face. He was rushed to the hospital and he was fine but horribly scarred. He later that month faked his death so people would stop coming to his house. All was calm and had been for many years. Jack slowly becoming lonely but not letting himself know. He was listening
Maxie came into our lives November 20th, 2013. My sister found her on the side of the road. My dad told us that we couldn’t keep her because we already had too many dogs. We put up signs and uploaded posts on facebook asking if she was anyone’s dog. No one claimed her and she began to grow on everyone. Before long, she was a part of our family. We all loved her and couldn’t imagine our household without her. She was this little blessing that found her way into our house and I will forever be thankful to whoever’s dog she was, for allowing us have two years of joy with her.
SNAP! “What was that,” I asked my cousin Charlie. “I don't know,” he said in a scared voice. We looked around trying to see where the noise came from. We heard footsteps coming our way so we turned and ran as fast as our feet could take us. We stopped to take a breath next to a fallen tree with a hole small enough for me to crawl in. I looked at the tree and pointed to it to show Charlie where we could go. We heard the footsteps getting closer so I made Charlie go in the log first then i took one last look and crawled in.
The rain had just stopped pouring, and we had all gathered in a park nearby, as a makeshift memorial for Johnny. It wasn’t really a funeral, we didn’t have the budget for that, and it wasn’t like his parents cared enough to give him a proper goodbye.
Three weeks after we had settled into Grandpa Greene’s whitewashed bungalow mom and I were sitting at the dinner table, next to two empty chairs when the telephone rang in the middle of franks, macaroni and cheese, and my least favorite Brussels sprouts. As mom rose to answer, I seized the opportunity to heap some macaroni and cheese on top of the lopsided pile of Brussels sprouts. I was smiling to myself at the clever way I’d camouflaged the sprouts when mom let the phone fall with a clattering clang and a single sob-absolutely devastated. She sank to the floor, still dressed in her work scrubs—a yellow and green bunny printed top and purple pants she’d worn to the hospital where she treated sick kids. Her long auburn hair was pulled up into a messy twist, with strands falling down around her pretty perfect features now pinched and stretched. “It was dad.”
The personification I chose was, ¨watching the crystallized ice charging to take over the last bit of green left¨ (2). This is effective because Aspen is a beautiful place and in the first paragraph I´m trying to convey it´s beauty. I describe it in a way that the snow is fighting a war to conquer the green land, and that is the way Aspen looks, during winter.
You leave the milk carton on the counter again, so I put it away without saying anything. You tell me about Uncle Joe’s new girl born yesterday, even though my cousin is twenty-five now. You buy six oranges even though there are six on the counter and six in the fridge.
I had to help a girl name Teddie. Another, I had to hold Teddie's hand while they were putting oxygen on her but she wasn't injured badly. Moreover, I was giving coats to passengers and I had good ideas to tell the rescue people and about the dry hydrant. Altogether, I thought of the idea to put ladders and stable doors across the ravine. I got them food because they would be hungry and giving them coats to be cozy. I am feeling happy because I am going to help a lot of people and I kind of help Patrick a little bit. Patrick and me liked to work with me and that we get to work together. This is what happened to the plane after it crashed.
teaching me braille, and I’d practice his exercises on how to recall where thing were placed. After he’d leave for the day, Abby would bring out construction paper and bottles of Elmers glue and we’d practice making intricate dots of braille to each other. It was mostly me asking how Mom was doing, or how she was treating Abby at home. Abby would reply with one word answers like fine, or okay. But I knew it wasn’t true.