I Received A Call From Your Teacher

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.

Be that as it may, through playing with the youthful white youngsters in her neighborhood, she could persuade them to show her to peruse and compose. She figured out how to compose by duplicating words in the sand. Like a decent neighbor, Anna taught the youngsters more youthful than her the things she had learned. Like this, she was instructor even as a youthful youngster.

“Don't listen to him,” her mother says, taking her hand and leading her inside the small house, closing the door on him. “He'll come around, Awen, you'll see. Please, sit down. We have so much to get caught up on, and I just put dinner in the oven.”

The boy turned around. "You don't know who they are? Didn't your parents every teach you about the Survey Corps?"

Suddenly, something tapped your shoulder, causing you to turn around to see Ryan with a note in his hand and a smile on his face.

When he arrived at the camp, he saw his father picking up the trash from breakfast. “I’m sorry, Dad. I made a mistake,” Brayden sighed. “I’ve just been ... mad....” His father gave him a look of understanding and patted him affectionately on the back.

Andrew grumbled. His wife had a habit of quietly muttering to him every time she had a stressful topic to discuss with him, in a manner where he would not understand what she was trying to say.

“P...Parents?” Simon repeated the word, pouting. He’d never heard it before… The man frowned, and tilted his head with a look of concern.

When I didn't move—because, seriously, rude—he raised his head again. He arched a brow and gave me another contemplative look. "Pop quiz, Miss Huckabee. Hurry up."

As he glanced around the foyer of Clair Hall, he let out a long sigh that was meant to sound impatient but came out more nervous than anything else. What on earth could the baron—as he had taken to calling his father—want with him? His father had long since announced that he had washed his hands of his younger son and that he was only paying for his education because it was expected of him.

I was starting to worry, it is getting dark out.” She told me kissing my forehead. “Now come help me with dinner.’ Taking my hand and dragging me away, but not before I could see the smugness of my brother’s face. I sent him a glare before making it into the kitchen. The rest of the night went on, and rather like other nights when we’ve been together. We sat down, ate, and talked. Nothing particularly special about the rest of that night, excepting George’s visit. Still though, this was one of the few occasions we could actually all come together. At least one that was enjoyable. The next morning was one I was genuinely looking forward to. But when I woke up hearing Mum calling me. So I had gotten dressed, in a skirt this time, in an effort to silence her. I left my room expecting to see my mother making breakfast. But instead seeing two officers of sorts, waiting at the open door. With my mother and father standing in front of

Calling his parent’s number, Andrew answered, and Jerry said, “Dad, I need to talk to you, it is important. Would you and Mom come over for a few minutes? Please, Dad,” he asked with a lump in his throat

“Then came the night that my dad called me downstairs...said my mom and him wanted to talk with me about something.”

writing and he wrote in big letters and not on the lines. Ms. McComb told him not to write like

“Do we need this paragraph?” Daniel asked quietly, interrupting the cacophonous prayer and holding up a slip of paper. I glanced at the paper and nodded, trying to avoid conversation. He then sighed deeply and continued working, and I felt pangs of guilt striking deep within my chest. It’s alright to do this. He brought this upon himself. Focus on your work. I told myself repeatedly as I continued sticking bits of paper onto the boards. The snipping of scissors resumed like clockwork, each snip a tick of the second, and the clatter of scissors dropping on the table punctuating the quiet every few