Looking for Alibrandi Short Story

The boys had asked me to write a eulogy in memory of him, so here I was, standing in front of the small group of people that Johnny called his friends. His parents weren’t there, of course they weren’t. They didn’t care about him. I hadn’t wanted them there anyway. I looked around me. Standing at the front were the boys, Sodapop, Darry, Two-Bit and Steve, and behind them were a few other familiar faces, that I couldn’t put names to, probably just some of his classmates.

Farah Ahmedi is a determined girl who is looking to escape from Afghanistan. Wandering Aengus is a man whose curiosity gets the best of him when a beautiful girl appears out of nowhere. Walt Masters is a loyal boy who will do anything to protect others around him. However, all three were persevering through the hardships that took place during their mission of looking for a better life for others and themselves.

It was two days before Christmas, when Josephine opened the door to her 12 year old son’s room. Chay was the oldest of her four children, and the one she related to most. As Josephine sat down on the edge of the bed, Chay opened his eyes slowly. The dim light that seeped through the partially opened door revealed tears in his mother’s eyes.

Stepping out of the car I analyzed the environment around me. A gust of fresh air flowed swiftly through my hair and caressed my face. The temperature outside was mildly warm and humid. Rays of sunshine blazed down upon me and begun to heat up my black t-shirt. The black and rough asphalt crumbled beneath my feet as I walked. I could tell that it was recently paved because of how smooth it was when I slid my shoe across it. Sweat collected on both of my palms because of the anxiety I gathered prior to my visit. Everything on my body seemed heavier at the time. The necklace dangling around my neck. My phone and wallet that rested in my pockets. It was the result of all of the built up tension within me. I had no idea what to expect.

Would you scale an entire a mountain without a leg, sled across miles of icy landscape being chased by bandits, or sail the Pacific Ocean just to help your friends or family? In order to save a friend's property, Walt Masters went on a mission and was intent on doing so. Searching for a home better than her war-torn country, she successfully eluded the dangers from her homeland. A boy leaving his home, a man coming back, Manjiro wanted to enter into his homeland, Japan, to help his family. However, all three were determined to succeed despite the troubles and obstacles in front of them, so they could help other people. Here are their adventures.

The Johnny gasped and turned white as a ghost then red with rage. While all of the other boys were looking at the Ponyboy who was drowning, Johnny pulled a knife out of his back pocket, I gasped I knew what he was going to do seconds before he did it. “Wait!” I screamed, but the boy didn’t even acknowledge me. I turned around, I couldn’t watch. This reminded me too much of Yaqui beating me up, but this was different, these boys fought unlike we did. The way we fought it wasn’t killing each other or anything like that, but it was almost worse. Being humiliated in front of the whole school. Both Ponyboy and I got hurt though mine was both mentally and physically. The only other thing that I could see that connected our two lives was that we both fought back. Well actually Johnny fought for Ponyboy, but it’s pretty much the same, in the end the bullies both got what they deserved. No, that’s not true, nobody (even Yaqui Delgado) deserves to die. By the time I turned back around the boys were driving away in their car and the boy who had been killed was slumped on the ground not moving. The other boy; Johnny was helping to pull his friend; Ponyboy out of the water

When undertaking a mission, a person is often driven to reach a goal or achievement. Occasionally, people commit themselves to a task that may seem impossible, but complete it anyways. The force that drives people like Farah Ahmedi, who escaped her war torn country on a prosthetic leg, Aengus who spent his entire life searching for a girl who he fell for, or John Steinbeck who traveled all throughout the U.S. in a camper with nothing but his dog, is much more powerful than any magic spell or super power. Using determination, you can push through hardships and undertake missions just like Ahmedi, Steinbeck, and Aengus.

You feel an intense, out-of-the-skin awareness of your living self—your truest self, the human being you want to be and then become by the force of wanting it. In the midst of evil you want to be a good man. You want decency. You want justice and courtesy and human concord, things you never knew you wanted. There is a kind of largeness to it, a kind of godliness. Though it’s odd, you’re never more alive than when you’re almost dead. You recognize what’s valuable. Freshly, as if for the first time, you love what’s best in yourself and in the world, all that might be lost. At the hour of dusk you sit at your foxhole and look out on a wide river turning pinkish red, and at the mountains beyond, and although in the morning you must cross the river and go into the mountains and do terrible things and maybe die, even so, you find yourself studying the fine colors on the river, you feel wonder and awe at the setting of the sun, and you are filled with a hard, aching love for how the world could be and always should be, but now is

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.

Scott Hudson, a high school kid trying to get through his sophomore year with great grades. Farah Ahmedi, trying to cross the border of Pakistan to escape the war-torn Afghanistan. Sam McGee, a man whose worst enemy is the cold and wants to be cremated. These three characters have all undertaken a mission with determination.

My mind was going one thousand miles per hour, those words haunting my head. Hot tears flowed down my face as the words sunk in. I slumped in my seat feeling exhausted and too cold for this warm house. My father’s arms reached for me, trying to comfort me. He wouldn’t understand the mental loss that was turning into physical pain. My chest heaved for air, trying to get this drowning feeling out of these thoughts that envelope me bringing a soft cloak of anxiety. “Not again, please.”

"Different emotions battled for dominance in his mind and heart. Confusion. Curiosity. Panic. Fear. But laced through it all was the dark feeling of utter hopelessness." (6)

As if it had been washed away (covered by lavender dish soap) but still stayed. A phantom that traced every shadow. Johns basement smelled a bit more like urine, a bit less like lavender. Instead there was a shadow of vodka and shouting and sweat. If you sat on johns couch you could stare at the green sponge painted walls and think about how youre parents must think you smoke from all the sents you drag home. You can think about how the boy sitting next to you was in your kindergarten class. How he road the ferry with you to middle school. How you played connect the dots with his acne in your head. How his name is timothy, you think. You can pretend there isnt a needle in his arm, his left arm. You can pretend his right arm isnt pressed against your thigh. You can think about how boys named timothy shouldn't ever have needle in their arms, how it feels wrong, how he wears adult hood, the gohst of a mustache and manhood, like a mask. You can concentrate on the needle. Remember how often youve said no to that. How often youve defended the hypocripsy of the white capped orange bottles at the bottom of your closet. That grow like dragon gold. You can concentrate on anything except the hand that creeps up lazily as if uncertain, inconsistently twisting skin against skin. Compare him, timothy, to a g train. Impractical, flying upward. A problem with no clear, or possible, solution. Ignore it, ignore the fadeing light, ignore the drink in your hand, ignore the pulse in your head, ignore the hand as it finds its way under cloth. Ignore it because when it, timothy, turns and presses and demands, you cannot scream because you dont know

I hold the paper in my hands. It’s crumpling under my grip, but in it I get to live in the footsteps of others. My old dress is wrinkled and torn much like the paper, but I can’t spare the money on a new one. As much as I try to focus on the crinkled piece of paper with scrawly handwriting, I can’t. I just can’t. Tears run down my face and I wipe them away. It has been awhile since I have cried, so long in fact that I was afraid that there was something wrong with me. I push myself up from the old oak I sit at the base of. There’s no use in dwelling in what I can’t change. I fold the paper back in my dress pocket and walk into the field. I used to think there was beauty in the way that the grass grows in the street; standing low next to the

Ainia's life has never been exactly easy. To start things off her father left her when she was born. Growing up she didn't care about men. She lived in a town where everyone knew everyone. She thought it was just perfect. But every world has their downfalls. In her world if you weren't able to fight for yourself you weren't able to live. So she was trained to be strong and learned how to live. Other than that, life was good for Aniya was good. She had friends, got good grades and had a nice home life. There was something she was constantly told. She was always told how bad the humans were. They told her they were bad, didn't take care of their world and didn't care for anyone but themselves. She ended up hating humans. "If you can't take care