Mackie Monologue

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.

It’s them sycamores I remember. An’ the river, runnin’ deep and green, tinkling jus’ like the way Aunt Clara’s house keys used to when she was out on the porch about to unlock the front door. I’d hide my mouse in my pocket whene’er I heard them jinglin’ keys, because Aunt Clara ne’er liked ’em rodents hangin’ around her house. I was a smart boy, I really was.

On 05/14/17, I was dispatched to 2440 W. Madison in reference to an assault that occurred at the location.

I see people go through there Dailey routine like they are robots They're faces have no expressions and they have no thoughts Like an assembly line they organize Who knows what they see If I stepped in there shoes how would I see me Are they human Do they have a brain Are they being controlled, like someone controls an animal with rains I won't ever know what it's like to not be me

Running through branches and high standing grass, I sprint as fast as my body will move. Insure about how much energy my body has left, I keep pacing a constant speed to catch up to Lennie. As the forest begins to come to an end, there is a lengthy creek that comes to view. Hesitating, I plunge into the water trying to find my dear friend Lennie. Just as I think there is no hope on finding him I see a movement out of the corner of my eye. Thinking it was just an animal, I turn away not even realizing that the animal was Lennie. Lennie, terror- stricken and drizzling, is standing right in front of me. I try to dash toward him, but since my legs are in the water they don’t seem to move quickly. Not even bothered about how slowly my feet are moving I still leap toward him in excitement. Since we were hugging I didn’t even realize that the neighing and running footsteps of the men’s horse were drawing closer to us.

About two years ago my sister had taken in a dog named Morgan. At first I didn’t exactly agree with this because she already had a dog that she hardly took care of. When my sister brought Morgan home she was about two months old. I could still hold her in on had. And as I spent more time with her, she became my baby.

I remember walking through the doors of my high school and feeling a mixture of dread and excitement settle heavily somewhere between my throat and my gut. This was not the first time, nor the last time that I experienced what most people would call butterflies, except in my case it felt more like the butterflies were nukes playing tag, and the aftershocks were giving me the shakes. Due to my inability to talk to my fellow classmates without feeling like a leaf in the middle of a hurricane, I came to the conclusion that the only way to get rid of this fear was to face it head on, so that’s exactly what I did.

The music’s volume lowered as a familiar song was playing. A baby! It’s shrill shrieks filled the air and a group of many. Just like all new babies, they are all born with something. This new baby had a maraca, a small ball attached to a stick painted every color except green. That WAS me, but I’m not a baby. I’m 12 Earth years, whatever that place is, but let’s go back to when I was born. My parents gave birth to me like how normal people give birth. I had no name like how normal people are. Just like everyday normal people, I farmed Meeshan Blobs native to my hometown, the Green Cushion, where I farm green and yellow blobs. I was young then.

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 fnishing talking to an annoying girl, and suddenly I hear a bang. I search the room and find Naomi on the ground holding her head, she's shaking back and forth mumbling things I can understand.

After the incident with Melba and the white man, I am more certain that integration is not going to happen too soon. I have to be influential and teach Melba the right thing, but I don’t know if I have much hope left in me. Without Marissa, Melba’s little soul would have been conjured by evil. Even though things are not looking up, I will keep praying; I know that God will answer my prayers.

I noticed... it's been 10 years!!! I felt awkward at times too!!! I was the only one smiling…

The beast that they are talking about, I wonder if it’s real? I wonder if it has a body? Jack is always talking about how the beast is trying to hurt us. I haven’t even seen this so-called beast before, does it even exist? It must exist, that’s why everyone is terrified… haven’t you noticed, haven’t you? They’re frightened! I mean the way things are, they dream and you can hear them, have you been awake at night? They talk and scream. The littuns, even some of the others. As if… as if this isn’t a good island. As if the beastie, the beastie or the snake – thing is real. Maybe there is a beast?

“And just where do you think you’re going?” a deep voice said, followed by a loud bark. Kate quickly turned egger to see Mr. Jacks, his adorable little bulldog, Charlie, and her best friend Darby. Darby was the same size as Kate even though she swears she’s a half an inch taller. She had short brown hair and brown eyes, unlike Kate, who had blue eye, long caramel hair and was tanner. Mr. Jacks was tall, and had brown eyes, and brownish, greyish hair. He wore a navy blue suit from which he was preparing for a business trip the day of the crash. His furry companion, Charlie was an English bulldog with white fur with brown spots. “What’s wrong with you? Are you ok? You could have vanished! And we would never know what happened to you. Just like

Mack Bolger’s pale-gray eyes caught me coming toward him well before I expected them to. We had seen each other only twice. Once at a fancy cocktail party given by an author I had come to St. Louis to wrest a book from. It was the time I had met his wife. And once more, at the Mayfair Hotel, when I’d taken an inept swing at him, and he’d slammed me against a wall and hit me in the face with the back of his hand. Perhaps you don’t forget people you knock around. That becomes their place in your life. I, however, find it hard to recognize people when they’re not where I believe they belong, and Mack