I'm Sterling and I cry a lot. I am going to be your fucking sunshine. I have borderline personality disorder, bipolar disorder, anxiety, and adhd. You can ask me questions about it if you want. I'm a leo sun, scorpio moon, aries rising. I like astrology, talk to me about it and that'd be cool. I like to make friends but don't be surprised if I'm super awkward at first. I will never fall in love again. I fuck up all the time and I hurt everyone I come into contact with. I never meant to, I'm so sorry. I live in Arizona, this is not my home. I can't go home because I burned it to the fucking ground.
Boom! Startled, I quickly put my sharpened knife on my counter. With a smirk appearing, I realized we had company; therefore, I worked my way down our marble steps to the entrance of my chateau. Slowly but surely I walked down to see the door open with two men standing, only one I knew immediately. As I glared to find the face of the man who dared walk into my island, I suddenly recognized the face - Sanger Rainsford. Aha! In that moment, I knew he would be my best match on this island.
On January 22, 2017 at Lower Macungie Community Center gym two Lower Macungie Youth Association (LMYA) were playing against each other. They were playing basketball. No team was getting demolished.
After reading both articles U.S Urged to Apologize for 1930s Deportations, Some Stories Hard to get in History Books, and heard Ruben Aguilar’s interview with Bill Luna it made me think further about what happened during the 1930s. In Ruben Aguilar’s interview what struck me the most was that he stated that he was deported to Mexico when he was only six years old. Aguilar was deported to Mexico when he was a U.S citizen. Ruben Aguilar was born on U.S soil yet that was not enough. He was not only deported and taken to Mexico but he did not know how to speak Spanish. The feeling of being deported to a country in which you do not speak the foreign language of is a difficult situation to be in. And sadly most people can live without having that
I have lost my grandpa and have not gotten over the idea of it. When I was in the sixth grade, my grandfather was very sick; he could barely walk. While my grandmother and some other family members went uptown for some household things, food, and medication, I was told to take care of him. Yet, I wanted to play with my friends outside. He told me to go ahead and play, but for some reason I just got mad and slammed the door and left. Around nighttime, I seen an ambulance pull up to my grandparents’ house.
Jack Foster was a dreamer. He liked searching the shelves in the local bookstore, exchanging a brief smile with the old man behind the counter from time to time. There was a certain twinkle in his eyes as he sat down by an old oak tree and began reading. He valued the kind of simplicity offered by fictional worlds. The black words scribbled across the page had the power to transport him anywhere. He could be anything — a struggling doctor, a secret agent, a tyrant king in a far off land —and for a few moments every day, Jack forgot about the dreaded letter he had received a few weeks ago. He had been working overtime at Wilson's Market, stocking the shelves and admiring the beautiful brunette behind cash register three. His heart pounds against
Her new handler, so to speak, had the fashion sense of a mafia man in the golden era of organized crime. He oozed class from head to toe, the expense of his outfit showing in the subtle details of an expert tailor. From what Sierra knew of the man, the outfit seemed to fit him. A good bit of the city ran through him and the outfit reflected just that, commanding attention and respect from all those who saw it.
On May 29th, 2015 at about eight a.m., a group of eleven youth and three youth leaders from Fair Haven Baptist Church loaded into two vans and prepared for a twelve hour drive. Our destination was a new church located in the middle of a crime-packed, non-believing neighborhood in Sulfur Springs, Florida. For the week, we would partner with a missionary group called Hope Street. Our mission was to take flyers that advertised the local church and go door-to-door, inviting people to the grand opening, which would also be their Easter Sunday service. Little did I know of the huge impact Hope Street would make on the Sulfur Springs community.
It was a hot, humid afternoon when I jumped off of the school bus and sprinted home. The first thing that I did was to kick off my shoes and threw my book bag onto the ground with my books scattered all across the floor. I ignored the mess that I just made, and darted towards my brother’s room. Banging on the door with my fist, I couldn’t stop the adrenaline rising from my body urging him to play. He opened the door and his face cringed as he shoved something in my hand and slammed the door shut right in front of me. I continued to bang on the door and yelled for his name. For a constant five minutes, there wasn’t any noise coming from the other side of the door as I slowly sat on the ground and remembered that I was grabbing onto something.
“ You see though sitting in this jail cell for quite sometime has made me realize that what I did was very wrong. It can affect so many people too. I’ve came to love every person I meet right away and treat everyone with an abundance of respect. I just wish that Rainsford would realize that he is making a huge mistake…”
I will never forget the shrill of the final buzzer. I remember every detail of the game as if it were yesterday.
Josh just got home from football practice one hot summer evening. His arm hurt from throwing so many passes that day; being the quarterback of the state bound team put a lot of pressure on him. More than imaginable. He was stressed even just thinking about this upcoming weekend. The Johnston City Indians had not went to state in football in many years. Josh was trying not to crack under the pressure. He had been practicing two-a-days for a couple weeks now; the Belleville Altolf has an opposing quarterback who throws for more yards than Josh ever has. No one has Johnston City picked to win and it has Josh
Hey boys, have you ever heard “real men don’t cry” because I have. You see a boy with long hair or a high voice and immediately assume they are 1. Gay or 2. A wimp. But instead of spreading this expression to your children like a disease, how about you weigh the consequences of the words that comes out of your mouth. Men from the beginning of time have felt the need to be that mainly man with big muscles and a thirst to fight that hasn’t been quenched. This simply can’t be true, notice how the boy who are sensitive are generally happier your sadness and loneliness is not something to suppress until you finally spill over. I remember hearing this phrase as a tear rolls down the cheek of a boy whose pet just passed away. Men are not defined
“okay mom.(4) I walked to my classroom and saw the costumes waiting for us to put them on.(16)
My personal symbol is any one of my writing spirals. Those spirals contain hundreds of ideas, some just one word and one liners. that are just waiting for me to write upon. Opening one of those spirals and putting that pen to paper is almost like holding a magic wand, and creating objects and worlds as I go. If I don’t like something, just scratch it out because there’s still a number of pages left just waiting for me to write on. It makes me feel free, like I don’t have anything from the outside pushing me in and all of my responsibilities are somewhere off to the side. It is my time to be the creator. It is my time to feel content. To me, that writing spiral symbolizes freedom. It gives me the freedom to express a side of myself that I can’t
Down by one, two outs and it is the last time up to bat for the Wildcats. If we lose we will go home, but that is not what I am focusing on, right now, all thoughts are on the next pitch. With a runner on first and second, a hit to the outfield could tie the game. A bad pitch, maybe. A lucky shot, maybe. As the bat hits the ball, a silent focus turns to screaming and jumping. A ball hit about a foot off the right field line, fair, brings in our first runner with ease. A wave of relief sweeps over the whole third base side of the field. Our cheering distracted the other team, maybe. The tie upset them, maybe. Just a well-placed ball, maybe. Unseen through the excitement, there is a player rounding third heading home for the win. A ball thrown too late. A headfirst dive through the catcher’s legs. There is screaming from the third base side as the umpires arms stretch out parallel to the ground. Game over.