The Note On The Bench Essay

Parks advocates that divisions have autonomy in pricing their products and that Joe Tisch, Chief Controller for Sub-Micron would not stand in their way.

I was upstairs in this bamboo dorm that was on top of a steep hill next to another village of refugees separated by a long wood fence. Downstairs was a large room with wooden benches and tables. I could hear my mother teaching a class full of high school students who were reciting some verses from a textbook. I killed time by daydreaming, drawing, and playing with a rhinoceros beetle. After a few hours, I could hear the students’ footsteps hitting the dirt floor; they’re going back to their dorms, I thought.

It was the year 1922 and life hadn’t been this good in a while, times had taken a big change for the best. In Manhattan, New York, there were extravagant parties every weekend; the whole city shows up and doesn't leave until they see the sun. There was once this wealthy family living right in the middle of the roaring twenties. There was a mom, a dad, an older sister named Alice, and a younger sister named Anna. Alice loved to go to all of the huge parties, meet new people, and not come home until the morning. Every time Alice would get ready to go out for the night, Anna would watch her get ready as if she was picturing that was herself. Anna looked up at her sister and wanted to do everything she did. Alice had been talking about this party for a long time, and the night

Andrea sat in the break room, waiting for her shift to start at 8:30, her long, crisp black hair covered the back of the seat. Andrea had her face deep into paperwork but, then noticed Mary walked into the room and looked up, took off her glasses and wiped her forehead. Andrea’s porcelain skin, looked like it has barely seen any sunlight, or even touched. Mary and Andrea had most of the day piled up in paperwork, except for their breaks. At lunchtime, Mary added to her stories of sleepwalking into the forest, including the one early in the morning.

Crumpled newspapers scattered the table like the bones of dead bodies after war. Windows wiped down of memories huddled between oak frames, facing a street with cosy cottages. Single embroidered carpets hugged the floor, covering the marble tiles in delicate silk. A whisper of wind floated in through cracks of the panes of glass, whispering it's songs of misery throughout the house. I breathed in gulps of air, allowing the icy coolness to fill my lungs, and the morning frost creep out. My glistening blue eyes presented purple bags, and my sleek hair was a tangled cobweb. My feet dragged along the stone floor like the walking of the undead. I’d been up all night, searching and seeking for answers.

The school year was starting; excitement was in the air, nerves were high, and the smell of sweat was almost too intense to bear. But it was senior year for some of these students here at Winslow Academy and that meant the first graduation class for this new charter school. Higher education was now ready to be offered to those willing to attend the academy, and to those that were forced to attend do to parental control. The thought of being academically challenged crossed young Babbots mind, but little did he know what he would be in store for under the grand rule of General Peltier.

The tall, slender woman prowled in the dark, suburbs of New York city. Her curiosity filled amber eyes glistened through the black night. You could hear the soft scratching sounds of her long, feline nails scraping along the tall brick wall. The pads of her heels patter against the pavement, deep, dark, and almost inaudible. She slinks through the small crack of the broken fence to enter in the secret meeting lair.

Remy Anderson’s footsteps echoed in the empty hallway as she climbed the stairs to her best friend’s apartment. The trek to the third floor was no easy feat considering that she was toting a duffel bag, a backpack, and a half-eaten pumpkin pie. Arriving at their apartment door, she rang the bell and waited in the dull glow of the gold chandelier.

……. Lonely is the hunter who, thinking of his prey, leaves his true love’s warm embrace to face the cold winter day. Then, bypassing his greatest foe – a frozen cabin door, he sets out on his endless search, uncertain what he's searching for ……. I remember the first night Lori and I spent in this apartment. Married one week, we moved to Philadelphia, excited about the start of medical school but nervous about living in a big city. On our first night in this apartment, we slept on the wooden floor under a large sleeping bag. When I think back to that night, every sense in my body experiences a Pavlovian response. I can still feel the two of us lying naked together under the sleeping bag, studying the August night through an open window as though we were seeing the moon and stars for the first

Jonas lay in a bed, he was warm. To the left of him there was a side table with an oil lamp that lit the room. To his right he could see a window, it was snowing outside and he could tell from the daylight that it was early evening. He could smell something in the air. It wasn't a bad smell, it was a calming soothing smell, which he liked. Jonas was admiring the paintings on the walls when someone walked in the door. She had luscious brown hair that flowed over her shoulders. She was wearing a blue dress with intricate designs and patterns on it. She carried a tray with soup, bread, and water, which she placed on the side

Me and Sam’s room on the second floor has an aroma of quaint antiquity with old maple wood floors and pastel walls. We live in history. Sam’s family and mine joked about our room’s size and the surprise of sharing one closest, but it felt like home. After hanging up my Tupac Shakur and Snoop Dogg poster beside my Harlem Renaissance painting “Brownstone”, Sam and I said our farewells to our families and headed to dinner together in the school’s cafeteria.

In the dark foggy alley Normîrel ran. The smell of rain and sour milk filling the air. She ran down the long narrow alley way, watching mice scurry as her feet splash in the clear dirty rain puddles. Her heart ponding in her chest. Hearing the sound of the motorcycle behind her, her heart stopped. Running faster, Normîrel turned on to the street and down the other alley. With the sound of her footsteps echoing in her ears. A car pulled up at one end of the alley. Making another turn in the twisty foggy alley way, Normîrel fell. The screams of her pain raining out in the cold brisk air. Hearing footsteps, Normîrel crawled to some near-by dumpsters and hid. The footsteps getting louder and close, Normîrel stayed as quite as she could while trying to muffle her cries of pain. Her leg is dirty with the dark red color and she chocked on the smell of gas and smoke that filled her nose.

The stone remains cold from decades of freezing winter nights as it sat neglected andunwanted. The couches is decorated in a faded flaming pattern of roses. The musty smell continues into the library. Shelves of forgotten novels line the fourwalls, and a large window is strategically placed between two of the shelves. The lights hangingfrom the ceiling are dimmed, and the melodic ringing of wind could be heard. Bodies crowdtogether in the small room, and all heads gaze at one single item. The television growls awarning, but it is set up in the form of a welcome to the hotel. Above the shelves sit manyknickknacks: a beat up camera, adusty music box, a rickety old fortune telling machine, andeven a vintage girl’s doll sits on the wall with beady eyes staring down at me. I gaze at my oldfriends. Their presence adds a hype to the idea of what awaits. The television blanks out and thefamiliar spike in my heartbeat comes, and there goes the lightning right on queue. The creek ofthe door is heard over the rumbling of voices, when a bright light blinds my vision for a quicksecond. A heated breeze flocks into the room from the shadowy corridor. The empty smell of steam surrounds, and it caresses my arms the further into the room Igo. The cold brick walls brush against my arms as families rush past me. The concrete floorchanges into a steel bridge. Over the railing, the boilers cascade down to the floor standing talland rusted. The smell of oil and steel disgustingly mix. The sound of my feet clattering againstthe steel reverberates around the room. The bridge splits into two and leads the newcomers intoan aloof. I remember, in the end it doesn’t matter; however, I am pulled to the right. The redboilers line the path as it slowly descends. The clatter of footsteps follows, and the steam in theroom thickens, crushing me. I turn to the elephant in the room. A steely service elevator door threatens the room in amagnificent haze of power. Above the powerful door

Then, as the last girl passed through, everyone went back to their places. I sucked in a rasped breath as I pushed the red, thick steel lunch room doors. With my hair covering the front of my face like a funeral veil, I examined the hard, smooth marble floors as I shuffled through the sea of shoes until I reached the wall. A hush fell over the crowd as the principal came strolling in. He started giving a speech about the school dance this Friday, yet I drowned him out. Today was January twenty-seventh, Stella’s birthday. I could not hold it in anymore as I sank against the wall, silently letting all the sorrow and despair flow out of me. Two pink sneakers came to rest on the glazed marble floors. “Well, do you not want to join us?” questioned a clipped, sickly sweet voice. Willing myself to raise my head, I slowly brought my eyes up. She was wearing a short checkered skirt with a navy blue collared shirt. I met the girl’s eyes. A shocking electric blue. “Well, are you going to answer me or not?” she asked again. “Um...sure…” I replied, mesmerized by the amount of makeup the girl had on. I felt hands on my shoulders as her crew pulled me to my feet. I stared at the floor the whole time until I reached the designated “popular”

The street was eerily quiet as I crossed. So was Mike. Staring at me unwaveringly, he said nothing as I approached. The crow's feet framing his eyes, the ridges in his forehead, and the crinkles in his cheeks still stand out in my mind. How many nights had he lain on that bench, covering his face as the wind whipped against it? Now he hugged his body tightly. He was wearing an old pair of tan khakis, a shirt that I couldn't see clearly, and a light multi-colored jacket, its sleeves ending above his pale wrists, that was just slightly too small and clung to his body. As I gave him the money in my wallet, he took it--slowly--and stared at it for a second in disbelief. Although the street in front of the library is usually an amalgam of car horns, headlights, whining engines throughout the night, nothing--not