The Runaway- 3,000 words max. FIRST PERSONNNNN
SLAM. The door frame sounds to struggle from concaving under the pressure of the overemotional hand. I stand. Dumb and appalled at the sight. Hysterically I see her fall to her knees with complete lack of control as horrifically ear piercing screams protrude from deep within her lungs. The scene is dramatic, and I suddenly realise why these kinds of scenes are made slow in movies. There’s just so much happening that your brain literally slows the world down, in the most unattractively possessive moments possible.
Yet, unfortunately, these moment ns weren’t all entirely new to me. In fact, it happened quite regularly. See, there’s this guy mum’s dating; actually, they’re kinda-sorta
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In an instant, I find myself dragging myself back upstairs into my room, the dramatic atmosphere like in a movie surrounded me. I pull on my shoes and find myself then packing a bag. I wasn’t sure what I was doing exactly, my body took control. I empty out my holiday savings into the bottom of my bag. Because, a girl like me doesn’t own a purse or a handbag, or whatever you wanna call it. No, instead looking in the mirror, you can only tell I’m female by my long hair tied up messily in a tail like a horse. Curves are missing from my sides, as baggy tracksuits and jumpers replace it. I pull my backpack on, have one more look at myself and take off.
Down the stairs I travel quietly, I grab my earphones and play my music. I pull the front door shut and locked. Then, I run. I don’t exactly know where I’m to go. But I know I wanna go far.
I don’t know how to take a bus, or where it would even take me, but luckily enough a bus makes it to the bus stop on the top of the hill just as I arrive. I jump onto it and it takes me a few awkward moments to get the change out to pay, but it’s not like anyone was on the bus in a rush anywhere, so it didn’t really matter. Surprisingly enough, the bus driver wasn’t so bad. I thought he’d ask questions but then again, he must see this kinda thing all the time.
I lean against the window and see the empty streets and silent trees and lifeless houses pass me by. Music still in my ear, I find myself playing…….. [Song
“School made us ‘literate’ but did not teach us to read for pleasure.” -Ambeth R. Ocampo
At this point in my life I find myself in an interesting predicament regarding my attitudes toward reading and writing; more so towards reading. Years ago I used to love reading books for pleasure but nowadays I find myself reading things that little to no effort to digest. This includes the very basic posts on facebook expressing one’s opinion on something or articles and threads on reddit discussing topics I find intriguing. Perhaps it’s the severe senioritis that has overcome me as I enter my last semester at Chapman University. As I’ve gotten lazier I can see it start to reflect in my everyday life. Deep down I still love to read but I rarely find myself getting truly invested into the action unless it relates to something I am very
I never thought the day would come where I’d have to admit to myself I had an addiction. The hardest part was to except the fact I was an addict of painkillers and admitting it to my family so that I could get the help and support needed to get clean. The road leading to my addiction started with the factors of my childhood, always trying to fit in and not being supported emotionally from my parents. Having a child at the age of sixteen was the second factor, which made me grow up faster than a normal child at my age would have had to. Living the life of an addict was a struggle everyday but, getting help was the hardest part of it all. I’ll live with this disease for the rest of my life because recovery is a
Writing has always been my most difficult part of English. Reading, on the other hand, is something I could do all day; however, with writing, I grimace just thinking about it. It was not that I did not have anything to say, because I actually have quite a bit to say. I just could never figure out how to phrase what I had to say in just right way on the page. My mom taught me to read and write at a young age. After that, I would devour any book that I could get my hands on. However, I have had trouble with writing since it became more than just my alphabet and numbers.
The bell rang for second period statistics and everyone frantically discussed their exhilarant weekends and rustled in their seats. Focused, I eagerly flipped back and forth between notes attempting to solve the problem on the board when a particularly blunt comment caught my attention a few desks in front of me. “Why are you wearing a girl backpack?”, a female classmate playfully exclaimed to another male classmate from across the room. My teeth clenched as a million thoughts raced through my head and I felt the muscles in my face creating an alarmed reaction. The male student argued back boldly, “It’s not a girl back pack!” I placed both hands on my forehead and closed my eyes for a few moments. They disputed over the backpack for a lengthy thirty-seconds before the teacher strolled around the room checking homework.
As I am trying to beat the clock, seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours, and nonetheless did I knew, it was already eleven post meridiem. My eyes are desperately yearning for sleep, but my brain is forcing myself to continue, because it knows there is more books assignments and quizzes for AP Psychology, AP Art History, AP Chemistry, AP Calculus, AP Language and Composition, and Academic Decathlon just waiting on my desk. Desperately typing the last few words on my essay and simultaneously reading the last few pages of my history book, I finally succeed with a mere two minutes before James Harden appear on the Late Late Show, and I finally go to sleep. Nonetheless did I know, this was only the beginning, the real race is
Story telling is a uniquely human attribute. It is an imaginative process between the composer and responder that invites us, as the audience to engage vicariously with the experience of others. Stories or narratives have been shared in all culture as a mean of education, entertainment and also to notify the audience of the values and belief systems of our culture. The texts of ‘Through the tunnel’ and ‘Green tomatoes at the Whistlestop Cafe’ conspicuously highlight the ability of storytelling to empower the individual and outline storytelling as a device to inform us of values and people’s transmission is able to transcend time.
On 23Nov16 at 1026 hrs. I, Deputy Halbasch, received a voicemail from Dewayne regarding the incident.
I have played basketball since 6th grade and I have always really enjoyed it. I was determined to do well and excel in it so I put a lot of extra time in it in the summer and on the weekends practicing. Well once I got up to the junior high level I was doing quite well and had improved tremendously after attending a couple of basketball camps over the summer, but I was not getting any playing time. Towards the end of the season my parents decided to transfer me to a new school for academic reasons and I finished the season off there earning a starting spot. I continued to enjoy the game and was very eager to learn new skills to become a better player, but once I entered the high school level, things changed. Usually in high school people start to find their place and figure out what they are good at and not and so did I.
Growing up in a small townhouse, I would see my father only once a week on Sundays because he was working long hours the rest of the week. When meeting him, I would become very emotional because I knew that the reason I could not see him other days of the week was because he was working. My father’s hard work and perseverance gave me the drive to become someone that he would be proud of. My goal is to become someone that he can say to himself it was worth the long and strenuous hours spent at work.
Confronting academic subjects while attending multiple years of cross country, soccer, and track was the most significant challenge. Dealing with school projects after a physical workout was excruciating, but the idea of coming towards high school was to become the fastest runner at the field and track. I achieved my goal, impressing my coaches with speed and school records, and earned my varsity position in cross country. Looking at my older brothers in college, I realized that pushing myself academically could lead to the opportunity of studying at a prestigious university for my chosen field, so I spent all of my time focusing vastly on my courses inspired by my brothers that are already studying in the University of California systems.
For a year, I was not important to anyone. My family abandoned me, and I was certain no one valued me anymore. No one came looking for me. I was not that important. The program brainwashed me. It taught me I was a nobody...a nothing. I believed that with all my heart and unfortunately my mind.
My eyes were the worst mixture of bloodshot, purple and torture, my body in the worst state possible having gone seventy two hours without sleep, a meal and a proper shower and my mind, a complete mess. I was physically and mentally exhausted, my body and face displaying it all, yet I don't think I had ever came to know who I was more than at the very moment I saw myself completely shut down.
On 10Sept16 at 1159 hrs. I, Deputy Halbasch, was dispatched to 120 2nd St NW in Laporte for the report of a physical domestic.
Children have a tendency to bring out the very best in people. I can say I have been fortunate to have four little blessings of my own. I consider each of them as a blessing and each day I am reminded of how much they mean to me. My children have brought out the best in me--parts that I never knew existed. As children grow, so do parents. I have evolved into a better person with the courage to overcome all obstacles because of the love that I have for my children.