The rain had just stopped pouring, and we had all gathered in a park nearby, as a makeshift memorial for Johnny. It wasn’t really a funeral, we didn’t have the budget for that, and it wasn’t like his parents cared enough to give him a proper goodbye.
I wish Joey would fight for me...if he loves me, he will fight for me, right? No...Joey will never fight for me or make the marriage work. In his heart, he believes that our marriage is over when our baby died...he is the most stubborn man I had ever met. Instead of saying that we are too incompatible, and if our baby survives...why can't he and I just forget the damn past and make the marriage work? Why can't he and I try again for another baby? Why must he makes it so damn hard for the both of us? Why is he so damned stubborn? Why?! Damn...I will never understand and I don't want to...maybe I should just move on and find someone who truly value me and never give up on me like he did...
I was a productive woman, and I wanted people to see it in me. I wanted them to see it in the way I walked. I wanted them to see it in the way I talked. I wanted them to see it in the way I worked late every night to make my patients, and the world, a healthier, better place. Most importantly, though, my productivity was expressed in the way that I raised my boy. I wanted Eugene to be as perfect as I was, and I worked my hardest to keep all distractions from him. Still, he always managed to slide his face into the pages of his books every chance he got. I didn’t see the point in it. He had the top marks out of everyone in his class, so what was the point in reading books that didn’t improve his grades? I didn’t
Its is 1914 and joey a farm horse sold the the army and thrust into the midst of world war one. Into the western front when he is dragged away from his owner Albert his heart aches will he find him. Albert said they will meet again
It changes everytime you ask. Some say it was a virus, others say it was god punishing us for our sins. At least that’s what the people on the news say. All I know is that the dead are walking among us. I’ve seen people I used to know attack and eat innocent people. Everyday I see my dad walking among them, wishing there something i could have done. I couldn’t bring myself to kill one of the only people i’ve loved. He attacked me but i managed to fight him off and i’ve been held up in my house ever since. It’s a small house, nothing fancy, in a small town near Chicago called Glenview. Everyday I think about my half brother that lived in New York with his mom. After my dad and his mom split I didn’t think life could get any worse, I was
I could smell English Leather shaving lotion and stale tobacco, and I wondered foolishly if I would suffocate before they did anything.
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.
Early that morning, newly hired park ranger, Jennifer Flores, stuffed a banana into the blender and mixed up a high energy chocolate drink. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face was clean and free of makeup. She was dressed in a black jogging outfit that hugged her body tightly and showed off her shape. She poured her drink into a glass and guzzled it down like she was in a beer chugging contest with her sorority sisters.
Colette dreamed. She was sitting down though the ground was hundreds of feet below. In the northeast she make out her tower, though it was just a dot from where she was. Across from her was another Colette, motionless save for the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed. The black, smoky eyes betrayed it as Fetch. They sat across from each other wordlessly, and Colette began to clear her throat softly.
She kept on thinking. I wonder how things will turn out? She felt nervous and anxious for school today, like she did everyday.
When I was a kid, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious
My friends and I walk into a packed venue, and are immediately met by a young guy with shaggy brown hair and a skull hoodie, who holds up a white piece of paper with a hastily scrawled "$8" in the center. I pull out my worn wallet from the left pocket of my leather jacket. My hands strain momentarily to pull the snaps open, before my fingers find their way to my single worn 10 dollar bill. The man hands me two dollars in change and stamps my hand with a blue paw print, and I turn to face the stage. All the while a man has been screaming and singing on stage, not unpleasantly. The vibe of this crowd feels different from the normal one, rougher. They have a more hardcore look to them, and I've never seen Alexia's band play with one that yells, other than one time at a small coffee shop in which a single kid with an acoustic guitar spent twenty minutes strumming and screaming slam poetry into the mic, while my friend and I sipped iced vanilla lattes in the other room.
Thornton Wilder, a Wisconsin native, is the writer of the Pulitzer Prize winner play Our Town. In Our Town, Wilder tells the story of a town in Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, and the daily lives of the inhabitants. In the play, the author uses minimal props and scenery as well as including a main character known as the Stage Manager that has the ability to break the fourth wall, allowing him to talk to the audience. This factor of talking to the audience is a major component of making the public a part of the town. Throughout the play, there are many instances in which the Stage Manager uses various cues as well as dialogues to incorporate the audience and develop an intimate relationship to create a true sense of “our town”.
He hadn't thought it would hurt. Of course, everyone had said it would, but everyone is not the Winchesters.
Jennifer: "You're right mother, Monica do looks like a nice body to have fun with, but I preferred to have her daughter. It would be nice to lose my virginity again, with that nice tight fertile pussy."