10 years after the war..
As I walk in the house from a long, exhausting day at work, I plop down on the couch. I can see the moon’s bright beams seeping in through the livingroom bay window and onto the floor. I hobble ungracefully upstairs to my sleeping children’s rooms and kiss their foreheads goodnight. Then make my way back down stairs to mine and my wife’s warm, cozy bed. I can feel a cool breeze sweeping through the house. When I get to my bedroom I see her wrapped up tight in the covers. The outline of her body can be seen through the fabric, she’s wrapped up so tight. I decide to leave her alone and sleep without covers tonight. As I lie down, I slowly drift off to sleep.
Suddenly the sun’s beating down on my face and I roll over to block the nuisance. My
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I try not to talk to them, but I can’t quiet my mind, only my mouth. They tell me horrible, nasty things. Devilish things. And show me only the most grotesque images. Ones that make me want to scream. They torture me on purpose. They are out to get me. I scratch, pick, and rip off every bite those little suckers give me as way of rebellion. In my mind I ask them if they want another piece of me. But truthfully, I’m too frightened to say one word to them, so I continue rebelling silently. On the fifth day, I break. I tell everyone about how the filthy, mutants are homing in on me. Swarms of these suckers, all out to get me. No one’s doing anything about this. I keep on talking in hopes of someone’s help, but I feel like everyone thinks I’ve lost it by the way they’re looking at me. Maybe I have, but this is real to me. I’ve already let them suckers know I’m here by telling everyone, so I have to get help now. Otherwise speaking would have been for nothing. I have to tell someone of this in case they get me. In case I go missing. I decide to tell Mitchell Sanders. I tell him how I’m scared and about the heinous images and thoughts given to me. About the way I see things now.
In the years after the Great War, America rose to become a global power, symbolic of wealth and everything that came with it. Frivolous spending was a common thing to expect in the years between World War 1 and the Great Depression. Luxury was no longer a commodity solely for the upper-class during the roaring 1920's. All throughout, the United States was booming. The return of the veterans from Europe was of course celebrated by all, but there was a certain coterie that were troubled in discovering tranquility in a country that was still commemorating it's upset over the Central Powers. The very men that had fought for their country to propel it to a state of economic prowess were slowly becoming alienated by the society of post war America. A term coined by Gertrude Stein, friend and mentor of Ernest Hemingway, the “Lost Generation” found that their lives in the states would be altered perilously by Allied victory in Europe. The epoch of this conglomerate of young men was brought to life through the style of its writers. The Lost Generation is an allocation of young men, generally American writers, who built themselves during the 1920's based on a sense of aimlessness and loss of moral compass, showed how their learned values no longer applied in post war society through their written works and was made commonplace in the vocabulary of today through the writing of Ernest Hemingway.
Arras. Arras is where my father was killed only two years ago. We studied many other
adness and guilt have filled my days for the past 10 months. My mind has been lost in thoughts, taking all the blame of the past events that took place. All of a sudden, a wail awakens my senses. It startles me, while I take on my surroundings. Sitting in a loveseat my eyes take in the room, painted in white and black patterns, searching for the source of noise, until they settle on the crib standing in the middle of the big room.
I arrive home around 11:00 p.m. to a sleeping wife and child. I walked into my daughter Emily’s nursery to give her a kiss goodnight. I leaned in and placed my lips on her forehead as she lightly opened her eyes. I rubbed her back and sang softly to put her back to sleep.
It was just after 10 o’clock when his fury burst through the wall that separated my bedroom from the living room. I recognized the voice, but not the anger. I knew full well that it was my father yelling, but I had never heard him so upset. Being the oldest and most responsible of my siblings, I had to go see what was going on. I tiptoed down the hallway and gingerly stepped out of the shadows and into the dim lighting of the living room. My eyes shot to my mom who was sitting in her recliner, red-faced, and wiping away tears with a handful of Kleenex. Then I saw my father, quickly sitting back in his chair as if everything were perfectly normal. “Having trouble sleeping?” he a...
Ow. My head hurts. It has been lying against this wall for at least an hour now. I scratched the back of my head to move around my dark, curly hair. It was beginning to feel plastered against my scalp. It was a bit tangled from not brushing it for a day and my fingers did not run through it with ease; nevertheless, it felt good to keep the blood flowing. I was lying on a thin, light blue mat on the floor. My head was propped up against the cold wall as if it were a concrete pillow. My chin dug into my chest and I could feel the soft, warm material from my sleeveless sweater cushioning my jaw. I looked down. I could see the ends of my hair cascading over my shoulders. The red highlights matched quite nicely with my maroon sweater. My arms were folded over my belly and they appeared more pale than usual. My knees were bent, shooting upward like two cliffs. My baggy blue jeans covered the backs of my fake brown leather shoes. ("Christy, let me borrow your pants, the baggy ones with the big pockets. I can hide more stuff in those.")
I now hear slow, faltering footsteps and muffled murmuring in the hall. Suddenly a ragged woman staggers in, mumbles, moans and passes out cold on the concrete. After a feverish dream I wane into consciousness. Sharp rows of sunlight beam through the blinds, dust rises, dancing
I always had trouble understanding others. Growing up I never played with the other children. My grandfather said it was because my mind was too busy thinking of brilliant idea to actually talk to the others. I believed him. I believed in him for 17 years, that all stopped today. It all ended when I was riding my bike to the local market so I could pick up scrap parts for my grandfather. He said they were for his hovertech76 His prized antique hover car. As I made my way down the pavement I saw the market coming up from the horizon and suddenly everything freezes The birds in the sky, the leaves in the air, my bike, everything. I can’t move my head. I am paralyzed. “What’s happening?” I thought frantically to myself “Someone help! Someone please!” But just a quickly as I was put into this horrifying state I was snapped back to my bike. Birds chirping the leaves hit the floor but something is different, I am in the market that was barely in eye sight just moments ago. I slam my brakes. Directing my unblinking eyes towards the ground I start to breath heavily. “What on Earth just happened?” My thoughts scatter, my heart begins to race, Darkness.
It was a beautiful fall evening. The sun was just beginning to give way to incoming twilight. I could smell winter in the air, even through my closed window. Soon there'd be snow on the ground. Matchbox Twenty was playing on my clock radio." I want to push you around...” The mood was set for a soft autumn night. However the mood inside my room was quite different. I was running around trying to do a million things a one time. My makeup was all wrong for my outfit. My hair was too big, no, now too flat. My stomach was rolling inside itself. My poor tummy was on tumble dry and I couldn't quite get it to stop. I couldn't find my shoes; my shirt had foundation on the side. What I really wanted to do was to sit on my bed and cry.
It was February 2010 when my family and I found ourselves on a plane to an underdeveloped country that was in horrific condition. The country, Iraq, is about seven-thousand miles from the United States. The plane ride was an exhausting sixteen hours, but it would all come to be worth it when the journey was over. Most Americans know Iraq as a nation involved in corruption and wars. However, when I visited Iraq, I learned a whole new understanding of the country. I experienced a country that was struggling from past dictators who neglected the citizens and abused their positions. This showed me that the consensus is not always the truth and that you must experience something to understand it.
A dozy morning awakens before my eyes. A warm breast rushes throughout the room bring in the fresh sent of rain and roses all about me. I wake up in this room with pale walls and plush blue green carpet. The carpet lay softly under my feet in a room tat is not truly mine. I put on this mask who I truly am.
I opened the door to my little Corvette and swung my meager legs out the car so the flimsy heels of my shoe gently groped the pavement. I politely pulled down on my dress being sure not reveal my undergarments as I stood up from out my car, lightly shutting the door behind me. The sky was abnormally dark, with not a single speckle of a star in sight. In contrast to the ebon sky, the moon was prominent and luminous as ever but fog hovered over the motel parking lot, supplying the somber mood. One may wonder what a young woman was partaking in all by her lonesome in this time of night.
The taste of her lips was still fresh in my mouth, her soft whispers still rang in my ears, her touch still caressed me, and the fresh fragrance of her body pressed against mine still lingered on my skin. As I drove, all I could see was us, wrapped against each other in the quilted fabric of the white blanket in that hotel room. I was beaming from inside reflecting on how my life had turned upside down in the past one year. It was a result of her unwavering love for me and I knew it.
The night was frozen in a deep silence, but I could still hear the whisper of the distant whoosh of the river getting closer and closer every step we would take into our new lives. I could see the excitement of my little brother and my sister on their faces; their dark chocolate eyes were as big and bright as the moon. The woman next to me held my hand tightly; I could feel the calluses of her hands from all those years of hard work in the fields harvesting the corn, which every morning she would turn in yummy tortillas! I knew she was tired, I could see it through that shiny armor of toughness she would wear every day. “Don’t let go my hand mijos,” she said with a sparkle of a star in her eyes. My sister, my little