The Frogs
The frogs were singing again. I had heard them all night through the thin membrane of my tent. Their songs had died down with the rising sun, but now they picked up again with a fervor that sounded not unlike desperation to my teenage ears. I rested in the tent only a few moments before clearing the sleep from my eyes and springing out of my sleeping bag to greet the mourning. Dew droplets still covered everything, and the mourning seemed as magical as any other morning does to a young person of sixteen, camping in the woods.
My brother had already awakened. He was sitting on a rock waiting for other people to wake up and smiling happily to see that it was me first and not one of the other kids from our group. They were all pretty boring, and we had no interest in their stories of adolescent rebellion. I slipped my feet into my hiking boots and looked at my watch. It was just after seven, and I knew that the two counselors who were with us wouldn’t wake up till at least eight. We had time to play before they did.
“The lake or the cliffs?” I asked, gesturing to the singing frogs behind me and the rocky face that we had nestled our tent under the previous night. We had been hiking a long time the night before, at least twelve miles. We still had a long way to go too. The stretch that we were completing started just at the Connecticut border and wound its way down through the mountains of New York and into New Jersey before finally ending at the border in Pennsylvania, the most famous of East Coast trails.
“The cliffs!” he said keeping his voice to a hushed shout as not to wake the others. There were adventures to be had, and it just wouldn’t fit to have anyone wake up and tell us to do something and spoil our excitement. He was just a bit shorter than me, but his frame was already starting to develop into something wider and heavier than mine. I, two years his senior, wouldn’t allow him to beat me in a sprint.
Hazel used these lines in her own situation but concluded the opposite: “The fault for their dying of cancer is not their doing but fate's.
When Benito wrote some ignorant and cruel suggestions and ideas in the newspaper. So the he was fired. He then decided to created his own newspaper. He called it, "Li Popolo d’ Italia" (The People of Italy). He hoped the war between Italy and Turkey might lead to collapse of society that might bring him to power.
	Benito Mussolini was the fascist dictator of Italy for nearly 20 years. Benito was born at Dovia, a suburb of Predappio, in the northcentral part of Italy. His father, Alessando, was a blacksmith. And his mother, Rosa, was a schoolteacher. As a young man, Mussolini was a Socialist with revolutionary tendencies. He was expelled from 2 schools and later was in trouble with the authorities several times. In 1912 he became editor of the Socialist newspaper Avanti, and in 1914 he started his own Socialist newspaper Il Popolo d’Italia. At this time he wrote a novel, then translated into English as the Cardinal’s Mistress. During World War I he served for nearly 2 years as private in the infantry.
As I inched my way toward the cliff, my legs were shaking uncontrollably. I could feel the coldness of the rock beneath my feet when my toes curled around the edge in one last futile attempt at survival. My heart was racing like a trapped bird, desperate to escape. Gazing down the sheer drop, I nearly fainted; my entire life flashed before my eyes. I could hear stones breaking free and fiercely tumbling down the hillside, plummeting into the dark abyss of the forbidding black water. The trees began to rapidly close in around me in a suffocating clench, and the piercing screams from my friends did little to ease the pain. The cool breeze felt like needles upon my bare skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps. The threatening mountains surrounding me seemed to grow more sinister with each passing moment, I felt myself fighting for air. The hot summer sun began to blacken while misty clouds loomed overhead. Trembling with anxiety, I shut my eyes, murmuring one last pathetic prayer. I gathered my last breath, hoping it would last a lifetime, took a step back and plun...
As the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon, penetrating the dark, soft light illuminates the mist rising up from the ground, forming an eerie, almost surreal landscape. The ground sparkles, wet with dew, and while walking from the truck to the barn, my riding boots soak it in. The crickets still chirp, only slower now. They know that daytime fast approaches. Sounds, the soft rustling of hooves, a snort, and from far down the aisle a sharp whinny that begs for breakfast, inform me that the crickets are not the only ones preparing for the day.
Deep in the valley the Wood Sprites and the Fairies flocked together, trembling in their masses; when all were gathered they embraced each other in a fond farewell, then they began to sing such a melancholy song, dancing and swaying in a hypnotic rhythm; the song carried out across the wood, birds in the trees stopped to listen, their heads on one side, their eyes shining with sorrow and the animals crept from their dens and burrows to watch. The air in the wood was thick with sadness, a fox gave a low mewl, it's ears flattening against it's slender head, a magnificent stag threw back it's head and let out a long roar that rose and mingled with the notes of the song.
“Well, it was relatively uneventful. Three other ponies and I went hundreds, maybe even thousands of miles through uncharted wilderness. On about the seventh month we hit a seemingly endless mountain range, we didn’t have the equipment to ...
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
This book actually impacted my view on life a bit. Life is a fragile gift and this book made me wonder if I am using my time in all the wrong ways. We should all work to be using our days as best we can and try to be happy regardless of our sadness. As we all know that’s not as simple as it sounds, which makes the strength of Hazel and Augustus extremely inspiring and even eye-opening. When I compare myself to these two characters I hope I can be more like them.
A shrill cry echoed in the mist. I ducked, looking for a sign of movement. The heavy fog and cold storm provided nothing but a blanket, smothering all sight and creating a humid atmosphere. The freezing air continued to whip at my face, relentless and powerful. Our boat, stuck in the boggy water. Again a cry called. Somewhere out there was someone, or something.
It can also determine where the customer drops off (Google Analytics, n.d.). Funnel visualization report helps Google Analytics users to determine the traffic that reached each step of the funnel and how many of the traffic leave a certain funnel (Pienaar, A., 2015). The report gives users the number of traffic that goes through different processes such as checking difference products, viewing the cart, inputting personal information, managing delivery addresses, giving credit card details and clicking payment button (Pienaar, A.,
Sitting in the back seat between two towering piles of clothes and snacks we drive up the abandoned streets of Adell. I see vast open fields of corn and dense wooded forest filled with life, along with the occasional, towering grain house. We pull into a dry, dusty, driveway of rock and thriving, overgrown weeds. We come up to an aged log cabin with a massive crab apple tree with its sharp thorns like claws. The ancient weeping willow provides, with is huge sagging arms, shade from the intense rays of the sun. Near the back of the house there is a rotten, wobbly dock slowly rotting in the dark blue, cool water. Near that we store our old rusted canoes, to which the desperate frogs hop for shelter. When I venture out to the water I feel the thick gooey mud squish through my toes and the fish mindlessly try to escape but instead swim into my legs. On the lively river banks I see great blue herring and there attempt to catch a fish for their dinner. They gracefully fly with their beautiful wings arching in the sun to silvery points.
I scarcely snoozed at all, the day before; incidentally, I felt insecure regarding the fact of what the unfamiliar tomorrow may bring and that was rather unnerving. After awakening from a practically restless slumber, I had a hefty breakfast expecting that by the conclusion of the day, all I wanted to do is go back home and sleep. Finally, after it was over, my dad gladly drove me to school; there, stood the place where I would spend my next four years of my life.
We all grabbed our lawn chairs and cozied up next to the roaring red fire. I always sat a little too close, enough to where the fire burnt a hole straight through my favorite pair of flip-flops, assuring me to never make that mistake again. S’mores was all of our favorite bed time snack time and a perfect way to end the night. Every time I would roast my marshmallow until it became slightly brown, mushy, and not too hot in the center; then I 'd put it between two graham crackers and extra pieces of chocolate. One too many s’mores and a belly like later I laid back in my chair and listened as Nancy told us stories. Before going to bed Nancy told us about her favorite past times here as a child and how just like the little girl we saw fishing, she was also afraid of fishing. She told us stories about how much the campground has evolved since she was a child and how every year she promises to take us here and to keep it a tradition. At bedtime Alicia and I crawl into our tents and snuggle up in our warm sleeping bags. We talked to each other about how sad we felt that it was almost the end of summer, and how nervous we felt to start our freshman year of high school. However, our conversations ended when Nancy yelled at as from the other tent to keep quiet and go to bed. I’d fallen asleep that night to the sound of the fire crackling out and the crickets chirping
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.