Living forever, who could have resisted? Certainly not I, but I have come to believe that is apparent now. But, it is a small price to pay having to drink blood to stay young forever, and have the strength off an inhuman monster. But I am no monster. Ever since I can call to mind I have always longed to be… well… what I have become. To live forever. What a promising destiny.
Weeks have passed since my transformation, and never again shall I allow that pure red liquid to touch my lips, to travel down my throat and fuel the horrific beast that has become of me. I wish to rid my body of this, this ailment, this plague that riddles my life. To become one with the ashes of the past, but such a destiny is beyond me. One cannot take the life of his own the council has said, or may they be cast into the depths of the underworld. The dwelling of those of which I share a nature. The dwelling of the wicked. The corrupt. The sinister. I am dead, though my body is still mobile. My soul has departed. I am no longer clinging to life. It is beyond my grasp. This wretched choice I have made will haunt me forever.
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HAPPY HOLIDAYS! (and a happy new year!) I know all of us are excited for the upcoming holidays, so make your wish list, and your "holiday greeting cards", and i know if your me, go buy last minute gifts for your family!! HAPPY HOLIDAYS!
“Drip, drop, drip, drop,” the pitter patter of light rain pelts the sidewalk as I trudge along, “drip, drop, drip, drop,” the rain pelts the thick black cloth of my burqa as I try to keep pushing along the wet city streets. I step in a warm puddle as I cross the street to the next block. Now I’m just five blocks away. It would take me so much less time if I didn’t have to wear this thick piece of cloth over everything except a little slip near my eyes so that I can see. I wear my Burqa because of my religion. I am Islam. I wear it because I am serious about it. People think just because I wear the burqa around thatam happy with wearing it. They are horribly wrong. My body whole body drips with sweat, and it’s hard to breathe since the cloth covers my nose and mouth. It’s hard for me to walk since the thick cloth is always pulling against my legs. Wearing a burqa feels like I am wearing a long skirt that is too long and ten sizes to tight. Not to mention a lot hotter. I have seen the locks that people give me. I see them point, I see them whisper to each other. I hear people talking and calling me names to each other, not worrying whether I hear it or not. I have felt the sharpness of their glances. It is as if I was responsible for the September eleventh
attacks just because I am a Muslim. I have felt the pain of peoples words, and I have felt the heaviness of their glances. I sometimes question whether it is necessary for me to wear a burqua. After all this is America, and I am in what they call the city of brotherly love, but I dismiss these foolish thoughts before I have time to think about them more. And as I trudge towards the train station, staring straight ahead and thinking about the glorious moment it will be when I get home, I realize no matter what people say or do, I will always stay true to my faith and my religion. Feet hit the ground, so soft so silent,
No sound is acknowledged. Your the only one alive, or so it seems, though dim yellow lights spill softly down white slopes like melting butter. Nothing matters but the world, which is the only thing that should matter. Yesterdays argument and Saturday's confrontation are far behind you. No more headaches press on your tired mind. You have lost yourself, but not entirely. You still exist, just not at the moment. Your so silent. Feet barely hit the ground. You know you'll be back, in your unknown town. A scattering of natures litter, not vulgar like ours, but soft and colorful,meant to be, splashes of color in the black and white painting we created. The scents we can come to appreciate drift slowly, silently through the air, carried by careful gusts, pushing them, urging them, to make there full cycle, from saltwater, to leaves, to coldness, to blooming, a cycle of colors and shades and textures and feelings. We are ready for autumn.
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All work on this page was created by Middle School & High School students. We hope you enjoy reading their amazing poetry, essays, and stories.
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