Mommy, Im hungry, I yelped from the depths of my frost infested throat. Mommy, I want some food, I demanded as I vigorously pointed at my throat. My mother pulled the crumbling, mold-stained half-slice of bread from her mouth, her teeth imprints remaining where she had begun to gnaw at the flaking, green crust. She took my hands from my mouth and cupped them so I would not drop any of the olive drab dough. The rotting smell of the bread was masked by the fumes pouring from the towers of the factories that lingered overhead. The vapors rising from the drains flooded the area with the putrid smells of the warm sewage clashing with the chilled air of the streets. The bread was smothered with the taste of soil that had probably lined the sides of the garbage can for months, or at least a couple of weeks.
This, combined with the remains of various insects that had once resided in the festering piles of waste, made for an appetizing meal. The mound of dough found its way to the bottom of my stomach and hit with a devastating splash, sending my previous meal back to the surface and all over myself. It was the best meal I had eaten in a month. My mother wiped my mouth with the excess of the scarlet scarf that concealed her neck. Mommy, youre pretty, I told her, hoping to see her smile. Of course, she did. Her chapped, cracking brick red lips curled at the corners as her eyes fell into that sunken lull of drunken happiness.
Mother had such a warm, beautiful smile. I loved it. She cuddled me into her arms, covered my face with her scarf, and kissed my forehead. Ten years old and living on the streets was the best I could ever ask for. The next morning arrived with the half-sun over the horizon and the shards of ice falling from the building above me. Mother was gone again.
The Essay on Analysis of Guy de Maupassant’s “Old Mother Savage”
We are all taught that our identity lies in the roles we play throughout life, in other words, in our actions. William Shakespeare wrote, “All the world’s a stage / And all the men and women merely players. / They have their exits and their entrances…” (As You Like It, II, vii). Whenever people act outside of their parts; whenever we miss our entrance, our identity is ...
It was the usual thing. I never knew where she went in the mornings, but she always returned. I was left to spend the day at home. What I knew as breakfast was nothing but the leftovers of the previous night. I put my hand into my pocket, hoping to find some crust or even crumbs from that wonderful bread. As I searched through my pocket, I found nothing but the outside of my leg, as three of my fingers had fallen through the hole that lined my pants.
I inserted my hand into my other pocket hoping to find something that was somewhat edible. As a sharp, burning sensation ran throughout my frostbitten veins, I drew my hand from my pocket, finding blood slivering from a tiny hole in my finger. I thrust my finger into my mouth, hoping to stop the bleeding. The bitter taste of my black cherry colored blood flooded my mouth with a taste that could only be matched by the smell of those factories, yet it was somewhat more appetizing than the bread I had eaten the night before. I reached back into my pocket in order to discover the cause of my pain. It was my mothers button. Jesus loves you, I whispered as the frosted smoke escaped from my mouth. My mother had given me the button three years ago for my birthday.
I dont know where she had found the money to buy it, but I was and still am thankful for it. Sometimes I wondered where Jesus was. My father had always told me that Jesus would always love me no matter what happened. He was the One that was going to save me as long as I believed in Him. I did believe in Him, but why wouldnt He save me? Oh well. I had faith.
I smiled and dropped the button back into my pocket. The blood had frozen on my fingertip. I stared at it as long as I could before the cold forced me to cover it up. The blood was fascinating. How could that simple liquid keep me alive after everything I had been through? At that time I didnt know any better. I thought that my mother and I were the only ones that bled, and it was just another way for us to suffer.
The Essay on Ram 4 X Cd Rom Busytown Christmas Years
Software Titles reviewed here: 1) Elmo's Computer Phone 2) CD-ROM Suitcase 3) BusyTown Best Christmas Ever Elmo's Computer Phone Ages: 12 months - 3 years Price: $79. 95 Distributor: Hilad 02 9700 9377 Publisher: Comfy Interactive Requirements: 486 DX, Win 95, 8 MB RAM, 4 X CD-ROM Rating: lllll Along with the Comfy keyboard this product is definitely the best tool to introduce children under three ...
Now I know that I was wrong. No matter who we are or what we do, we all bleed the same blood. Home was busy that day. The businessmen lined the streets, flocking to their jobs with their smooth, black leather briefcases in hand. To them, that was the most important thing in life. I didnt take any care in it. I had what I needed.
The glowing multi-colored bulbs reflected off the shop windows and caught my eye. They were mesmerizing. I stared down the street, consuming myself with the radiance of the Christmas lights strung over me. Candy canes and snowmen plastered the storefronts. I loved the essence of Christmas. It possessed an almost mystical quality. The pure blanket of snow that had once possessed the quality of a velvet blanket of mist was now trampled and destroyed by the feet of the passing people. They didnt care though.
It was only one more day till Christmas. I couldnt wait. I checked my pocket to see how much money I still had from what my mother had given me for food. 50 cents. I was lucky. I had managed to only spend a quarter in 2 weeks time.
I was thankful that I had been saving for a while. After all, this was an emergency. It was Christmas Eve and I still had to get my mother a present. I walked down the street, taking my time and enjoying the environment. There was no need to be in a hurry. I wanted to watch the beauty that surrounded me anyway.
It was glorious. It was the most amazing sight I had ever seen. I looked into the store windows as I passed, looking at all of the presents that laid in the store cases. The reflective wrapping paper shot streaks of color across the windowpane. I stretched my neck to look up at the wreaths that hung over the signs. They were beautifully decorated with gold-trimmed raspberry ribbons and tiny Santa Clauses with reindeer.
My gazing was interrupted by the screeching of tires. Hey kid, get out of the street! someone yelled from their car. I guess it was my fault. I had become too involved with my surroundings. I scampered across the rest of the street as the pile of cars behind the man began to incessantly honk their horns at me. I was almost there.
Only one more block and I could buy my mother a present. It was our tradition. Ever since last year we had exchanged presents on Christmas Eve. Last year she gave me a hat. It was a pretty hat. This year I wanted to give her the greatest gift ever.
The Essay on Returned Home Odysseus Men Tiresias
The Odyssey is an epic poem written in a series of 24 books. It is one of two epics written over 2500 years ago by the Western European poet, Homer. This epic joins Odysseus 10 years after the Trojan War. The story follows him as he attempts to return to his home in Ithaca where he reigns as King. I am wiser after having read this book because this story taught me about some of the social ...
And I was going to make sure I did. At the corner, a man dressed in a Santa Claus costume was ringing a bell in front of a hanging red bucket that he was using to collect money. There were a lot of people collecting money, but I never saw anyone put any money in. I went up to the man and put half of my 50 cents into the bucket. After all, my mother had always told me that I should try to help out those less fortunate than I was. I pulled my hand from the bucket and smiled at the man wearing the Santa Clause costume.
Get away from me kid! Im tired and I wanna go home! he snorted at me. I couldnt understand. He should be happy helping other people. Oh well. I was happy. I hoped that whoever received my 25 cents would have the greatest Christmas ever. I knew I was going to, and so was my mother.
I was there. I was ready to pick out my present for mother. I knew exactly what to get her. It was something that she could really use. I had exactly enough money. I went to the counter and placed my purchase on the top.
The glossy, red exterior of the apple glistened as the stores lights reflected off of it. Is this your snack? the cashier asked me. No sir, I said. Its a Christmas present for my mommy, I said excitedly at the thought of my mothers smiling face. The man just looked at me, finally smiling with a hesitant grin. I placed my shiny quarter into his palm, grabbed the apple, and ran back down the street.
I couldnt wait for my mother to get home. The apple looked delicious, but I knew I couldnt eat it. I had to save it for mother. I waited for hours, but she never came home. I figured that she was just on her way home and got lost. I would see her in the morning.
I placed the apple into my pocket, curled up into a ball, and went to sleep. My mother never did come home. Last year I finally found out what had happened to mother. I searched for her and I found out that she had died that Christmas. Her body was found lying against the side of a building. The coroners report said the cause was malnutrition. If only she could have eaten that apple.
Maybe she could have lasted a little longer. Now, at the age of 32, I take my children down that very street every Christmas Eve. Yes, we have a Christmas tree, and we have lights on our house, but I remind them of everything else that they possess. They know that not everything depends on what you can buy, but more on the things you can feel. I love them. Now, as I finish taking off my Santa Clause costume, trying to avoid being stabbed by the Jesus loves you button, I see my wife, their mother, cuddling them and kissing their foreheads..
The Essay on Running Bear Goldstein Money Man
Creative Story: IntellegenceJon Smith Period 8 English 12 February 12, 1997 It all started in the interesting city of New York. The smog ridden streets were filled with people. On a quiet little street corner, there was a small shop owned by Harvey Goldstein. Mr. Goldstein was a well-to-do merchant. He traded in all sorts of imports, and was generally a moral man. He did not buy goods from ...
