John Clark Monologue

raHe searched everywhere for those shoes, those perfect tan ones with that fabric flower that fit him just right. The closet, underneath his bed, in the pile of clean clothes he meant to fold a week ago. They were nowhere to be found, completely gone from the face of the Earth, leaving Cal Hampton barefooted and discouraged. It was only eight in the morning and his room was more of a mess than it usually was, plus, worst of all, he didn 't have a single pair of shoes that matched the floral skirt settled upon his waist. He bought it just for that damn pair, those adorable, dainty tan shoes, and now, the thing was useless. Grunting, the boy thrust the fabric past his knees. His blouse followed soon after, landing in the disheveled grasp of his

In the stories, it’s all fire, hopeless souls hopelessly screaming, endless pain. I mean, yeah, there’s fire. Lots of it. And there’s tons of screaming too, probably because of the fire. And where there’s fire and screaming, there’s endless pain.

I’m Helen Robinson, Tom Robinson’s wife. There was a timeframe in the book just after Tom was killed, before Helen could find a secure way to earn money for her family; it was a very unstable time for her and her children. Although Helen is portrayed as meek and kindhearted, much like Tom, the overwhelming sadness and pressure may have caused her to break down emotionally, or feel some emotions of vengeance towards a majority of the white community; especially the Ewells.

Johnny was the main reason I was still alive. Call him my life tank or whatever but it was the truth. I was proud of him and I never could tell him. I knew how much he wanted to hear it, but being Dallas Winston, an awkward person who never knew how to show his feelings, I never got to tell him.

For a brief moment, miles away from the eyes of god, time itself stood still. And the singing birds went silent in their canopies, and the gentle licks of a passing breeze abated, as if the entire world, save Gatsby, knew. Knew that, like an old timepiece, the gears within the depths of George Wilson’s being had long since begun to fragment, and with the urgency of newfound knowledge, he had only one thought on his mind.

The mother was seen in the office today by me again. It was a result of my calling her up yesterday that she showed up. Her dress was very simple, not what I espected at all. She seem ambivalent about coming to see me – didn’t know what I was going to do I guess. Most of the time we talked about Charlie. He keeps running away from home. She can’t understand this behavior. Last time the police aprehended him he was on the cornar of 20th and Bylor stret, about 8 miles from the center. Hitchiking was how he had to have got there the way Mrs. Milton figured it. I’m not so sure because with his low IQ (78) I guess he would have gotten a bus and just kept riding till he decide he want to get off. Then maybe from here somebody gave him a

The room is spinning. It’s hard to get a good look and what or even where the scene is taking place. Finally, the revolution ends on a face. Not a remarkable face. Just an average looking guy in his early twenties with a short brown fair and sad eyes. When the average guy speaks, a moderate Southern drawl tinges his voice.

It 's 4:00 am, my bed feels something like a cloud but less wet, laying facing the ceiling wondering if I will ever serve as a greater purpose other than grow up, get a job, get married, have a nice family, then die, you know the usual, none the less it still scares me knowing that one day I will die and no one will remember me or that I ever existed. Feelings of sadness soon swarm my mind until the alarm clock suddenly went off at 4:30 am which could only mean one thing;

“I know that in writing the following pages I am divulging the great secret of my life, the secret which for some years I have guarded far more carefully than any of my earthly possessions; and it is a curious study to me to analyze the motives which prompt me to do it. I feel that I am led by the same impulse which forces the un-found-out criminal to take somebody into his confidence, although he knows that the act is likely, even almost certain, to lead to his undoing. I know that I am playing with fire, and I feel the thrill which accompanies that most fascinating pastime; and, back of it all, I think I find a sort of savage and diabolical desire to gather up all the little tragedies of my life, and turn them into a practical joke on society”

The day has come. We traversed the slippery slope that is middle school. We didn’t succumb to peer pressure or anything else for that matter. We made it! I like to think of this day as sort of the culmination similar to Lewis and Clark 's expedition. We made it from coast to coast. By no means was this easy but it feels good doesn 't it.

"When she finds out that this was a set up, I 'm dead, so I 'm hoping never." I check my phone for messages. "She says she 's almost here."

It 's been days that I 've been feeling like I 'm not myself. Although I think

June 17. I stand waiting in hot, sweaty anticipation, singing and dancing with a thousand of my peers. I know this will be a day that forever changes two lives. Finally I will be able to be a warrior in the fight I hold closest to my heart. The lights in the auditorium come on and I bolt to the closest table where hundreds of children lay before me: desperate, broken, and beautiful. Among all the faces one cries my name—Sterlie Berlancia Armand, born November 26, 2010 in Haiti. Sponsoring Sterlie is my greatest accomplishment, contribution, and experience. She has given me all of my best qualities. She is my greatest pride.

Minerva was the Roman Goddess of poetry, medicine, wisdom, commerce, crafts, magic and war. In other words, Minerva had challenged the colloquial states of Gods and decided to become a goddess in all the fields she treasured instead of sacrificing her life to one. Minerva was also a rebellious spirit sometimes. She did not let the world rule over her life and would always fight to defy the rules that she thought undermined her milieu.

Language whether written or spoken does influence in the construction of our thoughts. It is a wide knowledge that the relationship between thoughts and language is interactive; both processes continuously influencing each other in many ways. Literature which has often reflected on society’s experiences and perceptions has also fostered ways of thinking.