Heroes Are Made By Micah Soledad
Everybody wishes they could be a hero. To strive for greatness. Whether it be for the admiration of their fellow man or because of simple morals. In one way or another, people live by a certain code of justice whether they know it or not. Sure, it’s easy to speak big words of grandeur but it takes a certain character to realize one’s beliefs. Especially in spite of all the odds the world thrusts against them. It takes courage, tenacity, and even a bit of brains but that's not a necessityneeded. These three traits are at the core of all conflict.
The old saying goes “Heroes are made, not born.” But for every rule, there is always an exception. Even when he was a baby, Micah Soledad has never known the true meaning of fear. It didn't matter …show more content…
if it was his mother, a fellow classmate, or an adult. Micah has always stood up in his often noted wide-eyed views of justice. He believes that everyone is entitled to pursue happiness in their own way. But that right disappears as soon they obstruct the happiness and peace of mind for others.
When he was two, he would slap his mother across the face when she didn’t give him extra milk.
When he was four, he beat up a classmate for knocking down his sand castle. At six, he punched a student in the cheek for smashing his macaroni art. Eight, he he kicked a student in the stomach for making fun of a girl he liked. At ten, he attracted the attention of some fifth grade boys out to prove themselves. He lost that one. He was expelled from school.
September 19, 2011. 7:35 AM.
Wile Ericson walks alone to school while reading Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone. He is a short, young school boy with glasses and a brown bowl cut. He wears a white short-sleeved dress shirt,tucked into black khakis. He balances the book in his right hand, turning it with his thumb. His plain brown dress shoes click against the pavement. His eyes appear halfway open. He only looks up before he crosses the street.
He bumps into a rather large student in green khaki shorts and a white T with a red circle in the middle. Wile’s book drops to the ground as he does, falling on his butt, his glasses falling a bit in front of the book. A shorter, thinner boy hunches over to pick up the glasses with a toothy grin. Wile strains his eyes squinting, trying to outlast the morning sunlight. The large boy’s curly red hair shines in the light as he wears a smirk on the corner of his cheek. The thin boy puts on the glasses and losses his balance, stunned by the strength of the
frame.
“Well, well, well,” the fat boy greets. “If it isn’t little Wile E.”
“C-c-come on Travis,” Wile stutters. “We go through this every morning. Just give me back my stuff…”
Travis’ smile drops. He leans forward into the timid youth so that their faces are mere inches apart. Wile instinctively leans back, but also because his assailant’s breath stinks. Travis stares him dead in the eye for a few seconds before smirking again, chuckling.
“Yo Jason,” the fat boy says to his cohort. “Check it out. Little Wile E. Coyote grew a backbone overnight.”
Travis cackles like a dying hyena. “Ohhhh,” he mocks. “That’s not a good thing. You know, for him.”
With hardly any effort, Travis lifts up Wile with his right hand, his feet dangling far above the ground. Wile’s heart races as if he were dangling off the edge of a forty story building.
“Do you know,” Travis began. “What happens to guys with spines in Mortal Kombat?”
Jason cackles in the background as he spins. He loses his balances again, and bumps into a red car on his left.
Wile gulps.
“Uh,” he let out. “They become super best friends and don’t beat each other up?”
Travis chuckles. “That’s a good one,” he says. “You’re funny. Not funny enough to not make me pound you but still… Props to you.”
Jason picks up Wile’s black satchel and flings it over his left shoulder.
“Hey look,” Jason says, heightening the pitch of his voice. “I’m a dweeb.”
Travis releases a haughty laugh.
“Good one Jay. Now, where were…”
Before Travis can finish, a black blur snatches Wile and skids across the sidewalk. Wile was now hunched over the shoulder of a rather bony fellow, hurting him a little.
Travis and Jason look on in awe.
“You okay?” the young man says to Wile as he sets him down.
“Y-yeah. T-thanks.”
The young man smiles. His sleek black hair simmered in the sun. His black jacket flaps in the wind. He wears an orange undershirt that reads "FUCK OFF" in black lettering. It iswas mostly hidden behind the jacket. Around his black jeans is a white belt. The belt has a section with three holes hanging out in front. His white sneakers looked brand new and distinctive.
The newcomer turns his attention towards the two assailants who were harassing his acquaintance.
Travis puts his hands on his hips.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“Yeah,” the stranger says. “There’s a fat kid bullying my friend down the block. I think he needs a good punching. You seen him?”
Travis grimaces while Jason laughs in the background. He fails to contain himself by placing his hands over his mouth. Travis turns to him with a discouraging scowl. Jason takes heed, looking away and whistling a catchy tune. Travis focuses his attention on this brave young idiot.
“Come one man,” he says, feigning a pleading manner with a particularly sinister grin. “We were just playing. We do this all the time. Tell him Wile.”
“If that’s how you play, you’re better off playing with yourself.”
Jason immediately spits as if he drank his least favorite energy drink. Travis gives him the same look from earlier.
“Oh come on,” Jason protests with his arms held out in front of him. “That one was pretty funny.”
The old saying goes “Heroes are made, not born.” But for every rule, there is always an exception. Even when he was a baby, Micah Soledad has never known the true meaning of fear. It didn't matter …show more content…
if it was his mother, a fellow classmate, or an adult. Micah has always stood up in his often noted wide-eyed views of justice. He believes that everyone is entitled to pursue happiness in their own way. But that right disappears as soon they obstruct the happiness and peace of mind for others.
When he was two, he would slap his mother across the face when she didn’t give him extra milk.
When he was four, he beat up a classmate for knocking down his sand castle. At six, he punched a student in the cheek for smashing his macaroni art. Eight, he he kicked a student in the stomach for making fun of a girl he liked. At ten, he attracted the attention of some fifth grade boys out to prove themselves. He lost that one. He was expelled from school.
September 19, 2011. 7:35 AM.
Wile Ericson walks alone to school while reading Harry Potter and The Sorcerer's Stone. He is a short, young school boy with glasses and a brown bowl cut. He wears a white short-sleeved dress shirt,tucked into black khakis. He balances the book in his right hand, turning it with his thumb. His plain brown dress shoes click against the pavement. His eyes appear halfway open. He only looks up before he crosses the street.
He bumps into a rather large student in green khaki shorts and a white T with a red circle in the middle. Wile’s book drops to the ground as he does, falling on his butt, his glasses falling a bit in front of the book. A shorter, thinner boy hunches over to pick up the glasses with a toothy grin. Wile strains his eyes squinting, trying to outlast the morning sunlight. The large boy’s curly red hair shines in the light as he wears a smirk on the corner of his cheek. The thin boy puts on the glasses and losses his balance, stunned by the strength of the
frame.
“Well, well, well,” the fat boy greets. “If it isn’t little Wile E.”
“C-c-come on Travis,” Wile stutters. “We go through this every morning. Just give me back my stuff…”
Travis’ smile drops. He leans forward into the timid youth so that their faces are mere inches apart. Wile instinctively leans back, but also because his assailant’s breath stinks. Travis stares him dead in the eye for a few seconds before smirking again, chuckling.
“Yo Jason,” the fat boy says to his cohort. “Check it out. Little Wile E. Coyote grew a backbone overnight.”
Travis cackles like a dying hyena. “Ohhhh,” he mocks. “That’s not a good thing. You know, for him.”
With hardly any effort, Travis lifts up Wile with his right hand, his feet dangling far above the ground. Wile’s heart races as if he were dangling off the edge of a forty story building.
“Do you know,” Travis began. “What happens to guys with spines in Mortal Kombat?”
Jason cackles in the background as he spins. He loses his balances again, and bumps into a red car on his left.
Wile gulps.
“Uh,” he let out. “They become super best friends and don’t beat each other up?”
Travis chuckles. “That’s a good one,” he says. “You’re funny. Not funny enough to not make me pound you but still… Props to you.”
Jason picks up Wile’s black satchel and flings it over his left shoulder.
“Hey look,” Jason says, heightening the pitch of his voice. “I’m a dweeb.”
Travis releases a haughty laugh.
“Good one Jay. Now, where were…”
Before Travis can finish, a black blur snatches Wile and skids across the sidewalk. Wile was now hunched over the shoulder of a rather bony fellow, hurting him a little.
Travis and Jason look on in awe.
“You okay?” the young man says to Wile as he sets him down.
“Y-yeah. T-thanks.”
The young man smiles. His sleek black hair simmered in the sun. His black jacket flaps in the wind. He wears an orange undershirt that reads "FUCK OFF" in black lettering. It iswas mostly hidden behind the jacket. Around his black jeans is a white belt. The belt has a section with three holes hanging out in front. His white sneakers looked brand new and distinctive.
The newcomer turns his attention towards the two assailants who were harassing his acquaintance.
Travis puts his hands on his hips.
“Can I help you?” he says.
“Yeah,” the stranger says. “There’s a fat kid bullying my friend down the block. I think he needs a good punching. You seen him?”
Travis grimaces while Jason laughs in the background. He fails to contain himself by placing his hands over his mouth. Travis turns to him with a discouraging scowl. Jason takes heed, looking away and whistling a catchy tune. Travis focuses his attention on this brave young idiot.
“Come one man,” he says, feigning a pleading manner with a particularly sinister grin. “We were just playing. We do this all the time. Tell him Wile.”
“If that’s how you play, you’re better off playing with yourself.”
Jason immediately spits as if he drank his least favorite energy drink. Travis gives him the same look from earlier.
“Oh come on,” Jason protests with his arms held out in front of him. “That one was pretty funny.”