Black Dog is based off of a stream of concious I did in February during one of my many routine walks through a cemetery near my house. It was night time‚ and everything was cold and damp. But the moon made this atmosphere that I just loved that I had to write about it. It should also be noted that it was around valentine’s day and I was thinking about my “perfect” mate (don’t judge me‚ you’ve done that before) This piece is also about on how I would be a “perfect” mate‚ and how I would have to change
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It’s almost last call. It has reached the point in the night where the sensible members of society have left‚ leaving only the hopeless drunks and a few young couples too lost in trivial conversation to realize the bar is closing soon. That’s a lie. This place doesn’t bring in any sensible people‚ in fact it hardly brings anyone in at all anymore. I like to remember how it used to be—so full of life and genuinely pleasant—and pretend that’s still the way it is. But this bar in particular‚ which I
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I inhaled the night time city smells of street food‚ sweat‚ cigarettes‚ and garbage‚ as I stepped toward the bus. I hadn’t taken two steps before someone shoved me to the side and dashed down the street weaving through people like a true professional. I tottered and nearly fell‚ but I kept my balance. Annoyed‚ I swept my gaze throughout the crowd and saw the rude stranger- a young man‚ maybe in his late teens‚ with thick black hair‚ dressed in a dark gray t-shirt and jeans. For a moment‚ he looked
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The Beach. A storm brews above. People escape the beach‚ quickly grabbing their possessions as rain spits down on them. Music from cafes and fare rides come to a halt as their customers quickly disappear and the happy sounds of laughter echo around the empty beach. A gloomy shadow descends over the sea. Feeble light from the few surviving streetlights and lanterns appear to dim as the dark clouds move across the sky like a creeping panther. Birds silence their song and flee to safer places. Sandcastles
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Eagle River No wifi. No Service. No way to connect to the outside world except through the ancient landline phone hanging on the wall labeled with the numbers of the Eagle River library‚ the home phone‚ and pizza take out. The door screeches open; the rustic smell of the cabin fills the air and the aged wooden floor gives a small creak when stepped on. The two cabins have room to hold three families at a time‚ however the quick race to claim the rooms soon begins. As always‚ the kids end up in the
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A dozen squealing‚ laughing little girls tugged my arms‚ legs and hands. They were so excited to show me their bedroom. Meeting all the orphans at the Colima‚ Mexico orphanage was very overwhelming and very emotional. At first‚ I felt very out of place‚ like seeing grass during a Michigan winter. All these kids surrounding me right now have no families and have nobody to love them. These kids were all beautiful in their own way and really knew how to make you smile without even trying.They were like
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There ’s always that early morning rush and panic when you think you’re all set to go on holiday. You check you have packed everything and that the young children are settled and securely strapped in to their seats. As you drive away from the house your mind is going over a list of belongings you have packed when you realize you ’ve forgotten something. Luckily you’re only a few minutes down the road so your dad turns round and drives back. Of course there is always one person who has forgotten to
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Shingle Runners The woman smiles from across the room‚ shadows and moonlight contorting her mouth into a cheshire grin‚ sly and bloodthirsty. God‚ she could kill me right now and I’d still love her‚ he thinks‚ What a fool; can’t even trust my own head around a pretty girl. Smooth sax and piano is marred by the skipping of a disk in the room across the hall and laughter and soft amber light spills under the heavy oak door; the telltale signs of yet another couple retiring from the celebration.
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A white fuzzy blanket‚ yet solid as a rock stared back at me as I peered through my foggy window waking to the sight of snow. The miniature gray couch serving as the centerpiece of my living room seemed cozy that night. On the other hand‚ its rough and awkward fibers made it uncomfortable. Without heat blasting through the vent to conserve our warmth‚ we grew even colder. The bustling sound of the wind knocking on my window layered with dangling icicles smothering my home and the homes nearby shook
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Such is the mystery of God. Accident is accident. There is no explanation for it. It is God’s monopoly. Accident may be minor or major. It may leave you with slight injury; it may take away your life; or it may hurt you grievously. The accident that I met: Once I happened to meet an accident. It was a street accident. I caused me serious fracture at my backbone. My skull was also greatly wounded at its right side. I was completely senseless just after the accident occurred. When I got back my
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