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.

Travis Allen 523 words 9100 St. Charles Rock Road St. Louis, MO 63114 (314) 493-6100 allent517@ritenourschools.org There seems to be a problem by Travis Allen 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;

Right now I am on a plane headed to Europe. With me are Jack Hileman,John Shleinz,Grant Williams,Nathan Jolly,and David Beilin. We are almost over the Amazon,when the plane begins to shake then fall. Grant screamed, “What are we going to do?” Nathan shouted in response, “I don’t know you tell me wise guy.”

Future me I truly hope you come to find this before they do….. This is our “note to self” Our name is Winston Smith. As I write this we are in profound unfathomable deep trouble.

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.

“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”

Hell isn’t all they crack it up to be, honestly. In the stories, it’s all fire, hopeless souls hopelessly screaming, endless pain. I mean, yeah, there’s fire. Lots of it.

“I learned a lot about Bec *fake Bradley’s sister*. When I recognized her outside of prom night, she looked like a whole different person! Clarie only knew her because she thought she hung out with the *stoners*. If I think about it, that is actually rude, I can’t explain it, but it just seems rude. Is the only reason she’s mean to me because I’m selfish, and never really paid any attention to her, nor her boyfriend, ‘Nate’?

Hi I’m Vance Monroe. My buddies call me Keys. Currently I’m running through the streets of downtown london getting chased by the police and the man who’s watch and keys I stole today. People might be wondering why a young boy like me at the age of ten is running the streets of 1861 London pickpocketing. Well then I would have to take them back to that day I was informed with an unfortunate event.

"Damnit, Johnny… Oh damnit, Johnny, don 't die, please don 't die." 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 very rarely think in words at all. A thought prevails and I may try to express it in words afterwards, but the words are never there to begin with. But sometimes if I’m lucky, I can identify the thought bubble almost instantaneously with what I like to call “special transmitters”. You see, each thought shape has a different feel – sometimes the thoughts are quiet as a mouse, and sometimes it is loud and thunderous. Sometimes it sounds like it is close by, and sometimes it sounds further off.

I felt my way to the bathroom a short distance and back to bed. Frightened, I yelled my sleeping husband’s name, he answered alarmed, “What’s the matter?” “I can’t see!” “What do you mean, you can’t see?” “I just see a bright-white-light, nothing else.

Stupid.” One word that could ruin a person. One word that can change a life. One word that can destroy a mind. Soph

I met Eddie Lacy on August 8. It was family fun night, and I was with my friends. I asked for his autograph and he said yea but I didn’t have a sharpe and neither did he so I asked him he said yea.

Your alarm wouldn't have gone off for another hour almost. You weren't going to fall back asleep, and you didn't want to anyway so, you got up. It was still storming outside. You actually really like the rain. That's why you moved to England.