"Memoriam Mortis"
Air being lost Boeing sinking Clouds crossing. Death’s a-calling below. Eric screams Fred is panicked George heaves Harold only sleeps Is it all lost Just another thing Killing all our hopes and dreams, and Laughing at our last second. More air lost. Nothing to worry Only a minor difficulty Pilots know just what they’re doing! Qantas hasn’t crashed in fifty years Really there’s absolutely no truth to your fears! So just be calm Let’s be sure we won’t steer your wrong. Under the water. Victims wailing, flailing, . Oh… Why didn’t you tell us, X-rays wouldn’t save us? Your last good byes must now be said. Zephyrus will carry you far, far, away.
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Chuck Palahniuk, Writer’s Digest, October 2007
The rubber balls ricocheted around the sweat-soaked walls of the room. I crawled along the thick mat on the floor to reach for a ball. The room was filled with frantic shouts as the dodgeballs whistled overhead. As the person next to me was thwacked with the ball, he dropped to the floor and tossed the ball he already held away. As I crawled around the floor, I picked up a ball, and hurled it at another person. As they ducked to the floor, I stood up and started to run away. As I ran, the shouts of my family members drained from the air. I looked over, and I saw my family silently glancing at my nephew Charlie. A ball lay by his face, and my cousin John looked guiltily at the scene. Charlie remained completely silent as well, contemplating the sudden sensation he felt in his reddened face. As my Uncle Dave stepped forward, he began wailing, and tears started streaming down his scarlet cheeks. As everyone stepped away towards the walls, my uncle cradled Charlie, whispering to him. “It’s OK. Do you want to get John? We can sneak up on him…” Charlie continued crying as he looked up at Uncle Dave, and slowly shook his head.
"Hope"
Of all the gifts of Christmas I want one thing above all. One favorite gift, I want hope. Hope for all. Hope for the starving. Hope for the poor. Hope for the people in the midst of war. Hope for the dying. Hope for the crying. Hope for myself. And hope for anyone else. Christmas passes with time. The gifts vanish away. And yet hope remains. Hope stays. When I was two years old, I received a magnetic board that people could attach gears to. The gears would turn on the board, and they could be arranged in different patterns. I became fascinated with the board and the clockwork motion of the gears. In fact, I became so enamored with the toy that I refused to open any of my other presents until the next day. That would remain my favorite toy for many years, and it remains my favorite present.
I believed in Santa Claus for the longest time as a child. I believed the badly-rendered computer-generated images of Santa flying across the Great Pyramids of Egypt that I was shown as a child. I genuinely believed that there was a person who was able to satisfy everyone in the world, once a year, every year. That reality faded for two reasons. Firstly, I grew up. I became rational, and I lost the wonder of childhood. Secondly, I began to suspect that Santa Claus wouldn't have helped. I began to focus on the 364 days that an Afghan child spent in a war zone rather than on the one day they were happy, or the 364 days a Somali child spent in starvation. Then, I realized that the reason that American parents told their children about Santa Claus. It's a very simple reason. Hope. They want their children to hope that they will have a good year. They want their children to behave well out of hope that they will not be given coal for Christmas. And if they are in a bad situation, they want their children to hope that things will get better. That is what I would like to ask if Santa Claus existed. I would like to ask him for hope.
Hope for the starving. Hope for the poor. Hope for people in the midst of war. Hope for the dying. Hope for the crying. Hope for myself And hope for anyone else. It may sound cliched, but that's all I ask. Because in the long run, that's all Santa Claus could give. The gifts he would bring would always go away. The hope that he would string to those gifts is eternal. In any event, Santa Claus is a Western tradition, and other cultures have different holiday traditions. Even different Western cultures have different variations of the legend of Santa Claus. However, the holidays are often a source of hope, and that is universal. “Not only must it appeal to the reader, it must also appeal to you.”
I stared at the window from under the bed. It was covered in snow. I curled under the heater as warm air billowed out from it. As I sat there, it sputtered out as a cool draft blew in. I crawled out. The room was dark and cold. I crawled downstairs, and I saw my master fumbling across the living room and shivering. I crawled down the stairs. I saw a warm light glowing from the fireplace. I looked around, and he was sitting down on his armchair with a blanket. I crawled over to him, and jumped on his lap. He started gently stroking me, and I purred as I watched the snow drifting down from another window.
In my family, I have been the oldest child. I have also considered to be "the smart one" since I was very young. After I began reading at a very young age, my parents recognized my intellect, although my sister is also very intelligent and her parents have recognized her for this as well. She, however, has been considered to be "the athletic one " in the family because of her skills in basketball. Although I also do athletic functions, I am not as skilled at her in this subject and as such my parents have recognized my sister for this to a greater extent than me.
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