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Daily Write 6.19.2013Daily Write 6.19.2013
Why did I have to buy that ticket?
Why did I have to get on this boat?
Why did I think that having a family vacation was a great idea?
These are the thoughts that go through Mr. Glaspell’s mind as he is blindfolded. He is in a room with other hostages-that at least he can tell from the cries for help, grunts, and shouts from their kidnappers. More importantly, he’s trying to find his family.
Why did I even try to have a family vacation?
Mr. Glaspell had been having a rough patch in his marriage.
There have been a string of many layoffs at the law firm he worked at. Key word here: worked. He was one of the many fired. His children, now older and soon to leave the house had become distant. They were their own people now, with their friends and boyfriends, barely home.
He regrets never being home during their childhood, putting too many hours and years into the law firm, which would eventually fire him.
The lack of money flow has caused financia
Daily Write 6.18.2013I'm always the last to know when a project is going on during class. Probably because I'm never there half the time. That's what comes with the territory of course.
Most of my classmates probably wonder what kind of person I am. I get straight A's yet I barely show up to school. Well, I guess they never really wonder because I'm never there. If it wasn't for Ned I wouldn't be able to finish any of these projects at the last moment. Ned is my intelligence guy. It also helps that he's in my homeroom. I think The Agency did that on purpose.
I'm on top of the Pfiltzer building. Its chrome windows reflect off the full moon. It's really windy so I keep my elbow on top of my essay papers. Thank goodness Mrs. Lowe lets me turn in my papers in pencil, because there's no way I can keep my laptop inside my spandex suit. I brush away the curls out of my face with third arm. I've been waiting here for an hour, waiting for a bank heist to happen. I guess Ned was wrong this time. At least I have bee
Daily Write 6.10.2013Daily Write
June 10, 2013
Her cold shivering hands clasped the lock around her neck. It was the only thing she owned other than the clothes on her back and the shoes on her feet. She shook violently as the downpour of rain unrelentingly battered her body. Steadily she makes her way towards the lights in the distance.
As she approaches the lights in the distance she realizes it is the lights given off by a building. She walks up the porch and up to the front door of the longhouse. A sign.
The Red Lute. Her final destination.
Knock knock, knock.
Still no answer.
A low dreary sigh escapes her lips. She contemplates leaving but then realizes she has more work to be done. Suddenly a short portly woman opens the door.
Why lookie here. Whatch’a doing outside in this odd kind of weather darlin’. Getting ‘ere before I drag ya in meeself.
Soaked from head to toe the weary traveler enters the longhouse to see that it was an inn. There was a large
The TrundlerThe waste land behind the fire station is always silent. No birds sing there, and even the wild rabbits and feral cats avoid it. Weedy wildflowers nod their seasonal heads in the breeze. Lying fallow in the midst of housing developments, shopping malls, the new movie theater — the vacant lot stands out like a knife wound on a woman’s placid face, shocking, brazen, ugly.
It is always empty. Except for one thing: a ragged heap of old trash, all nasty black tar paper and vicious snarls of rusted wire, car parts and broken glass and other junkyard jetsam. The embodiment of injury waiting to happen, an invitation to a tetanus shot... the city never hauled it away. No one ever wants anywhere near it; it radiates an eerie sense of calculating watchfulness.
And at night, it wanders.
When darkness falls, and the last cars heading into the hives of tract housing stop illuminating the asphalt with moving-picture shadows, it… unfolds. Bitter, broken tangles, grotesquely mov
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