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When I got there, I noticed that their cottage roof was made twigs, and their walls were adobe bricks. I knocked on the frail door and what looked like his mother, opened the door. She and the rest of the people huddled behind her were very malnourished and dehydrated. They had greasy hair and rags as clothes because they were to skinny to fit in anything else. I have realized my mistake.
I was starting to worry, I was curious, I was left in despair I couldn't quite in point what was making the noise. I then heard the sound of what sounded like little voices, ‘no one ever comes near my house though?’ ‘ I have never seen anyone in the real world, only through the window and a blind?' I was confused, puzzled and perplexed why there were people near my house, my house of all the houses in the town. My house is scary and not welcoming, I was not quite sure why there were kids on my veranda, yet I was too scared to go out to see who it was, what they were doing and why to my house.
There was graffiti everywhere and trash was piled up all over the streets. Building had shattered windows and the air had a putrid smell. In the distance I heard people chanting. I decided to follow the noise. The closer in got to the sound the more graffiti and trash there was.
He had been leaning against the wall when I came into the room, his arms folded across his chest. [...] As I pointed he brought his arms down and pressed the palms of his hands against the wall. [...] I looked from his hands to his sand-stained khaki pants; my eyes traveled up his thin frame to his torn denim shirt. [...] His lips parted into a timid smile, and our neighbor’s image blurred with my sudden tears.
The transition from eighth grade to ninth grade is one of the most difficult but unforgettable things a student must do in his adolescence. For me, it was filled with new opportunities of taking Ap classes and joining clubs. One of these cubs was Youth and Government (Y&G). For as long as I can remember my brother, Riad, has boasted about how amazing Y&G is and how it has changed his life. My brother is three years older then me, so as a freshman he was a senior in Y&G.
The next morning after preparing breakfast I walked outside and saw all the branches and leaves spread across the road. Clotheslines had been torn from their posts and laid limply on the ground. I saw what appeared to be a school bus pulling up to the church. People began stepping off of the bus, but they looked different then the people that I had seen before.
They were crying the hole way, but they didn't want us to notice, they had quit cries. we stepped into the buss and as the buss was taking off I wanted to take last look at my Unties and uncle before I left I took a look and I saw them crying there faces were red, I remembered when we use to have family gathering in our garden and how fun it was, the smell of the grace the beautiful breeze. At that second I felt like this was the last time I was going to see them, a tear fell down my cheeks I didn't feel it Intell it touched my drawing book
Her cousins watched in awe, maybe terror. But she grinned out at the world that she knew. Dust covered streets, trees every few feet providing little shade in the muggy air. She stepped out and they all followed. They were free to explore until dinnertime- that was when they would be missed.
The bell dinged and students poured into the cafeteria. They all dispersed very quickly, leaving me in the dust. Some clustered here, others there. Before long, I was the sole remainder, scanning the room for anybody who would be kind and reach out. In this moment I was crushed under the weight of their eyes, staring at me from all corners of the room.
As the crow flew across the sky, I felt a thick breeze of wind hit me in the face, I heard several voices talking a language I'd never heard before. I was born in southern Europe, and everyone around me was just another figure. I saw men, women, and tiny children, looking like they had been starving for quite some time. I, however did not look much different, but I guess it is the thought of more people starving than just myself. I am 14 years old, I was born in 1877, my parents have been separated from me, and my little brother just died.
You step on the frigid, cracked stone floor. The sound of your foot echoes through the walls. You hear the paint cracking, the stone walls crumbling. Bellowed whistles of songbirds are coming from outside. You feel the old, rusted bars and the faded red paint.
As the cold wind brushed past my face again I sat in the stand silently and listened to the sounds of the world, it was quiet as walking through a graveyard at night. I took a long look at the things surrounding me. Nothing was moving except the trees and the two other does.. They haven 't left yet while they walked around eating at the grass I sat waiting for them to leave. I think it took them a while to realize that there mom was dead, but they started walking away from us into the corn that was just freshly chopped.
As a child, I lived in fear because of traumatic experiences. Starting in fifth grade, I witnessed a social worker take my cousin, from my arms, into the foster system. Afterward, I was terrified of being taken away until the end of my freshman year because I had social workers in my life. Once the social workers were gone, the fear of losing my loved ones began. During ninth grade, my mom discovered she had a spinal tumor and needed surgery.
My hands were sweating and I could feel my heart about to pop out of my chest. It had been a while since I had last visited El Salvador. I was observting the workers as they stared me down. Their eyes traveled from the top of my head to the toes of my feet. “ Why were they staring at me?”
I looked at them sedately, knowing that time could not be rushed, healing could not be rushed. Smiles, laughter, hugs and kisses soon filled up the apartment. The table outside on the balcony was pristine. My friends the knives and forks were content with their lives. They were kept in the kitchen clean and warm and only taken out when meals were served.
