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Neil and Ian -Jamie and Alice Sequel- Ch. 5BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP...
When most high school students hear an alarm from their clock or cell phone, they would take one of two paths. They would rise from their slumber like the dead and prepare as slowly as humanly possible. Hygiene, sustenance, attire...and finally transportation: by bus, by car, or on foot.
Or they would press the snooze button repeatedly before stumbling out of bed and sprinting through the aforementioned process, forgetting the occasional book or article of clothing.
Neil's morning was slightly different. He would wake up at four each morning, get ready, drive to the Harrington manor, get Flora ready, and then go to school.
"Neil, I'll need you to cancel the meeting I have after school tomorrow," said the eighteen-year-old as she walked down the hall in a white robe. She was trailed behind by Neil, whose indifferent gaze frightened even the most emotionally-numbed servants.
"Yes, Lady Flora," said the sixteen-year-old. He
Neil and Ian -Jamie and Alice Sequel- Ch. 4"Neil, Neil, look! I got an A on my drawing! I never got one in Art before!" Ian said excitedly one day. He shoved his prized work in front of his computer screen. It was reminiscent to van Gogh's Starry Night with its dark colors and swirly texture. It momentarily covered the camera and blocked Neil's vision.
"You're the best teacher ever! The best!" Ian showered his friend with praise. Luckily the paper was still between the boys so Ian didn't catch Neil's reddened cheeks and sheepish smile. Ian would have most likely dismissed the reaction as an aspect of Neil's timidity; however, Neil himself knew another reason was involved. He knew, and the thought of Ian finding out terrified him. If the children at his school acted peculiarly around him because of his parents, he would rather die than let them discover his crush on another male.
Neil sighed. Now what? Hanging out with Ian became his first priority, so the remainder of the day seemed to drag on. During class, the c
Neil and Ian -Jamie and Alice Sequel- Ch. 3James didn't want to do it. He could think of several reasons not to. But he knew he had to.
"Dad, where are we ?" Ian asked as he rubbed his eyes. He was still a bit drowsy from the eight-hour flight. He didn't have a chance to have a say about it since he woke up on the plane. James looked at his son gloomily.
"We're here " James closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, "to visit Grandmother Abby."
"Oh," Ian hit the tiled ground with the tip of his shoe a few times. " How come Alex couldn't come?"
"Because your grandmother doesn't like him."
" It's a long story " the back of James' hand faced the door as he knocked on it. Ian wasn't sure why they were there when his father seemed reluctant to be. He waited for his grandmother to answer the door; instead, a man in uniform did it for her.
"Oh, Master James. How nice of you to visit today."
The servant was sticking his nose up at the visitors, despite his words. He glanced at Ian for a split second befo
Neil and Ian -Jamie and Alice Sequel- Ch. 1"You're the guy?"
That's what the girl I feel strange around said to me. Her widened eyes are pale and remind me of a husky's.
Well, no, that's not the best comparison. She's more like a pit bull. On steroids.
Her name is Flora Harrington. She claims to be the daughter of the richest woman in the city, Melrose Harrington. No one believes her because her supposed mother's never around.
She hates me now that she knows that I'm "the guy". Maybe I should tell you why.
I think this started when my class discussed who our role models were in elementary school. It was my turn so, like most kids my age, I chose my parents. I drew a picture of them and myself in front of a somewhat accurate portrayal of our house. I displayed the drawing proudly.
"This is Dad," I said while pointing at the taller man, "and this is Daddy," I pointed at the shorter man. "This is me. My parents are my role models because they are really nice and they know everything!"
Now that I think about i
Art Project- Tabula rasahttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HPlpGgUmrOA Watch while reading. (If you can. Otherwise, just watch the video~)
According to English philosopher John Locke, every person starts off with a “tabula rasa” or “blank slate” and through experience we develop who we are. In this brief video I decided to compare this to the mind of an artist. Now bear with me because I’m still very new at the illustrative art field and my anatomy, faces, and…everything…is off.
To better explain Locke’s theory, I created this guy. Let’s call him Clean Slate. Now, Clean Slate has a problem: he has no idea what to do with himself. None. He has no goals, not even a hobby.
That is, until he sees a path. He takes it. It begins with him picking up the Tabula Rasa folder which, in a sense, is his art tool. He fills that empty folder with memories he creates such as the “Look What I Did!
My Inner Child -P3P/P4- Chapter 4Warning! This contains spoilers for Persona 3 and 4. If you haven't played the games yet do NOT read!
Chikara is too shocked at first to make a sound. The last thing she remembers is seeing her students do the impossible. Her glasses were knocked off her face during the fall. She can't see a thing and believes it's because of her poor eyesight. She turns from her back to her side and grabs the nearby blob that turns out to be her spectacles. After putting them on she realizes that the area's vision, not her own, is messed up. She lifts her upper body with her arms and sees a crime scene? There are body outlines scattered around a black and white target. The area as a whole looks like a television studio hovering over nothingness. As Chika turns onto her back and holds herself up with her lower arms, she sees yet another peculiar sight. Through the yellow fog, a clown-like teddy bear is staring at her while holding a girl with floppy ears on its back.
"Mrs. Sanada?!" Yosuke
five.Five is the number of times you worry he’s stopped breathing, as the surgeons carve around his heart, twisting away the plaque ridden arteries, and pulling a vein out of his leg. Five is the number of heart wrenching hours you and your family were waiting in the hospital room, worried that your lives would crumble, that there would be five members of the family instead of six, that five days out of the week he would not come home for dinner, that five kisses from him would no longer be given to his wife and four children. Five was the amount of fingernails you bit off while watching people enter and exit the waiting room, and the amount of minutes your mother spent on the phone, explaining that something was wrong. Five is the critical difference between holding a father’s hand as your mother cries into his heart shaped pillow. The difference between rejoicing and smiling weakly because he’s okay or carrying your father’s American-flag-covered-casket and watchin
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