Assignment 4: Web Research
Do some web research and find at least one good article from a reputable source that relates directly to the subject matter of your blog. Write a short intro to this article (a few sentences) and then provide a link to it. For example...
________________________
Harsh treatment awaits children fleeing war and persecution
In this article from The Guardian (London) dated June 3, 2008, the reporter follows the lives of children fleeing the horrors of war and civil turmoil in such places as Afghanistan and the Congo to their arrival in Greece, where they are liable to end up in abysmal conditions, housed in detention centers alongside hardened criminals.
Click here to read the whole article.
_________________________
Reminder: to create a link to the article, do the following:
• copy the URL of the article to the clipboard
• back in the Blogger "New Post" window, highlight the word or words you want them to click on to get to the article
• click on the link icon (= a chain) in the tool bar at the top of the New Post edit window
• paste in the URL you just copied
Assignment 5: Storytelling
Telling a good story is not just for movies and novels, it's also a key skill for the journalist. Your first storytelling assignment is to simply tell a story in a page or two. You can tell any story you want. It does not have to have anything to do with your blog or to be "newsworthy." All stories will be read aloud in class!
Some key components to consider:
• characterization
• visualization of their world
• conflicting forces
• dramatic tension
• empathy
• building our interest (the un-inverted pyramid!)
• playing with expectations; plot "twists"
• the ending offers a payoff
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Roses were blooming, drinking in their thirst for light. All so alive and vibrant. All except for one. One bud that refused to open, protecting its innocence. A glow eminated from the flower that intrigued a mischievious fire elf. The elf, small and magnificent, had wings that flowed like fire. The elves' orange and red skin would burn any creature who touched him.
ReplyDeleteThe fire elf flew malignantly at the rose. The flower, sizzling at every step he took. Using his power of fire, the elf tore open to bud to discover an even smaller, sleeping faerie, curled into a ball. She had the most beautiful form; her body was covered in a shiny glitter that gave off a gleam of green. Vigorously, the fire elf placed his hands on the faeries body and shook her, leaving a red burn mark upon her arm. Startled and in pain, she awoke.
Grabbing the faerie by the wrists, the elf yanked her from her dwelling. Screaming in shock from the burns on her flesh, the faerie spread her wings and took flight for the first time. With little control of her flying, she swerved and hit branches. The fire elf soon caught up with her. Giggling to himself, he conjured a fire ball from the tips of his fingers that was smaller than a pea. The elf threw his magic towards her and hit the faerie on the wing. As the faerie was tumbling towards the dirt the fire elf scooped her up and tossed her into the air. Twirling in the air, the elf kicked her in the side and the faerie came falling down to the ground. Once the faerie hit, she rolled under the shelter of a bushel of leaves next to a pond. Hearing the mocking and searching tone of the fire elfs voice, the faerie began to cry, crouching over the water. The sounds of the elf nearly drowned out the noise of her tears hitting the water. When the faerie noticed that her tears had stopped splashing she opened her to find the large face of a water nymph. The nymph was covered in a most obsurd slime, yet she was the most beautiful thing the faerie had every dreamed of.
Trying to get a closer look at the water nymph, the faerie stepped out behind the shelter of a leaf. Almost instantly, she heard the soft but fearsome cackle of the fire elf flying above her. When she turned around he was already darting towards her, smiling wide. The faerie felt a couple trickles of water fall upon her head as a great stream of liquid smashed into the fire elf. With his wings snuffed out the elf tumbled to the ground. His glow was no more. His beautiful hues of orange and red turned into a grey charcoal. The fire elf gasped in surprise and snuck away into the vast greens of the forest.
Consumed by shock by the endless taunting of the elf, the faerie went to faint and landed in the hands of the nymph. Instantly, the slime from the water nymph healed every burn on the faeries body. Carefully, the nymph carried the faerie and laid her to rest on the silk petals of a rose.
We'll all be forgotten and dead in the end.
ReplyDeleteIts morbid. It's true. History books don't remember people – they remember figures and fallacies. The champions story. The champions limited perspective. The losers defeat.
***
Karl carries his bronze metal with him wherever he goes – always in the right hand. To Karl, the medallion on its green and red necklace, is perfect. Is beautiful. Everyday Karl gets on the city bus hoping someone will ask him about it. No one ever does.
Just yesterday, Karl tried to share his story to a dark skinned, sharply dressed man. But when Karl stood in front of him, motioning to his bronze metal, the man mumbled something about 'this being you're seat. I'll move.'
Karl sits up front. Alone. He stares out the window watching the blurry figures of Sitka Spruce sprint by. The bus driver is the only one that calls Karl by his name. The only one who actually speaks to him.
“Morning Karl. Where's you're earphones today?”
“Music is dead. Broken.” Karl points to his tape player.
“Too bad.”
No one really cares that the music had died for Karl. Much less care to know his name. The morning bus is always an odd lot. People tired eyed, staring placidly, wishing they were dead. Karl tries to tell a story to himself about the people he sees.
There is the woman who always sits in the back, who always wears flower pattern dresses. She has miles and miles of tulips and daises, wild flowers of every kind, growing in all directions near her home. Yes. She comes into town every morning on the city bus to buy flower seed. During sunny days she runs through her flowers. Rolls in them. Talks to them softly. Millions of flowers she knows by name. Friends. Every single one of them.
Karl tries to decide if this is correct. He can't, so he walks to the back of the bus, where the woman is seated.
“Are they pretty?”
“Sorry?”
“Your flowers. Pretty?”
“No flowers. Sorry.”
The women awkwardly turns her head to look out the window. Smells of diesel.
“You like my metal?”
She nods politely without looking at him. Karl sits in the seat next to her and looks about the bus. Everyone is lost within themselves. No speaking. The bus rocks and sways with the pavement and random stops. It is Karl that has driven them to these distant stares. Trying not to be seen. Trying to be dead, for the sake of comfort.
There shell be no human contact during public transportation.
Karl sees the Chevron gas station that is near where he works, picking up dirty dishes. He pulls on the yellow chord to stop the bus. It rumbles violently into the next stop. The breaks hiss, and the fiery hot engine burns the lungs.
“Have a good day Karl.”
He holds up his bronze metal in the bus drivers rear view mirror and steps out into the world. People are ambling into the front of the bus. As Karl turns to walk up the street, he sees the flower woman looking at him. Her lips are moving. She's trying to say something. The bus is pulling away. She's looking at him. Trying to say something. Why can't he hear her. She wants to tell him about flowers. Karl is running. He is waving his medallion wildly. He can see his reflection and her face.
In a breath, the world instantly became blurry and unclear. It came before the screeching and honking that echoes now in Karl's head. The worldly is fuzzy. Hollow in a way. Karl can't move. He tries to think about his metal and the womans flowers. Can't concentrate. Somethings wrong. Karl feels hot. A warmth that drains him, makes him sleepy. He yawns. Fade to black.
***
She was trying to say goodbye. The flower women. All she wanted was a little repentance for her avoidance.
I watched Karl's blood stream from his head. He'd landed on his back, arms out stretched like an angel, eyes to the sky. In his clenched right hand, he held the green and red ribbon to his bronze medallion. It seemed like the whole world was silent. That no one else was around. I got closer and turned over Karl's metal.
There is a sketch of a man with his hands in the air. Along the edges it reads. You're a Winner.
I read in the newspaper how we'll remember Karl. “Man with Down Syndrome Struck by Car.”
Beautiful night in a small village near Dikili, three young people are sitting in a Turkish café and enjoying speaking with owner of café who is great person, good father for his two sons and well known man in the entire region. He told me a story.
ReplyDeleteThere is a very popular national imaginer man from black sea port named Temel. Temel is a good hunter. People from different places came to hunt with him.
One time 3 foreigners came to hunt with Temel. Temel saw a little hole and said to his friends - lay down, this is a rabbit’s hole. They waited for a rabbit to come out. When he finally came they killed him. The foreigner hunter said - Temel you are a good hunter you know everything.
Then they walked 20 m further. Temel saw another hole but a little bit bigger, then he said again - lay down friends this is a fox’s hole. When the fox came out they killed her. The foreigners again said that Temel is a very good hunter. He was proud.
After a little while, they went 100 m further and found a bigger hole. This was a bears hole they killed also him. The foreign hunters were shocked that Temel knows everything about hunting that he knows which hole belongs to each animal.
After 500m Temel said to friends - lay down! I don’t know who has this hole this is too big. They all laid down and waited in front of the hole. In the morning people heard that 3 foreigner hunters and Temel were struck by a train.
Story of little Anil
ReplyDeleteAnil was born in the end of December. The frostiest time of the year of northern island “The New land (Russian Novaja zemlja)” It was late evening. He found himself in small, dark room. First what he noticed was lighted candles, which filled room with pleasant warmth. Then he was clutched by old but still strong hands. He wanted to weep and he did but then these hands toweled him and inserted in gentle lap, which was alike, these warm lights of the candles. “My little son” soft voice said, “Here you are, so small, so helpless but it is okay, I will be like wall, like sun, like sky for you…”
One brunch, second branch and here is more and more… Looks that today he collected enough firewood for this evening. Mum and grandma will be proud of him. Yes, now Anil is twelve years old man, yes, really man, not children; this is how he considers himself. He is the only man in his family, so he must support and take care of it. And he does it well.
Selecting of the brunches is one of his daily works. His family, mum and grandma, are living far from the town and other people. Actually they don’t even have neighbors. Nobody helps them, so they must support themselves as well as they can. Their house is surrounded by forest. It is annoying but neither good, so they can get the firewood for freezing winters and cold autumn. To reach the closest town you should walk for four hours. In former times they had horse, so it was easier to reach the city but after his dad joined angels it was too difficult to keep the horse.
“Almost done!” Anil gave a deep sigh. He sat in the snow and took a deep breathe - the steam blowed out of his mouth. He lied down on the snow and looked up to the sky. “Clouds and only clouds, so much of them that I can touch them with one of mine arms,” thought over Anil. He looked on his arm and guess what he noticed? Baby bear, it was baby bear! It was the first time when he saw him so close.
Anil stroked him. First baby bear was little bit scary of him but after a while he started to act like a small puppy. He hoped and elbowed, he played and bite Anil, though bites was gentle. Anil played with bear but then he noticed that baby bear prints weren’t the only one. There were the big ones, the baby mother prints. Anil decided to go away. Once a time his mother warned him to stay away from big while beasts. He made a step after step but little bear followed him. He started to run but then he noticed dazzling eyes behind the bushes. He became stiff. He felt a blood pulsing in his head. He heard total silence, like everything had been stopped; only his heart was wildly hitting. “This is the end” he had intentioned…
Suddenly he found himself running. Running away to save his life. Branches of the bushes bumped his face. He felt the pain on his face, there was even blood but nothing couldn’t stop him. The bear mother was really angry. She come closer and closer. Anil already was able to hear her breathing. Nothing could stop her!
Now Anil found shelter from the bear. He can't understand what happens, but he feels that something is better than it was while he was running. And it is so. The old spruce saved him. He is sitting between two brunches and hopeless goggle at the angry mother bear. Seems that she will stay here all the night while she will be able to pick to the pieces the enemy who dare to touched her baby.
It's became dark and extremely freezing. The bear is still under the spruce. Snowstorm is starting. The only thing which warm Anil is his breath, but even his breath became cooler and cooler. The only thing which is on his mind, is memories of his birth... lighted candles, which filled room with pleasant warmth, clutch by old but still strong hands and the gentle mother's lap, which was alike, these warm lights of the candles...
You cannot visit Kampala and miss the passenger motorcycles dubbed boda boda taxis manoeuvre through busy traffic at unbeatable speeds on pavements, past pedestrians and sometimes through busy markets and stalls.
ReplyDeleteTheir motive is to hurry, beat traffic jams or make an extra penny a day. For most passengers, boda boda have become a necessary evil. It is a necessity when one wants to beat traffic jam and it is the cheapest means for those who cannot afford personal vehicles or cabs.
So far, the boda boda are the most efficient means of transport in Kampala. But this has come at a cost.
I narrowly escaped death in a road accident, when a vehicle hit the boda boda I was riding on, leaving me with a broken leg right leg.
At only 23years of age, I recall with horror the moment when the boda boda cyclist halted abruptly, in front of a vehicle that was probably heading to Bugolobi, a Kampala suburb. The driver had hooted signaling to him to give way, but it was too late.
A terrible accident was about to happen and I was certain it would take only seconds, before the vehicle could do away with us.
The driver of the vehicle tried desperately to avoid us by braking as hard as possible, but the speed and the distance at which the vehicle was from us left a slim chance for him not to knock us.
The vehicle eventually hit us — throwing me first onto its windscreen, then bounced me off like a log five meters forward to the right of the vehicle, and finally to the ground. Next to me lay the boda boda cyclist, who was trying to save his motorcycle. The next thing I knew, he had vanished from the scene, probably because he knew it was his fault.
The accident occurred on March 25, 2005 during the second semester of my first year at University. Looking back, I remember how I woke up as early as 6:00am to prepare for University. I went through my morning routine and took a ‘boda boda’ because this was my quickest means to University.
Majority of the residents in my neighborhood, Naguru, own personal vehicles and as a result, taxi operators have shunned the area because they hardly get passengers.
On the fateful morning, the boda boda ride was a tense trip, through busy traffic on Jinja Road, followed by a sharp turn on first Street-Industrial Area where vehicles freely cruise at terrific speed, despite the fact that it is a busy road, with many young, old and vulnerable people crossing daily to work.
I had taken this route since my first year at University and nothing like this had ever happened, until that day when the boda boda rider I had hired to drop me to University miscalculated and crossed the road at the wrong time.
I was sure this was a end of my life on earth. I was scared of death and visions of death set in my mind.
On the ground, I was unconscious and began experiencing blurred visions. When I gained consciousness, I saw a crowd of bystanders consisting of police and ordinary people, some terrified and others worried. I believed they thought I was dead, which I also thought. But some how God wanted me to live for another day.
I stood up and walked one meter towards a nearby news paper kiosk, where I sat on a nearby pavement. All I could hear from the crowd were whispers of sorrow and pity.
The voice that stood out was that of Camilla, my mum's workmate at the Bank of Uganda, “I know him he is a son to my workmate. Let us take him to International Hospital Kampala-IHK,” was a comfort. The driver, who hit me, helped me to his vehicle and took me to IHK along with Camilla.
It was in the vehicle that I realized blood was gushing from the cuts on my face like a cock whose throat had just been cut. When I touched the wounds and saw the blood tears started to roll down my face. I unconsciously collapsed.
At the hospital, I was rushed to the casualty wing, where a team of four dedicated doctors and two nurses attended to me. I was given two injections-one for tetanus and another to relieve pain. One of the nurses dressed my wounds and I was rushed to the X-ray room, to examine my skull. It was an agonising moment, but the results were good, my skull was safe but i had a broken bone in my right lover limb, anatomically refferedb to as tibia.
The doctor treating me was astonished. “A miracle! Most people who come down with a direct accident either die or have life-threatening fractures,” she said. “You have to thank God.”
Now recovering from the shock, the experience has taught me never to use a boda boda again. Boda boda cyclists are so reckless.
They have caused to numerous accidents. I still get nightmares, three years after cheating death.
The day I cheated death
ReplyDeleteYou cannot visit Kampala and miss the passenger motorcycles dubbed boda boda taxis manoeuvre through busy traffic at unbeatable speeds on pavements, past pedestrians and sometimes through busy markets and stalls.
Their motive is to hurry, beat traffic jams or make an extra penny a day. For most passengers, boda boda have become a necessary evil. It is a necessity when one wants to beat traffic jam and it is the cheapest means for those who cannot afford personal vehicles or cabs.
So far, the boda boda are the most efficient means of transport in Kampala. But this has come at a cost.
I narrowly escaped death in a road accident, when a vehicle hit the boda boda I was riding on, leaving me with a broken leg right leg.
At only 23years of age, I recall with horror the moment when the boda boda cyclist halted abruptly, in front of a vehicle that was probably heading to Bugolobi, a Kampala suburb. The driver had hooted signaling to him to give way, but it was too late.
A terrible accident was about to happen and I was certain it would take only seconds, before the vehicle could do away with us.
The driver of the vehicle tried desperately to avoid us by braking as hard as possible, but the speed and the distance at which the vehicle was from us left a slim chance for him not to knock us.
The vehicle eventually hit us — throwing me first onto its windscreen, then bounced me off like a log five meters forward to the right of the vehicle, and finally to the ground. Next to me lay the boda boda cyclist, who was trying to save his motorcycle. The next thing I knew, he had vanished from the scene, probably because he knew it was his fault.
The accident occurred on March 25, 2005 during the second semester of my first year at University. Looking back, I remember how I woke up as early as 6:00am to prepare for University. I went through my morning routine and took a ‘boda boda’ because this was my quickest means to University.
Majority of the residents in my neighborhood, Naguru, own personal vehicles and as a result, taxi operators have shunned the area because they hardly get passengers.
On the fateful morning, the boda boda ride was a tense trip, through busy traffic on Jinja Road, followed by a sharp turn on first Street-Industrial Area where vehicles freely cruise at terrific speed, despite the fact that it is a busy road, with many young, old and vulnerable people crossing daily to work.
I had taken this route since my first year at University and nothing like this had ever happened, until that day when the boda boda rider I had hired to drop me to University miscalculated and crossed the road at the wrong time.
I was sure this was a end of my life on earth. I was scared of death and visions of death set in my mind.
On the ground, I was unconscious and began experiencing blurred visions. When I gained consciousness, I saw a crowd of bystanders consisting of police and ordinary people, some terrified and others worried. I believed they thought I was dead, which I also thought. But some how God wanted me to live for another day.
I stood up and walked one meter towards a nearby news paper kiosk, where I sat on a nearby pavement. All I could hear from the crowd were whispers of sorrow and pity.
The voice that stood out was that of Camilla, my mum's workmate at the Bank of Uganda, “I know him he is a son to my workmate. Let us take him to International Hospital Kampala-IHK,” was a comfort. The driver, who hit me, helped me to his vehicle and took me to IHK along with Camilla.
It was in the vehicle that I realized blood was gushing from the cuts on my face like a cock whose throat had just been cut. When I touched the wounds and saw the blood tears started to roll down my face. I unconsciously collapsed.
At the hospital, I was rushed to the casualty wing, where a team of four dedicated doctors and two nurses attended to me. I was given two injections-one for tetanus and another to relieve pain. One of the nurses dressed my wounds and I was rushed to the X-ray room, to examine my skull. It was an agonizing moment, but the results were good, my skull was safe but i had a broken bone in my right lover limb, anatomically called the tibia.
The doctor treating me was astonished. “A miracle! Most people who come down with a direct accident either die or have life-threatening fractures,” she said. “You have to thank God.”
Now recovering from the shock, the experience has taught me never to use a boda boda again. Boda boda cyclists are so reckless.
They have caused to numerous accidents. I still get nightmares, three years after cheating death.
The day I cheated death
ReplyDeleteYou cannot visit Kampala and miss the passenger motorcycles dubbed boda boda taxis manoeuvre through busy traffic at unbeatable speeds on pavements, past pedestrians and sometimes through busy markets and stalls.
Their motive is to hurry, beat traffic jams or make an extra penny a day. For most passengers, boda boda have become a necessary evil. It is a necessity when one wants to beat traffic jam and it is the cheapest means for those who cannot afford personal vehicles or cabs.
So far, the boda boda are the most efficient means of transport in Kampala. But this has come at a cost.
I narrowly escaped death in a road accident, when a vehicle hit the boda boda I was riding on, leaving me with a broken leg right leg.
At only 23years of age, I recall with horror the moment when the boda boda cyclist halted abruptly, in front of a vehicle that was probably heading to Bugolobi, a Kampala suburb. The driver had hooted signaling to him to give way, but it was too late.
A terrible accident was about to happen and I was certain it would take only seconds, before the vehicle could do away with us.
The driver of the vehicle tried desperately to avoid us by braking as hard as possible, but the speed and the distance at which the vehicle was from us left a slim chance for him not to knock us.
The vehicle eventually hit us — throwing me first onto its windscreen, then bounced me off like a log five meters forward to the right of the vehicle, and finally to the ground. Next to me lay the boda boda cyclist, who was trying to save his motorcycle. The next thing I knew, he had vanished from the scene, probably because he knew it was his fault.
The accident occurred on March 25, 2005 during the second semester of my first year at University. Looking back, I remember how I woke up as early as 6:00am to prepare for University. I went through my morning routine and took a ‘boda boda’ because this was my quickest means to University.
Majority of the residents in my neighborhood, Naguru, own personal vehicles and as a result, taxi operators have shunned the area because they hardly get passengers.
On the fateful morning, the boda boda ride was a tense trip, through busy traffic on Jinja Road, followed by a sharp turn on first Street-Industrial Area where vehicles freely cruise at terrific speed, despite the fact that it is a busy road, with many young, old and vulnerable people crossing daily to work.
I had taken this route since my first year at University and nothing like this had ever happened, until that day when the boda boda rider I had hired to drop me to University miscalculated and crossed the road at the wrong time.
I was sure this was a end of my life on earth. I was scared of death and visions of death set in my mind.
On the ground, I was unconscious and began experiencing blurred visions. When I gained consciousness, I saw a crowd of bystanders consisting of police and ordinary people, some terrified and others worried. I believed they thought I was dead, which I also thought. But some how God wanted me to live for another day.
I stood up and walked one meter towards a nearby news paper kiosk, where I sat on a nearby pavement. All I could hear from the crowd were whispers of sorrow and pity.
The voice that stood out was that of Camilla, my mum's workmate at the Bank of Uganda, “I know him he is a son to my workmate. Let us take him to International Hospital Kampala-IHK,” was a comfort. The driver, who hit me, helped me to his vehicle and took me to IHK along with Camilla.
It was in the vehicle that I realized blood was gushing from the cuts on my face like a cock whose throat had just been cut. When I touched the wounds and saw the blood tears started to roll down my face. I unconsciously collapsed.
At the hospital, I was rushed to the casualty wing, where a team of four dedicated doctors and two nurses attended to me. I was given two injections-one for tetanus and another to relieve pain. One of the nurses dressed my wounds and I was rushed to the X-ray room, to examine my skull. It was an agonizing moment, but the results were good, my skull was safe but i had a broken bone in my right lover limb, anatomically known as the tibia.
The doctor treating me was astonished. “A miracle! Most people who come down with a direct accident either die or have life-threatening fractures,” she said. “You have to thank God.”
Now recovering from the shock, the experience has taught me never to use a boda boda again. Boda boda cyclists are so reckless.
They have caused to numerous accidents. I still get nightmares, three years after cheating death.
Finally, exams were over. no more burning the midnight oil, no more last-minute memory of the textbook. When the exams were over, everything came back to life. My friend Angeline is one of the earliest people who recovered from the dreadful mood. Right after the last test, she asked me to go shopping with her.
ReplyDeleteTo get away from the school life, we put on make-up, took out our most fashionable skirt and went to the downtown. Downtown was always crowded on Saturday afternoon, people rushed into shopping malls and supermarkets buying things as if they were for free. People were all in a hurry, they wanted to buy the lastest Cosmopolitan, they wanted to buy the newest design of clothes. Angeline and I were part of them, happy, eager to empty the cash of our wallet, until we found out there was someone staring at us on the street.
He was a short guy, dark hair, with a pair of round glasses. Dressed in a white T-shirt and blue jeans, he looked like a salesman of toothpaste or something else. He began to follow us as soon as we got out of the subway station. We were scared, and began to speed up. He walked faster, too, trying to catch up with us.
Angeline got so frighten that she dragged my hand and ran. We didn't stop until a police officer appeared around the corner. Angeline walked up to him and said, " Sir, there is a guy stroking after us."
the Police officer became alert, "Is he still there? Can you point him out?"
"Yes! The guy in white!"
The police officer took out his baton, turned around, and suddenly, relaxed," Pete! It is the third time in this week you got me trouble." then he tuned around and said,"sorry ladies, he is a photographer for a fashion magazine. I think he just wanted to take a snapshot of you two. You know, you look great today."
The Red Umbrella
ReplyDeleteI lost my umbrella. It is a red umbrella, a present given by Meng for my ninteenth birthday. It came to me when spring just began turning to summer. "I still remember the shinning excited in you when decrebing the red umbrella to me. It was your seventeen, and all the beautifuls of that time." these words, came together with the umbrella from Meng's south to my North.
I lost my umbrella. It is the same red umbrella as Moyo's in the movie The Story of Aril. It became the color of my seventeen, when I saw Moyo running in the rain, holding the broken red umbrella, and suddenly turn around, smiling.
I lost my umbrella. Yes, the broken red umbrella was my seventeen. It began with the unnamed TV serials when thirteen, to fifteen the city of Shanghai, glass at the front of the kaleidskope, and the white Beijing when sixteen. It was so simple that music and bicycle were all I need for happyness. The world is mine if only open the arms.
"I lost my umbrella." I sent a text message to Meng. It took a short while for her to reply, "It's in you. Memory is still there, never lost."
The story takes place in 2006. A young man who just turned 25 works for
ReplyDeletea small company that prepares and finds work to those who are done with
the army and want to be security guards. He is an orphan in spite of his
father was alive but he did not care how his son was doing and what is
going on with him.However the guy was enthuciastic and his work and life
were only things to be concerned about. For over two years since he lost
mother to cancer he did not have any days off to go out with friends or
just take a rest for a couple of days. The oppression that he felt did
not allow him to be inspired or to go through his sorrow due to mother s
death. Day by day and hour by hour this shy and modest young man began
coming in himself because he thought to himself nothing is forever and
nobody would things for you / man/ unless you want do them yourself
I do not actually understand him just bacause he was good at his
job made enough money to get everything needed. From the point of women
he was attractive and could easyly a couple of girlfriends. What aws
happened one day he met preety loking lady that came to apply for a
position at the company where he was working. As he thought she was a
dream of dreams but he was mistaken. After two weeks on horisont appeared another condidate on his
heart and he was stuck between two fires. A huge desire to have them both was so strong that he spent
only one night a week on his own and the erst of the days he could be found at one of those ladies
home.
Second lady was a young widove with two children she is average looking and experienced in terms
of the family. It did not stop him she attracted him somehow and the fact that there were two chilren
was not concerned him.Every time when he visited that big family children began calling him as a
father. Eventually after couple of month trial he makes a proposal to a mother of two wonderful
children. For a widove that was a dream she never expcted anybody to get marriage to her. What about
the first love he had she was not aware that he has already become someones husband. She was
absolutely sure that he went fishing with the friends. In about one month in one windy day when clouds
were darker than night the truth was revealed.
The doorbell was ringing so unsual and ''It cannot be him it is too early to get back from work
thought newlyd and all the same answered the door. In front of the door was standing a medium hight
young woman with red curly hair and on the face was light make up. That was the last day when
dreams of two women were shattered. Conversation between two tricked women did not last long but it
was highly productive. By the time when that poor husband returned to home his adored wife has just
served at the table and peacefully met him. They procced to the dinning room children were playing in
the porch so nothing could sidetrack them. Dinner looked amazing and delisious it was prepared as if it
was a birthday party. She slowly took the bottle of champagne out of the friege and gave to him to
open. Champagne was called '' Widove Clico he pured some bubbling drink and wife suddenly gave a
toast to a new life that was surprised him because there was not any reason to that. They already were
doing new life but was too late when he drank it his last words were // I guess you now about
everything. That was the end of the modern Kasanova and two brave Amasones.
As she got on the plane she made the last phone call from her cell phone for over a month. There was a feeling deep in her stomach that was almost like a chemical mixture of excitement, nervousness, and a chicken cesear salad. The nine hour flight to Germany was the longest most antcipatory time of her life that included the biggest plane and the smallest bathrooms she has ever laid her eyes on.
ReplyDeleteWhen she awoke a day later in Frankfurt the combination of sleep deprivation and the time change had her confused and hazy. After shaking her confused state she made her way down the gate and into the airport, the first steps in Europe that she had ever took. She made her way to the payphones and phoned home, this call later calculated out to be $18 US Dollars per minute.
Her layover lasted almost three hours and left her just as tired as she was when she landed. As she entered the gate for her plane she was escorted through a door and onto a bus, which left her utterly perplexed. She followed the crowd, enetered the bus, and stared out the window as she rode towards the airstrip. Her only thought was that, '' I really hope I dont miss my flight because of this.''
Just as this thought crossed her mind the bus stopped in front of a plane that made her feel better about her departure.
The time between her departure from Frankfurt and her arrival in Istanbul was uneventful, except for the few dreams she had as she was passed out against the warm plane window. Because she went to sleep so fast after seating in the plane, she did not realize that the plane didnt actually take off for almost two hours after its scheduled time. When she got off the plane in Istanbul she realized that this bus thing at airports was going to continue as she was pushed onto another bus that took her to the airport.
Everyone in front of her rushed to this large mass of people, what she found out to be seconds later where she was to get her visa. The line was relatively short and she cuold not fugure out why everyone had been fussing over the long wait. But she was unaware of the second line of people that wrapped around a dozen times, this was the line for a stamp, still to this day she doesnt really know what it was for. But the wait was long, crowded, and was slightly unpleasent to smell. She was patient with the line, but nothing could change the pace of it and she missed her flight to Izmir. With no knowledge of Turkish speaking or writing, she found an english speaking customer service agent who hastily put her on a flight to Izmir that left in twenty five minutes.
Relieved to be on a plane and onto her final destination, she didnt know that the real adventure was just beginning.