This is just my little '6th hour social studies I was bored outa my mind
cuz all Yates did was yakk the whole time' story...It's really short--thats
what happens when I handwrite something--my hand gets ti-red...lol...enjoy
tho chicas!!
Chelci
Unwanted Immunity
"Strike! Strike! Strike!" They yelled their chant into the hot summer air with such a force it rattled the bones in my very skull and stirred the air with their fury.
Oh, how I wanted to join them, to stand my ground with them and bellow my frustrations at that glittering building where they plotted our demise.
But I couldn't.
The only way to stay alive and breathing was to work. Their leader, when he joined us, told his former comrades that he couldn't afford to be a kid anymore.
Well just as he couldn't afford to be a child, I could not, could NOT afford to stop working.
Those fouls streets that held magic, intrigue, and a brief whiff of power on the breeze for those with enough liberties to join the strike held nothing but poverty and hunger for me.
They reeked of the stench of Black Death swooping down upon me. Staying the hell off them was my only means of survival, my only chance to stay alive.
"Scab!" they screamed. "Traitor!" they yelled.
"NO!" I wanted to cry out, but I fell silent milliseconds after opening my mouth. Casting my eyes to the dirty, smudged papers I held clutched in my grimy, chapped hands; I felt nothing but shame.
I fought the urge to throw the articles of paper down on the cobblestone like the poison they were.
"You have to work," I told myself, lifting my head high as I could manage, and attempting to make the do-it-or-die walk through the group of boys surrounding me.
As I approached, they had just succumbed another so-called 'scab' to their ranks. I hesitated, coming to a halt in front on my fellow street rats-- those who would decide my fate.
They merely stared. Disappointment glistened in their eyes as they stepped aside sadly, letting me pass.
For the first time I felt the unwanted immunity I had, being what and who I was.
Wanting to break down and wail, I silently begged and pleaded that they would threaten injury, even death, and leave me no choice.
But they didn't.
They only gazed woefully as I passed, trembling. I didn't want to be there. Being a newsy was the only thing I could do. I had no other money, no other talents, and no other options. To join the strike would mean death for sure.
But I wanted to join. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but they could.
And they didn't. They let me go.
I was nothing but a scab. Traitor. Just trying to keep myself alive.
Scab, traitor...Newsgirl.
tHE eND.
Chelci
Unwanted Immunity
"Strike! Strike! Strike!" They yelled their chant into the hot summer air with such a force it rattled the bones in my very skull and stirred the air with their fury.
Oh, how I wanted to join them, to stand my ground with them and bellow my frustrations at that glittering building where they plotted our demise.
But I couldn't.
The only way to stay alive and breathing was to work. Their leader, when he joined us, told his former comrades that he couldn't afford to be a kid anymore.
Well just as he couldn't afford to be a child, I could not, could NOT afford to stop working.
Those fouls streets that held magic, intrigue, and a brief whiff of power on the breeze for those with enough liberties to join the strike held nothing but poverty and hunger for me.
They reeked of the stench of Black Death swooping down upon me. Staying the hell off them was my only means of survival, my only chance to stay alive.
"Scab!" they screamed. "Traitor!" they yelled.
"NO!" I wanted to cry out, but I fell silent milliseconds after opening my mouth. Casting my eyes to the dirty, smudged papers I held clutched in my grimy, chapped hands; I felt nothing but shame.
I fought the urge to throw the articles of paper down on the cobblestone like the poison they were.
"You have to work," I told myself, lifting my head high as I could manage, and attempting to make the do-it-or-die walk through the group of boys surrounding me.
As I approached, they had just succumbed another so-called 'scab' to their ranks. I hesitated, coming to a halt in front on my fellow street rats-- those who would decide my fate.
They merely stared. Disappointment glistened in their eyes as they stepped aside sadly, letting me pass.
For the first time I felt the unwanted immunity I had, being what and who I was.
Wanting to break down and wail, I silently begged and pleaded that they would threaten injury, even death, and leave me no choice.
But they didn't.
They only gazed woefully as I passed, trembling. I didn't want to be there. Being a newsy was the only thing I could do. I had no other money, no other talents, and no other options. To join the strike would mean death for sure.
But I wanted to join. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but they could.
And they didn't. They let me go.
I was nothing but a scab. Traitor. Just trying to keep myself alive.
Scab, traitor...Newsgirl.
tHE eND.