Finally, the student interactions are something to be proud of. If a student should trip and fall, others are rushing to and fro, trying to pick up the downed student and his books and pens. Never would a student stop and laugh, point obnoxiously, then proceed to walk on to class, eager to tell their friends about the fallen comrade. Most have fallen up the stairs at least once at Whitmer; most do it a few times a year. If you are unlucky enough to have fallen in a highly-traveled stairwell, no worries! Some kind soul will stop to help you. Those who don’t have time to help you will politely shift their gaze and not snicker at you as they walk over your Chemistry book
( ... )
Her birth name, given to her just to spite her gender, by the mother that never loved her, was Ryanne. She was supposed to be a boy. She wasn’t supposed to fool the ultrasound. She wasn’t supposed to see the shrug of the doctors, the heavy sigh of her mother, hear the ‘well, these things happen’ speech they were given, just as she was given to her mother; never mom
( ... )
Ryanne often felt like that little girl Matilda -- she had only herself to rely on and take care of. Her mud colored hair and eyes lay glum against her pale skin, and her body was lanky like the string beans her mother made her eat when she was being punished. She was told to clean the floors and make the dinner, mastering the open flame of the gas stove before she could even see what was in the pots without standing on her tip-toes. She lived life between the four walls in her room, emerging only for school and food, fearing her mother’s wrath. Never did her mother lay a finger on the child in harm; her glares and silent resentment were enough to drive Ryanne loopy. She began to write poems, twisted and slightly disturbing for a girl of ten years old, but it’s not like anyone cared what she did anyways. She often made trips to the library and always checked out two books at a time; one would always be the dictionary to help her with the winding words in the biography of Edgar Allen Poe or Sylvia Plath
( ... )
Her birth name, given to her just to spite her gender, by the mother who never loved her, was Ryanne. She was supposed to be a boy, Ryan Ross III. She wasn’t supposed to fool the ultrasound. She wasn’t supposed to see the shrug of the doctors, the heavy sigh of her mother, hear the “well, these things happen” speech they were given, just as she was given to her mother; never mom
( ... )
Brendon, born last of five children, was obnoxious. There was no nicer way to say it. Sure, there were always harsher ways, and maybe one could make the argument that there were actually nicer ways, but obnoxious just fit. He was always, always talking. He could carry on a conversation with the family dog for a good hour, before the dog would get bored and leave. He was probably babied a lot because he was the youngest, and missed the eyerolls from his family - good-natured from his parents, sibling annoyance from the rest
( ... )
Her birth name, given to her just to spite her gender, by the mother who never loved her, was Ryanne. She was supposed to be a boy, Ryan Ross III. She wasn’t supposed to fool the ultrasound. She wasn’t supposed to see the shrug of the doctors, the heavy sigh of her mother, hear the “well, these things happen” speech they were given, just as she was given to her mother; never mom
( ... )
you very much. Since Ryanne’s father had taken off when she was, oh, negative five months old - just when the little joke became too real, and his new girlfriend was talking about mortgages - her mother had become bitter, blaming Ryanne.
Ryanne often felt like that little girl Matilda -- she had only herself to rely on and take care of. Her mud colored hair and eyes lay glum against her pale skin, and her body was lanky like the string beans her mother made her eat when she was being punished. She was told to clean the floors and make the dinner, mastering the open flame of the gas stove before she could even see what was in the pots without standing on her tip-toes. She lived life between the four walls in her room, emerging only for school and food, fearing her mother’s wrath. Never did her mother lay a finger on the child in harm; her glares and silent resentment were enough to drive Ryanne
loopy. She began to write poems, twisted and slightly disturbing for a girl of ten years old, but it’s not like anyone cared what she did anyways. She often made trips to the library and always checked out two books at a time; one would always be the dictionary to help her with the winding words in the biography of Edgar Allen Poe or Sylvia Plath
( ... )
He was born into a strict mormon family in Las Vegas -- not the City of Sin, the birthplace of The Church of Latter Day Saints. He had never even been to The Strip in all his 17 years of living. While he wasn’t a believer, he was obedient, getting up early on Sunday’s for church and never taking the lords name in vain. He prayed when expected and never even dreamed of telling his parents about the ‘bogus’ he thought they were telling him about. He didn’t exactly want to be thrown out of the house, and quite enjoyed the smiles he got from his parents when he volunteered to say Grace at the dinner table
( ... )
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Ryanne often felt like that little girl Matilda -- she had only herself to rely on and take care of. Her mud colored hair and eyes lay glum against her pale skin, and her body was lanky like the string beans her mother made her eat when she was being punished. She was told to clean the floors and make the dinner, mastering the open flame of the gas stove before she could even see what was in the pots without standing on her tip-toes. She lived life between the four walls in her room, emerging only for school and food, fearing her mother’s wrath. Never did her mother lay a finger on the child in harm; her glares and silent resentment were enough to drive Ryanne
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