Adventure Story
It was four o’clock. Caroline, Jamie, and I were working our way up the icy paths of the snow-covered hills. Our skis glided swiftly in the grooves made by other travelers. We reached the top of a slope and padded over to the once blue bench to take a rest. The snowflakes drifted lazily down toward the frosted earth. Leaning her head back against the rusted signpost, Jamie read the marker, indicating a new trail. It said the trail was medium difficulty, and we were up for the challenge. Or so we thought….
The “trail” had not been a trail for many years. The snow became deeper and deeper and the slope steeper and steeper. The wind bit at our noses and ears. My cheeks grew red and blotchy, from my runny nose the snot froze into tiny icicles. The snow was so deep; we had to wade up to our knees, not having the hard, packed down kind we could glide so easily on. Caroline kept falling down, and we kept having to pull her back up again. The winter night was falling quickly now, and the clouds thick with future ice. Looking back, I saw a skier making her way down the mountain towards us. She moved quickly, though, and we couldn’t keep up. We slowed down. Weaving awkwardly through the dense trees, we finally reached what looked like a road. It was hard and white, so we followed it. Cars came by, whizzing past us. I fell several times into the creek below the bridge we were skiing on. We finally came to the lodge where the hot chocolate and vegetarian chili was waiting.
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Sunday, February 3, 2008
WA 5 Final
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/01/18/AR2008011802663.html
December 4th, 2006. 5:43 A.M.
Jeff Mussafi knelt outside the hospital room, toward Mecca, and prayed the Muslim chants he had recited every day since he was a boy. He clasped his hands tightly between his forehead and the cool, citrus-scented linoleum floor.
الَّذِينَ ءامَنُو
اْ إِذَا قُمْتُمْ إِلَى الصَّلاةِ فاغْسِلُواْ وُجُوهَكُمْ وَأَيْدِيَكُمْ إِلَى الْمَرَافِقِ وَامْسَحُواْ بِرُؤُوسِكُمْ وَأَرْجُلَكُمْ إِلَى الْكَعْبَ
قال الله تعالى: يَا أَيُّهَا
His lips hummed the words of the Koran over and over until the prayer was complete and his morning devotions were finished. Jeff stood, removed his tazcat, returned his holster to the belt of his stiff black pants and resumed his post, his back to the door of his charge’s room.
The prisoner, Brandon Morris, had stabbed himself in the leg three times with a table knife so he could spend time in the hospital with minimal security between him and his freedom. Despite the weapon he carried, Jeff was vulnerable to the man behind the thin hospital wall.
With a crash and a thud, Brandon leapt from his bed, opened the door, yanked the un-expecting guard’s gun from its holster and shot Jeff in the back of the head. Brandon hobbled away, his injured leg dragging behind him. Jeff lay on the ground, blood pooling around his lifeless body, to be discovered moments later by the terrified nurses down the hall.
Brandon got away. He ran as fast as he could down the deserted hallway and fled the hospital through an emergency exit. He hijacked a stalled taxicab and drove west through Georgetown.
He is still out there. To Brandon Morris, freedom is worth stabbing himself and killing an innocent man who had never done him any harm. There’s no telling what he will do to avoid imprisonment once again.
December 4th, 2006. 5:43 A.M.
Jeff Mussafi knelt outside the hospital room, toward Mecca, and prayed the Muslim chants he had recited every day since he was a boy. He clasped his hands tightly between his forehead and the cool, citrus-scented linoleum floor.
الَّذِينَ ءامَنُو
اْ إِذَا قُمْتُمْ إِلَى الصَّلاةِ فاغْسِلُواْ وُجُوهَكُمْ وَأَيْدِيَكُمْ إِلَى الْمَرَافِقِ وَامْسَحُواْ بِرُؤُوسِكُمْ وَأَرْجُلَكُمْ إِلَى الْكَعْبَ
قال الله تعالى: يَا أَيُّهَا
His lips hummed the words of the Koran over and over until the prayer was complete and his morning devotions were finished. Jeff stood, removed his tazcat, returned his holster to the belt of his stiff black pants and resumed his post, his back to the door of his charge’s room.
The prisoner, Brandon Morris, had stabbed himself in the leg three times with a table knife so he could spend time in the hospital with minimal security between him and his freedom. Despite the weapon he carried, Jeff was vulnerable to the man behind the thin hospital wall.
With a crash and a thud, Brandon leapt from his bed, opened the door, yanked the un-expecting guard’s gun from its holster and shot Jeff in the back of the head. Brandon hobbled away, his injured leg dragging behind him. Jeff lay on the ground, blood pooling around his lifeless body, to be discovered moments later by the terrified nurses down the hall.
Brandon got away. He ran as fast as he could down the deserted hallway and fled the hospital through an emergency exit. He hijacked a stalled taxicab and drove west through Georgetown.
He is still out there. To Brandon Morris, freedom is worth stabbing himself and killing an innocent man who had never done him any harm. There’s no telling what he will do to avoid imprisonment once again.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)