Narrative #2

I let the book slip from my fingers and fall onto the nightstand beside me. Romeo and Juliet. Anyone who knew me could have guess this would be the way I prepare for the far most important day of my life. Cheesy, yes, but everyone needs a little cheesy in their life.
Sleep passed over me quickly, which was not as I expected, but as I wished. Maybe it way to dream something I wished for in reality. Or maybe it was to help my mind prepare for a possible nightmare tomorrow. It was another good preparation for tomorrow, anyways.
Refreshed, prepared I woke up in the morning on the right side of the bed, literally. The right side is where my cat’s food and water lay. My absent-minded self often lets me forget this when I swing my bare legs over the bed still in the daze of sleep.
I showered, lukewarm, just as I liked it. The Pantene pro-v was magically still in stock as well as my favorite Old Spice aftershave. And today I was blessed with no razor burn! I could feel today was going to be a goddamn good day.
For the hair, do I go gel or wax? That is the question!
And as for the perfectly modest shirt, striped or plain?
My thoughts were interrupted by the mood-changing chime of the doorbell. My heart raced rapidly as I stumbled and fumbled my way to the door and could hear a mumble from outside. I should’ve known, Chuck from postal service delivering the flowers. Where did I put those chill pills!?
I ran upstairs and finished my appearance preparations. I fumbled with the bow tie, and hey maybe it was a little much…but nothing screams “I’m determined!” more than a bowtie.
Yeah, not gonna lie, I worked with the charisma. “I am the man. Twenty and I still got it,” I told myself in the crystal clear mirror.
By the ringing of the doorbell twice, I knew it was actually time now. Slowly, cautiously I walked down the hall and turned into the stairs. Each step felt like Lars Olrich was beating an oversized drum inside of my body. Was that sweat on my temple? I don’t think my hands naturally shake this much. When I put my hand on the door for that one second, it felt like twelve hours and I noticed every detail on the door I never cared to notice before. I turned the crystal knob and quickly opened it. I didn’t plan it this way, but I could not hesitate a moment longer. I got on my knees and those four words spilled out.
“Meg, will you marry me?” I begged more than asked.
To describe that moment, it was like the Shot Heard Around the World was just fired to mark the start of the Revolutionary War. Well to me, it was The Question Heard Around the World to mark the possible start of a new life.
I knew today was my last chance, for tomorrow she left this small town of N-town for her internship in Australia but I wished to accompany her. I was determined to.
My best friend of 12 years, I could tell was baffled. Speechless, shocked, she came in and sat down in the chair in my kitchen where we once drew each other’s current favorite rock star. We never dated, and kissed only when dared by our friends, but I still knew she was the one. She was the only one that could put up with my geeky style for this long.
Finally, her pink, plump lips started to form words and I couldn’t take my eyes off of them.
“I am…”
I am determined to make this answer yes, I thought.
“Honey, you ready to go? The plane leaves in two hours…and we need time to…” a voice rang out from outsides. But not any other voice, my best friend Andy’s voice.
“I am engaged…I love you, I always have…but you’re my best friend and,” she paused as our best friend walked into my kitchen,” well you know Andy…from high school.”
“Hey Scott, good to see you pal! You’re invited to the wedding!” he chuckled, “it is going to be great. On the beaches of Australia…”
His voice faded away, like my dreams, and my heart might have well literally exploded out of my chest and into her hands.

Self Portraits

Jessica Lantos
Self-Portraits


1.
Rembrandt van Rijn Paul Gauguin
“Self-portrait as a Young Man” “Self Portrait Dedicated to Carriere”
Completed between 1629-31 Completed 1888 or 1889
Amsterdam Peru











Vincent Van Gogh Gregory Gillespie
“Self portrait 1889” "Life as Art: Paintings by Gregory Gillespie
Completed 1889 and Frances Cohen Gillespie"
Holand Completed 1977
New York









Kathe Kollwitz Pablo Picasso
“Self-portrait with Hand On Brow” “Self Portrait 1907”
Completed 1910 Completed 1907
East Prussia Czech Republic





Paul Cezanne
“Self Portrait with Rose Background”
Completed 1875
France













Susanna Coffey
“Self Portrait”
Completed 2002
America








Brett Gamache
“Self Portrait in civil war hat”
2003
America










2. The painting’s by Picasso, Rembrandt, and Gauguin all have the same view of the face with it slightly facing the right. Also, Gauguin and Rembrandt incorporate the same colors and their facial expressions are very similar. All three have darker colors that are rich and expressive of each painter’s originality.

3. I believe the strongest self portrait is Vincent Van Goghs. It is a very strong image of himself. The unique and colorful field is creative but does not take away from the main focus of himself. There is also a sharpness in the lines of the picture that is eye-catching.

4. An artist might choose to focus on self portraits to depict them selves as an individual. Whether they want to show how modest they are but exhibiting and exploring their flaws, or draw them in a way that makes them god-like and beautiful. Either way, they want to show what they think of themselves and how they want the world to view them. Apperance is the first thing people notice, but this way they can show people how they want people to view them.

My first narrative that I have had done for awhile but forgot to put up here finally up!

Jessica Lantos
Narrative

“Paddles!”
“Right here doctor!”
“Charging...clear!”
There was still no sign of life. I closed my eyes.
“Charging…clear!”
Steadily, the monitor started its beeping once again.
“We’ve got him back guys!”



One, two, three, four…

Today is the day, today is the perfect day. I knew no other racer could stand the hot, humid weather and that smoky scent of Boston that hung in the air. I on the other hand, didn’t mind. I mean how could I, growing up in such a fine city.

Five, Six, Seven, Eight…

Eight people I have passed, the gold medal is so near! The first placer I knew personally. Tricky, conniving, 16 year old Charles Winkum’s sweat poured down his body. I could spot his greasy mop head and small head on his oddly large body from miles away. His annual victories are coming to an end today. I can feel it in my veins, this year is different then any other year. I’m stronger, more prepared, and determined.

Joe, my best friend of 8 years, was leaning against the old rusty fence that keeps the rowdy spectators afar. Hearing my name shouted from Joe’s direction, made me crack a little grin, but I disappointingly searched the faces for the old, gray one but whose features slightly resembled my own. Year after year it was the same routine. Year after year I knew I wouldn’t see its warm, blue eyes contradicting its cold heart.

It did not matter anyways, anymore. I meshed hard down on the pedals and kept my focus on Winkum. I couldn’t let my thoughts wonder anymore, not when I was this close. I wanted this more than anything. It is hard for many people to understand how winning a bike race could mean so much, but look at it in the perspective of a kid wanting desert. He knows he will have to eat his veggies, but that warm chocolate cake is so rewarding, a kid will do anything for it.
I want this more than anything; I want this more than anything. I want this more than you; I want this more than you. I am strong, I am not weak. I am strong, I am not weak. Pain builds character, pain builds character.

Pain shot through my left arm, so I kept rethinking my last though. Pain builds character, pain builds...

“OW”

Its ok, its ok…keep going. I pulled something lifting earlier, that is all. I didn’t stretch. You are so close, don’t pussy out now stupid. Keep going.

I felt like I could hear my heart pounding inside my head, like it had jumped in there and was clawing to get out. Why can’t I see? Everything is so blurry, that is just how fast I am going. Oh my chest, something is squeezing it, crushing it. It won’t let me breathe. Blackness.




I dialed 911 but someone had already beaten me to it. I could hear the ambulances sad tune and see its lights flashing. I watched them separate him from the mangled bike. Bloody, bruised, broken they wheeled him into the ambulance and it sped away. I didn’t hesitate to jump in my car and follow it with my sad blue eyes.




“18 year old male athlete Mike Callahan with sudden heart attack and possible concussion. Fractured arm from impact into the tree. Fighting for his life at this point.”

“We need to stitch, and bandage his head STAT”



At his lowest points, and his high points of his life he always thought he was alone. I could never suck up my pride and let him know I was watching him. How could I? I walked out. But today I walked in next to his bedside. His eyes opened, like a newborn baby’s would. He eyed the room, but then his eyes settled on mine. I grasped his hand in mine; he held on, he always does.

The monitor’s started beeping rapidly and like a scene out of one of my soap’s, a mob of nurses flooded into the room and pushed me out. Our grasp loosened. I winked at him. It was a strange thing to do at that moment, but it came almost automatically. It is all my brain would let me do as I was shoved and tossed out of the room.

I watched from the window as the monitor flat lined. I felt it was me who should be in there. How could a father even consider outliving his son?

“Paddles!”
“Right here doctor!”
“Charging...clear!”
There was still no sign of life. I closed my eyes.
“Charging…clear!”
Steadily, the monitor started its beeping once again.
“We’ve got him back guys!”
I

“I did it,” I thought, “I stayed alive! Can I see my dad?”