He tried to rise once more with all his strength this time, and fell to the ground as an arrow pierced his shirt inches away from his heart.  He laid on the ground, arrow protruding from the shirt, and looked around the blackened place, glad for any sign of the attacker;  he could see none.  Examining the arrow, he noticed that the shaft had a strange glyph on it that seemed to portray a horned giant bathed in flames being shot on all sides by little arrows that were nicks in the wood.  Surprisingly these nicks didn’t affect the strength of the wood in any way, and the feather was a marvel upon itself.  The colors of the feather were mesmerizing: reds, blues, greens, and even strange colors that he knew not what the names were, but all were appealing to the eyes.

Yet he noticed a female figure that strode triumphantly out of the woods and she was also quite appealing.  The figure wore no armor, wearing only simple clothing that one might make out of anything at hand, just like the clothing he had on, for she was the same height as he and only a few items in this area of the woods would be suitable for such clothing. On her these clothes gave her a divine look as each fold that moved seemed to cling to her frame just to be able to touch the radiant skin beneath a bit longer, and when it did finally wrinkle away, it only seemed to become darker and more solemn till the next movement brought it right back to where it had been before.  Her hair was golden and shined with the intensity of the sun, a sun which was not allowed to disobey its master whom kept it in a tight scarlet colored ribbon and it seemed a crime by itself to diminish this body, this goddess. It was her eyes they were the deepest shade of green that he had ever seen in any living thing and he was lost in them.  Even as she bent over and plucked out the arrow, he was lost in her eyes and could do nothing to move and stare at her with a vacant face.  Quickly leaping back as she noticed that he still took breath, she drew a short knife from a sheath upon her side, and stood poised for the strike.  Even as she was poised and ready to take his life he didn’t care– just to touch her beauty as he passed would be bliss. Even as she stood death glowing in her eyes he could not help, but love her.

“Hello who are you?” Aslotes asked sheepishly.

“…”

“Why don’t you talk?  Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you. I couldn’t if I wanted to I-I think you’re the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” he said, blushing.  All his reply was silence. Even though he could tell she understood him, she didn’t lower her guard and she fidgeted every time he moved.  He decided to remain where he was, not wanting to upset her at all.  He talked to her in a friendly way, fumbling with words and blushing every time he looked her in the face to his embarrassment.  With a sigh of innocence and a roll of her eyes, she put away the knife and put her hand to Aslotes forehead.  He instantly felt a shudder of excitement run through his body and one word in his mind “Sleep.”

He awoke to her a second later, but it must have been at least a few hours or possibly a day, he knew not.  But he did know and feel the uncomfortable steel around his ankles and wrists quite distinctly and could tell he was somewhere very old.  It was a dark room with light coming in, only slightly, from a hole in the wall about the height of a man’s head, and oddly no metals in the room besides his restraints. They would not budge to any spell he used on them and only seemed to get uncomfortably tighter as he tried to free himself.  He laid in the room not mad at the woman, but had a distinct longing to see her again, hopefully to make her talk.  For her he imagined her voice would be as soothing as her looks, it just had to be.  It was in this daydreaming state that her face seemed to appear right in front of his eyes, looking down at him from outside of the room.  Propping himself up as best he could to her height, he looked up at her, not talking, just cherishing the sight of her face– the lips, nose, and mouth all so perfect to him that they seemed not of this world, the Nether World, or even of the Divine, just too…perfect.

“Why do you stare at me with such odd looks stranger?” said a voice in Aslotes’s head.

“What!?  You do talk, but wait. you didn’t move your lips– how’d you do that?”

“O no you don’t, I asked the question first.”

“Tell ya what– lets play a game.”

“I don’t have time for games.”

“Well you do for this one, every question I answer you have to answer one of mine– deal?”

“I could just wrangle the answers out of your mind, you know.”

“I assume you could, but where’s the fun in that?  I have been trained in the energies by an adapt mentor.  So I think it would take quite some time and cause quite a bit of pain for both ends if it was tried.”

“I doubt that you’re that strong.  You fell asleep when I just motioned for you back in the ruins.”

“W-well there’s a perfectly good reason for me not resisting.”

“O really? And what would that be?”

“Ha!  See, you will have to play the game to find out that one.”

“Fine, I will patronize you, but I asked the first question already so out with it, why do you stare at me with such odd looks?”

“I-ummm-I find you very pleasing to look at, and umm hey, what else am I gonna do any way, right,” stumbled Aslotes, blushing and looking away for a second.

“You find me pleasant to look at…ha! It’s been a while since any one has been that frank with me.  Ok, what’s your question?”

“I guess I will start out with the first one: how do you talk without moving your lips?”

“Well, you wouldn’t really understand.”

“Try me.”

“Ok then.  I cannot talk.  I was born that way and anyone who is born with a deformity or abnormality is put in the position I am in.  Basically patrolling the border and killing any non-friendly creatures that come too close.  So I use the energy to plant what I say in your mind and you choose to pick it up.”

“What do you mean that I choose, not that I don’t enjoy your voice…”

“And there you have. I want you to hear my voice.”

“Ok I understand.”

“Ok it would be my turn again, correct?”

“Umm let me think…yes it would be.”

“Ok then…what in all that is good was that thing you were?”

“I-I don’t know.  I was dying, I think, and the next thing I know I felt that I would betray my mast-family if I had died.  For they had died making sure I would live and the next thing I know is that I could see what I was doing, feel the rage and pain, but do nothing about it…it was terrifying.”

“You mentioned mas-er family.  Who was this family of yours that died protecting you?”

“They called themselves Zealo and Yurk.”

With this her eyes seemed to go afire and she left a hole in the ground.  He could tell she was running somewhere away from him.

“Wait please at least tell me your name.”  But all was silent and he felt as if his heart had sunk deep down into his belly. But then he heard a whisper fill his ears as if it was right behind him and it said, “Sayla.”

He cherished the name, running it over and over on his tongue, loving the very sound of it.  And, finding nothing else to do, laid down and fell into a restful sleep, his mind filled with dreams of her face.

The word hero can be construed in so many ways. A hero has many definitions. A common definition of a hero is a mythological or legendary figure that has great strength or abilities. A hero can also be a warrior or a man admired for his achievements and noble qualities, even someone who displays great courage. The most common definition of a hero is someone who’s admired for their brave deeds and noble qualities. To me a hero is someone that is always there for me, who I count on always being there when I need them. Being a hero doesn’t mean you have to be able to fly through the air and save the day. Being a hero is much more than that. Simply being the inspiration or motivation in someone’s life can make you a hero. The neighbor next door could be your hero or the stranger that pushed you out of the way of an oncoming car. I could go through and give so many more definitions of a hero, instead I’m choosing to use the real stories I’ve gotten from interviewing people I know.

My first interview was done with a high school student. Her name is Kristina and she is sixteen years old. I first asked her what she thought a hero was. Kristina’s definition of a hero is someone that you look up to and inspires you to do better. I asked Kristina who her hero was and she said that her mom was her hero. Her mom is her hero

because she has always been there for her through the bad and the good. Her mom is a single mother to four kids with no help. She looks up to her mom because she does everything in her power to support there family. Sometimes her mom had to do things that she wasn’t proud of but she had to do them in order to survive. At one point in her life her family was homeless with nothing and her mom changed that. Kristina has a great mother and in her eyes she’s heroic (Bernadette).

The second person that I interviewed was my best friend. Her name is Jen and she is twenty-seven years old. First I asked her what her definition of a hero was. Jen defined a hero as someone who is courageous and is selfless by putting themselves in harms way to protect others. Jen’s heroes in her life are her parents. They’re her hero because they’ve taught her good morals and set good examples. Her parents always gave up time, money, and energy to make her the person that she is today. She understands her parents aren’t perfect but they always tried to teach her right from wrong (Schlinsky).

I thought the next person to ask what a hero is was me myself. I think a hero is someone that makes the biggest impact on your life. A hero to me keeps you believing in others and having hope for tomorrow. It took me a nice amount of time to realize who my hero was. After thinking about it for a while I realized that my two precious little girls were my heroes. My little girls are always there for me when I happy and when I’m sad. They have taught me more than any other person in my life has. I learned how to develop patients, which for me wasn’t an easy thing to do. They also showed me what

unconditional love was and how it felt. My children give me confidence and courage to stand up to the many hardships that I endure. They’ve given me the inspiration that I needed to do better in every aspect of my life. Most of all they’ve made me the woman I have become today and a better person for tomorrow and for that I can only thank them. Ayanna and Karma are my precious angles and they have no idea that at such a young age they are someone’s hero. They don’t even know what a hero is. Not only do my girls depend on me but I depend on them as well. My girls are my hero.

My conclusion of a hero is very simple, for the fact that any person can be a hero. It doesn’t matter how old or young you are. It makes no difference if you’re a girl or a boy. A hero is any person who is admired for qualities so grand and achievements so great. No matter what your definition of a hero is there is no wrong answer. No matter who your hero is they are your hero and for that they’re special to you because of the impact they’ve left on your life. I know it took me a while to figure out who my hero is, as it did for the people I interviewed. I think everyone should take the time and think about whom that special person is and why they’re your hero. You might just shock yourself with your answer, I know I did.

Sources

Bernadette, Kristina. Personal Interview. 7 November 2011.

Schlinsky, Jennifer. Personal Interview. 5 November 2011.

Every time I enter my bedroom I am greeted by a familiar compact explosion of color and chaos.  The room will soon be full of fresh outdoor air and the delightfully light scent of an angel whispers glade candle.  To the right of the door opening is a small place just for cats.  Two glass dishes, one filled with fresh water and the other overflowing with dry cat chow are placed next to a pile of feathery toy mice.  A nightstand consumed by clutter is placed next to a neatly made bed which is covered with a rainbow of various fluffy pillows of all shapes and sizes.  In front of the bed is an antique vanity with an oversized mirror hidden behind a television and a vacant hexagon fish tank.  To the right of the bed a ten gallon fish tank occupied by two zebra danios sits atop a book case which is stocked from top to bottom with video tapes and DVD cases.  The gentle sloshing of the fish tank filter is accompanied by the soft whir of a box fan placed in the only accessible window across from the bed.  All four white walls are masked by brightly colored black light reactive posters that seem to pop right off of the wall.  I simply cannot survive if my personal space is boring or dull.

As I turn the door knob I can feel the excitement in my fingertips.  In almost a trance, my eyes fix on the garage knowing what is inside.  The door opens with a couple of squeaks and my first step into the brisk morning air awakens all of my senses simultaneously. The air is crisp and clean feeding my lungs with an almost new sense of life.  I walk across the pavement, my boots clicking on the uneven ground.  My walk speeds to a near-run as I get to the halfway point of thirty feet.  I reach the garage and unlock the door.  I raise the door, with its usual creak and crank sounds, and reveal the beauty of a motorcycle that lies within.

I walk up and swing a leg over it and proceed to back it out into the cool morning air.   I pull out my cell phone to see that it is eight in the morning.  I put my phone into a zippered pocket in my jacket and close it to secure the phone for the ride ahead.  My hand reaches for the start button and, depressing it with my thumb, I fire up my motorcycle.  I can almost taste the pureness of the air as I breathe it in.  It’s like I have been welcomed into a brand new world by all of the spirits of the land around me.

The cylinders begin to warm up and popping notes of the exhaust start to smooth out into a nice, low rumble.  By now the exhaust fumes permeate my nose and the adrenaline starts to rise as my eyes concentrate on the road just a few yards away.  I run my hand up the smooth, chrome handlebar, reaching the clutch lever and pulling it firmly in with my left hand.  Even that seems to feel perfect for the adventure to come.

The chrome on the motor glistens in the morning sun, clean as can be.  The paint appears flawless as the green pearl within the bright yellow dances as the sun’s rays bounce back and forth across it.  The idle of the motor has smoothed out into a nice steady rumble now. Now she is ready to play. The heads are almost too hot to touch. The exhaust note is complete and perfect without any sputter.

I pull in the clutch lever and bring my foot up to the shifter.  My hand grabs a bit of the throttle as my motorcycle comes to life.  My foot depresses the shifter to put it in gear.  As I begin to release the clutch and grab more of the throttle she really comes to life.  I am moving now as my other foot comes to rest on the right peg.  The road that was once yards away is now within inches.  The front tire glides onto the smooth surface of the road as the bike is now screaming loud.  I am now on the road, completely engulfed in the cool morning wind, and I ride into a beautiful summer day.

     I sink into the soft microfiber of my couch as my body descends into my spot for ideal writing.  It’s in the corner of my sectional, the most comfortable spot.  As I taste the cold Irish stout my eyes search for my paper, then my pen.  I sit for a moment as the Irish music starts to play, enjoying the aura.  I sip the stout again as my fingers encircle my pen. The world around me disappears as my pen begins to tattoo the sheet below it.  The ink seems to flow into the sheet as if to almost mimic the violin playing.  There’s no stopping now as the unison of pen to paper is completely harmonized.  The ink is coming out at an almost alarming speed as pages become art without a though to modification.  The concentration is intense as my conclusion shows itself.  As the last strikes of the pen hit the page my world solidifies itself again as I revel in the artwork in front of me.  It’s perfect and I can’t wait to show it off.  I also cannot wait until the next time that I may have the chance to repeat this experience.

I used to think of myself as a connoisseur of being bullied. Being the youngest of three, I was often the target of little attacks, such as butter in the hair while I washed it, or tacks in my favorite seat when it was time for dinner. Sometimes, I even drank soda laced with a huge amount of salt and pepper, or even had to cut strands of my hair off because gum had been stuck inside my winter hat. Bullying helped shaped me into who I am: a person who understands and cares for others when they’re feeling pressure from home or school, and one who vowed to raise her children to respect one another and to not hurt each other. They would be all they have in the world after I have left it. Love would keep them together, not guilt or memories that were not so fond because all they did was fight.

There are times when I wish bullying was non-existent, but if not for bullying, I would have never became close friends with Suzie. Suzie was a very pretty girl, abnormally so. She had long, blonde hair, and she always took care of herself. She was popular, but always found time to spend with me and all of the other people who really weren’t as high on the totem pole as she was. Imagine being popular in college; it was a feat, but Suzie pulled it off while still remaining humble.

I remember the time when she first signed up for Facebook. She and I sat down, figuring out our profiles, adding each other as friends almost immediately. We checked and looked for others of our rag-tag crew, and if they weren’t signed up, we made them. It wasn’t like twisting an arm, they were happy to. And to be honest, it was a fun time in my internet life.

Since Suzie was popular and beautiful, random people would add her, and she would accept with no problem. Her friends became my friends, and it trickled down the ladder as such. We also gained friends by playing games, joining groups that we had interests in, and eventually we branched off. There were things that I liked that Suzie did not and vice versa. It was like that with all of us.

Eventually we lost touch. Suzie had too much going on in her life to try to hold a social life as well. She had her overload of classes, a side job to help with the bills at her house which she enjoyed, a boyfriend whom she adored and whom she actually met through the social networking site. Every now and then she would call me to say, “Look at my post! It’s pretty darn funny!” Or “Hey girl, did you see what he said about me on my wall? I love him so much!” I was happy because she was happy. We had that type of friendship that we no longer needed to keep in touch.

Only a few months before she had called me crying. Her boyfriend, the one whom she loved, met a girl from that same circle of friends that we all shared. She was worried that they had done something with each other, and she begged me to look at his profile page.

“Just look at what he wrote to her. Tell me if you think that it’s suspicious,” Suzie cried.

I couldn’t help but agree, not only because she was my friend, but because she was right. Later I found out that Suzie gave him an ultimatum. Remove the girl, clear out your facebook account, or leave. And he did so, no question.

It may seem that I am confessing about a relationship that worked, and that there were no problems to this, but that’s wrong. No more than a week passed when she called me once again, crying.

“Girl, look at my page. Did you see with that girl wrote?”

I looked at her page and saw the foul language written there, and the gang of others who had joined in on the bickering. The bickering went back and forth, a few of Suzie’s friends, and a few of the strange woman’s friends. All tangled in a web of hate over a guy’s love for Suzie.

“Please say something on that post. Just so that I know you’re on my side,” Suzie pleaded.

“But I am on your side, Suzie. I just don’t know what to say,” I told her, and I was honest. I couldn’t say anything to those people.

“What type of friend are you? All you have to do is post one little stupid comment,” Suzie said.

“No, Suzie, I’m pretty busy, can I call you back?” I asked.

“Sure,” she said, and hung up immediately.

I had a mind to apologize, but I didn’t want to get tangled into that mess. It was a disaster from the start, but I didn’t know it at the time.

Suzie and I hadn’t spoken for a month before she called me, and when she did, she sounded so tired. She told me that she and the guy had broken up, and that he went with the other girl, the girl who was on her page, yelling at her. I told her that I was sorry, but she wouldn’t hear any of it. She tried her best to sound strong, and told me that she didn’t need him anyway. He was no good and a cheater. I gave her praise when I should have given her a shoulder.

Not too long after that phone call, I decided to actually check out my Facebook account to look at her page. Something had urged me to. I saw everything that was written there. The cursing, the profanities, the rumors, the way the girl and her friends continued to hound Suzie even though the ringleader had gotten what she wanted. Suzie never commented, but everyone else did. Some took up for Suzie, the others laughed and pointed, some joined in on the Suzie bashing.

I called her immediately and asked her why she didn’t say anything. But she was too busy to talk but wanted to see me later. I allowed her to hang up the phone without so much of a protest.
It couldn’t have been any more than two hours later when she called me, crying profusely.

“Did you see what he put on my wall?” She asked. My heart dropped as I heard her. This cry was worse; it felt like the end of the world.

“No, let me look.” And look I did. I would be a cruel friend if I repeated what I saw on her page. But when I saw it, I cried but I did not dare let Suzie hear me. “Oh my god,” was all I could utter.

Suzie continued to cry, she couldn’t speak. I couldn’t speak. She just cried. After a few minutes, she hung up the phone without another word. I didn’t bother to call her back; I didn’t bother to visit. I just sat and watched the comments build and build underneath her ex-boyfriends post.

There is nothing that I regret more than hanging up the phone and not getting up and out of my chair to go and see Suzie because I received a call in the morning that she had taken her life. There were a few notes, notes addressed to me and her parents, and a few other people who I can’t mention.
She said to me, “Thank you for being a friend, I love you.”

I remember breaking down in tears as I had read it. What kind of friend was I who didn’t tell her what she should have done? If I could rewind time, we would have done things differently. We could have kept our social networking site to our little circle of friends because some friends do grow apart and wonder. We could have ignored the whole thing and gotten rid of those who caused us pain with their words. I could have hugged her more. And I could have been there for her. And I could have told her that no matter what they said about her and to her, she was beautiful.

I thought myself to be a connoisseur of being bullied. It was too bad that I couldn’t help one person important enough to me cope.

Just like the mother hens corralling their little chicks to safety, we cautiously led our line of preschoolers through an important rite of passage: a visit to the pumpkin farm. “Don’t run away from the group!” “Stay away from the back of that animal.” “Don’t step in that pile of…. Oh, no!” There we were, a gaggle of moms, pecking orders and clucking rules.

And then there was William’s dad. Instead of his mother, William’s father had volunteered to tag along with his son on that crisp autumn outing. A child to chase, a farm to explore, and a pumpkin to hunt had sounded like an easy respite from a fast-paced adult work day. But little did he know that we’d be hunting for more than just pumpkins that day.

Away we went, on a hay wagon pulled by a tractor through fields and forests to the back of the farm in search of the perfect orange treasure. “I found one!” “But mine is too heavy to carry all by myself!” “Can we go back now? I’m hungry.” We loaded our pumpkins into the wagon and started back towards the barn. William’s father, however, had a different plan. Itching for adventure, he waved the group on and told us that he would like stray from the flock for awhile to caper in the fields with his son.
Back at the barn, just as each mom hovered over her hungry chick with a snack, William’s dad casually arrived. “Did William come back with someone here?” he inquired. The moms exchanged glances and slowly shook their heads. “Not a big deal,” he responded. “I’ll go back and locate him.” A few minutes passed, and this time William’s dad returned with a more worried expression. “I think that I need to ask for help. I can’t find him.”

Like skilled military soldiers, the moms sprang to action. A few were chosen to stay behind with the nest of chirping preschoolers. Another group of us dashed out to the fields and began calling the missing boy’s name. “William!” we crowed by the horses; but no response. “William!” we bellowed by the farm equipment; but, again, no response. “William!” we cried by the other school groups, but still no response.

And then I remembered a youngster’s favorite game: hide-n-seek. By us loudly seeking William, we were perpetuating his innocent hiding. So I tried a different call: “William, your daddy really misses you.” To this, a distant reply, “I right here.”

I gasped. My heart pounded in my chest. My feet pounded the ground. I called again, “William, your daddy really misses you.” And, again, the anticipated reply, “I said… I right here.” I darted toward the little voice. I had discovered our missing boy! A chicken coop, with a confused-looking hen and a dirt floor, had been safely harboring the curious child.

I ducked into the small shelter, scooped him up, and raced back out to exclaim, “I’ve got him! I’ve got him!” Hearing my excitement from across the farm, William’s father flew over to meet us as the other moms jumped in unison, flapping and clapping their hands. With his little one tucked safely under his wing and a huge wave of relief, he looked around at all of the moms and uttered his first thought: “Please… don’t tell my wife!” His request was returned with a collective all-knowing grin from the mother hens. William, and William’s dad, had definitely learned their lesson.