Asma Ahsan Asma Ahsan
Recommendations: 31

Hmm, he is ungracious too. He say the stories aren't bad. Cant even use the word 'good' while dreams of himself as being a superman. Typical self centered personality.

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Justin Campbell Justin Campbell
Recommendations: 6

The Nice Guy: Chapter Four


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Under the Double Star - Chapter One

4.
April 9 2009 (Dan)


       I got into school this morning feeling exhausted and like I never woke up at all. And as that’s normal, I can count that as non-fiction. After dealing with my locker I went straight downstairs to the quiet music office to sleep. I go down there because in the morning it’s quiet, and basically it’s where I spend most of my spare time. Only one other person was down there, Mildred, and she was sitting at a table with her head down as well. Sitting up on some filing cabinets, the scene brought a memory back to me. A while ago Tom would come down with me. We’d enter the room and I’d sit in a chair or on a table or cabinet and close my eyes. If anyone else was there (few people were in the morning) they would be in the same state, with their heads down or eyes closed.


       As for Tom, he would stand and watch us silently, with an air of awkwardness. He wouldn’t say anything or do anything. Sometimes he would maybe ask a question but that was it. We really didn’t seem bothered with him.


       Forgetting the memory I fell half-asleep until the bell rang.


       As we were all walking along the walkway, a huge crash happened alongside us. A large articulated bus was careening down the road, sideswiping cars and forcing others to be evasive. As soon as I saw it I knew that he was behind the wheel. I had to go into action.


       “Wait!,” cried Samantha as I darted forward with only a quick “I’ll be back in a moment!” “What are you doing?”


       I looked back at her, Rose and Mildred. “I have to stop him. You know I do.”


       “Be back soon!” cried Rose.


       I knew that they weren’t too worried, which I liked because I’ve found that it’s gotten old when they yell something like ‘be careful’ or ‘don’t hurt yourself.’ It was time for everything to be alright.


       Running several times the speed of that runaway bus I crossed from the path to the road and began my pursuit. Within twelve seconds I was within jumping distance. I launched myself onto the top of the vehicle and made my way to the front. Looking up, I saw what looked like extreme bad news. The bus lurched in the direction of the school. And we were going way too fast for me to stop it in time.
As we sped across Viewmount Drive, I ducked low to avoid hitting the top of the overhang that ran across the front of the school. I wasn’t worried about taking my head off, but more about disintegrating the stone marble parapet with it. Keeping low, the ceiling zoomed close over me as the bus crashed through the front doors.


       As glass, doors, and metal jambs and window frames flew ahead of me and the bus, I plunged my arm into the roof of the vehicle. Creating a hole, I dug myself in as the bus smashed through the inner doors. Dropping in, I saw him in the driver’s seat, clutching the wheel as he veered the bus into the wooden benches that took up the foyer. Wood snapped and cracked as pieces flew out of the way and splinters bounced off the windshield.


       “Stop!” I declared. He looked back at me, snarled and directed the bus through the ramp that connected the main building with the D wing. We sped downwards, forcing the open doors back off their hinges and partly through the windshield, punching in cracks and crazing the glass around where they hit it. I ran over to him, who was now attempting to keep the vehicle steady through the cracked glass. Loud banging as well as metallic shreaks occurred as the bus side-swiped lockers. Thank God there were no students and class was in session. The bus took up the entire hallway.


       I decided that the best thing to do was to stop the bus instead of trying to force him out of the driver’s seat and take control myself. I went up and punched out the windshield and started to edge myself over the open ledge onto the front of the bus.


       “What are you doing,” he demanded. We were fast approaching the end of the hall, where there was a window looking out onto the rear field. “You stop!”


       Taking out an open door, the bus was about to hit the window as well as the wall on both sides when I got down on top of the bumper. My plan was to take hold of the front of the bus with one hand and grab the ground with the other, digging in and forcing the vehicle to come to a stop.


       I held myself at the ready. The bus came up on the dead end, about to impact it. Then it came.


       Crash! The cinderblock wall on both sides crumbled to pieces of stone and brick as it tumbled outwards with the bus. I harmlessly plowed through the metal casing under the window, forcing it into an curvy shape. The window stayed intact with only one crack as it came outward with its frame, and I extended my arm toward the ground as the bus started to come downward.


       Grabbing the hard-packed soil I dug in. Almost immediately it became hot asphalt, and I began tearing that up too. With my other arm around the bumper, I pulled it downward. It came, and the bus started loosing its speed. I slid along underneath, digging as hard as possible into the asphalt, as the front of the bus slowly started tipping forward.


       By the time I finally stopped the front of the bus was tipped forward, and I was lying on the ground, looking up at the underside of the vehicle. The rear end was tipped upward, meeting the front in the middle, so that it looked like a ^.    


         I got up. As I looked around, I saw Rose and Samantha running toward me in a feeling of great admiration and accomplishment. I had stopped the bus – after it had rampaged the school. Well, one hallway at least.


       And there’s my fictional story of a bus crashing through the school. It’s part of the fictional part of this assignment and I think it’s not too bad. I’ve always imagined an articulated bus doing this, and a super-strong, resistant hero stopping it. Then of course the admirers come to help make the hero feel better about the damage he couldn’t prevent.


       Tom read my fictional story. “Sounds like any old super-hero story, though I like your descriptions of the damage.”


       Tom always liked descriptions. Whenever I talked about some sort of situation he would ask about all the physical or force-related factors that went into it, and I wouldn’t know what to say or how to answer.


       “Uh, thanks,” I replied, thinking his interest was focused in all the wrong places. “It’s an action-packed story.”


       “Yeah,” he agreed. “With all the glass and doors and debris flying, I can just imagine it. It’s crazy! And with an articulated bus.”


       The point was, it was about me stopping the bus and saving the day, then being admired about it. But whatever, I would read it to Samantha later and she would like it. I think.


       “I’m writing my own short story,” said Tom suddenly.


       “Oh. Well, you should read it to me when you’re finished, it should be interesting.”
And I meant that. I’ve read Tom’s stories before and while they aren’t perfect, they’re not bad. 1 comment


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