I walked into the hospital waiting room and sat down desperate to hear some good news about my brother. Initially, I heard nothing but the alarmed, rhythmic pounding of my heart. I stared only at my mother, hoping to see any suggestions that perhaps something had changed since she called me and informed me of the accident. But as I had predicted- nothing. She looked more fearful than she sounded over the phone. Not saying anything, I began taking in the environment in which I was placed. 

     

     The hospital room smelled like a synthetic, clean death.Crowded, the waiting room was filled with several, diverse groups of people. The sick, the impatient, the distressed. A variety of emotions across the board.

     In the corner of the room, where the glare of the florescent lights on the tile floor seemed to glow brighter than any other square inch in the room, sat a boy and a girl playing with the toys supplied by the hospital. 
      Sitting across the room from the children, on the chairs directly across from the television set, sat an elderly couple. The man was attached to a device to assist him with his breathing, his facial features twisted and contorted demonstrating both the pain he was in and the fear that had, apparently, been recently bestowed upon him.  

     Beeping. Constant beeping. Whispers, cries, distressed breathing. Moans and groans, prayers and arguments. A woman's nails tapping on the screen of her phone as she sends a text, a man's newspaper rattling as he turns the pages of the local paper. So many different sounds were heard. The more I focused on them, the louder they became in my ears. The more I focused the more I heard. The sizzling of a pop can being opened, the rattle of a chip bag being opened or the remains of a sandwich wrapper being balled up and thrown in the garbage. 
     There are the sounds of a pen clicking. The soothing voice of a nurse trying to calm down a man, drunkenly slurring his words and looking around him in a state of panic and confusion. Distant sirens, distant coins clinking in the vending machine. All these sounds, built up in my mind, making me go crazier and crazier as I awaited the news of my brother's state. 

     Suddenly, I couldn't take it anymore, and I rose abruptly, startling my mother. I told her I was going to get myself some coffee. I walked the short distance down the hallway and through the automatic sliding doors. I was then in an area with a variety of vending machines and a "bar" to make coffee and tea. 
     Once my coffee was ready, I poured the steaming liquid into a styrofoam cup, added my regular amount of sugar and cream, and made my way back to the waiting area to rejoin my mom. As I walked back, I remembered how uncomfortable the metal chairs were, and I found myself dreading going back into the waiting area, for more than one reason. The plastic, thin padded seat offered little to no comfort for the back and the derrière. I returned to my seat and immediately began crossing and uncrossing my legs, trying to find a comfortable position despite the cold metal armrests the dug into my forearms, painfully. 
     Giving up on finding a comfortable position, I carefully took a sip of my coffee, looking forward to tasting something good, considering everything else was going bad. However, rather than tasting something sweet, and wonderfully caffeinated as I had been expecting too, I tasted something extremely watered down, bitter, and all around lousy. Making a sour face, I swallowed despite how badly I wanted to get up and spit it out, and I placed the cup behind the leg of my chair, leaving it there. 

     Just as I placed my coffee cup down, a nurse walked into the waiting room and asked for the "Ricciardi's?"
     My mother and I looked at each other and raised our hands. The nurse slowly walked over, looking down at the notes from the doctor on her clipboard. She was only a few steps away and in reality it only took her a couple of seconds to reach us, but it seemed like an eternity. She opened her mouth, took and breath and spoke to us the words we have been waiting all night to hear. 

     "He will be fine."

I Have a Dream

     Four years ago, I took my first steps through the double doors of Princess Margaret. Four years ago, I began my journey into the abyss that is high school. My life went from watching Hannah Montana every day after school, to studying, to working, to rehearsing every single day. My life completely changed.

     Since high school has begun, I have initiated a collection of dreams.

     For starters, I have a dream that rather than spending my evenings struggling with the force of writers block, coming up with cheesy writing assignments for English class, I can be completely honest in my assignments; and tell you that I would much rather be discussing Pretty Little Liars plot twists in my jogging pants than trying to invent dreams worthy of a speech.

     I dream of weekends where I can fully relax and enjoy dinners with my family, and not be conjugating Spanish verbs between bites.

     I dream of a day where my 95.2% will be enough. Where I don't obsess over getting enough volunteering done, to prove to universities that I am a well rounded person. Where I don't obsess over getting that extra 0.8% in a class. Where I can fill my mind with thoughts other than history facts and synonyms. Where I can worry about things other than how high my GPA is.

     Will I get into university without knowing how to graph polinomnials?
     Will I be able to break down these walls of intellect, and for one class, one hour, one minute, not worry about what "shortly" means according to UVic and Canada Post?
     Will Mrs Grant kill me if I forget another line?
     Will she really, in the end, make me wear that dreadful hot pink wig?

     I dream of a day that I have dreams worthy of a speech. Of a day that my dreams grow to be as bold, as inspiring, as significant as those of Martin Luther King Jr. Of a day that my dreams are worthy of a national holiday.

     But for now, I dream a different kind of dream: Inner peace and money for Starbucks. I dream that the voices in my head will cease to debate: do I buy that Mustang Egger or do I save every dollar, every penny, and buy that perfect prom dress for that perfect night?

     I wish for day that I am not working for minimum wage and can afford some of my bigger dreams. Like the hundreds of shoes on my list or that plane ticket to Europe.

     I wish for a day where I don't waste time worrying about what my future holds, what I can do to perfect every project that I work on, and what my next scholastic step is. That I can be true to myself and give myself the spontaneous, adventurous life style I have always craved.

     I especially wish that Mr Van Camp will grasp the importance of this speech, not only for semester 1 English, but for my entire scholastic career; and will help me reach my wish of a golden 96% average shining bright in my hands as I hold my report card on November 8th.

     My name is Giorgia Ricciardi and I have many wishes. I wish that one day some of my more trivial dreams will be fulfilled, and I will allow myself to follow the dreams that continuously grow inside of me. I wish that I will allow myself to free the worries that anchor me down to the ground everyday. I truly wish that when that day comes, I too will be standing before crowds of people, inspiring others to dream as large as I do.

 

    

George looked up from shoeing the horse to see the outline of Curley's wife in the doorway of the barn. They were alone.

George's eyes widen in utter shock. He drops the hoof knife and quickly brings his hands to his eyes, rubbing them as if to wipe the image away. When he opens his eyes again, the hour glass figure is still standing in the doorway.
     "Hullo George." she purrs.
     "It... it... is you! This can't be real! They tol' me you was dead. I woulda bet all thumbs that yous was dead!" hollered George
     "Keep ya voice down will ya, you gon' wake the entire town up with ya thunderin' voice." she calmy replies, angering George even more.
     "How can it be. Yous was dead. I'm imaginin' things now, I'm imaginin' things." he frantically repeats. "How are ya here. Ya here to teach me some sorta lesson or somethin'? Ya here to tell me I was wrong for shootin' my best friend? I didn' wan'ta, I'm tellin' ya, I didn' wan'ta."

Curley's wife is now slowy walking into the barn. Every step she takes toward George is a step he takes away from her. Part of him knows very well what he is seeing is as real as the crow flies, but still he isn't able to brush off the fact that he swears he saw her dead as a doornail. 

     "I was fakin'-"
     "Why you're crazier than a loon!" interrupts George, cold as ice. 
     "Change your tune George, ain't ya happy to see me? I did it for us. We can run away together, me 'n you. Dontcha want that? Ya told me yourself you was attracted to the danger of bein' with me. Well now you can be with me. This is a get outta jail free card." Curley's wife justifies.
     "I killed my best friend. I killed him because everyone thought you was dead, and they all thought Lennie was the one who don' it. We may have had our little love affair, but lightening never strikes the same place twice. Now I'm gon' lay down the law and you're gon' save your breath and shut your trap."

She shakes her head no and opens her mouth as if to say something, but George looks at her through evil eyes and she quickly slaps her jaw shut.
   
     "You're lower than a snake's belly for doin' what ya did. I could never be with someone as twisted as you. Because of you my companion is gone." He clenches his fists, knuckles turing white. "Now I could kill ya, but two wrongs don't make no right. So today you're lucky. But get out. Go far, far from here. And I swear by the life o' me  if you come back or if I ever see ya again on God's green earth ya better wish on the stars I spare you your life a second time. Now go." George says, out of breath from his rampage.

Stunned, Curley's wife slowly backs away; her face pale, her eyes wide in disbelief and her knees trembling. She reaches the doors to the barn and stops. George takes one step toward her, both fists still clenched. She jumps and before she turns and runs away in the dark of the night, she whispers "Goodbye George." and disappears.