Pick of the Week - Independence Day!!

Eli will be entering the 7th grade in September and is 12 years old.

by Eli R.

I lay weary at eight in the morning, pondering if I should get up. I realize that this is an important day for my company, and I am forced to sit up in my bed. Today I have a lucrative opportunity: to promote my insurance company in a lecture to possible customers. I groaned and got out of bed, staggering towards the drawer. I got dressed and made my way to the kitchen to gather a Propel from the refrigerator. The blinding sun shone in my eyes as I flagged down a taxi. The summer was unusually hot and my perspiration already soaked my shirt. A taxi came by and I was relieved to be in its shade.

“Hi, if you would please take me to 29th and Broadway that would be great.” I greeted him.

“Yes sir”, he answered automatically with an Indian accent. He was a man with a dark complexion and large white turban surrounded his head. My eyes wandered over to his profile and name.

“That’s and interesting name, where are you from?”

“I am from India, Bombay.”

“That’s interesting I just traveled there for a business trip. Wish I could have stayed longer. Here we are, at the near corner.” The fare was $3.25 and I handed him a five-dollar bill. I opened the cab door and once again felt the searing sunrays stinging my neck. I grabbed my Propel in haste and the refreshing fluid calmed me.
I stiffened as I entered the serious domain of business. My legs became locked as I advanced with my jaw clenched and my muscles flexing, onto the podium. My now firm and raspy voice traveled through the audience, their pupils growing and boring into mine. Following the monotonous lecture I discussed our inadequate policy with probable clients, and stormed out of the tense atmosphere into the atrium of the building. Flushed, I rushed to the private garage where my car waited and lounged for a moment in profound thought. I then steamed out of the garage with the hope of a relaxing drive on the highway.

After an hour gliding over the concrete I felt powerful and accelerated until I was averaging the speed of 80 miles per hour. I was unstoppable, and again increased the speed until a man flashed across my bumper. Through my window I saw him twitch and lay motionless. I hit the breaks and watched the blood seep from his chest; his button down shirt was smeared, as was my window shield. A wave of shock covered my face but I merely turned the windshield wipers on and the blood was washed onto the ground. I continued to drive.

In my apartment I lounged on my bed and watched the blood coursing through my veins and pulsing into my forearm’s. I sat, staring throughout the night, thinking, and sipping my Propel as the moonlight shone into my eyes. As the sun rose I sat weary and realized I had had work today; I disregarded that thought and sulked towards the mirror. My reflection was pale, drained, and frail. For the next week I abandoned my occupation, along with my happiness, but I wasn’t noticed.

The next morning I ambled towards 35th where the police station awaited me and I admitted my sin. The following week I sat in a dank jail cell, happy for the first time in my life.