She told me she couldn't shake what she had seen. Would the dogs' owner show up?How about the surviving dog? What if he came back?She hadn't write an essay on my school been sleeping, and when she did, she dreamt of the bloody bodies, the torn sides of a billy, the kids crushed into the mud. I told her I knew how she felt, but I don't.I don't think it's possible. She sent me only one picture of the scene, a close-up of the surviving nanny's nose, ripped open by the dog's teeth. The rest I have to imagine.
In a gully, he found two billies and the english essay directed writing last nanny. They had survived by shoving themselves into an abandoned chicken coop. Afterwards, my family walked among the carcasses-once white, now bloodstained and caked with rain-softened clay. We wanted to find life, my mother said.They gave up at four in the afternoon, and my father and brother made a pile of the bodies in the woods, to be buried later. Phone calls like this are common now. I've been in a boarding school since August, and every weekend my mother seems to find something new to break. It's not always bad.The weekend before, she called to tell me my brother enrolled in a birding retreat on the South Carolina coastline. And before that, she told me about the new color she picked for the living room walls. I'm still not used to this kind of communication.A year ago, when I still lived with them, I would know all this. She wouldn't have to tell me two or three days later. I'd like to say I've adjusted, but I haven't. The Wednesday after the goats died, she called again.
Id like to share them with you. Long-Distance, my mother called on Sunday to tell me our herd of goats, previously twenty-one strong, had been reduced to three. Two feral dogs squeezed through a hole in the pasture fence and killed anything they could catch.My parents write papers for money and brother arrived during the massacre. My father jumped the fence to chase the dogs and shot the slower one with a pistol. On his way back, he heard a few scattered bleats and followed the sounds.
In January, I visited the South Carolina Governors School for the Arts and Humanities, a public residential high school in Greenville. Artistically talented students from around the state spend two or three of their high school years in dedicated pursuit of their artdance, drama, music, visual arts, or creative writingalong with their academic curriculum.I wrote about it here. I asked Scott Gould, a creative writing teacher at my assignment help legit the school, if he would ask his students to write me a short essay about their school.This was a wide-open request; I wanted to hear whatever perspective the students wanted to offer about their experience at the school. Among the essays the students submitted, here are three of my favorites, unedited and untouched.