More starting paragraphs

Hands against the window frame, staring out the glass- a child falls in the dust. Shot by a stray bullet. More children influenced by their parents pain. Standing in the street- a child explodes in particles of hatred. Suicide bomber igniting the fires of killing so theres no hope. Killing isn't peace!1

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Auburn hair flowing in every direction, the eleven year old Roma fought in the style of the wildcat. Every maneuver she knew she put into play. She bit the old clammy hands of her drunken attackers. Her rough bitten nails dug into the creases and soft spots in potbellies, arm folds, pressure points and pock marked faces of her wasted assailants. Her tan legs showed from underneath the moving colors of her mid thigh length skirt. She kicked out with her feet trying to knock them off balance. She twisted and spasmed all along her writhing dancer’s body. She shimmied and shook curvy hips and used her bony elbows with slamming force. Her thin lips screamed for all they were worth, to no avail. She knew the second she opened her mouth no one would help a dancer much less a romani. Her lips emitted a piercing yell that soon turned into a despairing wail wavering in desperation. 13

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Horse and rider raced away from everything they knew- the arena gates opened and two beings were set free. Pounding feet imprinted memories in the dust and galloped towards dark outlines of rising heights. Dark hair whipped against a tan face smiling at her freedom. Riders would chase her- they wouldn’t let her disappear but Karya and Lily would be gone. 15

Leaning over Karya’s long neck Lily inhaled the beautiful smells that not one could take away from her now- the smells of wild horse, and the smells of freedom. Hands gripping firery red mane , Lily braced herself for them to fly. Leaping into freedom.26

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The poem was Chiara’s childhood. Every impassioned letter and pain filled word were the outlet of her Nona’s [Italian for grandmother] anguish and grief. Nona raised Chiara not to take anything for granted. Chiara was a child raised in tragedy. She was surrounded by the tragedy that was her grandmother’s past and the tragedy of her mother’s childhood that had driven her Nona to search for a new beginning with baby Chiara. 8

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I look around and I don’t see anyone like me. I look around and I see perfection. I am the only one who doesn’t fit. I slip away silently unseen from my lunch table. The lunch bell rings and imprisons us within the double doors I push open. The doors hold us together in the same room though in reality we are all so far apart. The door closes behind me and so do the doors holding back my aching sorrow. I close my eyes squeezing droplets of pain back into my overflowing eyelids. I walk down the halls that are supposed to make us feel the same because we all walk down them- but we aren’t. They tell us to be different, but they want us to be the same. The girls that walk these halls crowned by perfection their body conforms to – what I can never be. A door slams somewhere and I flinch, expecting to be shoved aside by teenagers who can’t see anyone but themselves. I walk to the bathroom seeking invisibility even though in the deserted halls I am no one and no one sees me My legs barely hold my weight, weak as they are. A weakness I have to overcome. I force myself to take another step of nauseating pain. My stomach muscles contract pushing limits. Voices ring in my consciousness, I cannot see straight-I don’t know where I am, and then it passes. I keep on going, I can’t stop. ‘I don’t even want to’ I make myself think. 110

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Tears fell down Starya's cheeks flowing freely a cascade of sorrow and pain. Rivulets of raw emotion are black liquid scars that tell the story of her pain. The fire engulfs the sky, encompassing it in its heat and passion. The night sky is alit in orange sparks carried off by the wind. The heat presses down on my skin, testing me and challenging my will.112