Oliver Queen Alternate Ending

In my opinion, the ending wasn’t satisfying. It wasn’t satisfying because I was expecting a little bit more. For example, when the whole entire band shaved their hair I was surprised. But, I was wondering as to why the girls didn’t do it as well, I was hoping that they’d shave their hair as well. Also, when Jeffery got sick and Steven couldn’t perform, but in the end he received an award for his drums. But, he didn’t even perform and he got the award, I thought that it was unfair for the other people that played the instruments. Also, when Steven went to Sam and she died I was heartbroken. So, I would’ve kept her alive, I would have let her meet her sister. I would let them have a reunion, then later on she would give some more advice to

“Well,” Mrs. Johnson interrupted, “how about we settled down and talk about our plans for the morning?” Everyone agreed and sat in a circle discussing their ideas. Next, they decided they should head to bed due to the early times they would have to wake in the morning. As they woke up, they put on their layers of clothes, grabbed their bags, and headed for the Johnsons’ business. They would be staying in an attic, which luckily had a bathroom, but would have to sleep all in one room. They set up their belongings and set rules which they would have to follow to stay safe.

showed her somewhat of contempt? She cannot pass you in the church but you will blush,' and than

“It’s a beautiful and healthy land , George , It’s unbelievable,” I yelled so loud , like I want the world to know that .

Oliver’s head spun rapidly for the rest of the week. He could barely talk to Spencer, or barely talk to anyone at this point. His lips remained sealed as long as he was in the same room as Spencer.

“Here you go!” My thought process was broken by a warm voice, setting a two cups in front of me, one steaming, the other dripping with condensation. “Careful, it’s hot.” I grinned at him, his honey colored eyes meet my own; he winked before turning around to get back to cleaning. Eddie’s scowl was unavoidable at this point and I sighed, defeated.

EDWARD HYDE positively deteriorated throughout the rest of the evening -- his words, while long and elegant and therefore best suited for the upper classes, slurred together, suggestive of a cheap windchime’s discordant tin. His chair inched ever-closer to that of Utterson’s throughout the evening. The lawyer recoiled upon catching a whiff of the man’s breath and motioned to Poole, anxious for the safety of his friend lest Hyde, in such an intoxicated state, should deem it fit to remain at the house overnight.

Ken interlaced his hands behind his head and stretched back into the woven hammock. He alone was on the boat in the hot breezes of the Amazon. He dreamed of his fiancé back home. Then his mind switched to the mission trip God led him to do here in Brazil. The Captain and the other man traveling with Ken had gone through the jungle to a village along the Amazon, but he was enjoying a little down time before heading out. Ken drug his hand across his forehead and looked up. I should probably get ready to assist the other missionaries soon, he thought. Sweat was a constant visitor as a result of the humidity of Brazil. He jumped up in anticipation of the journey lying ahead, and he gathered some supplies. Ken slipped on his Teva sandals and strapped his feet in. Before leaving the boat, he knelt down and said a prayer for safety.

He pulled into the parking lot, shutting off his truck and grabbing his tablet as he slid out of the truck. On his way to the door, he made sure to have both the camera app and the note app loaded up. He slipped quickly through the doors, his boots clicking on the linoleum as he purposefully strode to the ladies at the front desk.

Combining entertainment with a deep critique of the contemporary socioeconomic system and philosophy, Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist explores the reality that in Victorian London, crime was neither heroic nor romantic. A setting of debauchery, thievery, prostitution, and murder, Fagin's underworld didactically illustrates the "unattractive and repulsive truth (36)," that one's environment--not birth--influences character. Attempting to introduce society to the evil it had created, Dickens penned "Fagin's Last Night Alive," manipulating both his literal and figurative audience, capitalizing on the current sentiments and issues. By typifying Fagin as the absolute

“Uh, what tea would you like?” It was easy to tell your inquiry had thrown the young man off because he was gawking at you with a curious expression on his face.

Have you ever thought about the way you watch television? One way is to watch live television, mainly sports games and news broadcasts, but the other, more common way is to watch by DVR (digital video recorder). I am unable to watch my shows until the weekend, but thanks to my DVR, I am able to catch up on all of the ones I had missed during the week due to school and/or extracurriculars. Because I can watch what some would call excessive amounts of television using my DVR, I have become incredibly invested in the worlds portrayed on my screen, using these worlds as a more credible source of reality than the actual world in which I live. This is what George Gerbner, a professor who holds both a master's degree and a doctoral degree in communications, calls "cultivation theory" (Jamieson and Romer 31).

Do you remember what I told you that night? That if I hadn’t seen the doctor pull Amir out of my wife, I’d never believe that he is my son? Well, that thought had been crossing my mind a lot these past weeks. Just yesterday, I took him out to watch the yearly Buzkashi tournament. Before we had left, I had sensed a sign of discontent from Amir, but I shrugged it off as if he were tired. Buzkashi was Afghanistan’s passion. It was not possible that an Afghan was not interested. While we sat in the upper bleachers, Amir often looked confused or bored. He would look up at the chapandaz then back down at his fingers. I had told him the sight of a book at the Buzkashi was unbearable, and that he could last a few hours without burying his face in one. Although his eyes were on the horses, I knew by his gaze he knew next to nothing about Bazkashi. So I decided to point out my long time favourite chapandaz, Henry Kissinger. Before Amir had time to respond, I saw his eyes dart to the far end of the stadium. A chapandaz fell off his saddle and was crushed under the hooves of the horses. Slowly, Amir’s face changed from shock to mournful. How is it that this is my son? This rather quiet, bookish, feminine

The breeze of the cool, clear evening caressed Arthur’s face as he roamed the woods on foot. Initially, he’d planned to take his horse so he could cover more ground, but decided against that, as going to the stables and saddling up would draw too much attention. It was easier for him to slip out of the castle under the cover of darkness, alone.

“And on she went about the room, serving food and compliments, fixing every guest with that strange piercing gaze of hers, so that by the time she finished and was ready to do her demonstration, everyone obediently