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My Junior Engrish paperDoes anybody know that more than five children die everyday from child abuse? Or maybe someone knew that a report of child abuse happens every ten seconds? No? Well if nobody knew that Someone must have known that about 80% of the children that die are under the age of four years of age? (National) No? Shocking isn't it? This is why people need to be informed. The problem is exactly that, people don't know much about it. Everyday children die for a stupid reason. People, as a whole, don't want to see something so horrible happening. People don't want to acknowledge that things like child abuse happens everyday. So who's going to stop it, if nobody is informed about the horrors happening in the privacy of some people's homes?
Child abuse is a serious issue that needs to be talked about more, but ultimately it is the child or children that are affected the most. That is because they are the ones going though the hell that is their supposed life.
There are four basic types of child
Dakar and the red queen ch.3Omorfia was the first to wake up. She looked around to make sure everything was where she left it. Every thing was in place except one thing....
"Devon! If you don't remove yourself off me I will roll over on you..." Dakar woke up at this threat and laughed when he saw his friend was sprawled across the centaurs back. Devon just moaned and curled up on her back.
"Devon...I'd wake up if I were you." Dakar said but it was to late. Omorfia rolled over devon and he yelped in pain. but the weight had gotten lighter so it didn't hurt anymore. Devon opened his eyes and saw a thin naked blonde woman on him with a dagger around her neck. Omorfia just grinned at his shocked face. Her horns were shown. They were small and had a slight shine to them.
"You're a...you're a...you're a..." Devon to shocked to finish so Dakar finished for him.
"Demon half-breed. Like me." Omorfia snorted.
"I'd prefer if you didn't use those words." She said as she rummaged through her bags for some clothes. She put on
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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