The Lost City: A Short Story - Final Draft

The garbage can bonfire burned brightly against the black sky. I sat in an old lawn chair by the fire along with some other kids, one of which was Joseph Dean, or Snipe as he is known now. Snipe and I had gone to the same high school back in Texas. That was before we ran away to the Lost City.
The conflict between me and my parents had been going on for a long time - ever since I was in the eighth grade. That was when I decided I didn't want to go to a Christian high school, which upset my devoutly Christian parents. They were also described by my friends as “Republican Extremists.” Fast forward to my junior year of high school. This was the year that I began discovering myself. I realized that I didn’t want to go straight into college after my senior year. My parents heads nearly exploded when I told them about my path change. They have always had this idea in their heads of me becoming going to college, finding my one true love, and then settling down to raise my child to become the next pope. Senior year flew by, and I had to make my next life decision. My parents eagerly awaited my decision on college. When I told them again that I didn't want to go yet, they tried telling me that “the devil was tempting me with the temptations of the outside world.” My mom told me that watching so much TV was putting crazy ideas in my head. My parents were driving me crazy. Luckily I wasn’t the only one going through that with their parents. Joseph, or Snipe, told his dad that he wanted to be an artist, and he flipped out on him.
We had heard of the Lost City from kids who had graduated a year before us. The Lost City is where kids run away, to escape everything. I always had the thought of running away in the back of my mind, but Snipe was the one who convinced me. What also convinced me to leave was the raving reviews I heard being whispered in the hallways. There was no school. There were no parents. There were no taxes because money didn't exist in the Lost City. The thought of being away from my parents oppression sealed the deal. Snipe and I set a date that we would leave. When that night came, I snuck out at 1am on the dot, and got on the number 16 bus to the Metro Center. There I met up with Snipe, and we got on a train heading towards Nevada. Before I left, I wrote my parents a note. I told them that I left because of them, and that they shouldn't even bother with coming to look for me. That night I left behind my phone and my old life.
We got off at the Las Vegas stop. Las Vegas was the complete opposite of Corpus Christi, Texas. Churches were replaced with clubs and casinos. My moment of awe was cut short when Snipe pulled me the other way. We started walking away from the bright lights and loud music, and towards the silent desert. We walked for an hour, when we came upon a rock. Engraved in the rock was “Follow the sun set.” By then it was 5 in the afternoon. We were tired and hungry, but we couldn't stop in the middle of the desert. We kept a steady pace until 8pm. In the far distance I spotted an abandoned crane. I knew that the Lost City was in an abandoned city in a hidden valley in the middle of the desert. “Yes! That has to be it!” Snipe shouted as his pace picked up speed. We were sprinting, luggage and all. I ran so hard that I started heaving. We got to the top of the valley. When I looked down, the city looked like a village of ants. Snipe and I started walking down the sharp descent. I guess we were spotted coming down the hill, because a crowd gathered at the bottom. when we got the bottom, a frumpy woman in her early twenties approached us. She said to us “We’ve been expecting you. What are your names?”
“I’m Joseph, and this is Kaliegh.” Snipe responded.
“My name is Earth, and I am the leader of the free people.” she told us. She put her arms around our shoulders and led us through the camp. She was going on about how they were all one big family and how this is our new life, but I wasn’t really listening. I was looking at the people. If i had one word to describe them: dirty. Their clothes were filthy and their hair was matted. They were sleeping on brown mattresses on the floors of unfinished buildings. The people were all my age or older. Some were way older than me, like they were in their thirties. We walked past a few people standing on a corner trading something back and forth, and then smoking it. This wasn’t the best first impression, but it still sticks with me.
I am still sitting by the bonfire staring at Snipe. I should explain how he got that name. Back in Texas, Snipe went out every Saturday with his dad to go hunting. He was pretty good at it too. Snipe showed off his skills the first week when we came by shooting some coyotes that had entered to town. Since then, everyone calls him Snipe. Since then he has become the city's favorite person for ‘saving the town’. If you ask me, ever since he changed his name he has become a different person. He was no longer this free spirited artist who was my best friend; He is now a crazy, junkie who had forgotten about the real reason for why we came here.
Every Thursday night, a truck would come speeding through the desert. Driving the truck was a white man, with a shaggy beard, and who always wore a baseball cap. I have never seen his eyes before because the bill of the cap always overshadowed them. The man never got out of his car. He rolled down his window to take a bag from Earth, while some other boys from the camp took a bag out of the trunk. We all knew what was in the bag. The first Friday I was here Snipe and I witnessed the outbreak. In the morning, everyone was acting normal, but by noon, something had changed. All the people were out on the streets, acting rowdy and loud. A woman was unconscious in the street and nobody seemed to notice her. A shady man, who looked to be in his late 20’s, grabbed my arm and asked me if I wanted a hit. He held out a plastic bottle, filled with a thick, pink liquid. I shook my arm from his grip, and ran into the nearest house.
“Don’t let them get to you.” said a voice. When I ran in, I didn’t realize the woman in the corner. She was sitting at a table under a dim ceiling light.
“You’ll turn into one of them, a monster.” she said.
“What is it that they are drinking?” I asked hesitantly.
“Some cheap, hardcore drug, from them Mexicans.” she replied in her thick, southern accent. The woman was as thin as a stick, and her eyes sank into her skull. It looked as if she had a few teeth missing and she smelt like cigarettes. To this day, I still haven't tried it, and I don’t plan on it either. I’ve seen what it does to people; they run out into the streets and scream at the clouds. They start seeing things and think they are being chased. They become paranoid from nothing but themselves. Snipe gave in just a few weeks after we came. That night I saw a side of him that I had never seen before. Now, it’s like he doesn't even remember me on those nights. I sit alone in my room, to avoid the evil outside.
Sometimes think about my parents and my old life. Sometimes I start having regrets, which I told myself I wouldn't have. I start daydreaming about what life would be like if I had stayed in Texas. I think about my parents and wonder if they miss meat all. Sometimes I even wish that I was back there, in Texas, in my room, in my parents home. But then I have to remember, I left all of that behind my I ran away. There's no turning back.
I can see why kids from my school raved about this place. It was the complete opposite of what we were used to. There were no parents, no strict teachers, and most of all there were no standards. Here, you don't have to do something useful with your life - you can just waste it away. Here, you don't have to think about what you're going to do tomorrow - you just wake up and live. Kids came here to be rebels who reject the norms of society. I thought I was one of those kids, but now I'm not sure. Here in the Lost City I live in fear that I am going to become like the others here. Sometimes it feels like I don't belong here. I'm not like these hardcore, individualists who can make it on their own. All I wanted to do was run away from my parents, but it seems like I ran away from myself.
I want to tell Snipe that I made a mistake, but he is too busy living his new life. Almost every night, he goes over to Butch's house and parties. Butch is a 23 year old man who came here when he was 17. He says he wants to live out the rest of his life here. When I see Butch, I can only think about how much I don't want to end up like him. I don't want to be a grown woman, who spends her days getting plastered with a bunch if 17 year old run-always. So I have decided to run away. Again.
I think that I remember how we came here, so I should be fine getting back home. I packed my bag and cleaned, to erase any evidence of me ever being here. At night when I knew that the whole town would be drunk, I will escape. I have made the biggest mistake of my life, and now I'm going to erase it. Before I left I wrote Snipe a note. It read:
Dear Snipe,
As you are reading this, I am probably far away from the Lost City. I have realized that this just isn't the place for me. I can't hang with these rowdy people. I know that you are liking it here, and I wish you the best of luck. If you are ever looking for me, you know where to find me.
Kaliegh
As I was trekking across the dead desert, I kept thinking about what else I should have written in the note. I should have told him to be happy and not to worry about me, eventhough it seems like he had already done that. Before I knew it I had reached Vegas. I was hit with flashbacks of when Snipe and I first came here. The scenery was just as bright as it was before, but I didn't get the same rush of excitement. I wasn't in awe as I walked past the billboards and flashing signs. The sense of adventure was replaced with the feeling of remorse. I walked to the Greyhound station and bought my train ticket back home. I sat down in the one of the chairs lining the walls of the terminal. I sat there for what felt like hours. I watched the people come and go through the station. I watched family members reuniting and couples reunifying. That was the feeling I was missing. I couldn't wait to be back home with my parents, I couldn't wait to have my old life back, and I couldn't wait to forget about the Lost City.

The Lost City: A Short Story

The garbage can bonfire burned brightly against the black sky. I sat in an old lawn chair by the fire along with some other kids, one of which was Joseph Dean, or Snipe as he is known now. Snipe and I had gone to the same high school back in Texas. That was before we ran away to the Lost City.

The conflict between me and my parents had been going on for a long time - ever since I was in the eighth grade. That was when I decided I didn't want to go to a Christian high school, which upset my devoutly Christian parents. They were also described by my friends as “Republican Extremists.” Fast forward to my junior year of high school. This was the year that I began discovering myself. I realized that I didn't want to go straight into college after my senior year. My parents heads nearly exploded when I told them about my path change. They have always had this idea in their heads of me becoming going to college, finding my one true love, and then settling down to raise my child to become the next pope. Senior year flew by, and I had to make my next life decision. My parents eagerly awaited my decision on college. When I told them again that I didn't want to go yet, they tried telling me that “the devil was tempting me with the temptations of the outside world.” My mom told me that watching so much TV was putting crazy ideas in my head. My parents were driving me crazy. Luckily I wasn't the only one going through that with their parents. Joseph, or Snipe, told his dad that he wanted to be an artist, and he flipped out on him.

We had heard of the Lost City from kids who had graduated a year before us. The Lost City is where kids run away, to escape everything. I always had the thought of running away in the back of my mind, but Snipe was the one who convinced me. What also convinced me to leave was the raving reviews I heard being whispered in the hallways. There was no school. There were no parents. There were no taxes because money didn't exist in the Lost City. The thought of being away from my parents oppression sealed the deal. Snipe and I set a date that we would leave. When that night came, I snuck out at 1 am on the dot, and got on the number 16 bus to the Metro Center. There I met up with Snipe, and we got on a train heading towards Nevada. Before I left, I wrote my parents a note. I told them that I left because of them, and that they shouldn't even bother with coming to look for me. That night I left behind my phone and my old life.

We got off at the Las Vegas stop. Las Vegas was the complete opposite of Corpus Christi, Texas. Churches were replaced with clubs and casinos. My moment of awe was cut short when Snipe pulled me the other way. We started walking away from the bright lights and loud music, and towards the silent desert. We walked for an hour, when we came upon a rock. Engraved in the rock was “Follow the sun set.” By then it was 5 in the afternoon. We were tired and hungry, but we couldn't stop in the middle of the desert. We kept a steady pace until 8 pm. In the far distance I spotted an abandoned crane. I knew that the Lost City was in an abandoned city in a hidden valley in the middle of the desert. “Yes! That has to be it!” Snipe shouted as his pace picked up speed. We were sprinting, luggage and all. I ran so hard that I started heaving. We got to the top of the valley. When I looked down, the city looked like a village of ants. Snipe and I started walking down the sharp descent. I guess we were spotted coming down the hill, because a crowd gathered at the bottom. when we got the bottom, a frumpy woman in her early twenties approached us. She said to us “We've been expecting you. What are your names?”

“I’m Joseph, and this is Kaliegh.” Snipe responded.

“My name is Earth, and I am the leader of the free people.” she told us. She put her arms around our shoulders and led us through the camp. She was going on about how they were all one big family and how this is our new life, but I wasn't really listening. I was looking at the people. If i had one word to describe them: dirty. Their clothes were filthy and their hair was matted. They were sleeping on brown mattresses on the floors of unfinished buildings. The people were all my age or older. Some were way older than me, like they were in their thirties. We walked past a few people standing on a corner trading something back and forth, and then smoking it. This wasn't the best first impression, but it still sticks with me.

I am still sitting by the bonfire staring at Snipe. I should explain how he got that name. Back in Texas, Snipe went out every Saturday with his dad to go hunting. He was pretty good at it too. Snipe showed off his skills the first week when we came by shooting some coyotes that had entered to camp. Since then, everyone calls him Snipe. Since then he has become the city's favorite person for ‘saving the town’. If you ask me, ever since he changed his name he has become a different person. He was no longer this free spirited artist who was my best friend; He is now a crazy, junkie who had forgotten about the real reason for why we came here.

New money, Old money, and everybody else.

In the book The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald, we read about the difference between new money and old money. Old money is generational wealth from old established connections. When think of old money in today's culture, I think of men who went to Yale like their predecessors, and who play polo with their neighbors on the weekends. New money is characterized by people who have become wealthy on their own, through something like entrepreneurship or investing. When I visualize new money I think of those people who dropped out of college and somehow struck gold with their out-of-the-box idea. In today's world, the idea of getting 'new money' is what everyone is trying to find. There are tons of examples of people who are rolling in dough because of the simplest idea - like Scott Boilen, the creator of the Snuggie. His idea of a blanket with sleeves had actually been thought of before with the less popular Slanket, but somehow Boilen made millions.
There is another difference between old and new money. With old money, a person doesn't really have to work to get their money. In a way, people who come from old money are like freeloaders - they live off of someone else's money. People who are from new money have worked hard make their money. They have a different sense of pride because they are rich, but they got there themselves and not because of somebody else.
In the book The Great Gatsby, it makes it seem like people from new money are more aware of what is going on around them, and are more socially conscious. In chapter 1, Tom brings up the book he was reading about how them the "dominant race to watch out or these other races will have control" (Fitzgerald 17). Times are changing, and Tom is caught up on the idea that colored people are gaining power in society. So I have a question for whoever reads this: do you think there are still people with an old money mentality in today's culture? And if so, what characterizes them?

Thankful

I am thankful for everyone in my 7th period English class, but since I have to be more specific, there is one person I have in mind. Ivy Ip. I met her this year in English for the first time. She has a loud personality - but in the good way, not the obnoxious way. She always seems happy when she walks into the class, and it kinda rubs off on everyone else. English class is more bearable because of some of the funny things she says. Ivy is an easy person to get along with, and she has a really cool wardrobe too. She is one of the people I am thankful for in my English class.

Poe

Edgar Allan Poe was a poet/writer born in 1809 in Boston. He has many famous poems like The Raven and The Fall of Ligea. He is known for writing spooky stories and he is credited with starting horror stories. The Raven, which he published in 1845, was probably his most famous poem. He died in Virginia in 1847, and the cause of his death was said to have been congestion of the brain, but people still argue that it could have been something else.
I have read poems and stories by Poe in the past and although I like the Raven, the Tell-Tale Heart is my favorite (if you haven't read it you should). It's about a man who kills an old man because his eye creeps him out, and then he chops up his body and hides it under the floor boards. The police come because they heard a scream, and the narrator tells them that it was him while he was sleeping, and that the old man is out of town. The narrator thinks he got away with it until he starts hearing the old man's heartbeat, which drives him crazy. He ends up testing up the floor and exposing his crime. The story is eerie and keeps you guessing what's going to happen next. I think that Poe its a great American figure, because he revolutionized literature. I like reading mysteries and horror stories, so I like a lot of Poe's stories.

I Celebrate Myself

When I think about celebrating myself, I think of celebrating who I am and what I have become. I know that it's totally cliche to say "I am proud of myself because I am my own person, and because I am confident in who I am" but it's true. In Song of Myself Whitman talks about how everyone is the same, or as he says it "For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you." This is true, we should think of everyone as equal but there should be something about you that makes you different.

"In order to be irreplaceable one must always be different." ~ Coco Channel

In the poem Song of Myself, Whitman talked about how when you die, life isn't over for you, which I also think is true. When I die I want to be remembered for something. Above is one of my favorite quotes about being different. It's basically saying that if you want to be known for something when you're gone,  then you have to make yourself known for something now. That is one of my philosophy's for life.

What is an American?

To me the definition of an American is anyone who is born in America or who is an American citizen. It doesn't matter where your parents came from or what race you are, you're still an American. Some people in this country seem to think that just because you may not have been born in this county, you aren't an American. I think that people categorize "American" because they want to either feel unique or make someone else feel different. Not necessarily different in a bad way, but like there is something that separates them from the rest of the American population. People label themselves as African-American or Irish-American because they want people to know where they or their ancestors came from. Although categorizing Americans is a way to represent us, it is also a way to divide us. Labeling people with their race or culture leads to stereotypes. It also depends on what people want to be seen as. In America you might want to label yourself as an African-American because we're all Americans and you want to be seen differently. In. Country other than America, you might want to be classified as just an American because that's what you want to be seen as. Basically the question is "What do you want people to view you as?" when deciding what you want to be labeled as.