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Read online books Drama in English at worldlibraryebooks.comIn literature a drama genre deserves your attention. Dramas are usually called plays. Every person is made up of two parts: good and evil. Due to life circumstances, the human reveals one or another side of his nature. In drama we can see the full range of emotions : it can be love, jealousy, hatred, fear, etc. The best drama books are full of dialogue. This type of drama is one of the oldest forms of storytelling and has existed almost since the beginning of humanity. Drama genre - these are events that involve a lot of people. People most often suffer in this genre, because they are selfish. People always think to themselves first, they want have a benefit.


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All problems are in our heads. We want to be pitied. Every single person sooner or later experiences their own personal drama, which can leave its mark on him in his later life and forces him to perform sometimes unexpected actions. Sometimes another person can become the subject of drama for a person, whom he loves or fears, then the relationship of these people may be unexpected. Exactly in drama books we are watching their future fate.
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Read books online Ā» Drama Ā» Jake and the Girl with the Pretty Legs by J.C. Laird (bill gates books to read txt) šŸ“–

Book online Ā«Jake and the Girl with the Pretty Legs by J.C. Laird (bill gates books to read txt) šŸ“–Ā». Author J.C. Laird



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bag and back-pack, he turned to her. She could see tears in his faded blue eyes. ā€œThank youā€¦maā€™am, I meanā€¦missā€¦er, Rachelā€¦,ā€ he faltered, but continued on. ā€œDonā€™t forgetā€¦ once I was differentā€¦better, that isā€¦not like this.ā€ Then his mind slipped gears again, and that childish and embarrassed smile creased his weathered and lined face. ā€œYou still have the prettiest legs I ever seen in my whole life.ā€ He turned and walked away.

Rachel watched until he had disappeared around the corner. She hadnā€™t known what else to do or say.

#

A week passed, and the clear, high desert nights of Albuquerque had become increasingly cold. It was late, after eleven pm, but Rachel had had a late dinner with her boyfriend, Jon, and she needed her daily run. Wynne said she was crazy to be jogging around town that late at night, but Rachel, in her baggy grey sweat suit to combat the cooling October night, was fearless. Besides, she had her trusty Mace in her pocket.

She stuck to the well-lit areas around campus and the adjoining neighborhoods. But she was cold and decided to take a short-cut back to her apartment. She detoured between the two O.M.I. buildings near the loading dockā€”a route she had taken dozens of times.

But this night, it was a terrible mistake.

The first attacker, wearing a hooded sweat shirt, came out of the darker recesses of a doorway and hit her low, like a football player, driving her into the adjoining buildingā€™s stucco veneer. Her head thudded off the wall, the sledgehammer of pain buckling her knees, black stars on a brilliant white background exploding in front of her eyes. The manā€™s fist crashed into her jaw, and the stars grew bigger, threatening to meld into total darkness. Her legs failing her, she began a slow slide down the wall, but still managed to maintain her hold on consciousness, trying to concentrate on getting enough wind back in her lungs to scream.

Mauling hands were pulling, yanking her sweatshirt and bra up, over and covering her head, pinning her arms above her. More hands, a second person, was pulling at her sweatpants, trying to pull them off as she sat dazed on the cold cement, propped weakly against the rough wall.

Her sputtering mind latched onto one horrific wordā€¦rapeā€¦she was going to be raped! She would have screamed, but her jaws wouldnā€™t work anymore; all that came out was a hoarse, raspy moan through her clenched teeth and bleeding lips. Her mind lurched, stumbled, prayed, ā€˜Help me Godā€¦help me pleaseā€¦the Lord is my shepherd, I shall not wantā€¦ā€™

Suddenly, miraculously, the grasping, grabbing hands were gone from her body. There were sounds of scuffling, swearing, fighting. A scream, someone tripping over her. Her mind registered that someone was trying to help her.

Rachel slowly slumped over onto her side, gasping and gagging. The pain was so intense in her head and jaw that she thought she might vomit. She curled up into a half fetal position, bringing her knees up to her chest, but was too weak to work the sweatshirt down from over her arms and head. It was so dark and she was so cold. She couldnā€™t hear the sounds of fighting anymore.

Then someone was covering her nakedness with something warm. She mercifully slid into unconsciousness, thinking and feeling no longer an option.

#

She could hear voices, words, disjointed sounds. Slowly, they began to coalesce, sticking to her consciousness. She opened her eyes, squinting at the red and blue flashing lights swirling through the darkness. Her head was throbbing and her jaw hurt. Slowly, things came into focus.

Two police cars were parked near the loading dock entrance, their emergency lights slicing through the night. An ambulance was backed onto the down ramp, a stretcher with a moaning, inert shape awaited its loading.

Rachel pushed herself into a sitting position, resting against the rough stucco wall. Two male EMTā€™s standing next to her, waiting until the second ambulance was ready for her, immediately knelt down. The older of the two spoke. ā€œTake it easy, young lady, you might have a concussion; why donā€™t you lie back down?ā€

Other than her head, jaw and swollen lips, everything seemed to be normal. ā€œIā€™ll be okay.ā€ A wave of nausea washed over her and it hurt to talk, but she wanted to know what was going on. ā€œDid they catch the guys who attacked me?ā€

With an audible grunt a heavy-set police officer, whom she hadnā€™t seen at first, knelt down beside her. ā€œThe other ambulance is hauling away the two guys who assaulted you. They were beaten pretty badly, but we canā€™t take credit for that. They confessed to attacking you, but said some young guy in an army uniform came out of nowhere and beat the hell out of them. A campus police officer on foot patrol heard yelling and screaming, came to investigate and found you and those two punks unconscious, but no sign of any army guy.ā€

The grey-haired cop reminded Rachel of her father. He was still talking. ā€œAny chance I can have that blanket and picture now?ā€ he said.

Rachel glanced down. Her sweat suit was back in place and a dark wool blanket was now covering her lower body. In her left handā€”and clasped tightly to her bodyā€”was a threadbare, brown army blanket, and in her right, a photograph. Both hands were cramped and sore.

ā€œYouā€™ve had a death grip on that old blanket and picture ever since we found you. Youā€™ve been semi-conscious, but refused to let go of either. Someone had covered you with that blanket; I donā€™t know where the picture came from, either.ā€ The officer reached out and touched her arm. ā€œIā€™m Officer Mike Jenkins and Iā€™ve been with the Albuquerque Police Department for thirty years. You have my word that Iā€™ll take care of the blanket and picture and get them back to you.ā€ He stood up and reached down.

Rachel reluctantly released the old photograph from her stiff fingers. The blanket she brought to her face, the coarse surface a caress against her cheek, inhaling deeply the faint odor of sweat and musk. The tears came silently; she handed the blanket to the officer.

Glancing from the photo to the smiling, but tearful, young woman before him, he asked, ā€œDo you know the soldier in this picture?ā€

ā€œIā€™m only twenty-four, that pictureā€™s like forty-five years old.ā€

ā€œAnd you know this how?ā€ Officer Jenkins looked from the old army blanket to the photo, then back at Rachel.

She remained silent.

He sighed. ā€œI donā€™t think I even want to know. Weā€™ll get a description of the good-Samaritan from the perps and try to locate him.ā€

Rachelā€™s smile faded a bit. ā€œI think heā€™s gone, officer. I think, maybe, he was just on loan.ā€

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Imprint

Text: John C. Laird
Images: istockphoto.com
Editing: Alexandra Laird
Publication Date: 03-02-2012

All Rights Reserved

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