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My Temporary Life

My Temporary Life

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Published by Angela White
Heroes are not born, they're made.
Heroes are not born, they're made.

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Published by: Angela White on Jan 05, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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01/06/2012

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My Temporary Life
Heroes are not born, they’re made.
 With strength forged by years of enduring schoolyard bullying and neglect at the hands of a promiscuous carefree mother, Malcolm Stewart learns to stand up for himself and for his friends. But sometime betweenhis years growing up in Scotland, with his staunch Scottish father and hisadulthood in Canada, Malcolm gave up on life. When beautiful Heather,with her red hair, wearing a t-
 shirt that reads “I Am the Revolution,” and 
combat boots enters his life - everything in his world changes. Malcolm falls in love with Heather. And after hearing about her abusive childhood and the daughter she was forced to leave behind, Malcolm knows he must help her get the little girl back. He has no choice
 – 
 
that’s what heroes do. Their journey takes them to a remote corner 
of Canada, where Malcolm faces trouble from being accused of kidnappingto being run off of a snowy road by an enraged psycho. Heather's story proves to be more tragic than Malcolm ever imagined. But his love for her and a little girl he has never met, gives Malcolm an opportunity to becomethe hero he never thought he could be.
 
 
They’re just local boys, probably not much older thanI am, but they play in a band, a real band, and that’ssomething that I’ve never seen before. George
explains to me about festival seating
.
That means theearlier you get there, the better seating, or standing in
this case, you can count on. It doesn’t matter though; we don’t have to line
up for seats. He knows a guy. George always knows a guy.When we arrive, our local park looks as though it has been takenover by some kind of a circus. There are large green tents set up withyoung women selling beer and pop, and a stage has been erected in themiddle of a cluster of trees where crowds of excited young people press upagainst each other, waiting, waiting for something to happen.He can see my look of concern and answers before I can even
ask. “Don’t worry, I told you. I know a guy.” He almost smiles, and I tryto smile back. It’s the best
 
that I’ve seen him in days, and all of a sudden it
almost feels like me and George again, me and George riding to work inhis big car, listening to loud music.
 
With his big hand gently pushing on my back, he leads me to theback of the stage. Then, with a nod to a man who is even larger thanGeorge, we slide past generators that are humming and step over largepower cords until we are standing directly off to the side. There are acouple of young men pulling on cords and checking wires, but for themost part we are alone. We have the perfect view and our timing is ideal.George pushes me in front of him, and I put my hands on the lip of thestage, just as the boys pick up their instruments and the drummer half stands, half sits, and bangs his sticks together in time.
I don’t know if they are good or bad. There are two of them
playing electric guitars. One stays towards the back, and then sheepishlyventures out from time to time, before retreating back to his microphone.The other is more flamboyant and winks at the girls, while wanderingalong the front, tilting his guitar towards the crowd. He sings most of thesongs. There is another boy who sports a very fine wispy moustache,playing what looks like an electric piano, and he sings too. And of coursethe drummer is at the back, in a world of his own, hitting his drums withamazing accuracy and rhythm.The young people in the crowd grow noisier and yell louder whenthe popular songs of the day are played, but offer only polite applausewhen the band announces their own, original music. I enjoy it all.

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