— Guest post by anonymous —
Last summer was a long summer, I spent most of my days in the basement on my computer because I had nothing to do the whole season, but I couldn’t stand it anymore THE MONOTONY WAS DRIVING ME CRAZY the only place I knew of was a lake in the middle of a forest near my house, and I wanted nothing more than to swim in this beautiful lake, with the perfect temperature to counter the warm summer air, with water so clear you could see every pebble at the bottom, standing so still that I felt like I was staring into a giant mirror…yet, I was scared, because I’d never really gone swimming before in my life, as I’d only been to pools where the water never rose above my shoulders, surrounded by lifeguards who would leap to my assistance in a heartbeat, but this place was different because since the water was deeper and the lake was isolated so that no one could save me if anything went wrong. Continue reading
She watched him pull out a dinged up can from his drawer and dump the contents out onto his desk: a few crinkled bills and scraps of paper, but mostly just a shower of coins.
“My prized coin collection from seventh grade,” he muttered. “Never knew it’d end up like this.”
With a smirk, he slowly counted them up, picking through the pile for the quarters first.
“Sixteen dollars so far. Quarters really add up, you know.”
Clink, clink, clink. Continue reading
The wolf feels the arrows. It feels the pointed ends sticking into the flesh between her shoulder blades. Damn, how did the hunter find her only soft spot? The tenderest part? The hunter was skilled; the wolf feels the arrowheads stab her sharply with every movement…every lifting of the paw, every crane of the neck. Every movement, a reminder of coming death.
She looks down at the skull in front of her, a face that had once been so soft and loving and now hard and empty, reduced by death to near nothingness. The arrows seem to dig deeper underneath her skin, blood matting fur.
There is only one word for this feeling: hopelessness.
Utter, despairing, pervading hopelessness.
Creds to Amelia for showing me this:
In 9th grade, English was all about hammering down the basics of essays. We learned how to construct a thesis and communicate an argument in five paragraphs.
In 10th grade, it was about perfecting the structures of the papers that we wrote. It was incorporating quotes appropriately and eliminating “to-be” verbs.
In 11th grade, we learned how to take the analysis that we had originally done for these papers and present effective examples to bolster our arguments.
In 12th grade, it was wrapping up everything that we’d learned thus far and learning how to communicate our points not only effectively, but efficiently. It meant going over the word limit and cutting fluff so that we could present fleshed-out arguments in as few of words as possible, while still preserving its essence.
In a school in which discussions govern the class structure, my evolving personality inside and out of the classroom showcased my progress as a student of English. My initial contributions were quiet, uncertain statements, but I’m ending high school with the ability to take a stance on positions that I can defend with confidence. Continue reading