I was thinking today. I write some pretty good stuff for school. I wonder if anyone on the Boards would care? Well, here you go. I will be posting some particularly interesting things that I write for school here.
Enjoy.
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What exactly do you write for school? 
Different assignments. I should post the first a little later.
This could help me with my homework!!! Rubs hands together maniacally MWUHAHAHAHA!!!
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I would certainly be interested. Thought about doing this myself actually, but I don’t care enough about my things to make them worthwhile reads for Bionicle fans. Mine’re very boring abstract things.
http://i.imgur.com/r6J53BL.png
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Sorry for the delay. Couldn’t find this one for a while.
So. Last year we read some Edgar Allan Poe, and so my Lit/Comp teacher decided to have the class write a ‘scary’ story. No limits on it. As much whatever as you pleased. This is what I did.
Awakening
Consciousness came like the strike of realization. His blurred sight slowly gained focus. The only source of light was a partially open door to his left. He lay, bound, to some form of a table. From what he could see, broken furniture was scattered on the floor. The room around him was claustrophobically small and dark. Animal fear spiked his heart, and he fought to stay calm.
He struggled against the ropes that bound him, and found that they were brittle and half-rotten. After several minutes, the ropes had all fallen to the floor. He looked again towards the door. Something- something deep down, almost instinctive- urged him to go wherever that door may lead. Questions exploded into his mind. But above all others, one stood out to him. Why can I remember nothing?
He inhaled, and pushed himself off the table. He landed in a heap, and groaned from the soreness that burned throughout him. He could feel heat pulsing from beneath the tiled floor. It brought beads of sweat to his forehead. He groped out across the tiles, searching for crevices. As he pulled himself toward the door, glass shards cut into his arms. He winced in pain.
He stopped his crawling. Soon, feeling crept into his legs, and he was able to stand. He pulled the door open, and stumbled into another, larger, room.
The light made him blink repeatedly before he could see clearly. Three lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating the horror that the room contained. Bodies lay to the sides of the room. Their clothes were so coated in dried blood that it was hard to discern what they had been.
But what disturbed him most of all was their eyes. They were all open, staring at something he would never see. He instinctively reached up to his own eyes, and found reassurance in that he was fine.
He shifted his attention to the other end of the room, and noticed two tall metal doors. He continued forward, avoiding the corpses. When he reached the doors, he held his hand out to grab the handle. He was surprised at how light the doors were. But as soon as he opened them, he recoiled backwards, almost falling to the bloody floor.
In front of him was a long stairway. In the dim light, he could just make out bloodstains covering the walls. The temperature was noticeably colder. He was horrified of what might lie ahead of him. Yet something still continued to urge him on.
He started up the stairs. The gaps between the steps soon had him gasping for the cold, bitter air. As the stairway continued, it got darker and darker, until he paused, standing in complete darkness. It surrounded and enveloped him, and he could only feel the step beneath his feet and the thin clothes that he wore.
The darkness was cool and comforting, easing the panic that had seized him earlier. He started back up the stairs, and with every step, the urge within him grew and grew. Every part of him felt that the answers he now craved were ahead of him.
He realized that it had begun to get lighter. The dark that had given him peace was now slipping away, and he shivered. Eventually, he stepped onto a landing, and could see a small opening ahead of him. He crouched down and crawled through it.
His footsteps echoed as he stood up into a large domed chamber. Light came from frosted glass panels that lined the walls. Snow billowed into the chamber through an open door. It covered shapes that lay on the floor.
He walked over to one of the objects, and realized it was a body. It had been mutilated, and frozen gore spilled from its torso. He backed away in fear and saw that the floor was covered in icy bodies and gore. Bile came up in his mouth, and he emptied his stomach onto the floor. He fell forwards, landing on his hands and knees. He felt weak.
But the urge that had filled him earlier now screamed for him to go outside. He forced himself back up off the ground. Before he realized what was happening, he was walking towards the open door. Thoughts filled his mind as he stepped out of the chamber.
He stepped down into soft snow. The cold bit his feet, and the pure white that floated everywhere obscured his vision. He trudged forward, and soon came upon a small wooden hut. Scorch marks lined the walls, and the roof had caved in. He continued on to another hut. This one was in worse shape. Only one wall stood, and it also showed signs that a fire had occurred.
Suddenly, rage took him. A fire? With this snow? He lashed out against the wall near him. His hand broke against the splintered wood. He cried out in pain and confusion, and his tears spilled down to the frozen ruble. He turned and struggled onward.
Further houses lay in shambles. The ground soon leveled out, and he began to run. The houses turned to trees, and the snow began to thin out. He could only see the trees. He stopped to take a breath. The trees around him were all dead and decaying. He started to run again, and soon found himself outside of the small forest he had entered.
He was in a wide, white plain. A few meters ahead of him, the snow-covered rock ended. He gradually edged forward. He peered down, and saw nothing but ice and stone.
His anger bubbled up, uncalled. He threw his head back, and bellowed, “Am I alone! AM I ALONE!” He kneeled down, panting. Then he heard a soft voice behind him.
“No.”
Agony exploded in his chest. He looked down to see blood pouring down the front of his ■■■■■.
And then he was falling.
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Thanks, now I won’t be able to get to sleep.
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Here is a music report I had to write this year (and the corresponding pieces),
At the concert I attended, The Chandler Symphony Orchestra started off their Musical World Tour with Russia. They featured a full orchestra, and played three pieces from different Russian composers. First was Overture from Fra Diavolo (1837), by Daniel Francois Auber. Suite from “Lt. Kije”, op. 60 (1932) by Serge Prokofiev followed. After the intermission, Vasily Kalinnikov’s Symphony No. 1 in G-minor (1895) finished the concert.
A repeating idea in all pieces was their use of sudden crescendo and decrescendo. I found that it often kept the listener interested and engaged. It also helped convey the message being told in the music. In Auber’s Overture, The rapid shifts from louder themes with the full orchestra to slower and softer parts utilizing individual families of instruments gave off a very playful feeling. The second movement of Suite from “Lt. Kije”, Romance, begins with a soft calming melody, before a crescendo into a major part with all instruments. Before long, however, it returns to the soft brass and string section duet. It seems to say that after a depressed time, Kije was briefly joyous, but soon came back to his former somber state of mind. Symphony No. 1’s fluctuating cycles between loud and soft and major and minor seemed of a conversation, and had me guessing what would come next.
Certain instruments in all three pieces seemed to symbolize other things. Overture’s use of woodwinds cut through the other instruments being played. I found it easy to imagine the melodies of flutes as voices, sometimes singing, sometimes crying out. In Troika, the fourth movement of “Lt. Kije”, the ringing of the triangle represented the tolling of sleigh bells on the newly married Kije’s carefree ride in the forest. In Symphony No. 1, the rolling drum and loud horn evoked an image of Russian soldiers marching to the beat of their war-drums.
In multiple cases, the emotion of the pieces could be felt through one instrument. In Overture, the violins often were played in an upbeat major melody, even after a minor part. I felt that the composer was trying to say that there is always good, regardless of the bad. The brass in Kije’s Wedding, the third movement of “Lt. Kije”, reminded me of the joy in the consistent dialogue of guests anticipating the arrival of the bride and groom. What affected me the most in this concert was the oboe in Andante Commodamente, second movement of Symphony No. 1. For the majority of the movement, it played only two cycling notes. But carried in those notes was the feeling of blissful serenity, not necessarily cheerful, yet not dismal.
Although some of these pieces came from different eras, they all share common traits. The use of crescendo and decrescendo clearly projected the meaning of each musical creation. The composers used individual instruments in multiple ways. Sometimes they represented objects or people. In other cases, instruments were utilized to evoke compelling feelings. And after Symphony No. 1’s powerful ending, I think everyone left the concert contemplating the emotions they had felt.
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We recently had to write a descriptive essay about a character in Cyrano de Bergerac, and so I chose a character that was only just mentioned, so that I could create my own story. Here it is:
The French woman dresses in simple, yet elegant raiment. She wears a blue gown that flows down the curves of her body, and drapes over any seat in which she might sit. Her green down sleeves fit perfectly and shine in the evening candle-light. She has long curled hair in a shade like chestnuts. It frames her pale countenance like the artistic frame of an alluring painting. The gentlewoman’s hazel eyes show the spark of intelligence; gazing around those nearest her. She wears a small smirk, exaggerated by her red lips and defined cheekbones. Her small nose peeks out in front of her, and her petite ears only just emerged from under her coiffed mane. Atop her head is perched a small white bow. She is not very tall, nor is she stout. When she stands, her shoulders are back, and she walks proudly. She appears to glide, arms lightly swaying, across the wooden floor.
Her perfume leaves a sweet aroma on the tongue, her laughter a gentle thought on the mind. When she speaks with her father’s servants, her voice is warm and genial. Her tone is pleasant and shy. She gives a short curtsy to the men and a nod to her peers. While she drifts across the room, she knocks a loose curled hair back behind her ear. Her head perks up when she hears the call of her name. She waits idly as her father introduces her to a notable beau or some courtly swell. At length, she was able to return to her walking about. She paused at the door to invite in those who had arrived late; if she had wanted to, she might have made a great hostess. Instead, though, she had become an intellectual. She devoted herself to her studies and passed the time listening to the pretty words of poets.
A muted laugh rings across the chamber; some of her fellows had arrived. They began to discuss the work of a particular poet whom they were currently reading. She does not speak often, but when she does, she plans her words carefully. Soon they had a small audience, for they had begun to debate the meaning and structure of a verse. When she noticed the assembly of spectators, she quickly corrected her mistake by leading her compeers to a less observed corner. She is mindful of what is expected of her, and does not want to interrupt her father’s soiree. Eventually they reached an understanding of the material, and with promises to examine it in greater detail later, they drifted back into the crowd. There was much dialogue in the room, but she was obviously preoccupied with her thoughts and did not try to openly engage with anyone. She went unnoticed by the ostentatiously dressed women, and that does not bother her. In fact, it is what she usually prefers.
While the party progresses, she meanders from group to group. She stops every now and again to catch the hearsay of whisperers. Even when prompted to speak, she continues her contemplative silence. By and by, the time for the repast to be served came. Guests took to their chairs, and the pottage was brought out. It had been stewed for days, with fresh game and vegetables. At the head of the table sat her father, and she sat somewhat further down at his right. Next to her was the daughter of a nobleman, similarly quiet. When the wine was poured, conversation began again. Her father gave her a suggestive look and motioned to the young noblewoman next to her. In spite of him, she waited until the meal had ended, and the coffee brought out, to start chatting with her. To her surprise they had much to talk of. They proceeded into the previous room, and she continued to be more free-spoken. But before long, it was too late. Her newfound intimate had to leave, and the other guests also began to file out to their carriages. She bowed her head and closed the door behind the last to depart. Once again, she was alone.
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We recently finished reading A Christmas Carol, and so we had to write a narrative essay for it. Here is mine:
Christmas Lights
It was 11:57 at night on Christmas Eve.
Eric lay atop his tall bed, reading. He was partially covered by several large blankets, warming him from the cold outside. A lamp, resting on a shelf mounted to the wall, illuminated the area around him. The only noise came from the creaking of his metal mattress frame.
He looked up to the clock, checking the time. At midnight, he thought he would retire to the embrace of sleep. With this conclusion, he returned to reading.
The clock ticked forwards a minute.
The next morning, after breakfast, they would go on their annual walk through the Riparian Preserve. It was forecasted to be a fairly brisk morning, but Eric knew that when the sun fully emerged, no coats were needed. He shook his head and tried to concentrate on the words on the page.
In his concentration, he failed to notice another minute pass. But he did notice the sudden chill. He shivered and drew the sheets closer around him. But when he picked his book back up, he let out a muted yell, for the printed letters began to sway and shake. Even when he dropped it, the paperback stayed open. The black blurs that had been dots of ink tore themselves from every page and floated over to the other side of his bed.
The clock struck midnight with an odd bell-toll, and the black dots formed a figure in a flash of light. When Eric opened his eyes, everything had a blue hazy tint, including the dark shape that filled the room. It was at least seven feet tall, or more, had it not been bending over. It appeared to wear shadowy robes covering its whole body. Its arms and legs were not to be seen, and it was strangely transparent.
Eric looked around anxiously, before asking, “What… are you? Why are you here?”
The ghost’s garb parted, and an arm sleeved in black slowly emerged. It held its arm out, and an ebony-gloved finger pointed out the window. Another flash of light brightened the room. When his vision cleared again, Eric gasped, for where the window had been there was now an opening filled with swirling lights. A frigid gust of wind swept up his sheets and threw them against the wall.
“No no no no… I must be dreaming. If I just stop, everything will go away.” He said this to himself and curled up into a ball.
He waited a while, and when he looked back, the ghost and the radiant gateway were still there. Eric sighed. “I guess… I must oblige you, then.”
He got out of his bed, and climbed down to the ground. He brushed some dust off of his pajama pants and looked up at the inky phantom. It steadily leaned down closer to him, and held out another gloved hand. This one, however, was open to him.
Eric awkwardly grasped it, and then they both floated up and into the vivid doorway. He did not think the ghost would have fit, but it somehow did. When they entered, he let out a gasp. They were in some sort of tunnel. White lights floated around them, as did picture frames. He looked around in wonder.
The pictures were of all the people he knew. He noticed his parents, his peers, his close friends. The phantom looked back down at him, its finger still pointing down the tunnel. Eric spotted a blank wall at the end.
They hovered forwards, and he asked, “What is this place?”
The spirit said nothing, but continued their progressive motion.
As they continued onwards, the floating pictures followed them. To his shock, Eric noticed that the images in them started to age. The further they travelled, the more they aged. Eventually, some of the images disappeared entirely, leaving an empty frame.
In a short time, all the frames were empty. The lights started to dim and flicker out, and when they reached the wall, only one remained. It cast out only a little luminescence. The wall was entirely white, with no seams or breaks.
“Is this what you wanted to show me?”
The ghost looked at Eric, lowering its outstretched finger, and let go of his hand. He fell to the tiled ground. Its bottom coat-tails began to sway and shake, until they lost their form entirely, turning back into the letters from which he had been made. They flew towards the wall, where they began to spell out words.
Its whole body began to dissipate, and sentences began to appear. Eric looked away from the evaporating spirit to read the wall. It read:
I took you here to show you what is inevitable, and what is uncertain. Although we all fade away, like I do now, traces of us remain. One day, you will pass. But I cannot show you what will occur, that is for you to decide. Your future-
Eric looked back to see the head and shoulders of the phantom all that remained. It threw back its hood, revealing another orb of light. This orb brightened the tunnel, and he was able to read the end of the ghost’s deliverance.
-belongs only to you, and no one can change that. Take me as I am, and always remember this.
When he finished reading, the ghost’s orb suddenly vanished. He was left in the near-dark, surrounded by the empty picture frames. With a somber last look at the wall, he turned and walked back to his room. The last dim orb followed him, until he reached the entrance.
Eric stepped down onto his carpeted floor. He turned to see his window. There was no sign of the tunnel or the lights. He let out a yawn, and climbed back up into his bed. Strangely, the clock had only now gone to 12:01. He felt as if a quarter-hour had passed.
He pulled the sheets back over him, and turned off the lamp. His last thought before he slept was of the wall, and its message.
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