Distillation

In the passage I read today the author is explaining that the practices involved in science are grotesque and feeble minded because of the “nasty” experiments that take place. The author supports his claims using imagery by giving examples including cutting spiders and frogs into “tiny pieces” and explaining how they do nothing for society compared to the working class. The passage not only explains how inhuman the practice is  but also that it is simple minded work that anyone can do and contributes nothing to society as a whole. The author’s use of diction provides a clear understanding of his feelings towards the scientists, and hyperbole by exaggerating the deeds which were expressed. This passage reveals the authors disgust with scientists and the experiments they conduct, as well as the importance of the blue collared working class and their “need to work”.

200 Words

Often times when I am at school, I expect to be learning something new and expanding my brain capacity, I hope to be flourishing in this environment created for this, instead my brain is scrambled between the letters scribbled up on the board and the thoughts racing in my own mind,-school, work, family, friends,- I am indifferent to the topic being presented, useless, just useless it seems,- I question whether I will ever need to know a unit circle when cooking my future kids dinner, or if I will absolutely need to know the square root of six when applying for jobs, or when I’m doing my taxes,- I doubt this, and soon I find myself in a flurry of anger rather than craving knowledge, we do not need what we are being taught,- we need to know how to cook, clean, and do our taxes not how to evaluate an expression or express chemical formulas,- yes school is important, but the real knowledge lies in experience and life, not conforming to the teachers idea of a model student that can just pass a test, memorization is now valued over wisdom and experience, and that scrambles my brain. 

Exasperated Ex-Belieber

Dear JB,

I am addressing you about my previous affiliations with you and you’re so called fandom. My middle school, and part of my high school career were filled with a lot of confusion and temporary insanity due to you and your ways; many call it Bieber fever. It may have begun in sixth grade, when I saw you on YouTube, it may have been the hair or the angelic voice of an eleven year old girl. I’m not sure what caused me, and millions of other young girls to fall for your ways, maybe you hypnotized us. After I discovered you, I believe; or belieb, I had caught this so called Bieber fever. I hung up posters, six hundred and eight to be exact. I would wait outside Target at midnight waiting for your new album releases. I believe over time the fever got worse, as I met more beliebers I increasingly loved you more and more. I created a twitter account dedicated to you, and spend all of my money on merch. Shirts, tickets, books, CD’s the whole deal. Why would you release all of these objects? To make us more sick? It is inhumane. Whenever you were on TV I had to stop everything I was doing and go straight to the television, I would usually start crying too. Don’t even get my started on the concerts. The concerts not only made me literally vomit from excitement, but they sucked my family dry from money. I believe you owe me at least a college fund, and a half from all of the money I have spent on you. Nothing is worse than the twitter account. See I had my own personal twitter; for my friends from school, but because of you I had to make a separate one for you and my belieber friends. All of the beliebers had an account, I felt obligated to do so aswell. I used the username @PreachBiebs and made it almost impossible for anyone from school to find. After almost a year of tweeting pictures of you and embarrassing fan fiction, a boy who goes by the name of Kevin Okeefe found my twitter account, and decided to present it to the whole school. Not only was in sick, very sick with Bieber fever but the whole school knew it, even more than before. I blame you for this, all of this. It may have been the hair that swooped to the left so elegantly. It may have been the way your jeans were way too tight for your five foot body. It may have been the way you wink, while simultaneously looking like every insane twelve year old girls dream. I deserve a compensation for my sickness, and loss of money due to you. I have since recovered from the fever of you Mr.Bieber, but I suffered strongly. I am asking you simply to reimburse me in some way, I will accept money and or meet and greet tickets.

Yours truly, An Ex Belieber..maybe.

The Bruise

The Bruise appeared when I was six. It nestled itself in the middle of my spine, the deep purple color made it not a bruise but The Bruise. It lasted for two months before my mom got worried about the ugly purple bruise, by that time I had many smaller blue bruises trickling down my spine, but I could only stare at The Bruise. When I went to the doctor, they were worried about the bruise. They said it wasn’t from tripping on the playground or falling off the swings, they said I needed tests done because of The Bruise. I sat in the large, metallic machine. it looked like a space ship and made noises about as loud as one too. The machine jolted and turned around my small fragile body and then the doctors discussed. They sat around a large meeting table with us, my parents sat at the end and me at a small chair with some crayons. I don’t remember much of what they said, I remember looking up to see my parents crying and hugging each other. My parents came over to me and I don’t remember much of what they said either, besides the word Brain Cancer that was forever burned into my brain after this day. I didn’t know much about cancer but I knew it was bad. The next few months were motionless thanks to the bruise, the chemo destroyed me and the cancer took over. I lay motionless day and night; only getting up to throw up or use the bathroom; if I was lucky enough to make it. My eyes sunk to the back of my head, and my hair fell out in large chunks until I finally told them just to shave it. Somehow these weren’t the things that made me ashamed of what I now was, it was The Bruise. The Bruise began an array of painful and horrendous physical changes, among many more mental challenges. The Bruise which took my childhood away from me and bankrupt my parents into not having another child. The Bruise that caused me to watch my parents hover over me everyday, whispering and softly sobbing as I drifted in and out. Two years later when I was eight, they said it was finally working. My hair grew back in chunks, I almost had a comb-able head of hair. My body became more than a sack of bones, I could move again. Everyday the bruise got smaller, everyday the bruise meant less to me. I am myself again, and the bruise is no one again.

Too Tired To Write

The wind crashes against my window with an almost peaceful sound, as the trees creak in the background. My eyes sit heavy upon my face as my fingers scan the keyboard for just the right words for this essay. I wish for nothing more than to stare at my eyelids for hours upon end, as the NyQuil I took is begging me to do. It pleads with my brain which is pushing me to finish my essay, sadly my brain wins again. The soft clicking of my fingers on the keyboard almost sounds like a lullaby as I continue on. I know if I wrap myself in my plush comforter my body will slowly paralyze, yet I do so anyway. The clicking slows down, and the words become shorter. My head sways to the side as I lose the will to stay awake any longer. I wish nothing but to get lost in nothingness for the next six hours, maybe seven if I don’t brush my hair, and just like that.. my essay was never finished.

Dead Flowers

                                                                        

She’s been living here since she was young, probably two or three. She had long brown hair and freckles that speckled her face rounded face. Her eyes were bright blue and her eyelashes cast shadows over her cheeks. When they came and choose her to stay in the room in which I hung I was ecstatic, there wasn’t much company for me when I just hung in the old storage room. I now had a purpose, I swung around when it was hot out and I light up the room when it’s dark so she can read despite how late it is. She has always stayed in here as a comfort, even when she was young.

“Go to your room NOW.” the angry man would boom at her.

“But daddy, I didn’t mean to” her high pitched voice would plead, despite her knowledge of the angry man’s stubbornness.

Then his voice would rise, and I’d hear a few quick smacks and possibly a crash until she came running into the room where I hang. She would weep and weep in her pillow for hours, I think he’s the reason she began staying in here for longer periods of time. When she was five her sister was born, and she loved her sister very much, her mom disappeared a few weeks later leaving the two girls with the angry man. When the angry man’s voice would boom too hard she would run in here with her sister. With all of her might she would push the table against the door, and as the angry man slammed on the door she would get down beside her bed clasp her hands together and pray.

 She was seven when her sister began to give her the flowers. Her sister would go outside whenever she was weeping and pick her flowers, dandelions, tulips, anything she could find. She hung the flowers on me, intertwining them into a wreath like structure. Soon instead of weeping she would lay down on her bed, and stare up at me and the flowers as if it was the night sky. Despite how dead the flowers were she saw them as beautiful. Whenever the drunken angry man threw a fit her and her sister would just stare at the dead flowers.

“I’m happy I picked these for you when I was little” whispered the sister.

“I’m happy you picked them for me too. I like them” she smiled at her sister.

They then lay silent for a long time and watched as the dead flowers swung around and around along with me. As she grew older she spent more time in the room. She sat down at the table; the same one she pushes against the door and read. She would be gone all day at school, and come back with an almost translucent expression crossing her face. Sometimes her sister would open the door to try and talk to her.

“Did they make fun of you again today?” her sister would whisper quietly.

“No, I don’t know. Please leave” was her response every time.

She would sit and read, sometimes write all night long. Most of the time she would fall asleep at that table, the table was a comfort to her. Sometimes she would lay on her bed and stare up at the brown flowers again. Despite her reluctance towards her sister, she would still bring her new flowers every week and string them along with the other ones. Her sister was worried about her, she wasn’t coming out of her the room. One day as she was laying in her bed staring at the flowers, her sister came in and laid down next to her.

“I have more flowers for you, I’m not sure if you still like me but I know you like these damn flowers”

“It isn’t that I don’t like you” she said as the gingerly strung the flowers.

“Then what is it? Is it because you’re a teenager now? I’m almost a teenager too you know I’m almost twelve”

“It isn’t that. It isn’t you. I’m sorry” she said while still beaming straight up at me.

“What is it, please tell me I’m scared for you. I know what you’re doing, and I don’t want to tell dad”

“Don’t tell dad. I don’t do it to make a statement or anything. I only wear long sleeves how did you even see? I’m just not happy okay.”

“I won’t tell dad because I know what he’ll do, but you need to stop you’re going to end up hurting yourself”

“Isn’t that the point?” she turned to her and whispered.

“I know but please..”

“Okay stop forget it please. The flowers are still beautiful you know. Despite being torn from the ground and tied up. They swing around and around on that old ceiling fan. They’re brown but they’re still beautiful. Those flowers look free hanging up there don’t they?”

“Uh I know they are, that’s why I picked them for you” her sister said, confused.

She kissed her sister on the head and whispered “I love you okay? Everything will be fine. Now get out of here, I have to do my homework”

“I love you too” her sister said in a raspy voice. Her sister stood up and left hesitantly, and looked back at her sister. Her sister tossed a single dandelion onto her bed and then shut the door.

She pushed herself up, and hung the dandelion among with the other dead flowers. She pushed her table against the door, except her father wasn’t yelling this time. She sat down at the table and scribbled down something quickly. Slowly she walked over and picked up a long scarf and hung it onto me, making a knot. Reluctantly she stood against her bed, sobbing for a while until she took a big gulp of air. The room went completely silent. There was another dead, but beautiful flower hanging freely off of me. Once again, the room in which I hung was an empty storage room.