CPR! Get the Paddles! Bring it back!

I love writing. I’ve loved it ever since I could write myname. Since then, I’ve had a lot of experiences that have made me a better writer. One of these experiences was my two week visit to
Choate for a writing workshop called the Writing Project. At first, I was reluctant to go because I had never been away from home for so long (two weeks), and the thought of not having my family nearby scared me. What if something happened on campus and my parents weren’t there to help me right away? What if I needed something in the middle of the night? However, those fears vanished within my first day on campus, when I met some of the greatest friends I could have ever made: the four Dans, Leo, Max, Steve, Dave and all the other guys in my dorm. In those two weeks, we established a tight bond between all of us, and became known as the Woodhouse Boys all across Choate. We were the greatest dorm on campus, despite us only being there for two weeks. We were so popular and so well known, we achieved a celebrity-like status. We always did everything together, be it eating a meal, hanging around, listening to 50 Cent or watching Reno 911. This is all beside the point, however.

Reflecting on my experience at Choate, I fondly remember Mr. Loeb, my eccentric writing teacher. On the first day of class, he told us that by the time we finished the Writing Project, we would “have a little Mr. Loeb looking over your shoulder when you’re writing, telling you when to use the right wording and proper punctuation.” It took some getting used to after Choate, hearing the little Loeb screaming in my head whenever I made a typo or spelled something wrong. “Semi-colons are your friend!” or “’Alright’ is not all right.”

Up until Choate, I thought of myself as one of the greatest writers in the Bristol community. My parents and teachers all thought I was a magnificent writer with the papers and poetry that I wrote. I
always finished papers in first drafts the night before and received A’s all the time. I thought it was just natural skill, since I was always told I had a way with words, or the way I worded something was
magnificent. School was easy, and I expected scholarship essays to be the same. That all stopped suddenly with Mr. Loeb.

When I received my first homework assignment back, it was covered with red marks. Grammatical mistakes, punctuation, spelling, the way I worded things… Nothing seemed to be right at all. It was all wrong, wrong, wrong. I didn’t believe it. How could I, Dan Pesino, do so horribly on a simple paper? After all the praise and encouragement I received, my mastery of the written word, how could this have happened? I almost cried when I got that paper back, and I began to hate Mr. Loeb even before I really got to know him and his grading style. He was a tough teacher, picking out mistakes in order to make you a better writer and make you learn that the writing process never really ended. I now realize this, and regret my immature attitude towards Mr. Loeb.

I remember writing poems about my shoes, and my daily life at Choate, and even dictating a thirty minute conversation held between Mr. Loeb and several others. Some of my works were good, and some were bad, but one thing was for sure: I wasn’t as bad of a writer as I thought. Mr. Loeb offered me the encouragement I needed, and talked with me one-on-one to discuss the mistakes I made, and how I could improve upon them. My hatred for Mr. Loeb diminished quickly, and I began to look up to him respectfully and admirably. He was no longer my enemy, but my friend.

During our final week at Choate, we wrote short stories. I wrote about a man blackmailed into being a hit man for the mafia, and wrote two short chapters about the story. Mr. Loeb was afraid that I was aiming too high with my story, but I like to aim high and benefit in the end, which I find to happen often. That’s what I found to happen with my story. This was perhaps one of my best works, and I know that from the presentations of our stories on the last day. My story really awed everyone; my parents, my friends, the other parents and my teachers all gave me applause, a “Nice job!”, or just a pat on
the back.

I really think that my time at Choate made me a better writer than I was before July of 2005, and I think now I see a lot of wisdom in Mr. Loeb’s lessons. I did finish the writing session with a High
Pass, the highest grade possible for the Writing Project, and left with a smile and the email addresses of all of the Writing Project students and teachers. I know now that I didn’t do as bad as I
thought I did. I will encounter more experiences that will make me grow as a writer, but nothing that was as rewarding and memorable as Choate.

[The Inside]

This journal hasn't been updated in a while. This is a vision I had the other day, I'm just not sure exactly how to word my feelings.

[The Inside]

It was cold and I was naked. Snow blanketed my body, and in the dim light I pressed on. Everything was a dark white, more black than white. The color was white, but its shade was so deep it appeared black. The dim light was visable in the distance. Hope. That was where I was going, toward the light. And this path that I walked, on an infinate plane within myself, I was alone.

Forever I could see, in every direction. The snowy land was always on a hill, and always upward. But level with itself. Behind me was a place that I could never look. Forward seemed to be where my eyes were fixed. The cursed eyes that saw out forever, but only in one direction.

Upward I climbed, forever, and my body aged. After all the walking, my body has grown weak and brittle, rather than fit. The more I walked, the weaker I became. On my arms layed two chains. Shackled to my wrists, the chains dangled behind me. The heaviest of weights lay behind me. And within its intensity, I'll never see it.

All I can do is feel it. Feel the hatred, the anger, the sorrow, and the fear that compose it. Its darkness has spread over the vastness of my plane, and is forever weighed down behind me. Within its contents I can hear voices. People I should have known, things I should have changed. I can see every dicision I've ever made, and a reason why it was the wrong one.

But the wrongness that weighs down my mind is only one side. Its only an interpritation of what is good and bad. It feeds me rules. It tells me what is right and wrong. I don't choose that. The only thing it can't change is how I react to that. I can tell myself that what you think is wrong is actually right. From my point of view. I can always find a way to justify my actions within myself.

And yet I'm the one in the chains. I can convince my mind that even though I fucked up, its alright. What I can't convince is my soul. And the more I mess up my life, the larger the weight behind me is, and the heavier it weighs down my plane, the steeper the hill.

I'm tired of watching people walk out of my life because I never did anything to change that. My lack of actions is letting even the closest of friends fall out of reach. And its killing me. I just want to find a way to say what I mean without adding to the weight beind me.

I can see in my wrist a small crack, and I can see in the future a large shatter. Starting in my right hand, a large snap down my solid body. The frozen wrists shatters and crackles as it falls into the snow. Then my left wrist falls, under the heavy burden I have given it. And down the hill my soul tumbles. Down the hill that now has become a cliff, steep and jagged with ice and snow and hatred.

[Anders Nils Pierson]

Maybe I've been a bit too jaded at times... for that I am sorry.
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  • sean29

begginning

Hey everyone! Been a while, but I'm back more or less. Just a few emotinoal things to deal with. Anyways, here's a story I started, and i was wondering if it sounds any good.

Corruption runs deep, however I always thought that there were things that ran deeper then this. However, when I was 12 I realized that this wasn’t true. Sometimes things don’t always go the way we want them too. However, I’m getting ahead of myself and beginning to reveal things that I shouldn’t until the end.

When I was little, my grandmother used to tell me stories about an old icon that was once in the village my mother, father, brother and me called home. One day, two brothers approached this icon and they vanished. A few months later, as their parents were clearing out some trees for their new home, and found one of the brothers alive and the other one half-eaten and looked as thought he had suffered for a long time before slipping into the peacefulness of death. His parents questioned their remaining child, only to find that the icon had caused him to go crazy and in a fit of insanity, he killed his own brother. He was convinced that if he sacrificed enough people to this icon, the God it depicted would be realized and bring him to heaven after smiting everyone else.

My grandmother died a while ago, and my own brother and I began to explore the woods around our home. As we walked further and further, we lost track of time and soon we came upon a cave as the sun-slipped below the horizon. We went inside the cave and as we wandered throughout the twisting, slimy, moist walls, I noticed a strange light up ahead.

As we neared the light, it seemed to glow and take on an almost blood-like hue.

[windows]

windows frighten me
mostly because they hold two sides
one is light...
a small room
it walls all clearly visable
its dorrs all closed and locked
the other is dark...
in the dark you feel lost
inside its endless boundaries
it knows no doors or walls
and dances a quiet song of mystery
the dar may hold more
than anything you can see
but is it right to give up my light
so i can feel as open as the dark sky?

[ANP]::
::not my best, i just thought this up, its not edited or anything...
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Thoughts

Misery, Sadness...
Loneliness, Distance...
Elements of life.
Elements that wear away at a life,
Like a smooth stone in a stream.
Unless the stone is removed,
Taken from the stream,
Will it continue to erode?
Wash away? Fade away?
Much like the way
One's life is effected
By the quick flow of time...
People learn to be like rocks,
To withstand the flow,
And to fight their erosion...
But, some just fail to,
And end up becoming
Nothing more than a memory...
Sand at the bottom of a stream,
Broken pieces.
I remember I was once like this.
Life used to be too much
To withstand the flow of time.
I was fading, eroding...
My soul was on a grindstone,
Shrinking down to nothing.
And I remember I found one person.
One person that saved my life
From the flow of time.
They showed me their strength,
An unfaltering stone that,
When placed in water,
Resisted.
Dealt with what life gave them.
They used to be where I was,
And I've learned so much from them.
I've become stronger,
Resistant, more mature than ever.
Though, I feel sometimes,
I've grown up too fast.
But my strength and loyalty,
And my new feelings,
Aspects, hopes, dreams,
And needs of life
Help me resist
The damaging
And healing
Flow of time.
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[Het Hoofdstuk]


Het Hoofstuk Een



If there’s one thing I hate more than anything, it’s those who hate me. You either agrees with what I say, or die. So now I stand here, in this open mall, with a special gift for the world.

The fire glistened as it exploded from my chest. The burning flash lasted a second as Panacamanana exploded, and the walls crashed around him.

Over the river and through the woods, to grandmas house we go. Also known as the abandoned warehouse that we met in. the meeting was brief, he told me to blow up the mall by any means necessary, so I jabbed a spoon through his chest. My pet rat drank his blood, and I made a jacket out of his flesh. The homeless like keeping warm.

Then I faded into the night, the night that I am. Then I was invisible. With my new invisibility, I robbed a bank, impaling an unearthed stop sign through the one guard’s head. It was good fun, and paid well. I offered his heart to the heathen gods, to make amends for the sin I have done.

The mall crumbled before me, but I couldn’t die. I was a god. I had killed Vivo and Almalexio, and Sil Sotha, so I must be a god.


Hoofdstuk Twee



October 8th- the one who owned the sword died. I killed him and took it from him. I then proceeded to reaping in the benefits, a wopping $7,000,000,000,000. At the sword smith’s lair I found this on the wall: “Это - мой дом.” I do not know what this means.

October 7th- the man at the soup kitchen said that the swordsman was a deluded psychopath, but I believe he is secretly George re-incarnate. Too bad I killed him.

October 6th- I found a rare stone that can raise the dead. I used it to raise Panacamanana, my best friend. He did well in his last life, and I’m sure he will continue to. (PS- I’m not gay)

October 5th- I found out that “Это - мой дом” means “this is my house” roughly in Russian. I have no idea what this means, but I think I need to find the magic wizard,

October 4th- gonorrhea

October 3rd- I realize that when this month ends, I will die, so I began to search for the truth. I started in the giant hole in my bathroom. I found a subway and some hot chick, but that was always there. Then I woke up.

October 2nd- I was on sky city, and I found a man named George. I was reminiscent of my not-gay friend, and I ate a pop tart. I think that panacamanana died. I honestly don’t care anymore.

October 1st- the cycle ran through my head like a giant machine, rolling and rolling. I tried to contemplate its vastness, but it wasn’t something I was meant to know. All of my life was flashing through my head as I fell down. What was I to do? I screamed in silence.

October 2nd- it seems that the angel of death has preserved my soul this time. I was granted a Passover in exchange for seven human souls. The souls were: george, panacamanana, and Pete, who was secretly 4 people.

October 3rd- today is magical gypsy day. I celebrated by doing nothing. It was slow and uneventful.



Конец Дней



Every great legend has an equally great ending. But what happened to our young hero? Was he doomed to live in October forever? Were the walls of his life dieing beneath him?

January 1st- it is the New Year.

December 31st- I love Christmas, and its almost here. I hope that Santa brings me that new toilet scrubber I wanted.

December 30th- Santa came. I cracked his head with a lamp, and stole all of his presents. Christmas was mine. His body lays tied up in my basement, alive.

December 29th- 8:30am- I shot down the man who watches me through my window, only two more to go.

December 28th- someone put chains all over my door so I can’t get out. I climbed out the window. Under my door, painted in blood, was this: “Я имею большую бороду.” I’m not sure what it is, but it looks Russian.

December 26th- forgot to write yesterday.

December 25th- can’t remember falling asleep. I didn’t. The librarian told me where to research Russian, but I am lazy.

December 24th- yearly shower.

December 23rd- “Я имею большую бороду” = I’ve got a big beard.

Out of my house…

Out…

Out…

December 22nd- I was stabbed to death

||[ANP]::77||

[its an old story, but its a good story.]
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  • sean29

story

A little back-story: Samurai Warriors is a game set in Japan. You take on one of 15 or so characters and as many other characters that you can create.

I’ve been known as the Shadow of Death, the Bastard, and many other names. Only one name concerns we, and that’s Hanzou Hattori. I am a ninja for Tokugawa. I lust after one thing, to satisfy my own ambitions. I’ve killed many men and have hidden in many shadows, and very few can hear my name and not shiver in fear. Men of power check their backs and hide in rooms surrounded by men with guns, spears, swords, and ninja.

My target was a man by the name of Takeda Shingen. He was a large man with bushy white hair, and he led an army that stood against my Tokugawa master. I rushed into the field of combat, only to have my own side decimated by Shingen’s trickiness and prowess. I tried to stop our generals from dying like idiots, but they ran forward into archers, footsoldiers, and other generals. The slaughter was horrendous. I could barely run over the blood-soaked ground. The faster I moved, the more likely it was that I was going to fall, and there’s nothing more disgracing to a ninja then loosing his balance.

My chain-weapon was one that was not only hard for most to use, but was incredibly powerful. The chain was connected to the sickle by a six-foot length of chain, and weighed about 25 or 30 pounds. It fit in my arm comfortably, probably due to the fact that I practiced with it as often as I could.

I was running forward and cutting down hordes of men when I saw the thing that would make any self-respecting ninja burn with hatred. There was a female ninja out here who was killing our soldiers left and right. She was using two short swords and she could throw them and have them return to her with a flick of her wrist. I yelled out to her “I’m calling you out, Kunoichi.” She turned around, only to be greeted by the sight of my sickle glimmering through the air towards her. Maybe she realized that her time was up, but the next thing her and her ninja units knew, she was about three inches shorter and was gushing blood from the place her scalp had been only minutes before.

Her Lord and Master Yukimura saw this and flew into a fit of rage. “Hanzou! How dare you!” He came out me, but I feigned left and cut upwards. His saddle was cut in half, as well as his horse. He fell to the ground just as my sickle flew out to met his throat. I stopped and looked him over. “You’re not Yukimura,” I said. “Correct, I’m just a decoy. Who do you think our real target has been all along?” He asked right as I plunged my sickle into his throat and silenced his annoying voice for good.

I did the only thing I had been trained to do; I ran forward and tried to kill as many as I could, in order to keep my presence silent as I crept towards the Takeda base. I found some bamboo constructions in the back of the camp useful as I jumped up their hard exteriors with easy.

When I hit the top I looked around for Shingen and I finally saw him sitting back and giving orders while his men died all around him. I jumped down and rushed towards him, only to have 50 men stand up to defend their master. I used a few shrunken and bombs to dispatch of the men easily. One of them stood up and sliced at me with his sword. I barely dodged it, and he managed to cut right above my right eye badly. Even as my blood flowed down my face, I walked towards Shingen and prepared to finish my job.

“Well, you are strong and very brave.” Shingen started, but he got no further. For as we were speaking, I moved so fast he may have just seen the blur, and then felt his head severed. His head rolled around on the ground, and seemed to still be speaking to me.

“The light creates shadows.” This is what I would say after every kill, because it is what my life is centered on. I turned around and walked back towards my camp, to make sure my current master was still alive.

End Ch. 1. Well, Ch 2 is coming soon, and it may bridge a few things together.

[my crimson shade]

4

Sarah took the pills. The ‘White Claudia’ slid down her throat and into her soul. The small, beautiful pills contained a marble white powder. Down she swallowed, two at a time, pausing to drink in-between. She stifled a belch and tasted a foreign herb surface in the back of her throat.

It was sharp, almost garlic, but with enough taste to distinguish itself. It stung faintly and then disappeared. Another sip of water and it was gone completely.

Sarah waited in silence, but nothing happened. She knew she never should have done it, but in the back of her mind, it sort of excited her, not knowing what could happen. Standing in the dark, half an hour passed. Disillusioned, she readied for bed. Her inner conscious was somewhat relieved. But finally lying down made her stomach start to hurt. Also she heard voices.

It started off small, and seemed very distant. “Hello…” Sarah called into the darkness and nothing answered. The minuet she stopped listening for them, they started again. She snapped into attention, but the faded. She realized that she didn’t hear the voices as much as she felt them.

Sarah got up and turned on the light. The walls shined red. Red, and moving. They were dark, blackening in some parts. Still they glistened. Deep veins made themselves visible along the side of the walls.

“Is it blood?” She cried out, as the walls started to spin. They moved faster and faster, and made her lightheaded. The veins and shades of red swirled around and blended together. Sarah fell onto her bed and faded into vertigo. She found it easier to shut her eyes tightly.

And when she did, everything seemed okay. The world seemed to regain balance inside her head. The openness of the outside set everything askew, but when she kept inside herself, nothing could touch her.

The trip seemed to ease her mind. She felt detached from the world, and slowly faded into dreaming. The transition was so solid; it felt like she was awake. Thoughts danced upon her, and everything was colorful. She saw her mom for a brief second. She tried to cry out to her, but she disappeared in an ocean of rainbows. Within all of her dreams, she’d never this close to her mom. Also she’d never cried so hard.

When Sarah finally awoke, it was around four. The morning air came in through her open window. Her face was still numb from all of the mixed emotions she had felt. She couldn’t remember details, but everything was one blur of sensations. She felt happy, but she was crying. The cold wind froze the tears.

Still sleepy, she only dimmed the lights to close the window. That’s when she noticed a long cut down her forearm. It was bandaged too. She had never seen this before. It was still too early to care.

The small lamps illuminated orange shades of light across the room. Everything was normal in her house; everything, except the writing in dark blood letters on her front door.

It said, “sanguineus.”

||A.N.Pierson||
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[style]

Personally, I find that with almost all of my stories, I've found myself using a Thesaurus on many occations. less fequently as your vocabulary expands, but its good for detail. And if theres one thing I've learned, its that detail IS the story. you can have flowing plot from here to miami, but its nothing without detail. just a thought, this is what helps me, maybe i can help others.

Also I would be cool to here other peoples ideas and styles...

-[ANP]
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