When I was younger, my brother and I played together every day. We had tons of games for just the two of us, games to play in the house and games to play outside. Sometimes we'd involve our parents, or Althea, who we've known forever, but mostly the two of us just played alone. My brother was a mastermind. He would create he most imaginative games, ones that no one but him could have ever come up with. He, opfcourse, always got the best parts in those games. I didn't mind, though. As we got older, people started to talk about us growing apart. They never put it like that, exactly, but it would be the obvious conclusion to be reached. They'd say things like, "You're so lucky that your kids still play together." Soon, my mom started saying things like that, too. Our first trip out west, in 2009, was planned as "a last family trip before you kids hate each other." I thought it would never happen, not to us. I thought my brother and I were closer than anything, that we would never, could never, grow apart, or that if we did, it would only be a little. I couldn't imagine my brother, who has nicknames for me and is this wonderful spark of kindness, ever growing up and moving on. I didn't want to, so it never once occurred to me that I would be the one to grow up, and leave our childhood games behind. And then I did.
This is really touching, Haley Jo. I love the way the first paragraph evokes the innocence of childhood, while the next two paragraphs slowly start to chip away at that innocence. The third paragraph is particularly insightful, showing the resistance to the idea of growing apart from someone so close. That last sentence (fragment?) I find to be the strongest, though, because in those four words, the moment of realization that you were the one to grow apart is perfectly captured. All in all, I love this; there’s a couple of insignificant spelling errors, but otherwise I really don’t see anything wrong with this piece. Great job!
I gazed out over the bleak, barren landscape. What had once been a huge field, tall, bright green, and teeming with life, was now completely flat and brown. Deep down I knew that millions of insect eggs, pupae, and overwintering nymphs were hidden away from prying eyes, waiting for spring, but that sure seemed far off. Despite this, I had returned to the spot which had, five months earlier, produced the sword-bearer, slender meadow katydid, and countless others, because I wanted to wish it a good winter. December fourth was a bit late, I knew, but it still had not snowed. I set off at a brisk pace, my eyes scanning ahead of me, not really looking for anything, but recalling memories from summers past. Once I reached the top of one of the hills in the meadow, I stopped; silently I thanked the land for its bounty and sent a wish for the same bounty for years to come. With a melancholy sigh, I turned around, and an inch-long grasshopper with shockingly yellow wings suddenly sprang up from the dead ground, emitting a loud series of firecracker snaps, dashing through the air at a furious pace. It was almost as though he were trying to outrun the season that so far had not claimed his life.
I had been babysitting for six hours straight and I didn't think it would ever end. I thought I was doomed to lie on the dirty bed in the smelly house with those kids as we watched movie after movie. All they wanted to do was watch National Geographic movies and I had been popping one after the other into the DVD player for what felt like eternity. Together, we had learned about Mount Everest, volcanoes, The Amazon, African plains, dolphins, and dinosaurs, among others. We had watched Spin, the white gloved globe and National Geographic mascot, as he traveled to the ends of the earth and back again. All the while, I lay on the unmade bed trying not to fall asleep. Occasionally, one of the girls would ask me a question: "What's the biggest animal?" "How big are the baby ant eaters?" For the first few, I tried to answer as best I could but now I had begun to just fake it. "Oh, they're about five feet long," I heard myself saying, barely knowing what an ant eater even looked like. The goal was not enriching the girls lives anymore with fun facts and figures; the goal was to get through the night.
When I was a child, I had the largest obsession with The Beatles. I could tell you every detail about their lives and every reasoning behind each and every one of their songs. I was basically a stalker, but I stalked at a very careful distance, approximately 4,000 miles. My parents hid from me for quite a while the fact that two of them were dead. I could have lived a perfectly happy childhood thinking that they were all still alive, jamming together in one of their gorgeous houses in the countryside of England. In 2002, one year after George Harrison died of lung cancer, I was six years old and apparently it was time for me to hear the big news. "John and George are dead, Lauren." I could not believe what I had just heard. It was the hardest news I had ever had to deal with, and I honestly thought that I could not live on without the presence of those two men on this earth.
The gold frame sparkled and shined in the light. It was dazzling, and immediately caught every onlookers attention. It was almost as if it was emitting a glow and sparkle that had nothing to do with the light that might be reflected off of it. But as it drew you in, it both lost appeal and created even more wonder simultaneously. Upon closer inspection, the glitter faded, but the frame transformed and the shine, that had been overpowered by the glitter and glow, became prominent. With each step closer, it became increasingly apparent the frame was in fact a mirror. A perfect gold mirror. What more, this perfect mirror seemed to have figures lurking in the background. After a minute of looking, you would see an entranced onlooker glance behind himself to see if that was truly a part of the reflection. As each person realized the faded figures were a part of the mirror and not their world, they would walk slowly away with a look of contemplation on their face. As if for the first time considering a world beyond their own.
Emmy, emmy, emmy i love this so much. That last line, god, it creeped me out so much, but in the best possible way. The way you lead into the paragraph is great, the vagueness really works. The identity of the object is a mystery! And mysteries are the best! You're description is spot on because you're describing the shifting of a certain perspective that's pretty challenging, and you do it so well. I can see the image changing clearly in my head. The only thing I think this paragraph needs is for you to omit the second person narration because you slip into using "you" for a moment then go back to third. Also, some context in the beginning of where this object is would be nice because it would give a larger picture and would help with any confusion that might arise when you bring in the people that come passing through. And be careful of tenses. Great job!
I never imagined that I could ever be too swamped with homework. I always used to maintain a polite silence when people talked about being up until three am working, never mentioning that my homework was usually done by six-thirty pm, always wondering how anyone could possibly manage to stay awake that late, how anyone could possibly manage to leave their homework that long. I never understood what it was like. It was never that I didn't get much homework, but rather, I never had after-school activities and I don't procrastinate. This year, things are different--in the former department, anyway. I have more work in increasingly demanding classes, but more than that, I have extracurriculars, unlike in past years, and often can't start my homework until six or later. I have always observed a strict nine-thirty bedtime, allowing me to get a barely-sufficient amount of sleep. I don't think that my homework is taking me much longer than it used to, but starting it three hours later means that I finish it three hours later. I get to bed too late, by my standards, and am always tired. I can't even relax in the evenings, because as long as homework hangs over my head, I can't relax. At least I still don't procrastinate. I haven't ever stayed up past ten-thirty doing homework, but I think I understand now what people mean when they talk about how hard they have to work to get their homework done and to get enough sleep to stay alert enough to receive the next dose of homework the next day. I usually wish I understood other people better than I do. In this case, I wish I didn't.
This summer, my only first cousin came to visit us at our family cottage on the beach. When we are together it is as though we were never apart, hugging multiple times, making fun of each other, and, of course, annoying our uncles. We stayed up until 3 a.m. talking about college (she is two years older than me), family issues, and life. We kept some family members in the house awake with our giggling but no one was ever mad; they never thought we would be this close. When we were young, I would be so excited to see her before she arrived, but once we were together we fought over everything. We fought over silly matters such as who got to play with which American Girl doll, whose turn it was to use the pink cereal bowl, and who got the Ariel washcloth for bath time. Back then, everything ended with someone being the tattletale, usually followed by tears. By the time she had to go, we were both tired of each other and wished for our only-child way of life. Now, we squeeze each other as tight as we can, reluctant to ever let go.
The first time I went antiquing was with my mom's best friend. We were shopping for things for our new house; random objects to fill the empty spaces and make it seem more like a home instead of a house. The air outside was muggy and hot, and once we entered the musty, cluttered building off the side of route one, a refreshing coolness washed over us. Most of the light illuminating the eclectic collection was coming in through the windows, and a single ray guided me down my first aisle. I walked slow, relishing in the rich history of the old objects and feeling an acute sense of a hundred stories surrounding me, when my fingers brushed a box. I turned around to find tons of postcards all neatly and tightly packed next to each other. Over the next hour or so, I spent my time rummaging through the postcards. Most of the cards were empty, worn and never written on, but with a few minutes of searching, I found conversations. And, a few minutes after that, I found *a* conversation. A single, continuing conversation from a daughter to her mother through many postcards, over the course of eight years. I found ten notes, all from the daughter. They were filled with the most simple of details, that I guessed, were on purpose so her mother felt like she was still in her life, and not states away. I still have them. They are nailed above my bed, all of the six that I kept, in an order that starts with the very sweetest of minute details. I look at them when I'm feeling gloomy because it never fails to strike up a warmth in my heart. The first one of the six, the daughter talks about her strawberry patch, which she says, were doing very well in the year of 1986.
When I was younger, my brother and I played together every day. We had tons of games for just the two of us, games to play in the house and games to play outside. Sometimes we'd involve our parents, or Althea, who we've known forever, but mostly the two of us just played alone. My brother was a mastermind. He would create he most imaginative games, ones that no one but him could have ever come up with. He, opfcourse, always got the best parts in those games. I didn't mind, though.
ReplyDeleteAs we got older, people started to talk about us growing apart. They never put it like that, exactly, but it would be the obvious conclusion to be reached. They'd say things like, "You're so lucky that your kids still play together." Soon, my mom started saying things like that, too. Our first trip out west, in 2009, was planned as "a last family trip before you kids hate each other."
I thought it would never happen, not to us. I thought my brother and I were closer than anything, that we would never, could never, grow apart, or that if we did, it would only be a little. I couldn't imagine my brother, who has nicknames for me and is this wonderful spark of kindness, ever growing up and moving on. I didn't want to, so it never once occurred to me that I would be the one to grow up, and leave our childhood games behind.
And then I did.
This is really touching, Haley Jo. I love the way the first paragraph evokes the innocence of childhood, while the next two paragraphs slowly start to chip away at that innocence. The third paragraph is particularly insightful, showing the resistance to the idea of growing apart from someone so close. That last sentence (fragment?) I find to be the strongest, though, because in those four words, the moment of realization that you were the one to grow apart is perfectly captured. All in all, I love this; there’s a couple of insignificant spelling errors, but otherwise I really don’t see anything wrong with this piece. Great job!
DeleteI gazed out over the bleak, barren landscape. What had once been a huge field, tall, bright green, and teeming with life, was now completely flat and brown. Deep down I knew that millions of insect eggs, pupae, and overwintering nymphs were hidden away from prying eyes, waiting for spring, but that sure seemed far off. Despite this, I had returned to the spot which had, five months earlier, produced the sword-bearer, slender meadow katydid, and countless others, because I wanted to wish it a good winter. December fourth was a bit late, I knew, but it still had not snowed. I set off at a brisk pace, my eyes scanning ahead of me, not really looking for anything, but recalling memories from summers past. Once I reached the top of one of the hills in the meadow, I stopped; silently I thanked the land for its bounty and sent a wish for the same bounty for years to come. With a melancholy sigh, I turned around, and an inch-long grasshopper with shockingly yellow wings suddenly sprang up from the dead ground, emitting a loud series of firecracker snaps, dashing through the air at a furious pace. It was almost as though he were trying to outrun the season that so far had not claimed his life.
ReplyDeleteI had been babysitting for six hours straight and I didn't think it would ever end. I thought I was doomed to lie on the dirty bed in the smelly house with those kids as we watched movie after movie. All they wanted to do was watch National Geographic movies and I had been popping one after the other into the DVD player for what felt like eternity. Together, we had learned about Mount Everest, volcanoes, The Amazon, African plains, dolphins, and dinosaurs, among others. We had watched Spin, the white gloved globe and National Geographic mascot, as he traveled to the ends of the earth and back again. All the while, I lay on the unmade bed trying not to fall asleep. Occasionally, one of the girls would ask me a question: "What's the biggest animal?" "How big are the baby ant eaters?" For the first few, I tried to answer as best I could but now I had begun to just fake it. "Oh, they're about five feet long," I heard myself saying, barely knowing what an ant eater even looked like. The goal was not enriching the girls lives anymore with fun facts and figures; the goal was to get through the night.
ReplyDeleteWhen I was a child, I had the largest obsession with The Beatles. I could tell you every detail about their lives and every reasoning behind each and every one of their songs. I was basically a stalker, but I stalked at a very careful distance, approximately 4,000 miles. My parents hid from me for quite a while the fact that two of them were dead. I could have lived a perfectly happy childhood thinking that they were all still alive, jamming together in one of their gorgeous houses in the countryside of England. In 2002, one year after George Harrison died of lung cancer, I was six years old and apparently it was time for me to hear the big news. "John and George are dead, Lauren." I could not believe what I had just heard. It was the hardest news I had ever had to deal with, and I honestly thought that I could not live on without the presence of those two men on this earth.
ReplyDeleteThe gold frame sparkled and shined in the light. It was dazzling, and immediately caught every onlookers attention. It was almost as if it was emitting a glow and sparkle that had nothing to do with the light that might be reflected off of it. But as it drew you in, it both lost appeal and created even more wonder simultaneously. Upon closer inspection, the glitter faded, but the frame transformed and the shine, that had been overpowered by the glitter and glow, became prominent. With each step closer, it became increasingly apparent the frame was in fact a mirror. A perfect gold mirror. What more, this perfect mirror seemed to have figures lurking in the background. After a minute of looking, you would see an entranced onlooker glance behind himself to see if that was truly a part of the reflection. As each person realized the faded figures were a part of the mirror and not their world, they would walk slowly away with a look of contemplation on their face. As if for the first time considering a world beyond their own.
ReplyDeleteEmmy, emmy, emmy i love this so much. That last line, god, it creeped me out so much, but in the best possible way. The way you lead into the paragraph is great, the vagueness really works. The identity of the object is a mystery! And mysteries are the best! You're description is spot on because you're describing the shifting of a certain perspective that's pretty challenging, and you do it so well. I can see the image changing clearly in my head. The only thing I think this paragraph needs is for you to omit the second person narration because you slip into using "you" for a moment then go back to third. Also, some context in the beginning of where this object is would be nice because it would give a larger picture and would help with any confusion that might arise when you bring in the people that come passing through. And be careful of tenses. Great job!
DeleteI never imagined that I could ever be too swamped with homework. I always used to maintain a polite silence when people talked about being up until three am working, never mentioning that my homework was usually done by six-thirty pm, always wondering how anyone could possibly manage to stay awake that late, how anyone could possibly manage to leave their homework that long. I never understood what it was like.
ReplyDeleteIt was never that I didn't get much homework, but rather, I never had after-school activities and I don't procrastinate. This year, things are different--in the former department, anyway. I have more work in increasingly demanding classes, but more than that, I have extracurriculars, unlike in past years, and often can't start my homework until six or later. I have always observed a strict nine-thirty bedtime, allowing me to get a barely-sufficient amount of sleep. I don't think that my homework is taking me much longer than it used to, but starting it three hours later means that I finish it three hours later. I get to bed too late, by my standards, and am always tired. I can't even relax in the evenings, because as long as homework hangs over my head, I can't relax. At least I still don't procrastinate.
I haven't ever stayed up past ten-thirty doing homework, but I think I understand now what people mean when they talk about how hard they have to work to get their homework done and to get enough sleep to stay alert enough to receive the next dose of homework the next day. I usually wish I understood other people better than I do. In this case, I wish I didn't.
This summer, my only first cousin came to visit us at our family cottage on the beach. When we are together it is as though we were never apart, hugging multiple times, making fun of each other, and, of course, annoying our uncles. We stayed up until 3 a.m. talking about college (she is two years older than me), family issues, and life. We kept some family members in the house awake with our giggling but no one was ever mad; they never thought we would be this close. When we were young, I would be so excited to see her before she arrived, but once we were together we fought over everything. We fought over silly matters such as who got to play with which American Girl doll, whose turn it was to use the pink cereal bowl, and who got the Ariel washcloth for bath time. Back then, everything ended with someone being the tattletale, usually followed by tears. By the time she had to go, we were both tired of each other and wished for our only-child way of life. Now, we squeeze each other as tight as we can, reluctant to ever let go.
ReplyDeleteThe first time I went antiquing was with my mom's best friend. We were shopping for things for our new house; random objects to fill the empty spaces and make it seem more like a home instead of a house. The air outside was muggy and hot, and once we entered the musty, cluttered building off the side of route one, a refreshing coolness washed over us. Most of the light illuminating the eclectic collection was coming in through the windows, and a single ray guided me down my first aisle. I walked slow, relishing in the rich history of the old objects and feeling an acute sense of a hundred stories surrounding me, when my fingers brushed a box. I turned around to find tons of postcards all neatly and tightly packed next to each other. Over the next hour or so, I spent my time rummaging through the postcards. Most of the cards were empty, worn and never written on, but with a few minutes of searching, I found conversations. And, a few minutes after that, I found *a* conversation. A single, continuing conversation from a daughter to her mother through many postcards, over the course of eight years. I found ten notes, all from the daughter. They were filled with the most simple of details, that I guessed, were on purpose so her mother felt like she was still in her life, and not states away. I still have them. They are nailed above my bed, all of the six that I kept, in an order that starts with the very sweetest of minute details. I look at them when I'm feeling gloomy because it never fails to strike up a warmth in my heart. The first one of the six, the daughter talks about her strawberry patch, which she says, were doing very well in the year of 1986.
ReplyDelete