Chloe Folmar Creative Writing 2B October 7, 2015 A Car, A Torch, A Death Picture it: lungs struggling to expand, to fill with oxygen, to aid the infiltration of sweet, cold air through my veins, my bones, my muscles. Leaning back on the stiff driver’s seat, the word “relax” dribbling repeatedly from my lips; just like what they had all told me to do. Hot tears begin to seep from my eyes, drying into sticky streaks across my feverish face. Seconds amble by, the searing pain in my body prolonging each one. I gasp in a shaky breath of air; the trembling in my arm ebbs enough for me to clutch my keys and shove one into the ignition. The engine chokes as I pull out onto the dark, skinny road and the lights ignite the dull, ghoulish trees. …show more content…
When I inhale, with exhausting effort, my lungs are infused with fire. I exhale what I am leaving behind. The more I ponder, the more I envy the headlights driving south; although I know that the time ahead of me lays waiting, sinister. I feel the tears begin to cloud my eyes again. I want to crack the door so I can just fall out: but then my vision is overwhelmed with static, and the power of my memories overcomes my sense of sight. I remember what she did before I left; she strapped her heart in the backseat and let me drive away with it. And now I begin to understand what sacrifice really is. Panic slowly trickles into my vulnerable, broken mind; soon my resistance has been overwhelmed. Picture it: a fragile body struggling to maintain peace of mind, to ignore the devil’s whispers in her ear, to grow not in fear but in strength, sanity, hope. I hang my head in pain, love and confusion melting together into anxiety; just like what they had all told me not to do. I want to protect, to help, but I know I need to accept that this is not my decision, not my battle. But not fighting might be the thing that kills
I placed the knife on the table and turned around, pinning my gaze inside the plastic wrapped room that I had carefully prepared. An agonized face glared back at me, blue eyes burned beneath the black eyebrows. “What the hell is this?” I carelessly studied the forehead which tightened and twitched with tension and my gaze wandered off to his left cheek. “This... is the moment of truth.” I replied to his cry with ease. He was breathing heavily. Oh, this felt so good. It has been a very long time since I let my dark passenger come out to play. Thirty-eight days, sixteen hours, and twelve minutes to be precise, Trinity has kept me occupied long enough. Then I sliced his left cheek to take my blood slide.
Elie Wiesel's autobiographical work "Night" chronicles his harrowing experiences during the Holocaust, revealing a profound journey of transformation amidst unimaginable suffering. Throughout the narrative, Wiesel evolves from a naive and devout young boy to a disillusioned survivor grappling with the complexities of human nature. Through a careful analysis of Wiesel's transformation, we uncover themes of loss, resilience, and ultimately, redemption. At the outset of "Night," Wiesel portrays himself as a devout believer deeply entrenched in his faith. His innocence is palpable as he navigates the complexities of adolescence against the backdrop of looming Nazi oppression.
Death’s whisper traveled in my ear, wrapping around my mind, “I can take you away from this madness. Beyond this hell, that is life.” “Will it be more peaceful there?” I asked. “As serene as heaven above.” Possessive Depression responded. My heavy heart fluttered at the thought of serenity. No more painful days, or lonely, restless nights. No more of this living death. Anxiety murmured all my insecurities tempting me to make the decision, as every tick-tock from the clock he held, echoed in my brain, putting fear in me of things that will never happen. I thought about the invitation to eternal sleep, “I would finally be able to extract this smiling mask…” Thus, I decided to join the dance of death, done dealing with my dilemmas.
For most people, becoming a parent is one of the greatest moments in their lives. I never understood the true meaning of love until I became a father. Little did I know; I would also learn the tragedy of loss.
As the sound of the announcer calling our team roughly breaks the calm silence of the busy Ann Arbor lake, the light click of our oar locks can be heard as the four of us squares our blades in the green-blue water together. In the shallow water, the sight of brown algae snaking along the bottom and the peeling black and yellow paint on the end of our oars welcomes our eyes. We sit relaxed in the black carbon fiber shell of the Camilla, our sharp eyes analyzing every movement of the other boats while the sun’s scorching rays beat down on our tan shoulders and the reflective surface of the still lake. As we wait for the race to begin, the aroma
Personal Narrative: The World The world is a messed up place and we are all stuck here until our lives are through, or until we choose to leave. It's strange that I go along with everything everyone tells me, such as that I should wear certain clothes or listen to certain songs. I often wonder why I do the things I do, but then I just realize that's who I am. People are confused about why they are here, and they don't understand what life is supposed to be about.
The spark of a dream, suppressed for so long, was stoked by my shuddering breath of realization. Releasing the air slowly, a fire caught inside me, blazing and burning and begging for release. I concede to the flames.
Boom. Breath. Boom. Breath. Each step sounded like a war drum banging in my ears. The harmonious rhythm of my steps consistent with my breath continued on and on as I made my way up the side of the cliff in the middle of these Colorado woods. The sweltering heat was hindering my vision, and I began to feel dizzy. The worst part is, I am all alone.
Paramedics squeeze my arms, staining their gloves a deep red. Doctors and nurses scream at each other as they run across the hallways wheeling me into the operating theatre. I look over to my wrists as clear fluids begin their journey into my veins. My heart is in my throat, my pulse is echoing throughout the room, my limbs are quivering, and my lungs are screaming. Nurses force plastic tubes up my nose, as jets of cold air enter my sinuses, giving me relief. Inkblots dance before my eyes like a symphony of lights. A sudden sleepiness overcomes me and slowly my vision dims.
Lungs burning, tears streaming down from my eyes one after another, my heart pounding as loud as a thunderstorm in the quiet night. I’m in shock. Lost of words. My head’s spinning around like a merry-go-round stuck in motion, my mind is a bomb ticking down the time until I blow.
The Last Guardian was one of the most anticipated games of the decade for PlayStation gamers across the world. Having waited 10+ years for the spiritual successor to Shadow of the Colossus, many had there hopes set high. Unfortunately it also proved to be one of the biggest disappointments of this console generation. If you haven't played or heard of The Last Guardian I encourage you to explore the games Metacritic. There you'll find many widely varying reviews (I recommend Marty Sliva's or Jim Sterling's which is appropriately titled 'Beast Of Burden').
The journey of life follows a predetermined pattern; we evolve from needing influence and guidance to finally reaching that point where our lives are up to us. I consider myself very lucky up to this point in my journey. Some people become sidetracked and wind up on a far different course than initially planned, but the detours I made have only assisted in embellishing the individual instead of devouring it.
We finish what we start. This was the motto that kept me going during the strenuous training period for a marathon. But prior to that, I must confess, I wasn’t an athlete. I was never interested in playing sports, except for recreational badminton. During gym class, I would walk three quarters of the time when it time for the dreaded mile run. I preferred staying indoors and sitting on the couch and watch movies. The first time I had heard about a marathon training program, called Dreamfar, in my school, I thought to myself, what kind of crazy person would want to run a marathon? Never did I realize, eight months later, I would be that crazy person.
As I walked I let my eyes close and my feet feel the groove in the gravel. My mind, still asleep, dreamt of breathing. The lining of my father's old coat escaped inside the pockets and caught my fingers, which were numb from the cold. I would have worn gloves but the sun would be unbearable later in the day. The clouds would rise over the mountains and disappear and the birds would slowly become silent as the heat settled in. But for now it was just cold. I tried to warm my neck by breathing down the collar. It smelled like diesel and sweat.
The reckless driver hit us straight on, then “Bang!” a loud noise resonated through the air, and abruptly my body flew out and hit the pavement of the road. Everything around me was simply a white haze for a few seconds after the impact. My body felt extremely heavy and the sharp pain throbbed throughout my face and body. Lying there on the rough asphalt, I faintly heard my mom and Carrie call out to me, “Sydney! Sydney! Are you okay? Answer me! Sydney!” I wanted I speak up and answer them, nonetheless, it was useless, my voice just wouldn’t make a sound. The desperation in Carrie’s and my mom’s voices reverberated to me across from where I was lying. My mom frantically ran up to my side and hugged me tightly in her arms. Blood was squirting out of her pinky, where the top of her finger had been severed. The places where my mom’s tears fell, stung my wounds, nevertheless, it was nothing compared to each little movements that caused the pains to electrify through my body severely. Every second was hell, the pain was just utterly agonizing and tormenting. Whether it was due to the pain or the exhaustion my body suffered, my mind slowly drifted off and I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer. As my eyes gradually closed, the blazing siren seemed to have grown louder little by