Freewrite 3

Coach Pitzer told me today not to take AP English for a few reasons. The main reason why was because my vocab was no where near where it needed to be. I understand and respect that. I know a lot of words, although I do not how to spell them which keeps me from ever using them in essays. However, as I went back to my seat, slightly deflated, I started to contemplate something. Is the use of high level vocab really a sign of being more intelligence or having literary ability. I know my vocabulary could use a tremendous amount of improvement, but at what point does it become a problem?
    This is how I see it; like it or not, the majority of people aren't smart enough to understand some concepts that require extreme vocabulary to explain. Isn't it a sign of intelligence to be able to explain something difficult in simple terms. To be able to explain the fundamentals of an idea and get your point across simply in a way that's easy to grasp. Being able to explain the complex simply, is more showing of intelligence that being able to understand the complex. Relating this back to what Coach Pitzer told me. Yes, I believe my vocab could use some improvement, but no I will not go to great lengths to use huge or uncommon words. Instead I'm going to keep my common words and refine and improve my ideas and ways of portraying what I need to say in essays. Because that is true intelligence to me. But hey, this maybe just my damaged ego talking right now.

The monk who burned

There were no nerves about me. My hands where steady as they laid neatly folded in my lap. My tanned, bald head was free of perspiration. Peering out of the baby blue car slowly making its way from the busy metropolitan streets, the only thing I contemplate are my persecuted brothers. My anger momentarily flare as I think of the children in that village, although no expression shows up on my worn face. The children were hunted down in the streets and given a sadistic chance to run. Fathers watched, mothers erupted with heart wrenching screams, and siblings found out the nature of our human race. We could not fight back, if we had weapons my brothers wouldn't have used them. Protest didn't work, they were too busy installing fear to notice. No one seemed to care.
                "Well they will after today," I think to myself as I gaze through the smudge car window.  "We're here Thich," my brother said as the car came to a spot in the middle of a crowed streets. Horns blared as myself and three brothers exited the car. Diang walks the length of the car to the trunk and pops it open. Looking around I see angry faces, I hear more horns, and I smelled the stench of the city. A small crowd is starting to form, inquiring curiously about what we meant to do.
                Diang emerges from the trunk, materials in hand. "Are you scarred?" He asked.
                "They've seen us scarred, now they will see us brave."
                 I sat legs crossed in my customary meditation stance. Slowly everything receded into the back ground. I heard no horns, saw no faces, smelled no stench. I waited until I was in complete serenity before I grabbed the gas can Diang sat beside me. Uncapping it, I pour its contents upon my body, still in my own state. "May the world see. May my people be free," I mutter as I strike a match and set myself ablaze. I felt eminence pain. Horrible agony scattered throughout my body, but I do not scream. I sit silently afire. They've heard our screams, no longer will they see our fear.
                As my eyes shut, welcoming death, I see my brothers looking upon me proudly.
      

Poem #3

This worlds full of displeasures
A victim of the art of peer pressure
Manipulated to do others biding
The guilt of it never subsiding
Lured into things uncharacteristic
A victim of the sadistic

Free write #2: Rambling

       I don't know what to write. I can write whatever I want though, this is a free write right? Then I have a right to write freely. Freely. Root word free. Definition: "enjoying personal freedom : not subject to the control or domination of another" courtesy of Webster dictionary. So, being free is the state of being able to do what you want. Like being able to ramble and get a grade from it.
       But then how do we live freely? I can't do whatever I please. There are certain things I can't do. There are a lot of things I can't do. Hell, I can't be on my phone in school. I'm not " not subject to the control or domination of another". Even there, I used a double negative. If this weren't a free write, I'd get points counted off for that. Aren't we always subject to SOMEONES domination. Whether it be teachers, parents, government, nature, society and especially if you believe in God. But we cherish our perceived freedom so dearly we would die in a foreign country for it. But you aren't ever really free. There's no such thing as free. There's just less degrees of being "dominated". And I'd say most of us are dominated pretty hard.

    

Poem #2

Promising the grander of perfection
Seeing through life's many deceptions
Reality is what you perceive
But reality likes to deceive
Struggling against this inception
With no real protection
No help, no relief
Just me and my belief

Short Story #1

                I smelled them before I saw it. The dank musty smell the homeless have about them. They pretended to be customers. But it was obvious from there clothing and smell, they had no money to spend. There was a well hidden girl with them. Underneath her hood peered out green eyes with auburn hair flowing in front of her left eye. She was atkasi. They must've helped her escape the prisons. As they walk about the store I noticed a tattoo on one mans arm. It was a sword wrapped in a twisting pen. The rebels tattoo. He should have never gotten that tattoo. Especially if he didn't have the sense to  cover it up. I slowly started to creep toward the door, subtly but with some haste. Whatever was about to happen, I wanted no part of.
                    And I almost made it. Six tiles. I was six tiles away from a oppressed safe life. But I didn't make it. Just as I was passing the last minute item racks the commercialist love, one of the homeless shouted something and began shooting. Instantly the small quicky mart was turned into a war zone. The ragged gang shot without hesitation spraying bullets in all directions. Bam. Down went a 7 year old running from the candy rack. Bam . There goes his mom and the old woman standing behind her. As I lunge over the ice cream cooler trying to escape the madness, out of the corner of my eye I see the clerk raise up from behind the counter.
              He was holding a pump action shot gun. He fired off one shot sending one ragged man two aisle back. The rest took cover as the cashier, with a deranged look in his eyes, jumped onto the counter and pumped round after round into the store only stopping to reload , which he did with impressive speed. Cursing the heavens the cashier jumps onto the counter unloading his gun. He took out another ragged man, leaving 7, before the rest started firing back. Boxes of cereal exploded from the cross fire, the snack aisle was reduced to crumbs. I saw one of the men sneak around and down
an aisle, trying to surprise the cashier. The girl sees me and, squatting in an aisle shot to hell, she slowly takes off her hood and meets my gaze. She brushes away her hair. A smile creeps upon her lips, to whom she puts her finger up telling me to keep quiet and for some reason I could not explain, I obeyed.
        Quietly the man crept up on the cashiers side. He had no chance. As he began to reload for a fourth time, the man unleashed a fury of bullets to which his comrades added too. The store settled into an eerie silence. The girl shouted commands to her men. What she said I couldn't tell you, ever since her silenced me I'd been utterly focused on her. It wasn't until they had taken three enormous sacks worth of groceries did they leave. As they walked out the front door, their wounded agonizing their way to death, the girl snapped and I began to scream as if it had been building up in me for years.

Free write #2: Revenge

 
                                My sister died alone. She had no one to comfort her, no one to lie to her and tell her it was ok. No one heard her last pleas. No one witnessed her last breath. Nobody was her last sight and nobody shut her eyes. Nobody was there to wash her last tear away.  She went into the next life alone. She was bloody, beaten,  terrified and raped. You dragged her fifty yards from the house by her hair. She died low in a ditch in the black of night crying out but nobody was there.  My brother died in his sleep. He had no last words. He had no final pleas. He had no last night or final tears. He didnt have any last prayer or even the knowledge of his killer. He died with his dreams in his bed with his throat slit. My parents you sparred as some cruel joke; tying them up, gagging and blind foldjng them and making them listen to their dsughter. They were your victims everyday for the last five years. It would have been the perfect and most sadistic of crimes;
attacking a random family, leaving no dna, and masking your self. However you did know about me. It took five years but I've found you. Five years I've thought of nothing else I've done nothing else. For five years I imagined who you were. I was right about you having kids. Right about the wife. But: I was wrong about being middle class. You have a very nice house. I was also wrong about you being hostile. I bet my sister put up more than a fight. Five years it took to get you and your family here all tied up together. Like your about take a family picture. A picture we can no longer right fully take. So tonight on this fine snowy evening I will collect on the debt you own my parents. However you will watch. You will hear. You will smell. And you will feel what my parents felt. I will kill your two boys. I will not take your daughter as you took my sister, however you will wish I had. Your wife will die as well. Sit back now and watch me take what you owe.