Essay On The Passage Of Time Forms All

This Fleeting World takes about two hundred and fifty thousand years worth of history and compacts it into a one hundred and twenty page book. I believe Christian did a stellar job of doing so. Although short, it is very rich in knowledge about how our world came to be. His points are powerful and well put. This book definitely stands out in all the black and whiteness of history books. This fleeting world ties the start of humanity, to current life very efficiently.

“The teacher was dead; she had been cannibalistically cut up by the girls who, after killing her, cannibalistically disposed of her remains.” (Solari 198) This story is one of much symbolic importance, and in one way, the teacher herself represents poetry in society. After the teacher was killed, the people finally realized how much she had meant to the school. The principal is shocked to see this teacher dead, but the parents of the children, are not so preoccupied with the death of the teacher. At an emergency PTA meeting held to decide what should be done with their predicament, fathers began to only worry about the damaging nature of stopping their daughters’ studies, without a single feeling of sorrow for the loss of the teacher. After all agreeing to release the information to the police and the press, the public goes mad. This was the story of a lifetime, a news reporters dream, “The whole thing was blown up in the press and newspapers sold like hotcakes,” (Solari 201) but all things come to an end at some point; after some time, all hype and confusion

“The School” is a short story written by Donald Barthelme and published in 1974 in The New Yorker. Donald Barthelme is a post-modernist writer known for his deceptively simple yet powerful and insightful short stories. “The School” is a story that takes a good hard look at the sensitive topic of death. The theme of this story is about the cycle of life and how death is an integral part of it. The story is written in first person narrative. The narrator here is the teacher and he talks about how he and his young students of 30 kids encountered death throughout their time together in class. He uses edgy humor and a conversational tone in his seemingly complex plot with a surprising effect that will stick with the reader long after they are done reading it.

Staring at the screen, the young author sighed in frustration, her fingers once again failing her as she was distracted by the din of the news on TV. Resigned, she shut it off and turned back to her blank document wishing for the ability to channel her emotions towards the high expectations placed before her, as well as the stigmas. She was growing tired of the starkness of the world around her.

The five-minute warning bell goes off. I rush to my first class of my junior year, eager to see my classmates, who I was going to spend the rest of the 9 months with. I find myself stumbling into a classroom plastered with decorations of Denzel Washington with a Dr. Seuss book in his hand, a t and college flags galore. My AP English 11 class suddenly seemed so appealing to me. As a beautiful, curly haired short lady stood in front of me and said “Welcome to AP English 11,” I knew that I had found a treasure so much greater than just a pretty classroom. Little did I know, that short lady was going to inspire me throughout my challenge filled second-to-last year of high school.

The low ceiling cowered above and the black plastic chairs formed a restless crowd around me. From my seat, I could smell the acute scent of cleaning fluid, whiteboard markers, and the nauseating perfume of the girl sitting next to me. Like so many other students, she exuded concentration. Her brows were drawn as her hand moved rapidly over the testing booklet, only pausing to reposition herself or cast an almost imperceptible sidelong glance. The effortlessness of her actions furthered my anxiety as I began tapping my foot uneasily against the speckled linoleum floor. Through the dusty shades that hung precariously in front the only window in the room, I could see the outline of a solitary building shadowed by the dense gray fog that clung to the courtyard outside. At that moment, I would have given anything to be able to run and scream at the top of my lungs. I had an inexplicable urge to break free from the confinement of that room and what it

The occasional pauses throughout the novel allow the reader’s focus to shift towards the overachieving epidemic on a global. The extremes both parents and children go through, the informative pauses, and excerpts from actual lives, combine to expose the flaws in the educational system. Students feel

The bell signalling the end of second period hadn’t sounded, yet. Or maybe it had.maybe she missed it amidst the screams. She wondered if it was all over, perhaps somewhere in a distant corner of the school, students and teachers rejoiced and hugged each other knowing there was nothing left to fear. No matter how quite it was outside fear still rushed through her body, mentally and physically. She knew she couldn’t get up. Fear had paralysed her. She had fled the library and fled her way through the southern hallway when it began. The hall was infused with kinetic horror. An aimless frenzy of kids and adults bound in a reckless pack of mass confusion, like and ant hill being washed away with a hose. No new knew what to do. They just ran. Lisa couldn’t run. The fear had taken ahold of her and would allow her to move any faster than a sloth in a waking

Middle school, when that word pops up in one’s head, it’s a sudden reminder of dreadfulness, broken promises, regrets, first crushes, and last but not least, learned lessons. Another morning had brought another school day. Seeing familiar faces and teachers I just wanted to get through the day with no hassle, but that’s not always the case. At least it wasn’t for me. Making my way through the extended halls and walls that seemed to enclose upon me, I felt nothing more than like a chained prisoner. The bell rung and I remained seated in my class, encompassed by boxed, outdated computers and rusty white walls, I felt

Life changes. That is a proven fact. Life is not what it was twenty years ago. When life changes it is one of those things that sometimes you don’t have any control over, how fast it moves, or how slow. In St.Lucy’s Home for Girls Raised by Wolves

As a five year old girl draws a picture for her grandma in her kindergarten class, a sweaty older man bursts in. Her teacher shrills and covers the kid standing next to her. She begs screaming, “Please don’t hurt the childr…”, but with one pull of the trigger both the teacher and the student fall. The man’s eyes examined the child’s classroom. He lifts up his gun and shoots down the line of students like it was a carnival game. The little girl envisioned her grandma reaching her arms out to help her off the bus, but before she could reach her, everything went dark. The portrait of her grandma was splattered in red and the little girl laid beside it, dead.

Damp orange leaves stuck to my shoes as I trudged my way toward the back entrance of the school. A chilly wind whooshed past me, spraying my face with vapor. It felt good, almost numbing. Shoving my hands into my jean pockets, I then began to think of the red book. A tingle of warmth spread throughout my body as I recalled the way my fingers had glided over the embossed gold design on the cover. The gold always seemed to glitter when it touched the light; it was worthy of admiration, praise. As if suddenly slapped across the face, I came to my senses. Daydreaming about a book, especially one that was that was supposedly inherently evil, was not normal behavior. That was such a random thought, think about something else Jared, I scolded myself.

I sat in the very back of the classroom shielding my face with any book that was in sight. That way wouldn’t get called upon to read, but I guess my camouflage of books wasn’t good enough. I was assigned a part in the book to read and I could tell you, I was not happy. As we began to read I could see that my character’s part was starting to inch closer and closer. My heart started to beat out of my chest and the more my throat started to knot up. I was having second thoughts about even coming to school that day, but as I began to read, I started to get more into the book. It began to catch my interest and from that point on I started to realize it was more than just reading a book word per word. There was more to the story than what the paper full of writing would

The final bell rang, and students erupted in a joyful chorus of cheers as summer break began. I sang a melancholy dirge of self-pity. My bitterness increased as I waited for my mother to pick me up. She came at last and I jumped up, anxious to leave forever. Again, Mrs. Thomas thwarted my plans; she came outside to talk to my mother, undoubtedly about my ignominious fate. As they murmured, I viewed the co-conspirators with hostile eyes. I'm a victim, the final sigh of my fifth grade year whispered wearily.

Touched by fading moonlight, the girl looked pale as a ghost, distressed and sorrowful. Great drops fell from her eyes; the heavy rain clouds in her mind let loose their turbulent nature. She felt the muscle of her chin trembled like a small child, again, she looked toward the window as if the darkness outside could soothe her. However, she tried to keep her sobbing down by biting her lips, afraid the woman would “visit” again. Meanwhile, in the hallway, there was only deadly silence, creating an overwhelming sense of emptiness.