Journal Of A Teenage Vigilante

Some people relieve stress by journaling. Journaling allows people to clarify their thoughts and feelings, thereby gaining valuable self-knowledge. It’s also a good problem-solving tool; oftentimes, one can hash out a problem and come up with solutions more easily on paper. Journaling about traumatic events helps one process them by fully exploring and releasing the emotions involved, and by engaging both hemispheres of the brain in the process, allowing the experience to become fully integrated in one’s mind (Scott, 2009).

My personal memoir is going to be about when I moved here in Homedale, Idaho. When I was 6 I moved to Homedale and I was going to start 2nd Grade. When I got dropped off by my parents I went to the playground. When I was young I used to never speak to anyone because I was so shy and scared. When I got there a kid named Oscar came up to me and asked me what is your name, for a few seconds I stood there saying nothing and finally I said my name Osue. There were one of his friends that I remember, there was Antonio, but that wasn’t the first time I have seen Antonio because the house we moved into I went outside threw rocks and so did he but when I backed up and went forward etc. he copied me. I When we went I she Ms. Garrett was welcoming us

The story of my history as a writer is a very long one. My writing has come full circle. I have changed very much throughout the years, both as I grew older and as I discovered more aspects of my own personality. The growth that I see when I look back is incredible, and it all seems to revolve around my emotions. I have always been a very emotional girl who feels things keenly. All of my truly memorable writing, looking back, has come from experiences that struck a chord with my developing self. This assignment has opened my eyes, despite my initial difficulty in writing it. When I was asked to write down my earliest memory of writing, at first I drew a blank. All of a sudden, it became very clear to me, probably because it had some

I find myself looking over my shoulder every time I step outside my front door. Violence has opened my eyes and destroyed my dreams of peace. When I first moved to Philadelphia from Puerto Rico, I moved into a neighborhood that was full of gangs and drugs. Philadelphia represented a new start, a chance for me to breathe again. I had experienced a tragic shooting right before my ten year old eyes in Puerto Rico; my mom’s best friend was killed, while the murderer calmly walked away. We escaped to Philadelphia, and I thought my days of witnessing horrific violence were over. However, my dreams were shattered like gunshots in the night. One day, while I was napping, I was awoken by a series of deafening pops. As soon as I heard them, I dropped

December 15, 2013 was a completely average day until my mom picked me up from school. Noticing the tears streaming down her face, I inquired, “What happened?”

What if mom is out drinking? Or maybe passed out drunk in some strange man’s house!” She cried out. Jane fell back onto the concrete, quietly weeping into her hands. I sighed, and joined her on the sidewalk.

These walls mock me. I can't escape this confinement. I've studied everything in my cell, the walls, the floor, bed, door, window, every pattern, every inch top to bottom. I see scars carved into the wall from people counting their days away. I count every second, minute, hour that i'm stuck in here, everyone seems to be longer than the next. It's hard not to think back to that moment but sometimes I can't help it. His voice fills my thoughts, every time I hear him it brings me back to that moment. The cool air of the night whistled through my town, as i turn off my car i hear the engine cutting off. I stop take and take a deep breath, i reach over to the glove box and grab the glock 45 the cold steel touches my hand. I put it in my jacket and walk into the store. I hold the gun up to him and say “give me the money” his face drops he tells me you don't want to do this to stop, it's too late now though there's no turning back. He throws the money on the floor, as i go to pick it up he grabs something from under the counter. I freak out and pull the trigger, i didn't mean to, i didn't want anyone to get hurt. It feels fake replaying over and over. Every sound, every smell, every emotion. I remember the whole night. I can't do

I had a pretty normal childhood. That’s how these memoir type things start right, saying how wonderful your life was until the big bad mental illness struck? Technically, I am not supposed to be writing in narrative form, just keeping a thought record for my session next week with my therapist, but that gets a bit dull. I decided to write down everything from the beginning to keep myself entertained. My therapist isn’t going to be happy about it, but I am still a bit unclear about what automatic thoughts she wants me to write down, so this seemed like a good alternative. I mean, I didn’t struggle to get a degree in creative writing for nothing, right?

It was a crisp February morning in 2005. The first beginnings of sunlight crept through my metallic shades and onto my face. Groggily, I glanced at my alarm clock. ‘Seven O’clock’ I was late. I quickly jumped out of bed and slipped into my small goose down outfit, orange vest, and wool hat. From a corner in my closet I grab my small steel-toed boots lacing them up as fast as I could. Before I left, I glanced around my room to make sure I had not forgotten anything. I noticed the wooden gun propped precariously by the window. If I had missed that dad would have been angry with me for being forgetful. I raced down the stairs, making little thumping noises as I bounced along. When I reached the end of the stairs, the aroma of fresh coffee filled my lungs. I ran into the kitchen and I saw my dad wearing

I ran down to city hall to see my friend Oliver Queen (aka the Green Arrow), this city’s vigilante. When an arrow hit me in the back and the next thing I knew, I woke up in a prison. “Who are you,” the man said with a deep voice wearing a green hood and holding a bow and arrow. “ Oliver, it’s me Barry.” “ Oliver is dead,” yelled the man. “ My son died 9 years ago on that boat so who the hell are you!” “My God, he was the one who died that day! You must be his father, Robert Queen,” I said while still shocked. He stepped forward and pulled his hood back “ how do you know who I am?” Robert asked. “hen I went back in time I must have changed something that made you the Green Arrow instead of Oliver and turned your city into an apocalyptic ghost

Hey, are you there? Alright, good; I’ve never done this before so bare with me. My father told me that writing these journals will help me deal with all the daily events. Like running away from cannibals, hiding in fear, and a few other things I’d rather not talk about. He also said that if someone like you ever found this it would help them understand what happened to our surroundings.

Youth violence played an important role in my life as it contributed to the person I am today.

“ Beneath an overpass of the Hollywood Freeway at 1 A.M., Mr. Masters confronted two young men who were spraying graffiti, argued with them and shot them, killing one, 18-year-old Cesar Arce,” Seth Mydans Reported from The New York Times. This quote explains a vigilante trying to stop two young men who were caught doing something illegal. The vigilante then killed one of the men for their crime. Most people consider this act of brashness to be cruel and immature. But according Seth Manydan in the new York times article, “Instantly, Mr. Masters became the latest celebrity in Los Angeles, a vigilante hero to many people, the toast of talk shows and letters to the editor”(Mydan 1). This exemplifies that even though Mr. Masters had killed someone

“When a man is denied to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw.” - Nelson Mandela

“Carly, get down here. You can’t miss the bus again!” my mother called, obviously annoyed. Her voice took me out of the trance I was apart of, and back into the reality that a decision had to be made. Tell her. Tell her about the baby! She might know what to do. I don’t want her leaving, but she’s my mother. All I can do is pray that she won’t leave me.