Personal Narrative: Their Bodies

As we close out the 43rd game of the season, the Phillies drop to 15-28. As the pitching woes continue, it's tough to look on the bright side. It's understandable for the fans to be anxious, but it's all apart of the rebuild. I'm here to tell you to R-E-L-A-X. The team is still incredibly young and in the process of getting back to October. Maikel Franco is struggling a bit at the plate. Picking up the slack in the lineup is Tommy Joseph, who has been on absolute tear through the month of May. Cesar Hernandez has cooled off a bit but still playing some good ball. What can't I say about Aaron Altherr? He's everything you can ask for right now and then some. One thing you can look forward to is one of the most exciting

On monday night, poets Michael Waters and Mihaela Moscaliuc read their poems at the visiting writers series. It was the first time I have heard live poetry and it was a different, as well as challenging, experience. As I am used to analyzing and tearing apart poems on paper, it posed an obstacle as I had to merely sit and listen. The sound aspect of poetry was emphasized. I could not sit down and reread the poem, and make connections, I had to experience the poem as a moment.

Poets, and the poetry they write, are fundamental to the society in which they exist. The Modern poet is no exception. With words as weapons, the poet often challenges the very beliefs that underpin their civilisation and cause their fellow citizens to reflect on the status quo. It is the effectiveness of the literary devices the poet uses that often means the message is felt at a heart level, not just the head. An essay can give a dissertation on an important topic but it is the poet, using anything from personification to onomatopoeia, metaphor to assonance, that creates such

This semester my primary goals were to eat healthier and to maintain my 6 mile run time. My two goals required a lot of dedication and the body works class has helped me stay focus on my goals throughout the entire semester. Having body work class on Mondays helps me get my week started with a good workout, secondly having this class in general works as a reminder that being healthy and active is an everyday challenge that truly pays off in the long run.

I want to place my hand on my heart, with a believe that it will start believing people again.trusting those who caused a mistrust between my heart and soul.

Lurid means vivid and unpleasant. Lurid was a word on a weekly vocab quiz I took the week I first visited Simon’s Rock. Lurid was a word used casually (and properly) in a passionate discussion about a Rococo painting, The Swing, in an art history class at Simon’s Rock.

Have you ever lost someone or something that was very important to you? In this prompt I am going to tell you about me having to move from one house to another.

The next few moments were a blur for me. I remember little until the Paramedics arrive. During my forgotten moments, Dad said he experienced an out of body moment. He told his story several times in the following days. As he crumbled, he felt a raw flame of pain sapping his chest.

Home is the beginning of one’s book. It is where your story begins, forms its characters, shows its purpose, and reveals its ora. This is how mine is written. Home is on the buzzing highway down a bumpy gravel road. It’s Brandon, Mississippi. It is the only home I’ve ever known. Home is the smell of homemade biscuits and tomato gravy on Saturday mornings. It is “Bless Your Heart” and “Yes Mam” and “No Sir”. The little bedroom in the back of a grey double-wide where Carrie Underwood songs played and where I learned to curl my hair and put on mascara. My cousins and I running around with mason jars, chasing the lightning bugs. Bar-B-q on the back porch and never meeting a stranger. It is the morals learned and the identity

Six consecutive second place, Science Fair trophies sit in the deepest, darkest, most isolated place in my house... my closet. Upon entering the closet, I’m automatically overwhelmed with a horrifying stench, a mixture of plastic, metal, and disappointment, also known as second place. Once the scent enters the nasal cavity, it immediately calls war upon the cerebellum, attacking strongly and injuring the motor cortex, thus creating a chill to run through my body, leaving me powerless and without words. After the chill, next follows the noise. Mockingly congratulates me, whispering “great job, you almost had it,” oh the humanity; “second place” repeatedly echoes in my ear until I escape the closet.

Where does inspiration come from. The heart maybe. The brain. The soul. Your peers. Maybe even no one. You could have all the acquaintances in the world and I don’t care what anyone says because if they don’t care about you you’ll still end up feeling lonely as hell. I do. I have many acquaintances. But when they don’t care to check up on you to say, “Are you doing okay?” or, “Did you make it home okay?” maybe, “How’d your day go?”, or even, “I know you’ve been going through a lot lately, I just wanted to let you know I’m here for you.”

I walk down the bloodied sidewalk toward the pile of broken bodies, clipboard in hand. Kneeling, I reach into my satchel and retrieve a paper tag, which I fasten to the limp, blackened wrist of the first body, careful not to disturb its twisted sleep. As I record the number of the victim – fifty-four – I am approached by a young reporter who asks me whether it is a man or a woman. "It's human," I grumble, "that's all you can tell."

There I am standing alone at the top of Mount Everest. I have everything I need to go back to the bottom. I don’t use any of it. I am a soldier, and my mission is not complete. Alone, I am still not afraid. Temperature is 28 degrees, but I am not letting it affect my skills. I walk alone through the dark, eerie woods. It has been 32 hours, and I have still not completed my objective. I was sent to assassinate the leader of an military trained group. The group was out here training to intercept signal for a helicopter transporting cargo to an unknown military base in the valley of the mountain Everest. I have intercepted their signal and found out where exactly they were located. I found them, and it wasn’t an easy mission. Many

Remembering the best I could, I tried to put into action every piece of advice and practice. Emotion, inflection, gesticulation, and a crumpled speech -- all I had to try and make an impression. For once in my life I didn’t have to hold back; I had to ensure that everyone heard what I had to say and I was taking this chance. Three long minutes had gone by before I realized that public humiliation was a far-fetched misconception. I could finally breathe and wait until judging

poem is not merely a static, decorative creation, but that it is an act of communication between the poet and