“Best” Worst Essay!

Below is the “best” worst essay I could possibly come up with, yet still remain partially understandable, for a recent composition assignment at VPSA. =D  Twas a fun project. 

And for Wayne’s “best” worst essay, visit: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com =)

Teddy Bears 

     “Words cannot express the type of excitement that Johnny was gripped deeply, and passionately by when he was bestowed by his parents with a nice teddy bear. His other friends were green with envy when Johhny brought his teddy to school proud in nature. His grades were heightened considerably by Johhny’s active use of his imagination qualities with the plush creature which resembled a live bear in a truncated, life-less dimension. As Johnny aged in years and time laid hold of his once brown hair, the teddy bear was soon neglected by Johhny in the chaos of aging in years in the natural progression of gaining more responsibility, adult-wise. But, the teddy bear was held in the highest regard, and deepest nature of admiration by Johhny even in his ripe old age. “

      Johnny was benefited in a thousand ways by using his imaginative cognition, which was being activated by the type of bear, a plush bear, that he was playing with. Playing with plush, stuffed-creatures of a non-lifelike manner are a benefit to children, imagination-wise.

      When children are young in nature, they are being moved by an invisible force, which is of the finer things in life. What is this nice force which acts upon these children? The imaginative tendencies of the brain, which include the facilities of the neocortex and thalamus, of course! As children are allowed, by the nice consideration of their parents, to exercise their profound abilities with stuffed creatures, they are more likely to exercise those vital organisms of the brain, health-wise. 

     Not to mention, children are more greatly affected by the use of plush animals in their growth from young creatures of innocence to the responsibilities of adulthood, grade-wise. Children’s grades are so fabulously affected by the manner of playing with plush toys, that it is only vitally necessary to bring a type of play-time into the schools for the sake of grade improvement by the children. Bringing the imaginative qualities of teddy bears back into the lives of modern, puerile children is a nice enhancement, education-wise. 

      The benefits, creativity-wise, of imagination time with fluffy creatures of a different dimension are nicely extensive. As luck would have it, those children who were given more play-time by the type of parents who wish to further their child’s creativity have been more successful in business later in their life in manner. It is important for a creative foundation to be laid by the parents for children, so that later in their life they might be benefitted by the supreme goodness of the creative essence which is release through imaginative play, stuffed-animal-wise. Needless to say, those children are more likely to be accepted by employers because of their seeming zeal for the reality of imagining. 

     Johnny is an age-old example of what benefits can come from having an active type of imagination. In conclusion, the type of imagination which results from interaction with plush creatures that resemble live bears in a truncated, life-less dimension is beneficial, creativity-wise, grade-wise, and health-wise to a child.

Weekly Creative Writing #14

"But more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean."

~H. P. Lovecraft

       From the gentle swooshing of the waves upon the shore, to the thundering anger of it’s deepest caverns during a mid-day storm, the ocean is never predictable, except for its ancient tide.  And that’s why Calliope loved it so much.  It was both her twin sister and her mother.   

       As her sister, it lived a life very similar to her own.  Some days, it thrashed around, its passions uncontrolled and wild - the core of it burned with fury or radiant ecstasy.   Some days, it remained sentimentally calm and painstakingly nostalgic as it reflected on its superior, the sun, with dazzling luster.  The sea understood her quite well. Her life was not the kind that remained in utter turmoil constantly, or the kind that never seemed to miss a beat.  Her life was capricious, erratic and whimsical.  And, Sister Ocean, reflected its mistress and master, the sun and moon, and reflected its sister, Calliope.  

       And, it was her mother.  In a mother’s warm embrace, the world suddenly becomes small and one’s mother a more magnificently larger pillar of security.  That’s what the sea did for her.  It embraced her, and everything around her - every worry, every care, every dream - seemed insignificant to the immense comfort it bestowed.

       But, beyond all that, the ocean was a prayer.  Its created nature held something heavenly within it.  The Divine seemed to have touched that part of creation.  God’s Spirit, before light or human life existed, hovered over these waters.  The ocean was a prayer which beckoned for God’s presence in her life.  These waters, at God’s command, destroyed the face of the earth in forty days.  The ocean was a living raging prayer of repentance.  And, on the these waters, the Son of God had placed His feet and calmed the raging waters.  The ocean was a prayer of healing and peace.  And so, she knelt down, and spoke with her sister and her mother, and felt her prayers soak into her pale pink dress, and the salty incense fill her hair.

For my wonderful friend's counterpart of this weekly themed concurrent writing project, visit:

http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Weekly Creative Writing #13

“Home is a name, a word, it is a strong one; stronger than magician ever spoke, 

or spirit ever answered to, in the strongest conjuration.” 

- Charles Dickens  

That’s where it began - right there in that home. She remembered it as the place she had all her “firsts” of life.   When she was young, home was the image of mother’s lace, the smell of father’s coffee, and the sound of her picking out crude childish notes on the slightly flat piano keys.  It was the epitome of a summer’s day, when worries were myths and tender fields rolled endlessly before her innocent eyes.  It was the bench just five blocks down that Zachary gave her fluffy dandelions and a peck on her cheek for her 7th birthday.  Home was that irrationally chaotic time when college began to beckon her away - when her weary eyes opened and the alarm clock fell subject to snooze for the seventh time.   It was the exhausted hands which searched the newspaper for a summer job, and mother coming in with a mug of milk and sugar cookies to sit by her for a while.  It was father’s tears as she hugged him one last time, before they drove off on the eight hour trip which would take them back “home.”  Since that hug, she had learned to drift in and out of those memories.  Those glimpses of eternity that seemed to penetrate time for a magical moment, and then disappear back into an undefined dimension.  The very word “home” conjured a force beyond that of the wizards and gypsies of the world, as it lured her back into sweet memory of a far off beacon.  Yet, home still had an uncanny presence even amidst its absence.  Miles away, she could still feel the heartbeat of the home as the past drew her back to its bosom.  It was home... and that was the beginning and end of it, all wrapped together into something she’d never be able to explain.

For my friend's wonderful counterpart of this weekly themed creative writing project, go to http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Weekly Creative Writing #12

The cone shape of the tower etched itself into the fiery sky.  Smoke danced around the tiles which made up the red pinnacle.  The flag - once proudly  declaring the crest of the family - was now limp in submission to the escaping heat, scorched and burned by the flames which tortured it earlier that day.   The geometric perfection of the summit was easily visible as it carved itself finely into the stark image of a setting sun, which mirrored the events of destruction that chanced to fall on this small castle in Spain.  A fire.  A day of war - arrows had hissed like serpents, swords had clashed with such viciousness it was as if the gates of hell were rattling every fleeting moment.  And lastly, a demonic ball of fire was catapulted from the enemy into the very bosom of the lordly structure.  Everything that could burn, burned.  Only the stony skeleton of the castle remained.  The once lively fortress now lay charred and lifeless as the night’s stingy grasp dragged it into the depths of darkness.  This tower, out of the five carefully built into the architecture of the castle, was once a chapel - a small place of refuge for the inhabitants.  No doubt, the golden instruments and decorations within it were, if not melted by the earlier river of fire, charred by smoke which wafted throughout it like a vengeful wraith.   It was wearied, defeated, weakened, but it stood.  It stood as the martyr among the others - the endurer of the crucible.  The heart of the castle no longer beat, but remained a painful, bleeding, and burning reminder of the souls which once surrounded it.  And then it sank with the sun - deep into the abyss of the night, enveloped in smoke, and moaning like a dying ember. 

For my brilliant friend's counterpart of this concurrent themed creative writing project visit: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

House by the Side of the Road

One of my favorite poems... =)

House by the Side of the Road

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths
Where highways never ran-
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by-
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not sit in the scorner's seat
Nor hurl the cynic's ban-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife,
But I turn not away from their smiles and tears,
Both parts of an infinite plan-
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish - so am I.
Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat,
Or hurl the cynic's ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

~Sam Walter Foss~

Weekly Creative Writing #11

“The heart has its reasons which reason knows nothing of...”  She murmurs to herself after reading an excerpt from Blaise Pascal.  “The heart has its reasons... sure, its own tempting, misleading, deceptive reasons.”  She sighs, closes the book, walks to the nearby window and stares at the downpour of rain outside.  

There is a reason she clings to her books and her solitude so fondly.  And rarely, if ever, gives her heart away, except to that ever imaginary world beyond the real one.  There is a reason she will not allow herself to travel any farther than the walls she built over old battle grounds.  There is a reason she is afraid to fall.  She is convinced it will go wrong again.  She will fall for someone and it will be wonderful, but like the cruel past has patterned for her, it won’t last. 

Yet, the hope of it somehow working out - anything, with anyone - dawns like an inviting sunrise, to girl who willingly shuts herself up inside the darkness of the comfortable corners of her soul.  

Old memories of festive evenings and excursions, full of sweet notes and innocent laughter, no longer haunt her - no, that has long since past.  But, now, she has made it a private matter of learning her heart’s reasons - to outwit it, before it falls again.  It is a nasty, devilish combination of a fear of failure - everything going wrong again - and of learning to let go again - to be vulnerable.  Every weakness she has ever had climaxes at a fear of the past repeating itself, a fear of the present retreating itself, and a fear of the future deceiving itself. 

For my brilliant friend's counterpart of this weekly themed creative writing project: http://thebeatlesandblackcoffee.blogspot.com

Valentine's Day!

A Happy Valentine's Day to the adorable couples, the ones who care, yet can only be friends, and the single folk.  In many ways, this day is directed towards all of you, not just one specific group.   Behind this day is a Saint whose life should be a testimony towards all of us.  Regardless of our relationship status, the kind of love his man portrayed is how we should learn to love.    Below is an excerpt from an article on the Roman St. Valentine... =) 

Oh! and before you all go, in Eastern Orthodox Christianity, we don't necessarily celebrate the Roman St. Valentine specifically - for various reasons - some say we celebrate on July 6th, but I'm not sure.  However, we do celebrate Hieromartyr Saint Valentine (Bishop of Interamna, Terni in Italy) on the July the 30th, so below is a picture for my fellow Eastern Orthodox friends out there. ;)   

The article excerpt:

The Orthodox Saint Valentine

St. Valentine the Hieromartyr (Feast Day - February 14 and July 6)

The ancient martyrology of the Church of Rome marks February 14th as the remembrance of "the martyr Valentine, presbyter of Rome" (Valentinus means "vigorous" in Latin). Unfortunately the historical data for the Saint is incomplete.

The Martyrdom of the Saint in Rome

Saint Valentine lived in Rome in the third century and was a priest who helped the martyrs during the persecution of Emperor Claudius II the Goth. The great virtue and catechetical activities of the Saint had become familiar. For this he was arrested and brought before the imperial court.

"Why, Valentine, do you want to be a friend of our enemies and reject our friendship?" asked the emperor.

The Saint replied "My lord, if you knew the gift of God, you would be happy together with your empire and would reject the worship of idols and worship the true God and His Son Jesus Christ."

One of these judges stopped the Saint and asked him what he thought about Jupiter and Mercury, and Valentine boldly replied, "They are miserable, and spent their lives through corruption and crime!"

The judge furiously shouted, "He blasphemes against the gods and against the empire!"

The emperor, however, continued his questions with curiosity, and found a welcome opportunity to finally learn what was the faith of Christians. Valentine then found the courage to urge him to repent for the blood of the Christians that was shed. "Believe in Jesus Christ, be baptized and you will be saved, and from this time forward the glory of your empire will be ensured as well as the triumph of your armory."

Claudius became convinced, and said to those who were present: "What a beautiful teaching this man preaches."

But the mayor of Rome, dissatisfied, began to shout: "See how this Christian mislead our Prince."

Then Claudius brought the Saint to another judge. He was called Asterios, and he had a little girl who was blind for two years. Listening about Jesus Christ, that He is the Light of the World, he asked Valentine if he could give that light to his child. St. Valentine put his hand on her eyes and prayed: "Lord Jesus Christ, true Light, illuminate this blind child." Oh the great miracle! The child saw! So the judge with all his family confessed Christ. Having fasted for three days, he destroyed the idols that were in the house and finally received Holy Baptism.

When the emperor heard about all these events, he initially thought not to punish them, thinking that in the eyes of the citizens he will look weak, which forced him to betray his sense of justice. Therefore St. Valentine along with other Christians, after they were tortured, were beheaded on 14 February in the year 268 (or 269).

For the rest of the article: http://www.johnsanidopoulos.com/2011/02/orthodox-saint-valentine.html