1

Alex Greinke

English 101

Ms. Anthony

4-27-2014

 

Darkness. I thought I was blind, and then I realized my eyes were closed, upon opening them I see a sky filled with smoke. I felt something hard on my back, then I found out I was laying on concrete, and I stood up, finally taking notice of my.... environment. This place. What is this place? Where is it? When is it? Why is it that I'm here? A city. I'm in a city. Or a demolished city. It looks ancient ruins yet with signs of modern technology, or what's left of that too. Automobiles that have been burnt, the windows of shops shot out, power lines knocked over, piles of rubble surround the many buildings that look like they're reading to collapse, creating more rubble. The streets are littered with craters, bullet casings, buildings reduced to rubble, and a few blackened tanks. Dust flies through the air as the wind carries it to who knows where. The smell of gunpowder and charred metal is faint yet unsettling, especially being accompanied with this unnerving silence. The wind shifts, blowing its slight tempered air against my face, that's when I noticed the eerie smell of blood, smoked flesh, and- a building? Sixty feet behind me and 70 feet tall, the side of it, half way from the top has a large hole in it, possibly from an explosion or projectile. It starts to let loose more of its structure to the scarred earth, emitting its sounds of bricks tumbling and knocking against each other or anything blocking their path to the ground.

Pops. The sounds of popping are picked up by my ears from out in the distance. The pops go off one at a time, and then there are rapids pops. Wait... gunfire! Rifles and machine guns is what they sound like. Yes! That's what they are. Men shouting in foreign languages, sounds of the air being ripped and screeching before making an explosion.... Ah I remember where I am! The city of Stalingrad, it’s sitting on a river north of the Caucuses in the Soviet Union. It’s.... October, the 15th... I think and its 1942. I'm a Russian soldier sent here to fight in the defense of the city, and that's why I'm here. With my rifle slung over my shoulder and with only four bullets, I wander the lonely and scarred streets of this once... peaceful and.... living city. I have no other words to describe of what this city used to be. The loudest sound is the dirt and rubble crunching under my boots as I go along. The Germans started the destruction of the city in August and I haven't even been here for two weeks and it somehow feels like I been here long enough to conclude... that this was always the case for this city. Since coming here, I've witnessed fellow countrymen, soldier and civilian, die in the hundreds if not thousands by the Germans bombings and storms of bullets, hitting us with everything in their arsenal, all in the effort to capture this place for... whatever value Stalingrad holds.

As my body wanders, my mind begins to wonder, why exactly am I here risking my life? I was born in a small village, unscathed by the purges, 100 miles north of here that no one else cares about. Why do the Germans, no, why does Hitler insist on capturing this heap of ruins? The city bears the name of our.... glorious leader Joseph Stalin, capturing it, as Hitler probably believes would discredit our leader, weakening our morale. But other than political importance, all other reasons for capture seem irrelevant. This was a heavy industrial city and its destruction would hurt the Soviet Union's war effort economically. Since it’s destroyed, I don't see the reason why Hitler and Stalin should sacrifice tens or hundreds of thousands or millions of men, along with thousands of tanks and planes in order to control this pile of rubble. I come to a police station, or secret police, it’s hard to tell which is which. Though it doesn't matter now, the front of it has been blown out that you can't tell what it was before; the roof is missing with only charred wooden beams in its place. I look around and I see dozens of dead bodies, half of them German. From the looks of it I say they engaged in a gunfight, both sides were 40-60 feet apart. I feel a sense of shock and pity when I saw that two of the deceased invaders couldn’t have been older than 18 years, and that several of my fallen comrades were probably at least 15 years old. I’m barely 20 years old, so is that why I’m here risking my life in this blood stained, rubble reduced city? Why Hitler throws away countless lives away to do away with this obstacle for his twisted empire, to kill young men and children? Is that it?! TO DESTORY THE NEXT GENERATION OF HUMANS?! No! No I’m overreacting to this! The German people would refuse to support Hitler if that was the case. But why am I here? What does this ghost town mean to me? I sighed and continued my search the ruins for… my comrades I guess, if there’s any left. I guess that the only thing this place means to me is that if this was my village, I wouldn’t hesitate to defend it. It’s the only place that I know.

 

Works Cited

 

The Battle of Stalingrad." http://www.2worldwar2.com. N.p., n.d. Web. 27 Apr. 2014. http://www.2worldwar2.com/stalingrad.htm

"The Battle of Stalingrad." N.p., n.d. Web. 27 Apr. 2014. <http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/ww2/Stalingrad.html>.

New Republic Thoughts

I thought this movie New Republic was rather surprising in a few aspects to say the least. I mean Stephen was a journalist in his early 20's who found himself under a lot of pressure to get a good story out there for those who read the magazines printed by the New Republic, so in the end he had to lie about the stories just to get around the pressure with work and his efforts to get into a university. Instead of going on a quest of lies he should've told everyone that he was gonna have to start off with the small stories or at least ask for help in tracking down any good stories out there.

The movie itself I thought it was still surprising.

What is A place prewrite

Darkness. I thought I was blind, then I realized my eyes were closed, upon opening them I see a sky filled with smoke. I felt something hard on my back, then I found out I was laying on concrete, and I stood up, finally taking notice of my.... environment.

This place. What is this place? Where is it? When is it? Why is it that I'm here? A city. I'm in a city. Or a demolished city. It looks ancient ruins yet with signs of modern technology, or what's left of that too. Automobiles that have been burnt, the windows of shops shot out, power lines knocked over, piles of rubble surround the many buildings that look like they're reading to collapse, creating more rubble. The streets are littered with craters, bullet casings, buildings reduced to rubble, and a few blackened tanks.

Dust flies through the air as the wind carries it to who knows where. The smell of gunpowder and charred metal is faint yet unsettling, especially being accompanied with this unnerving silence. The wind shifts, blowing its slight tempered air against my face, that's when I noticed the eerie smell of blood, smoked flesh, and- a building? 60 feet behind me and 70 feet tall, the side of it, half way from the top has a large hole in it, possibly from an explosion or projectile.It starts to let loose more of its structure to the scarred earth, emitting its sounds of bricks tumbling and knocking against each other or anything blocking their path to the ground.

Pops. The sounds of popping are picked up from out in the distance. The pops go off one at a time, then there are rapids pops. Wait... gunfire! Rifles and machine guns is what they sound like. Yes! That's what they are. Men shouting in foreign languages, sounds of the air being ripped and screeching  before making an explosion.... Ah I remember where I am! The city of Stalingrad. Its sitting on a river north of the Caucuses in the Soviet Union. Its.... October, the 15th... I think and its 1942. I'm a Russian soldier sent here to fight in the defense of the city, and that's why I'm here.

With my rifle slung over my shoulder and with only four bullets, I wander the lonely and scarred streets of this once... peaceful and.... living city. I have no other words to describe of what this city used to be. The loudest sound is the dirt and rubble crunching under my boots as I go along. The Germans started the destruction of the city in August and I haven't even been here for two weeks and it somehow feels like I been here long enough to conclude... that this was always the case for this city. Since coming here, I've witnessed fellow countrymen, soldier and civilian, die in the hundreds if not thousands by the Germans bombings and storms of bullets, hitting us with everything in their arsenal, all in the effort to capture this place for... whatever value Stalingrad holds.

Then I begin to wonder, why exactly am I here, risking my life? I was born in a small village 100 miles north of here, untouched by the purges, that no else cares about. Why do the Germans, no, why does Hitler insist on capturing this heap of ruins? The city bares the name of our.... glorious leader Joseph Stalin, capturing it, as Hitler probably believes, that it credit our leader. But other than political importance, all other reasons for capture seem irrelevant. This was a heavy industrial city and its destruction would hurt the Soviet Union's war effort economically. Since its destroyed, I don't see the reason why Hitler and Stalin should sacrifice tens or hundreds of thousands or millions of men, along with thousands of tanks and planes in order to control this pile of rubble.

I come to a police station, or secret police, its hard to tell which is which. Though it doesn't matter the front of it has been blown that you can't tell what it was before. I look around and I see dozens of dead bodies, half of them German. 

Response to Custom Writing

I just read about a company named Custom Writing. It writes student's essays for them so they wont have to, for money. And none of their operations involve plagiarism. Finally, something that gives students a break from torturous essays where we have to spend time and effort at combining creativity with semi-professionalism. Creative as in putting information in our own words with a sense of professionalism, or something to that effect. Now it may seem lazy and denying ourselves from gaining experience with this type of work, but it saves us time and doesn't cost that much

Pigeon Impossible POV

It was a nice little afternoon, as most would call, in America's capital. Much nicer than the cold concrete sidewalk that is under me, but I suppose being a special briefcase, seeing and feeling nice things shouldn't really matter to me. The combination of plastic, rubber, and metal is what I'm made of.
A briefcase carried by this human in broad daylight, would normally seem harmless, if I was a normal briefcase. I'm actually a high tech government item with weaponry functions, and I've just been handed to another human agent named Walter Bekket. He was a bit of a clumsy fellow and then I thought he lacked common sense.

He sat me down on a green bench on the sidewalk and, opened me up and began to press my buttons while eating a bagel. Then I saw for the first time in my existence, humor. An unusual pigeon that seemed to have a human understanding took interest in the bagel. He soon attacked the human wanting the bagel, only to have him throw it over me and behind me on the ground. Then the stupid bird landed on top of me, and he was heavy enough to tip me over, closing me with him inside.

He started messing with my buttons, making me jump all over the place. A minute later I was flying around on jets and firing lasers every where causing people to panic Though he looked like was having fun. The smell of smoke and sweat permeated the air.

Then that Walter human held up that stupid bread catching my pilots attention and landed. They negotiated in silence, after pointing a missle at him for making a funny movement, the bird gestured that he throw it up in the air and he did. Once distracted he knocked the bird away, then the bagel landed on the big red button
 

Free write warm up Sky

Such a comforting scene. Peaceful skies even at nights like this aren't something you see everyday. The light on the horizon is so alien I can't comprehend what s spectatular sight that one should witness. What a great night it would be if it had a full moon, the it would a perfect nighy in an imperfect world where such alien beauty is taken for granted at times. Its priceless for no one can lay claim to, no matter the wealth they might have. Its natures reminder, even though its cruel it has a side of beauty.

The sky is what it is.

Food blog Ciabatta Sandwich

The process of making this food of significance to me is to get cibatta, Gouda, Havartti, or Muenster cheese, pepperoni or any other meat, avocado, and horseradish.

I first toast the bread, spread the avocado at the bottom evenly, add horseradish on the bottom, then a slice of pepperoni or meat in general, cheese, meat, cheese, another slice of meet, another slice of cheese, and finally another slice of meat and the other piece of bread, then eat and enjoy it. I also like to get some Kettle Cook Lays chips and ranch and have it with the sandwhich. I've been eating ciabatta sandwhiches for years now, I'm using my favorite bread.

I first started eating this ciabatta sandwich when I believe my mom was first making for myself and later I got hooked. Then in my Junior year at highschool, I got carried away with eating the school lunch items that I gained like 10lbs, so this healthier item from home became a immediate alternative that helped dropped a few pounds. Now the reason its my favorite is because its an every other day sandwich that I care to make, its healthy, its basic and its good.