#school writing
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*picks up unnamed oc by the scruff and places gently in school writing progect*
me: you are about to go through the horrors :)
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History writing assignments are NOT my strong suit and I checked my email to see a comment on my work for it and my heart dropped because time and time again I get like 60-75 and I crack on the inside. I hate the formatting and my quotes feel unnaturally placed but we HAVE to have them, and my reasoning isn’t strong enough- I am passing I am doing fine on my tests but yet I ache anyway with the want to be better but the lessons only half bake into my skin. The rest rinsed off, clogging my veins and coating my brain. I am haunted by the trail of failure as a if I stabbed my own writing, blood still dripping off my blade. This is stupid and dramatic and unimportant, I still have a fine grade, but it feels like smoke in my lungs, seeping to my heart anyways.
#history#history writing#history assignment#school#schoolwork#school writing#school work#just a tiny bit of a personal vent
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CONTROL ROOM COMMISSIONS
linkies:
youtube.com/c/ControlRoomCorner
archiveofourown.org/users/Control_Room
Donate to my Paypal:
paypal.me/controlroom
Contact:
(preferred!) discord: ControlRoom#1411
insane-control-room.tumblr.com
[email protected]
#commissions#commission sheet#open commissions#writing commissions#drawing commissions#all fandoms#school writing#writing help#beta reader#technical writing#digital art#animation commissions#click on#artists#writers#animatic commissions#oc commissions#essay writing service#research services#updated
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High School Writing #4: A Relaxing Place
The chill of the metallic, gold knob reached down to my bones as it fit within my gentle, callused finger. I twisted the knob, pulling the dark oak door open with a soft creak as the gentle breeze wrapped itself around me and revealed a soft atmosphere with an even softer smile waiting for me.
Her silver hair gleamed in the gold sunset, the slightly tall grass covering her white sneakers up to her ankles covered in blue jeans. My eyes trailed up as I took in the soft, comfy, red jersey up to that ravishing face and her smile… oh that smile… it makes me feel like my heart is going to burst out of my chest if I look too long. And the eyes… those light blue eyes containing all the magnificence of the sky above as if by a miracle. Aelin.
Here she was, merely a year into adulthood yet so breathtaking, my lover, beckoning me to take the step outside onto the unnamed grassy hill, my favourite place where I would spend nights looking at the star-glittered blanket above, pondering over questions few ask.
I took her outstretched hand, my callused fingers, from all the time spent in service, found hers: hardened, but polite and so very gentle. She pulled me onto the grass, and I shut the door behind me with a click as the soles of my joggers found the soft earth, the grass tickling my ankles. We walked until a slight slope where we laid down together and looked at the clouds above, fuzzy and floating like the most carefree beings to exist, the grass like a soft blanket beneath me, reaching up my combat trousers and black T-shirt.
I breathed in the fresh air, the scent of sweet apples and emerald trees and beautiful tulips and delicious honey and… it was magnificent. I felt free, so free, here, drenched by the soft sunset aura; here, with the love of my life by my side.
I felt strong here, felt relaxed and so weightless… this exhilarating feeling, I remember, is why I come here, why this place, this earth beneath my frame, is my haven, and why she is the cornerstone of this haven.
I turned my head to the left, my hands resting on my chest and found her staring from between the grass, so I raised my eyebrows, and she laughed so softly it was the loveliest thing, sound, melody I have every heard in my life. She met my eyes again and I realized that this time I was staring. I let out a low chuckle and she smirked. Something in me stiffened at that.
We looked back up at the sky, the roof now turning dark, the stars becoming prominent, and I thought to myself that this was one of the most wonderful moments of my life, so I saved it in my heart, to treasure it for times to come, and keep looking up and up and up.
- 11/09/2019
#high school writing#writing#short story#my writing#description#descriptive writing#descriptive#essay#school writing#creative writing
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Prompt: Describe a trait your family has.
Storms, Skys, Skins
My family is a white rainbow.
My skin pale like snow. But rejects the cold. Demanding fire in scorching summer. My snow doesn’t melt in heat, but the sun makes my poor skin scream.
My mother has the same skin as me, with grey and blue lightning streaking across her white skies. Come with those streaks, three rumbles of thunder. Each, louder and more wild than the last. But for ones born from storms, our skins are clear skies. Minus a few brown stars, or a couple of black and blue clouds.
My little brother is an unpleasent summer day. Unbareably warm, with a few clouds in his sky. He is like that day, when you yearn for the 22nd of september. Begging for summer to officially end. The sun beats on his pale skies. Making him an unbearably sunny day. He doesn’t mind the cold.
My baby brother is a wild, cloudy spring day. Like the spring weeds, he’s growing up fast and we like him outside the garden house. A pretty flower, that sucks the life out of the family at times. Weeds could drain storms, had they mouths to scream. Our stormy mother is strong for how many times she didn’t roll thunder right back to his loud promises for a spring storm. His thunder is a head ache.
To make a rainbow, you need sun and storms.
My mother’s stormy autumn, with lightning still flashig all over her in beautiful displays.
My winter storms, pale with a few brown stars glimmering in the white. Begging for a campfire.
My brother’s summer drought, in desperate need for a stormy day.
My baby brother’s promises of spring rain, with clouds from rough play.
A stormy rainbow at twilight. Sun, stars, rain, and snow. Wishing for each other’s weather.
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i think actually maybe i have made up for yesterday. i wrote One Whole Page (yes that's more than usual) and also a Large amount of isu essay for my english class. think im slaying
#and im still going!!#why am i not always this productive#everything would be 10x better#my post#writing#nanowrimo#school writing#self hype as always
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These are essays made in mind our journey with writing and literature. What's your experience with writing and how was it?
#essay writing#school writing#writing#essay#creativity#journey#the past#creative expression#experience#create
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I always forget this wasn’t a thing everywhere but my high school had a fun and innovative way to torment us in PE. They got heart rate monitors. It was this awful strap that went under the bra line and paired to a watch. The first day was great cause we got to set our resting heart rate. We did this by laying in a dark room and napping.
But then once a week we’d have to strap on these monitors and go running. The monitors were old tech and didn’t always pick up your heartbeat, so you’d have to use cold water between it and your skin to get a better connection, gods know why. Warm water never worked. After the day our watches would be collected and our efforts recorded.
The idea was that if your heart beat too fast you were supposed to stop, and if it was too slow you’d speed up. In practice this was ridiculous, staying in the green zone all class was ridiculously difficult.
Even people like me who were stubbornly resistant to running the mile couldn’t stand the horrific constant beeping and made attempts to placate the reviled machine. It was always fairly miserable. I had PE first thing in the chilly morning, dashing cold water on my skin before running around half awake was the low point of my week.
But for some unknown reason, the teacher insisted that no play could happen on these days. We were given the freedom to run all over campus but woe betide us if we tried to make a game that actually made this enjoyable.
We’d initiate games of tag only to get yelled at for not just… running. Any kind of play was forbidden. On one memorable occasion someone got a kickball and we started an impromptu soccer game with it.
If someone’s heart rate got too high they’d drop to their knees to wait out the shrieking of their watch so an extra element was added to the game of trying to win without going too hard. I remember being absolutely delighted, the thrill of that game still lives in my heart, hoping I could score a goal before my heartbeat betrayed me to the hated watch.
When the PE teacher found us we were soundly scolded and the ball was confiscated. Our happiness burst like a soap bubble and we turned our back to the enchantment of the green field and resumed slogging along in a grey haze as expected.
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Would people like it if I post the stories I w̶a̶s̶ f̶o̶r̶c̶e̶d̶ t̶o̶-̶ made in writing class?
They aren't doing any good in my word docs so I just want to see.
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I put some dark matter in the salt shaker in my mom's kitchen, and Schrödinger's cat popped out, saying that this shaker would create a violation of the law of conservation of energy. So, my dad emailed this law to a recently fired tenured physics professor at ETH Zurich, but he told my dad he got the wrong guy and should've emailed a physicist at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem instead. However, Israel was in the midst of a war, so the email got bounced back. My dad got a bit annoyed, so he drank a beer with dark matter in it. When the dark matter mixed with the beer and entered my dad's stomach at the speed of Earth's gravity, merging with his stomach acid, it created a new element not found on the periodic table. That afternoon, my dad had diarrhea, and his waste went down the sewer, flowed along the Yangtze River into the East China Sea, then into the Pacific Ocean, where it neutralized the harmful substances in Japan's nuclear wastewater, saving the mutating marine life. And the fish at the supermarket said, “Thank you,” and the customers scream and run out of the supermarket. THE END.
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Mr. Fenton is a competent teacher. Almost too competent.
If Mr. Daniel Fenton had any more than a BS (with a minor in education), Tim would’ve flagged his profile as a potential Rogue. That’s the way of most charismatic academics, at least in Gotham. (Got a PhD? Instant watchlist.) Instead, he’s Gotham Academy’s newest celebrity, as a young, passionate, out-of-towner substitute while the chemistry teacher’s on maternity leave.
Tim gets the hype. Fenton seems to genuinely love teaching, and is invested in the welfare of the student body. He hands out bananas during exam week, hosts a “study habits seminar” each month to coach effective learning strategies, and the third time Tim falls asleep in his class, he even pulls Tim aside to ask if he’s doing okay. With all the late work he accepts and the protein bars he sneaks Tim, he’s every teen vigilante’s dream teacher. He could’ve been Tim’s favorite.
In fact, Mr. Fenton was Tim’s favorite. Up until Tim walks into Mr. Fenton’s chemistry classroom for a forgotten textbook, an hour after the final bell.
On the board where tallied scores for today’s review game had been kept, “THE CHEMISTRY BEHIND DR. CRANE’S FEAR GAS: ANXIOGENICS, NERI’S, & YOU,” is now scrawled. A detailed diagram of the human endocrine system projects in front of a small crowd of adoring and attentive students.
Fenton is wrist-deep in the skull cavity of an anatomical model. A short tug, and out pops the brain.
It’s plastic. It’s fake.
Tim identifies the nearest emergency exit.
Fenton turns to the door, and in the dark classroom with the projector illuminating half his face, his eyes almost seem to flash red. “What’s up, Tim?” he asks. His friendly grin is too big for his face. “I didn’t know you wanted to join the Just Science League!”
[OR: Danny’s a science teacher at Tim’s school. Gotham’s a pretty wild place, even for someone who grew up a superhero in a ghost-infested town, so he takes it upon himself to start a club teaching kids how to manage themselves in the event of a crisis. These Gothamites are pretty hardy, but a little extra training never hurt anybody! And he suspects one of his students might be a teen vigilante, like he’d been, back in the day. As a senior super, it's Danny’s duty look out for him! Surely, this is the subtlest and most appropriate way to give the kid pointers.]
[Tim immediately assumes supervillain.]
#Danny can’t help being creepy it’s just the way he’s built!!#I like to think Lancer did these things for Danny when he was in HS#and now Danny's emulating Lancer :)#Passing it on!#Tim is paranoid but also like he is SO CLOSE to graduating so like. Does he even want to report this shit to Batman. What if the next chem#teacher's a jerk and Tim fails the class and he never gets his stupid diploma. Bruce already is insisting he finish out HS and maybe get#an ABA before he's allowed back into the company#and Jesus Christ does Tim hate school. He'll worry about Mr. Fenton's burgeoning army of Science Honor Society Rogues on his own time#dcxdp#dpxdc#prompt#tim drake#danny fenton#in case I write more of this let’s tag it uhhhhh#misunderstood mentor au#kipwrite
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the thing about art is that it was always supposed to be about us, about the human-ness of us, the impossible and beautiful reality that we (for centuries) have stood still, transfixed by music. that we can close our eyes and cry about the same book passage; the events of which aren't real and never happened. theatre in shakespeare's time was as real as it is now; we all laugh at the same cue (pursued by bear), separated hundreds of years apart.
three years ago my housemates were jamming outdoors, just messing around with their instruments, mostly just making noise. our neighbors - shy, cautious, a little sheepish - sat down and started playing. i don't really know how it happened; i was somehow in charge of dancing, barefoot and laughing - but i looked up, and our yard was full of people. kids stacked on the shoulders of parents. old couples holding hands. someone had brought sidewalk chalk; our front walk became a riot of color. someone ran in with a flute and played the most astounding solo i've ever heard in my life, upright and wiggling, skipping as she did so. she only paused because the violin player was kicking his heels up and she was laughing too hard to continue.
two weeks ago my friend and i met in the basement of her apartment complex so she could work out a piece of choreography. we have a language barrier - i'm not as good at ASL as i'd like to be (i'm still learning!) so we communicate mostly through the notes app and this strange secret language of dancers - we have the same movement vocabulary. the two of us cracking jokes at each other, giggling. there were kids in the basement too, who had been playing soccer until we took up the far corner of the room. one by one they made their slow way over like feral cats - they laid down, belly-flat against the floor, just watching. my friend and i were not in tutus - we were in slouchy shirts and leggings and socks. nothing fancy. but when i asked the kids would you like to dance too? they were immediately on their feet and spinning. i love when people dance with abandon, the wild and leggy fervor of childhood. i think it is gorgeous.
their adults showed up eventually, and a few of them said hey, let's not bother the nice ladies. but they weren't bothering us, they were just having fun - so. a few of the adults started dancing awkwardly along, and then most of the adults. someone brought down a better sound system. someone opened a watermelon and started handing out slices. it was 8 PM on a tuesday and nothing about that day was particularly special; we might as well party.
one time i hosted a free "paint along party" and about 20 adults worked quietly while i taught them how to paint nessie. one time i taught community dance classes and so many people showed up we had to move the whole thing outside. we used chairs and coatracks to balance. one time i showed up to a random band playing in a random location, and the whole thing got packed so quickly we had to open every door and window in the place.
i don't think i can tell you how much people want to be making art and engaging with art. they want to, desperately. so many people would be stunning artists, but they are lied to and told from a very young age that art only matters if it is planned, purposeful, beautiful. that if you have an idea, you need to be able to express it perfectly. this is not true. you don't get only 1 chance to communicate. you can spend a lifetime trying to display exactly 1 thing you can never quite language. you can just express the "!!??!!!"-ing-ness of being alive; that is something none of us really have a full grasp on creating. and even when we can't make what we want - god, it feels fucking good to try. and even just enjoying other artists - art inherently rewards the act of participating.
i wasn't raised wealthy. whenever i make a post about art, someone inevitably says something along the lines of well some of us aren't that lucky. i am not lucky; i am dedicated. i have a chronic condition, my hands are constantly in pain. i am not neurotypical, nor was i raised safe. i worked 5-7 jobs while some of these memories happened. i chose art because it mattered to me more than anything on this fucking planet - i would work 80 hours a week just so i could afford to write in 3 of them.
and i am still telling you - if you are called to make art, you are called to the part of you that is human. you do not have to be good at it. you do not have to have enormous amounts of privilege. you can just... give yourself permission. you can just say i'm going to make something now and then - go out and make it. raquel it won't be good though that is okay, i don't make good things every time either. besides. who decides what good even is?
you weren't called to make something because you wanted it to be good, you were called to make something because it is a basic instinct. you were taught to judge its worth and over-value perfection. you are doing something impossible. a god's ability: from nothing springs creation.
a few months ago i found a piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing. within an hour i had somehow collected a small classroom of young children. their adults often brought their own chalk. i looked up and about fifteen families had joined me from around the block. we drew scrangly unicorns and messed up flowers and one girl asked me to draw charizard. i am not good at drawing. i basically drew an orb with wings. you would have thought i drew her the mona lisa. she dragged her mother over and pointed and said look! look what she drew for me and, in the moment, i admit i flinched (sorry, i don't -). but the mother just grinned at me. he's beautiful. and then she sat down and started drawing.
someone took a picture of it. it was in the local newspaper. the summary underneath said joyful and spontaneous artwork from local artists springs up in public gallery. in the picture, a little girl covered in chalk dust has her head thrown back, delighted. laughing.
#writeblr#warm up#this is longer than i wanted i really considered removing that part about myself and what i went thru#but i think it really fucking bothers me that EVERY time i talk about being an artist#ppl assume i just like. had the skill and ability to drop everything and pay for grad school.#like sir i grew up poor. my house wasn't a safe space. i gave up a FREE RIDE TO LAW SCHOOL. for THIS. bc i chose it.#was it fucking hard? was i choosing the hard thing?? yes.#but we need to stop seeing artists as lazy layabouts that can ''afford'' to just ''sit around and create''#when MANY - if not MOST - of us are NOT like that. we have to work our fucking ASSES off. hard work. long and hard work#part of valuing artists is recognizing the amount we sacrifice to make our art. bc it doesn't just#like HAPPEN to us. also btw it rarely has anything to do with true talent.#speaking as someone with a chronic condition i hate when ppl are like u have it easy. like actively as i'm writing this my hands r#ACTIVELY hurting me. i haven't been posting bc my left hand was curled in a claw for the last week#this isn't fucking luck. after a certain point it's not even TALENT. it's dedication & sacrifice.#''u get to flounce around and do nothing with ur life'' is a narrative that is a direct result of capitalism#imagine if we said that about literally any other profession.#''oh so u give up 10 yrs of ur life to be a doctor? u sacrifice having a social life and u get SUPER in debt?#u need to work countless hours and it will often be thankless? well i wish i was that lucky''#we should be applying that logic to landlords ONLY#''oh ur mom and dad gave u the money to buy a house? and all u did was paint it white and rent it? huh.''
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'i'll just do a couple of doodles of mombin™/platonic stobin parents' nevermind, borderline graphic novel
#stranger things#platonic stobin#mombin™#robin buckley#steve harrington#i blacked out at 2am last night and wrote like 25 pages#i don't write fic so i do this instead and get to call it my job#incredible#i have No excuse to not finish this one bc i'm not at school anymore#there has to be an existing gay club called passionfruit right#cw pregnancy
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High School Writing #3: Room Description
I felt the warmth of the doorknob in my palm as I twisted the sphere and swung open the door enough to get in without letting much of the warmth out. The heat was welcome compared to the blistering cold in the corridors of the house. My nearly frostbitten, bare feet stumbled off the dark oak floor and onto the plush carpeting covering the expanse of my room.
I shut the door behind me and stood there for a few seconds, taking a deep breath, the faint smell of burning logs filling my lungs, and allowing the warmth from the fire in the hearth to curl around me like the fuzzy dark blanket sprawled and distorted on my bed, the red sheets still marking where I laid a couple minutes ago, my novel open and upside-down on the bedside table between the two oak-wood single-beds, one mine and the other my brother’s.
My brother’s bed was painted a dark shade of brown, with gold-painted floral patterns carved into the wood. We both had the same patterns on our beds, but where his was normal oak, mine was dark oak; his sheets and pillows were a soft shade of red, mine were crimson; his blanket was covered with bright floral patterns, mine was plain, and a brown so dark it was barely distinguishable from black.
I detested the floral patterns carved into my bed, but in a couple months the beds would change, having lasted us three years already. I owe that change to my brother who played so aggressively on his bed that it now lays below our standards, and it was made of some really sturdy wood.
My brother was not in his bed tonight, the eight-year-old was snoozing soundly with my parents in their bed, cradled between the two.
I made my way around his bed over to my book through the dimly lit room, my feet sinking into the maroon carpet, examining the room as I went, the bright wood walls, the four metres on the left of my bed covered with bookshelves seven feet high. The wall in front of my bed was just closets built into the wall, blending in seamlessly except for the silver, metal handles.
The room lacked pictures, once again because of me, and it lacked a bathroom, that was not my fault, but part of the architecture. It was right outside my room, a door in the wall. I passed by the hearth, the logs cracking, a sound I found comforting. The cobblestone amongst the wood walls seeming odd but nonetheless remarkable. It had a very low railing, bright gold in the light of the fire. I moved past.
My gaze found the study tables, one for my brother, one for me. Modest tables, the flat top light brown and polished, while the rest was painted a dark shade of brown. It had no carvings nor designs. Two drawers rested in the table, one significantly wider than the other, the remaining bottom empty but walled on all three sides leaving the front. Our chairs were also identical, like the ones found in a computer lab, I always struggled with describing them.
The desks were set up parallel to the wall adjacent to the bookshelves, my brother’s next to mine, both desks currently bare.
As my hand now reached for the book, I looked up into the mirror hung flat against the wall, its base touching the table as though it was propped up on it. It was intricately made, with a wide top, narrowing as you went lower. The mirror, too, had no carvings nor designs.
I looked at the clear glass framed by the dark wood, and the boy stared back at me. He had dark, rough hair, and sunken eyes, once a bright, blue ocean. There was a light stubble on his chin, and his lips were completely dry. Light acne dotted both of his cheeks.
‘Teenage,’ I shrugged, and grabbed the book as I collapsed onto my brother’s bed, picking up where I had left off from between the around 500 pages. It was one of the novels I do not speak about, as I tucked my, now much warmer, feet into my brother’s blanket. They were aching from that bare foot expedition to the kitchen for a glass of water in the cruel rule of winter, but the ache was wearing off.
As I read on, I made a mental note of wearing my slippers the next time I felt like braving the cold.
- 29/08/2019
#high school writing#writing#short story#my writing#description#descriptive writing#descriptive#essay#room description#school writing#creative writing
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Prompt: Describe your house, from the past, present, or future.
The House In The Woods
Ordinary. Off. Ordinary. Off. Ordinary. Off.
Ordinary, but off. A stranger on the bus, that makes your stomach churn, a phone in hand with his only plan being to get off at the next stop.
A glass at a bar, bought by a handsome man. A charming devil, looking like a humble angel.
A church on a hill, where those who go in, never come out the same again.
That was the RV I lived in. Something ordinary, that was off.
The only home that I had known. The door creaked with age. Used for far longer than I was alive. We moved from place to place. Colorado, Washington, Organ, West Virginia, and probably many other places that my mind buried. Bodies. Faces I can’t bare to see again. Places I can’t afford to have ruined.
Endless. Endless. Endless.
The trees.
The roads.
The love of the lord; bought at the price of my soul.
They were all endless. No matter where we moved, these were endless, ordinary things. My only friends were the strangers who lived in and behind trees. The ones behind the trees always had to leave. Like geese. The nests they had were elsewhere. The ones in the trees whispered my name. The wind was a constant, that I didn’t have to leave.
The roads, lead me to “home”. “Home is where the heart is”, many people say. My heart was thrown out the window, dragged behind that RV. The blood trail was my “home”. But not MY home.
We’d always go to church, no matter the camp we took. The lord’s love was earned. Through lies, and threats. Love like suffocated me and my demon’s soul.
The was my ordinary.
The RV in the woods. So deep in the trees that it was like I could drown in the leaves.
When you got home, later that day the man on the bus was on the news. Hundreds are dead. You were almost hundreds and ONE.
The drink tasted funny. An eternity in darkness, only to wake in that devil’s basement.
The church on the hill was abandoned by god. The scriptures were lies, that fools took to like flies.
The RV was where I lived. It wasn’t my home.
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How foolish of me to be an old school lover in this hookup generation.
#varsha#aesthetic#spilled ink#writers on tumblr#spilled writing#desi blr#desi tumblr#dark academia#old school love#desiblr
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