the use of alliteration, oxymoron, contrast, hyperbole and rhetorical question in a short paragraph

The endless horizon stretched from one end to another serving majestically as a natural canvas where splatters of orange and musk would, without failure, paint themselves behind thin layers of the calmly-composed clouds. Right under the vast sky is the forest which might look deep, dense and dark which to me is where I spend every morning, indulging in the warmness of rays of sunlight passing through tiny but many hollow spaces left by giant towering tress. Since when has my agitated soul adapted to this soothing atmosphere? As I stepped out of my tent, my feet landed on the raw piece of land covered with dry leaves and branches which cracked softly breaking the silence of daybreak. – Anastasia Lara Kandita –

Squawked the albatroz scything the lower belly of the sailfish, jumping out of the sea surface. The birds come in flocks like armed soldiers probing around a widely-fenced battlefield where they rummage tentatively and still get their hostages, the scathed sailfishes. While not far from there is me in chill, promenading this beach in the morning, ruminating whether the remoteness of this island will eventually kill me, at least I know that I’m its hostage. I said to myself “How could there be war go hand-in-hand with solace?” We’re both hostages to uncertainty. – Ahmad Rasyid Alfarabi –

The sky was a black hole, dead as door nail. There was a glimmer of grey light somewhere spreading a mile wide. It was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity. The hours dragged by and the portrait of the bittersweet tragedy still haunts me. There is no hope, is there? I questioned myself as i run slowly across the endless river of tress. – Patricia Felita Chang –

Describing a person

My friend appeared from the corner with her all-too-familiar-tanned colored body. She was leaning opposed to the traffic light pole while tapping away on her phone. She’s wearing a denim high-waist short with a white halter-neck crop-top which has a black outline with a writing that says “TGIF”. She then hid it up with a cream-colored cardigan that made her skin top out. She had on her oh-so-familiar-black-and-white Adidas. I cried out her name and she glanced up from her phone and waved at me. She dashed approaching my car and got in. The scent of her perfume flooded the air. We did our everyday handshake and took off to the mall. – Visca –

I smiled as I recalled that drizzly day with her. The tribulation of that drizzling crystals hitting the pavement we promenaded and the unique petrichor we love to smell. But most memorably is when she spinned dauntingly showing her golden cascading hair. Her squint eyes seemed to offer no opening as you show your crescent smile. She’s beautiful. I recite that every night and day. Her pointed nose and pouty lips are fire to my loins. Her curvy body is always embellished with outlandish dresses and her appearance is always completed with a tyrolean hat. You never concede the beauty of yours. You’re one of those ladies with great honor in possession while I am just an impoverished peasant who dreams high. What did I do to have you as my lover? – Ahmad Rasyid Alfarabi –

 

this is my story…what’s yours? by Graciella Cristian

This is a continuation of a story of A Drink of Water by Samuel Selvon which is a part of writing assignment in English class. The story should tell what happened in Manko’s life until the rain clouds appeared.

Manko called for his wife, the only answer was the sound of coughs coming from the modest bedroom they shared. He sat next to his wife, who was lying helplessly on the bed. Rannie caught a fever just a few days ago and her condition had only grown worse ever since. She slowly opened her eyes and coughed even louder.

“Rannie, you go sick, need to drink many water and get healthy. Here,” Manko said, as he took the cup of boiled water to his wife’s dry, chapped lips. She pushed herself up, took small sips then gently pushed away the cup.

“We need save water, for you and Sunny,” she replied with a throaty voice. Leaving his wife to rest again, he walked outside for a smoke under the mango tree, hiding from the unforgiving sunlight.

Manko was not one for giving up, he would always try to overcome any hardships that came down his path. But this, was out of his control. There is nothing I can do about this, he said to himself, sighing silently. The scorching sun held its position high up in the sky, forming endless beads of sweat on Manko’s forehead. He had grown more desperate as time passed, and even came close to using the savings for Sunny’s college to buy gallons of fresh water available in the distant city.

Sunny, a firm believer of the rain god, seeked the Parjanya to end the drought through prayers. On the fifth day of every week, Sunny worships Parjanya by presenting offerings; flower and grains. Eventhough the rain was absent, he never lost hope. Sunny would still prepare himself for college, flipping the pages of his worn out books until the words were ingrained on his brain.

Manko, on the other hand, was more superstitious than his son. He, as a child, heard legends about how Parjanya would occasionally come down to the Earth and grant mans’ wishes in the Twin Mountains. Stories about the god’s cruelty to those who dishonor him was also very famous. Young Manko had dreamt about one day visiting the mountain to meet the Great God himself.

Days have passed, without a single dark cloud in sight. The drought had not left the village of Las Lomas. On the bright side, Rannie had gotten much better, although she still needed plenty of rest to start working again. Manko was a bit relieved, but the worst had yet to pass.

Suddenly an idea came to mind, Manko saw the opportunity to travel to the mountains to seek Parjanya’s help. His wife was halfway to healing completely, she could manage herself from now, he thought. Manko voiced his idea to Rannie the night before. At first, Rannie seemed unsure of the quest, however, her husband was a stubborn man and would go whether she approved or not.

Manko departed early at dawn without saying goodbye, he carried all the supplies he needed to spend the night on the road. He arrived just before the sun sets off, calling out the moon in its absence.

He entered the sacred caves of the mountain and wished for the rain to come. He started yelling angrily when no response came. He cursed at the god, throwing rocks at the statue representing Parjanya, splitting it into half. Suddenly, Manko collapsed, his eyelids shutting down immediately.

Next thing he knew, he woke up in front of his own house, lying on the dirt and it was raining heavily. He was quite dumbfounded, also amazed at the same time.

“NOOO!” Manko heard the scream followed by muffled sobs of a boy. Manko dashed inside to find out what had possibly gone wrong. Manko demanded answers from his crying son, who sat beside his mother.

Manko saw his wife, lying still.

Rannie, his wife, had died.

this is my story by Moira Setiawan

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“Mandy, be a good girl and stay still okay? How about you take a nap with mommy?”

I painfully watched my dear daughter sunk himself in his mother’s embrace. I know closing her eyes was a hard task in itself. I mean, how could you not take a peek once or twice every minute if the train was full of sobs and wailing? But still, she has always been an obedient girl, and she finally went to a light slumber. Little did she know it was going to be her last, peaceful one.

I put one arm around Claire’s shoulder and wrapped her tightly, feeling her warmth for the very last time.

“I’m sorry it came to this, Claire.”

She looked at me with those clear blue eyes I came to love, and put her head to my chest.

“Stop. It isn’t your fault, we all know it’s those damned Nazis, and how luck would have it, it got us here.”

Next stop, Mauthausen-Gusen concentration camp.

“…I guess this is our stop.”

“Dear… promise me you’ll make sure she never leaves your side.”

I can see her eyes well up with tears, and hear her voice breaking. I can’t imagine how she must’ve felt, separated from her one and only child.

“Yeah, I pro—“ Read the rest of this entry

“The Truth Behind the Horrendous Day” by Laura Miracle Paiputri

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the writer

 

This narrative piece of writing is part of the assignment in English Language class whereby the student should write a fictional story based on true historical references. The story below is based on St Bartholomew Massacre.

My husband, Henry II the King of France, had always been a slave for power. He believed that Catholicism was the most righteous religion there was to believe and that with the Catholicism teaching, he believed he is the only one who can bring order to France. Alas, his ambitions departed with his soul when a conceited, remorseless, egotistical monster terminated his lifein 1559. And yes, the individual is none other but Gaspard de Coligny himself. Coligny and Henry had been in a ruling, with a sprinkle of beliefs, dispute for ages. However, this was no ordinary battle since Coligny, along with the Huguenots as his puppets, deceived his way into victory. And lucky me, I was the only one who know as I witnessed my husband’s execution with my bare eyes. That diabolical beast ended Henry’s life and cunningly made it seem like Henry took his own life voluntarily. So up to this point, I was not sure whether I was furious or filled with grief. All I knew was I want my revenge.

Yet, the situation was not helping. I had revealed Coligny’s wicked wrongdoing to the public but he had won their hearts and would not change their mind. The citizens already bought all Coligny’s propagandas about the nobility of Protestants and their principles and about how sinless their religion was while actually, they had always been killing people here and there. To add to my woe, my beautiful baby girl, Margaret, expressed her newly yet blooming romance with a Protestant, Henry III of Navarre.Fantastic. It just coincidentally had to be the name of my deceased husband.My life could not get any better.

“Please Mother, please. He is unlike any other Protestant and surely not like that filthy Protestant that killed Father,” Margaret begged.

“You know I want nothing but the best for you, my dear, but my call is unanimous. It always has and will be a no,” I replied firmly.

“Mother, he is the love of my life and I could not bear to live without him,” she demanded forcefully. Read the rest of this entry

this is my story by Jessica Devina

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2 years I had been working at the Rolf’s family home. They were a family a four. Mr. and Mrs. Rolf always seemed so overloaded by their work and can’t bother to spend even just 5 minutes with their extremely wonderful children. Their kids, seven-year-old Steven and nine-year-old Jasmine were everything to me. Steven loves to play baseball and Jasmine draws beautifully. In the house, you could always see baseball bats lying around and it was always my job to grab them all and put it in its place. The three of us had always spent the day together since Mr. and Mrs. Rolf had to go live their busy lives outside the house.

One fine afternoon, I was home washing the dishes when the door bell rang. I looked at the window and I saw a tall, lean man wearing a green cap and holding a bucket. It had only just been me working in this home until today. A gardener started working here! I went to open the door and he introduced himself. His name was Carl Tribbiani and he went to shake my hand. His hand was a tad filthy and rough. He was a bit shy but was a very hard worker. Every time I saw him outside, he was always holding various gardening tools and sweating like a pig. Even if the weather is very hot, he would not stop until his job is done. At first, it was unusual for me to have an adult here in the house but after a few days, it felt kind of nice.

After finishing off his duties, Carl usually went into the house to help out and also play with Steven and Jasmine. Sometimes I even feel like there was no one else in this house except the four of us. I left the children with Carl so I could clean the first floor. Not long after I finished with the living room, I heard a muffled scream. I hurried and went upstairs to find Jasmine being held up and swung by Carl playfully while Steven sat at the corner of the room with a blank stare. At night time, I thought to myself that I was a little paranoid about the whole thing. Right at the stroke of nine, I went to tuck them all to bed. I kissed them good night as usual and that was when I noticed something weird on Jasmine’s arms. I saw some bruises Read the rest of this entry

this is my story by Cahya Mulya

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It was a very dark night, and her watch shows it was just past midnight. She was walking alone on the streets, strolling under the moonlight after a reunion with her high school classmates, heading home.

It was a very silent night. Not even a single person could be seen, or a single sound could be heard. Nothing was odd, except for the extreme silence which gives the surrounding an eerie feeling.

The night was freezing, indeed. But fortunately, she drank a bit of beer during the reunion. Enough to help keep her body warm, but not drunk. Knowing that it won’t help keep her warm for a very long time, the girl decided to walk faster.

The illuminating streetlights are her only companion this time. Glowing with soft, bright yellow lights. And she was walking until she reached the bridge to cross over the river which connects the neighboring towns.

There were no lamps or any source of light there, and the light of the crescent moon only was there to walk with her. She was walking across the bridge like usual, but it suddenly went dark. Her companion­—the white lights of the crescent moon and the glistening reflection from the river—were gone, and she could see almost nothing. Not even the path behind her.

She looked up to the sky, only to find out that Read the rest of this entry

IN LOOPS by Michelle Tedja

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“Shame what happened to the poor guy, it was his first day on the job” muttered a fellow evening worker.

I disregarded whatever he was mumbling on about and redirected my focus to the job. It had been three days of full overnight shifts at the construction site over at one of forests at the quiet side of town. I could feel the dark circles around my eyes getting heavier and the slightest of weight I heaved over my shoulder allowed the muscles in my body to concede. Despite this, I kept in mind that it was just another couple days of this until I could finally pay rent and feed my family.

“Left, keep going” echoed from afar, followed by the creaks from the loud machinery in the south area. I snapped out of my brief trance and figured it was about time to work on the crane. As I tugged on the handle, the door swung open and I entered.

Two hours went by as normal and by the time the sun had left the horizon, not a sound was heard.

I turned my neck to see whether the other workers were still hard at work and there they were in the distance. I continued to operate the machine as my body felt increasingly lethargic, growing more undetermined to finish the day’s night shift. Night time came fast, the air grew cold and crisp by the minute.

It was quiet. Too quiet. Read the rest of this entry

this is my story by Isa Ahmad Arsal

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It was a bumpy and windy day, the leaves speckled around the aisle as the sky cried with rain. The world was engulfed by the darkness of the descending star from the distance as it was stretched down by god’s hands. If seen from above, it would seemed that a tiny dust at Heim’s Street that if seen up close resembles a human.

Her name was Claire…..

A beautiful white young woman , age of 18, with skills of unlike any dancer that had lived before her time had just an argument with her beloved father, Arthur, who is an engineer working in a nearby factory outlet….

The argument was frustrating; the girl was forced to live in a place, near Hollow Street, which was a name she was not familiar to her but closer to her education than home. She had no other option but to pursue the will of her tender and gentle father so that she could be a ‘somebody’ to him one day.

“Don’t worry dad, No matter what you decide, I will always see eye to eye upon it. Even if I was destined to leave your side..” Read the rest of this entry

St. Bartholomew’s Day massacre by Cindy Tjandra

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the writer

This narrative piece of writing is part of the assignment in English Language class whereby the student should write a fictional story based on true historical references. The story below is based on St Bartholomew Massacre.

[March, 1572 – Deciphering their Plan]

Meticulously but assured, I tiptoed my way down the shiny spiral stairs to minimize as many noise as viable, and as I reached the first floor I hid myself behind the tall Chinese pottery Catherine had bought from the merchant a week ago – enough to keep me both secure from Mother andCharles’ line of sight;  but also, close enough to allow me eavesdrop their conversation, devoid of any notice.

I relied to my instincts; my conscience told me that the two did not seem to be in the midst of exchanging a monotonous dialogue at the moment, in fact they never did during these past few days.

My impending curiosity triggered my fervent will to unleash the reason why.

“We can’t let another war break out,” I could hear Charles speak out, “besides; our kingdom’s financial aspects are in ruins right now, Mom. We really have to do something – anything – or else our fate is going to correspond to those Catholics from the pre-Peace of Saint Germaine’s days. Dying due to defeat – Huguenots are so going to dominate the city.”

“I have a plan.” Read the rest of this entry

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