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Writing. Probably the most important accomplishment that humans have ever achieved. From great poets like Robert Frost, to amazing novel writers such as Margaret Mitchell or John Steinbeck, no group of people has affected the sculpture of our planet the way that authors have. Writing inspires me. I love to read. I love to write. And I am amazed by the many provocative ideas and adventures that are found in hundreds of books. In school, projects of descriptive writing have always been my passion. I want to envelop the readers’ minds with captivating words and move somebody during my lifetime. To me, there is nothing more magical.

I first became interested in writing in the seventh grade. Before that, literature of all kinds was just a requirement to get out of school. Then I became inspired by a teacher who has pushed me to be the best English student possible. I enrolled in a class called “Great Books,” a class that meets once a week and reads great literature and then discusses it. I loved the great books and this program helped develop me into the person I am today. In this class I was enthralled by great literature such as The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald and The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka. English and Great Books are the classes, I am convinced, that have turned me into an avid literature student. Now I love to write. I will often sit down at the computer and type instead of playing video games or sports.

Instead of just talking about my writing, I have decided to include the two polished pieces that I am most proud of. The first one is called “The Picture” and the second is titled “The Bridge.”

The Picture

The sun peeked over a small ridge in the little town of Green Isle. It was summer and it smelled a little of barbecue smoke from the previous evening’s late night parties. In one corner of the village a dirty shop that badly needed a paint job stood squarely with the morning sun. Inside the dusty shop toward the back stood an old man. Bottle of whiskey in one hand and newspaper in the other, he took a pale wrinkled stare at the nearest counter where a polished picture sat. It was of a little boy with a much younger old man smiling together, each having the time of their lives. The old man glanced at the door to see a young man in executive clothes on his merry way to his overpaying law firm.

An ant crawled slowly through the fine layer of dust covering the scratched wooden floor. He took a sip. Then another. He lifted the wrinkled newspaper and read it with a slow unhurried demeanor.

The light now shone directly through the dirty pane of glass on the front door illuminating the shop as it did once a day. No more. No less. The tradition was carried on for years thanks to the only thing that gave him hope. The sun. His son. The picture of the little boy lit up. It sat there seeming to hold the sunlight within its wooden frame. He stared at the picture and smiled a loving smile that resembled his young face held within the frame.

Three minutes passed by without him blinking, not wanting to miss a single moment. Then the light left the picture and the day began. He took a long sip.

“Time to open,” he grunted.

The Bridge

They met beneath the covered bridge for the last time, neither one to speak the truth to the other. Neither one shared the love nor the playfulness they had as kids. It would never be the same as it was back then. The world had destroyed one; the other had been corrupted by false dreams and idealistic virtues crammed down his throat by generations past. Both are now meager old men. Their early lives started with so much young talent. Now all that was left was such deep hatred.

Maybe it was their destiny to share one more moment under the same ivy-grown cracked slab of stone that had so often shared the pain of these two boys. A unification of long-lost memories and traditions, through which painful thoughts of dead friends, wives and children haunted them mercilessly.

The water had stopped flowing through this heavenly place. Maybe a few years ago. Soon it would no longer be the utopia they had lived in as kids. This place had aged too.

Anthony, through his filthy mass of hair, was barely recognizable. But did it really matter? Once a storybook idol to children from all over, now a beaten-down scarred human being whose dark side dominated his once fiery blue soul.

Evil swirled around Dante’s head, now cold and faceless. His life was a stain on this planet’s glory. He didn’t mean it, to have lived the way he did. Nor was anybody able to stop him from his madness. His tyranny screamed from inside him.

“Hey, little brother,” Anthony croaked. He forced a smile. But Dante had no intention of matching it. He did not know happiness. Not since childhood. His icy stern face seemed to glare at everything.

Startling both of them was the familiar sound of galloping horses. Thousands of them.

“This is it little brother,” spoke Anthony. “Our last stand.”

The anxiety grew as the cavalry approached.

As you can see I love to write descriptive pieces. To me, they are the best type of writing because you can dictate the story and really make it your own. Nothing can move somebody quite the way that description can. Everything comes from your mind and heart. As opposed to writing a report, where information has the main role.

When I first heard about this “Idea Contest” I was very excited to be a part of it. I couldn’t wait to sit down and write this piece. Writing is my true passion and I have no greater wish than to learn about the English language, read, and gain many outlooks on literature in order to help me be the best author that I can be.

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