kai_seeker

Cold be heart and hand and bone

Thu, 19 May 2005 18:35:15 GMT

BleagH!

well

Tue, 01 Mar 2005 06:16:39 GMT

Guess what? I am a numero uno grade A jerk and a loser.
Everything I say is an insult
every move an attack
gosh.

Hmmm.......wait, why should I have worked on my story before tonight?

Wed, 23 Feb 2005 10:44:50 GMT

Every time I decide it will be the last time I put something off until the last minute.

Haven't stopped yet, though.

By the way, some of the MoH winners were SUPERMEN.

Soool, anyway, here it is, my short story, rewritten at approximately 2:00 this morning..

Now, to decide on three different poems...and to write my non-fiction......

yeah, I know it could badly use a rewrite---unfortunately, I have no time for one, really.......

unless I don't have to turn it in tomorrow.

Lines on Bronze

By Court W. Roper

This story is dedicated to the many soldiers who gave the "last full measure" in order that justice, peace, and democracy could survive; the actions of these, the truly brave, can never and must never be forgotten.

It was raining, the sky filled with clouds which blotted out the sun. The morning had dawned cold and wet, and although the forecast had been a clear day, the rain had come anyway; a light, cold rain that a poet would later immortalize as "angels’ tears." It was, all in all, perfect funeral weather. This was fitting, for the coffin which now lay in the damp ground of the cemetery had been followed by the largest crowd ever to gather at a wake in the small town of Couriorsdale, Virginia, and most if not all the citizenry had turned out for the burial. It was an irony that few missed- that the greatest hero the town would ever know would be honored only in death; that the body lying in the cold earth would never be draped with laurels around his neck, but rather an American Flag draped across his coffin, and a small gold medal laid across his chest.

It could not be undone; and so they honored him in the only way they could; a closed casket, a wake, a burial, and then a headstone- a headstone of marble, decorated with a great bronze plaque and rising high above all else in the cemetery. Atop the headstone was a small statue of the boy; a monument that the sculptor rightly considered his greatest achievement; he had somehow embodied not only the man, but the spirit which he and the men like him represented. Next to the headstone, a pole reached into the sky, outstretched as if to pierce the dark clouds which moved above. The stars and stripes flapped in the wind.

The Marine Escort had departed; slowly, by twos and threes, the citizens began making their way back to their cars and houses, wiping their eyes and speaking quietly to each other, but there was nothing to say, and the discussions were short and strained. The rain continued, making small rivulets in the fresh earth and dripping quietly off of the headstone, standing silently and majestically, surrounded by angels with chipped and broken wings and hushed, faded crosses. In this manner, the people of Couriorsdale bid farewell to their greatest son.

He had been born in Couriorsdale, growing up in a small apartment with a chain-smoking workaholic for a mother and an alcoholic for a father. With no pressure from home to succeed, he cut classes and paid little attention in school, and ended up barely graduating. Within a year of his eighteenth birthday, his father had been killed in a bar fight that got out of hand, and his mother had packed up and moved to be with her mother, leaving him on his own with little money and no prospects. He was unable to get a job at the coal mines, the main business of Couriorsdale, and ended up joining the new Peacetime Army by default. The peacetime army had been a less than ideal home, but it provided him with three meals and a bed, and that was good enough for him. He put a little of the money he received away in a bank, lived well, and befriended the other members of his platoon on at least a polite scale. The training, while difficult, was bearably so, and he could feel himself getting stronger for it. All in all, it was not a bad life if you had nowhere else to go.

Then had come Pearl Harbor. All of America was shocked by it; it was in the Armed Forces that the shock was most felt. The ‘European’ and ‘Pacific’ wars were no longer far off battles to be glanced over in the papers. The training, which before had seemed rather pointless took on a whole new meaning. He had learned to shovel and to crouch better than he had thought possible, until it was a smooth, natural motion, because now it was a matter of doing it when your life could depend on the depth of your foxhole. Suddenly his weapon was his most prized possession, his personal tool for protecting himself, for holding back the onslaught of...them. Who they were didn’t matter, nor what they would do to him- all he knew was that they were the side which threatened his country, and they were the ones who would be shooting at him. For two years they were drilled in one place after another, always with the same message: shoot them, don’t get shot. A sergeant helped to re-enforce the point to the men again and again; "If you don’t shoot them pretty goddam quick they’ll sure as hell shoot you!"

And then the orders had come, and he had found himself on a boat to Africa. But this was not the Africa of his childhood dreams, the great green jungle with monkeys and lions. It was a great ocean of sand; hot, choking sand that held German tanks somewhere. To even get to the sand they had first had to land on the beaches, and the French government in the area had tried to stop them- and so the first guns he heard in combat were against the French. And then they had marched through one country or another, marked only by sand, and more sand, and Germans. It was a shock to see his first German, a burnt and battered figure being led away from the shell of a tank that had been knocked out by artillery. Soon, however, it was an everyday matter, even the corpses not even surprising to him, and day after day had been a tireless call to march through the sand.

The cheering awoke him from a sound sleep, and he was informed that the Germans and Italians had surrendered Egypt. It was considered by many to be the turning point of the Western Front; to him, however, it meant that he would be marching north, back to the damned boats, back to the waves and toward some other guns in another place, and he still never having fired a shot in combat.

He tried to write his mother, but the letter had been returned, and he found that he had put the wrong address, and so he simply slipped it into his bag and forgot about it. Day after day was the same, so there was little to write home about. Marching, a break for lunch, marching, stopping to make camp, standing watch, sleeping, waking up and marching. In his mind he still doubted his own bravery, looked at the faces around him and could feel that a few felt the same, didn’t realize that nearly all of them had such doubts.

And then one day the sand dropped away and the Mediterranean Sea shone before him like a great blue carpet. Then came the loading once again, back on the creaking, leaky tight packed boats, back to the stench of too many men packed together. It was a hard crossing, made even harder by the storm which arose as they reached the coast of Sicily.

The landing was terrible. There were few other words which crossed his mind. Cold, wet, muddy, terrible. They had gone straight off the boat into his first battle, and the training had taken over. He had few memories of the battle; he remembered only that when they had been nearly broken by a new wave of tanks, the big naval guns had roared in, thundering like the Apocalypse. Just like that he was a veteran, his trial by fire over before he truly felt the shock of it. The battles following it were much the same; his orders came, he went forward, and shot at the enemy as "goddam quick" as he could. Before he knew it, he was told that Sicily had been taken, and that the boats that were carrying them now were headed for Italy.

The Italy campaign was forever tied to mud in his mind. Mud everywhere. Mud and Germans. His whole life was devoted to ridding the world of those two evils. In battle after battle he moved forward, shot, held on, dug a whole, hid, charged, and yet it all seemed the same. He began to learn to look around, to see if any others needed his help, and soon, he found himself beginning to understand where the line was, what he needed to protect, who needed help. Deep in his heart he could feel the joy rising with every step, each foot gained in Italy meaning that they were winning, that America was winning, that his country was winning. As they passed through towns and he saw the civilians waving and cheering, he nodded his head, saw their needs, and reminded himself how lucky he was to have his country to return to.

The battle had been bloody, and the mud had been everywhere. He had dug and dug, but the mud wouldn’t move, had stayed in one place, and then somehow he was lost, and the men he saw were not American, were not his platoon.

They took his gun, his food, his papers, and left him in a prison camp. Around him he saw exhausted, demoralized men, some sick, all hungry, all eager for news of home. He did not seek to lead them, but they turned to him, looking for guidance, perhaps because he was the newest, the one least effected by the camp life. And as he looked at the men around him, he knew that they had to get out of the prison, had to return to their own lines. It was, in fact, childishly easy. The prison camp had been thrown together to meet the sudden influx, and the guard towers had overlooked one critical juncture of the fence. Within days, he had organized the escape plan, appointed subordinates, and made everything ready. The escape began as it was planned, but near the end there was an outcry, and suddenly the camp was alive, and the men ran, he taking up the rear, driving them on, guarding the rear with the one firearm they had captured. When the men reached the comparative safety of a cave, it was he who guarded the entrance. When the machine gun nest opened up, and they realized how close to the front they were, it was he who went to take it out, which he did, crawling through the open field of fire close enough to surprise the men within. It was as he was returning that he heard the moans.

Corporal George Wallace had been an elementary schoolteacher in South Carolina before the draft called him into service. His wife was pregnant with their first child. Before he truly understood what was happening, he was lying on a war-torn field in Italy, his legs ripped and torn, unable to move, certain of death. That was where the boy found him, lying stretched out on the earth, unable to crawl to safety. He had hoisted Wallace onto his shoulders, then ran across the line of fire, in the end returning safely to the cave with Wallace still intact on his shoulders.

It should have been enough. He had done more then he had ever been trained to do, had showed heroism above and beyond the call of duty. However, on his return, he soon found it was not. A German infantryman passed by the cave in retreating, and, upon seeing the American uniforms, threw a grenade into the cave’s entrance. Without a thought, on impulse, he jumped on top of it, protecting the men. His men.

The townspeople had almost all left, only a few stragglers slowly walking away. A young girl slowly approached the monument, and quietly placed a single pink rose in front of the monument, and then reached up and ran her hand along the bronze plaque which was placed on the face of the tombstone. Stepping back quietly, she glanced up and, moving her hand over her heart, she began softly;

"I pledge legiance to the flag.."

She finished the salute, then quietly she turned and walked away as well. Near the gravestone, a man with a cane stood looking at the fresh grave. George Wallace would never be completely healed; the shrapnel wounds were too great. And yet he was alive, had seen his wife and newborn son. Quietly he straightened up as best he could, saluted, and then also turned to walk away. The statue sat staring across the cemetery, the Medal of Honor hanging from his neck. Raindrops ran down the face of the statue, across the body, and dribbled through the plaque, leaving small wet lines on the cold bronze.

I feel....rakish

Wed, 16 Feb 2005 06:16:30 GMT

Dude....
For some reason I feel like getting in a tux and going to a party
I really need to get some buddies over and Bond-Fest.
I dunno....I feel like just.....
turning around and being debonair......
and talking in a british accent......
and killing people with paper clips.....
oohh......and eating lots of food
and driving an Aston-Martin Vanquish............
or, heck, any of the cars James drives.......

I'll never make fun of Valentine's Day again

Tue, 15 Feb 2005 04:59:28 GMT

And to think that this morning I thought about having an anti-Valentines day thing............
wow
WoW
I am totally sunk

Mon, 14 Feb 2005 18:37:30 GMT

It makes me sad that I can tell someone the truth, and then because one of my 'friends' lies then I am lying

HMMM

Fri, 04 Feb 2005 05:10:39 GMT

Ok, here is another essay I wrote....for a Kaplan Competition......I am ready for feedback....please, if you have any suggestions, let me know.

BTW, I love you people!

Since seventh grade, I have been a member of a marching band. Although I have been involved in various different parades, shows, and other performances, there is one performance that has been common- a performance that brings a bigger crowd than our football games or track meets. It is the Veteran’s Day Parade and Band-O-Rama.
Porterville, California is a small town- it contains only about 40,000 people today. At the time of the Vietnam War, it was a town of only 12,000- and yet we hold the bittersweet honor of having the most deaths per capita of any American town. Porterville is a town filled with veterans and families of veterans; the American Legion is very active in Porterville and throughout Tulare County.
However, it is not only the families of veterans who have been touched with the reminder that freedom is not free. The History of America, and the blood shed that history might roll forward, is ingrained in every Portervillian soul. There is a thrill- a feeling of pride and of faith- as we look at the heros of our past, those who selflessly sacrificed in order to insure that our nation could grow into the nation which it is now.
We live in a time of great disagreement, a nation segregated by color, not black and white, but red and blue. America is becoming more and more partisan, and the two parties are agreeing on less and less. It is at times like these when we should all draw back and remember a few things. The disagreements we have are deeply rooted, and deal with important decisions; despite all this, it is important for all of us to remember that our unity is much more deeply rooted, and should be the most important factor in any and all decisions. On Veteran’s Day, different bands march into the stadium, playing different songs, wearing different uniforms, marching to the beats of different drummers. However, when all the bands have marched in, they stand together in the middle of the stadium, and together, they blend and play in unison The Star-Spangled Banner. Not all of the notes are correct, nor are all of the instruments are finely tuned; however, the power, the glory and the promise that our national anthem represents to all Americans fills in the gaps, covers the wrong notes, and adds a silent harmony that echoes in the soul of all who hear it. It is this that truly reflects America; not squabbles and backbiting, but respect, honor, and appreciation for those who gave their last full measure of devotion so that we would have the opportunities which are before us today; to lift the weary, to feed the starving child, and to rescue those who are imprisoned from their chains.

Fri, 04 Feb 2005 02:48:12 GMT

Track is hard.
Life is good
I like me
:D

Sat, 29 Jan 2005 04:09:04 GMT

Essay I had to write- What do yoou plan to do to Finance your College Application? Icky.
I had some fun writing it........
I have always been a stickler for money. Long ago, I decided that the world was my oyster, and have been working ever since to pry open the heavy shell to get to the pearl inside. However, this is not easy for an adolescent- I have found instead that I am often simply ignored and don't really get all that much. I have learned to value the worth of the penny- while others flick them about, throw them on the ground, or play games with them, I gather up the discarded spare change and add it to a sack I keep on my counter.
However, it would be foolish of me to believe that this will pay for my college education; for one thing, the millions of pennies needed to pay for tuition alone would be somewhat uncomfortable to carry in my pockets; and for another, it would take a great deal of time to insure that I had paid the exact amount needed. It is for this reason that I have joined the ranks of the gainfully employed, working on lawns in my spare time and taking jobs over the summer. I have also worked hard on scholarship applications such as these, and have already arranged to have loans ready if they are needed.
My full plan for paying my college tuition goes far past that. If needed, I plan to become a pirate and scour the seven seas in search of buried treasure-actually, I am considering doing that anyway.

What do you think? :)

I am getting a headache from plunking..............

Wed, 26 Jan 2005 05:42:48 GMT

Ok. Here goes. I was mean to a lot of the people in Mock Trial, and harsh and judged them really strongly.
I was....
I was wroo....
I was wr....
I was.....wrororororororor
Ok!
I was WRONG
I admit it.
Fine
You guys actually did really good for it being your first time. and that was a really hard team.
I was wrong and unfair, ok?
You guys! You had better appreciate that I said that....
it was tough.....
So sometimes I act less than charming and suave....
grrrr
And no, it was not fair of me to want you people to concentrate more on mock trial. You have been caring about it. I know you all do.

So, I was wrong.
grrrr
and I ask.....for.........forgiveness..................................hgrrrrrr........
but I still did ok.

I guess it doesn't matter anyway, right? As long as we have fun :)

Love you guys!
-Courtholemew

Mock Trial- what a trial for me

Tue, 25 Jan 2005 18:13:49 GMT

So, I finally got to look at the scores.... And here's how thursday stood in MT for me...
1 three (for Brett Williams...)
3 4s
2 5s

Not too shabby, I guess, but I wish I hadn't got the three. If it had been a five, it would look nice.

Tue, 25 Jan 2005 04:31:36 GMT

Yes, everybody, I was sick. Dying, in fact. Thanks for asking.
no, in reality, I guess I am ok.
I'm sorry if i sound a little bitter. I just had an argument with my dad that I really feel is unfari to me, and I am as of now cut off from using the cars. I am sure that I am making too much of it, but I am sick of him treating me badly because he is having a bad day, then over-reacting and getting mad at me, saying I am making too much of it.
Sorry, this is not really any of you guys's problems. I can handle it.
Anyone know how we did in Mock Trial? Pardon me if I sound like I care about that more then honor band, but it's something I am actually good at.

Hmmm

Sat, 22 Jan 2005 03:17:43 GMT

Well, I think that it is time to ask forgiveness. If I am right, I am now publicly and oficialy apologizing for being a stupid and selfish jerk. Guys, I think we all know that I can improve. And obviously, by the silence I have heard from most of my comments, it's publicly accepted. But that is ok, because I think That I have moved on-and I can change. I love and appreciate you all talking to me and forgiving my many faults.
Thanks, Buddies! Don't hesitate to, like, talk to me or something (scary thought!)

hmm

Fri, 21 Jan 2005 23:06:52 GMT

Maybe, If I am lucky, I am wrong, and it wasn't me who hurt the person. I am not the best, the smartest, or the kindest of the people they know. Even so, I have been terrible to this person, not respecting them or their feelings or anything. I am filled with remorse- I have tried to act happy all day, so much that I think I have been especially loud and obnoxious all day. WHat would it take to make this person know that it's all right? I wish there was something- anything- I can do.

just to prove my point....

Fri, 21 Jan 2005 18:32:35 GMT

just to prove my point......

as if you needed more proof that I am a stupid jerk loser.....

Fri, 21 Jan 2005 18:26:48 GMT

Hey, people.
I am crushed. I think I have hurt one of the greatest people I have ever known.

Here's my 1st period haiku:
And now I feel shame
having hurt my cherished friend
so therefore I cry

I always thought that I never really hurt anyone. I thought that I was a harmless, replaceable kid. I still believe I am replaceable; I am not needed by anyone. But the fact that I can not build doesn't mean I can't destroy. And that is what I think I have done- hurt and damaged a wonderful person. I am not harmless, nor innocent.

I am plagued. I should be quarantined. I am like a rabid dog, feeling pain and biting at a hand that did nothing but reach out to help me.

What a jerk.

Fri, 21 Jan 2005 16:15:09 GMT

I blew it. Again. I overreacted, let my own exhaustion, anger at Dupree, and fear that I hadn't done well enough spill out and take control, and I think I hurt one of the nicest people I have ever met. Stupid, Stupid, STUPID!
Why do I try to hurt people when I feel bad? Why do I try to say the thing I think will make others feel the worst? I do my best not to, and then all of a sudden I let frustration take over without even thinking and I am saying things I don't even believe, don't mean, don't want to say, and what I want to happen happens, only when it happens I realize I didn't want it to happen at all, that it is the worst feeling I have ever had to know that one of my friends feels terrible and it is all my fault.
All.
My.
Fault.

No, No, No! Why am I so freaking self-centered?
What can I do? I am not even thinking straight.
I thought I felt bad before. Let me take it back. Let me keep the pain to myself. I feel like George Bailey, seeing what happens not when I am not there but when I am there entirely, when I let myself get close to others. I only seem to hurt them. And that feeling is the worst feeling I have ever felt.
I wish I knew what I could do to show you all that I was wrong, that I turned on you only because I am immature and foolish. I didn't read the consequences, let myself do exactly what I shouldn't.
In the future, I wil probably be like that- If I ever get married, I will make my wife feel terrible when I have a bad day at work, make my children cry when I have a bad day.
Oh, that I could change my actions.

huh

Fri, 21 Jan 2005 04:36:20 GMT

Strangely enough, I sat alone again today.

Strange coincedences that there is never a place for me, and I either have to pull up a chair or sit alone, huh?
Coincedentally, I also feel totally alone again. Strange how these things happen.

I am sure it has no connection to feeling like I am the person you talk to only when you don't have any real friends around. Certainly nothing to do with the fact that I am always second place to anything, including Mr. Hargis

Hmmm

Thu, 20 Jan 2005 22:57:01 GMT

Well, Kellogg read my story... he said that it was unbeleivable, and reminded him of a comic book- when I explained that that was my intention, he said that I had then accomplished my intention very welll- he then suggested I write it again from the place of a war hero, an idea that Bryan had already told me...wierd, wild stuff.
I am really worried about mock trial, because I feel almost completely unready, and I got a three, a four, and a five last time. I know that our team can do all right, but I am still worried because we often don't

I love you peoples, and you all know it.
-Court (still pretty dang cool)

Uh huh

Thu, 20 Jan 2005 06:38:21 GMT

You peoples know Court- he'll bounce back yet, you'll see.
I will be happy because I am still me, and I still like me, despite it all.

watching the supernova- the star dying before my eyes

Thu, 20 Jan 2005 04:25:28 GMT

Well, I am feeling just great

hmm blah

Thu, 20 Jan 2005 03:00:34 GMT

Well, I failed a calculus test today,
I turns out that The hope I had was misfounded,
and i am missing a game because I can't find the keys I apparently lost.

hmmm

Wed, 19 Jan 2005 23:05:30 GMT

So, Here it is, my first day of making sure I am nothing but happy all day.....huh, kinda weird.
I doubt anyone noticed, but that is ok. Let's discuss it, Caitlin. Talk to me.

...Knowing that it won't work; this grand fantasy I tried to dream

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 20:50:37 GMT

I feel sick
I am tired
I have slept for two hours or less for the past three days
I am not ready for Mock Trial
and I can't even take my mind off...
Never Mind

bleagh

Tue, 18 Jan 2005 20:43:18 GMT

I must be proud, or jealous, or something, but it really bothers me.
Why? WHY? and why am I asking the people who don't know or care?