G is the letter C with an L-shaped end stop. It’s the shape of a device welded onto many bridges to keep the girders from falling and breaking into pieces of concrete and twisted steel. Something shook inside my heart when I saw the handless vet. He crossed the stumps of his arms and cried, “Help me! I’m a vet.” He shivered as the clerks ushered him out of Starbucks on that December night. Then, a man wearing an Airborne cap led him back into the store. He bought the vet coffee and a sandwich. He
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before my humble soldiers, prepared to take the field of battle, my senses are keen as ever. I feel the dry, hot summer sun beating down on my back. Beads of sweat drip from my hair and stream down my limbs. Although my heart feels as if at any second it could burst forth from my chest, I know I must not let my brethren recognize my fear. Though death and bloodshed are surely inevitable, I am brave. For on this day, vengeance will be taken upon the Ramora tribe. As I stare amongst the sea of my Nelehwian
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true life changing experiences encountered by soldiers during World War I, who “may have escaped shells, were [nonetheless] destroyed by the war” (dedication page). This novel tells the true, horrifying realities of war and how they not only physically, but also mentally, affected the soldiers who were lucky enough to escape death. Using the thoughts and feelings of narrator Paul Bäumer, Remarque tries to show that the only difference between soldiers and civilians is the attire in which they wear
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on my desk. This 74 year old piece of paper was well taken care of. The photo accommodates the aroma that all antiques have . I say that it's the smell of old. An unknown face smiles back at me from the photo. He wears a black sheepskin jacket with a big white wool collar, and underneath he wears a nicely pressed summer tan uniform with small golden painted sterling silver wings pinned to the collars. He wears his cap tilted to the side to show his smoothly styled hair. A young soldier barely
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Andres Pena COP 1102 “The Things They Carried” What does becoming a soldier mean? Does it mean that duty comes before love or does it mean the opposite? Could it be that soldiers do not have control of their feelings? From the mind of Tim O’Brien, “The Things They Carried” describes young soldiers that were automatically bumped up into manhood. The author treats the inner conflict that each soldier had to bear during the Vietnam War while fighting for their country. Witnessing horrific scenes
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It causes my legs to shake. I break out in a cold sweat. My heart starts beating a thousand miles an hour, and louder than a snare drum. I imagine my own funeral, then shrink back at the implications of where my thoughts are taking me. My stomach feels tight. My palms are clammy. I am terrified of heights. Of course, it’s not really a fear of being in a high place. Rather, it is the view of a long way to fall, of rocks far below me and no firm wall between me and the edge. Despite my fear, two
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entrance gate does not do what it is suppose to do, the tarnished steel and peeling white paint does anything but welcome you. ‘Bare City’ barely seen printed at the top of the gate, both vowels missing. What is this place? Some describe it as garbage, some call it home, I do not want to call it. As I step further through the gate I notice a large oak tree with names, hearts and curse words carved into it. I shake my head and purse my lips in disapproval. What is this place? Surely, it has to get
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an exhilarating and adrenaline pumping experience. I jumped out of an airplane to earn my airborne wings in the army. It all started in Airborne School, during ground week, where we were taught how to land safely and dawn a parachute. During tower week, the second week of training, we learned pre-jump preparations and how to properly exit an airplane. Finally, the third week of training came: jump week. My classmates and I made five jumps from a C130 aircraft. Two of the jumps were with just a
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As Jake lay in my arms bleeding out, I caress his fading pale ghost like cheek. He gave me a final farewell kiss. When I opened my eyes, he was no more. Gone from me without a trace, I searched for him but he was gone. I took off his medal of honor, as they took him away. I knew that was the last time I would see him, I was sobbing uncontrollably. I cried, sitting there on that cold wet reddened grass. It was now stained with his blood and my tears. “Until next time”, I muttered, now sitting here
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F~r~: Wo(d~ 01 ~ Sy~1rY~ 2o1o~) Karma Bi~ Kiislzwaii f Sin gli, 1950 Kushwant Singh (1915 -) An important Indo-Anglican novelist. Singh published his first volume of short fiction in 1950, three years after India’s independence. Almost ali of the stones deal with rural and urban Indian life with its many contrasts: tradition Vs. modern ideas; India vs. (post)colonial Britain and religion VS. secularism. Singh is best known for his humorous way of giving a political commentary
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