Tone in Scientist Excerpt

Discussing the negative effects of scientific experiments against nature in the excerpt, the narrator uses a change in point of view, imagery, and diction to reveal his attitudes towards the scientists. By describing these people in first person then transitioning into a tone which directly accuses them, the narrator uses negative words, such as “poor empty head” and “nasty science” to show his opinion on the harmful experiments the audience is using, and he gives them a clear picture of this effect. The narrator uses these techniques to portray his disapproval of these procedures in an angry and judgement tone to the reader. This excerpt is a critic of the scientists that use experiments that harm forms of nature against the narrator’s idea.

Relaxation: A 200 Word Sentence

As I lay on the warm, white Cape Cod sand, an intense sense of relaxation takes over my inert body, and as the sun glistens down on me, I can feel it’s warm rays radiating my skin, and the pointless, irritating drama going around all of my friends right now leaves; all I can imagine is my so-called happy place, and I consider the place in which I lay right now my happy place, and sweat begins dripping from my forehead, so I wander over to the vast ocean which expands for eternity, but suddenly a cold, salty wave of water hits me, so I stand up and on my way to retrieve my warm, comforting towel, a very large crab bites my leg and I scream “ouch”, but right after I scream, I come to the realization that the crab is actually a small shark and I am slowly bleeding to death; a strong, handsome lifeguard comes over to try to save my life but it is too late, I am already walking slowly towards that light, which I suppose is heaven, and I remember that I will now be able to live in that same state of peace I experienced a few moments ago for the rest of eternity. 

Just Another Stupid Boyfriend: An Angry Letter

Dear Greg,

                Although I admire the way you make my mother happy, I feel the complete opposite about you. Your effort to replace my dad is disgusting, and I do not know what my mom sees in you. All of your efforts to make me like you only makes me hate you so much more.

                As you may have noticed, every time you and your irritating children enter MY house, I run off to my room and do not leave until you decide you are done torturing my family. I make up some lame excuse such as “I need to study” but in reality, I’m just sitting there and playing on my phone.

                One horrible Saturday afternoon, my mom begged me to at least TRY to talk to you. I attempted to make her proud of me, but your stupidity was too much for me to handle. Trying to convince me that “9/11 is a conspiracy” or “the Titanic didn’t really sink” is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard.

                Also, your effort to make my own mother hate me makes me want to drown your soul in a dark coffin and leave you there to die. I understand that you have a different parenting method than my mom, but I have become a great person by learning from my own mistakes. I do not need to be yelled at every five seconds for not being a perfect child. You should focus on how horrible and annoying your own kids are before worrying about me and my sister.

                YOU are the reason I never have my phone. You somehow convince my mom to take my beloved cellular device for multiple weeks. However, what you don’t know is I secretly communicate with my friends through my old phone, which I keep hidden in my room.

                What ticks me off more than anything else about you is the fact that you ENCOURAGE my sister to bully me. Telling her that I shouldn’t find it offensive when she calls me retarded, is doing the complete opposite of what my parents have been trying to teach her for years. The fact that you think its okay for her to call me these horrific names makes me want to hurl in your face.

                So, if you don’t mind, stay out of my life. I will never like you, your children, or your lack of a brain. All of your efforts to replace my dad are failing, so just leave me and my family alone.

                                                                                                                Sincerely,

                                                                                Your least favorite child in the world.

Death: Apostrophe

Sweet, sweet death. Come take me out of the stress of this appalling life I live today. Send me far into the ground, the people who live above me will appreciate it. They despise me. They would want this to happen. Each scar that lies across my wrist demonstrates an attempt to be one step closer to you. It is a ladder, slowly allowing me to become a part of you. One day, I pray I'll take the final step that will send me into your loving arms, where I belong.

Spring: Synecdoche/Metonymy

 The flowers slowly start expanding out of the delicate soil in front of my house. Only one or two begin to reveal their beautiful colors, and then it rapidly expands to a copious amount of unique flowers extending from durable and supportive roots. The children’s broad smiles complement their glittering eyes as they realize summer is approaching. The teenagers' stress increases as they realize final exams are approaching. Animals that have been concealed for numerous months ascend from their slumber to welcome this new stage of life. A calm, gentle breeze shuffles through my hair, and the ravishing odor leaves me breathless. I take a deep breath, and I absorb the appealing landscape that had been hidden by a layer of white, fluffy glaciers for what felt like an eternity. Although the time is relaxing and peaceful, it comes and goes like a bird flying south across a winter sky.

Samantha?: Unreliable Narrator

“That was two years ago, I’m fine now. Just let me leave this dump.” I’m six months sober. It’s been the worst six months of my life. Six months, five therapists, four mental breakdowns, three gruesome meals every day. Two “accidental” twelve packs and one loathsome, unsupportive wife. Samantha. I haven’t seen her since I entered this penitentiary. That’s my favorite part about being here. I never have to deal with that piece of trash. I’m actually happy she hasn’t visited me. I mean, she is the whole reason I got here in the first place.

            It all started on a rainy Monday, February 14. Since the day I started dating this cheating, lying, son of a something I will not say, the mere sight of her has made my blood boil. If I’m being completely honest, I don’t even know why I started dating her in the first place. Anyways, on that day I was going to surprise her with an extraordinary date. One unlike something she has ever been on before. I had been planning it for over a month now. It would begin at 2:00 P.M. That morning, I went to the store and bought her a huge bouquet of flowers, chocolate, and a very expensive shirt from her favorite store. I would go home, give her the presents, and bring her to Cape Cod to watch the sunset on the beach. As I entered our room, I saw something very unexpected.

“What is going on here!?” I said as I walked into our bedroom.

“It’s not what it looks like! Jim was just…umm…asking about our new lamp! Why aren’t you still at work?” she replied anxiously.

At this point, I had two decisions. Do I walk out, or do I be the responsible adult and try to work things out? My mind is racing. I have never felt this enraged and offended in my life. Samantha is a lying, deceiving, wench. I trusted her with my entire life and she turned on me at the drop of a nail. Like I meant nothing to her. And with my own brother! However, I didn’t choose to take either of those paths mentioned above…

            Two days later the invitation came. “In loving memory of Jim Walter.” This statement was followed by a gruesome image of him. In just a week, he will be six feet underground, where he belongs.

            They don’t know it was me. Not yet, at least. Samantha has been in a coma for three weeks. I wish she’d just die already. I want to visit her in the hospital to finish what I started, but then they will know I am guilty.

            I conclude that it is my best interest to live the rest of my days as a free man on the streets of Boston. It’s where I belong, and they will never find me. Samantha. The word echoes in my head for weeks on weeks. Flashbacks play on repeat in my brain. If she were here, in front of me right now, waves of cruel words would flow out of my mouth with no regret.

“So, how was your night with that drunken gorilla you always used to throw yourself at?” I would begin.

            I wish I never even met her. She was the biggest waste of my time. After just a week and a half of living on the streets, I gained a thirst unlike any other. Not for water or that special juice Samantha drank to lose weight (which did not work out for her), but for something a little more satisfying. One night, around 11:00, I wondered into a bar. The alluring taste of the beverages made me keep wanting more. It washed all my worries about that idiotic woman for about a night. When the pain she brought me came back, I would go back to the bar. This repeated until I basically lived in that place.

            One night, about 1 year after the incident, she found me.

“I’m very sorry! We hadn’t even gotten that far yet, we had just walked into the bedroom! Give me one more chance, you won’t regret it,” she yelled.

            I was so close to strangling my next victim, right there on the streets of Boston. Life would be so much better with her gone anyways. I straggled around the streets until I had walked the same course three times. How could she do that? I was still in awe as I passed out on the street.

            I woke up in a dungeon. Barbed wire fences, plain gray walls, one single bed. A middle aged woman walked in. She started to talk endlessly about her plans for me in this appalling enclosure.

“Mr. Walter. How are you today? Before you freak out, I just want to let you know that here; you have all the support you need to make it through your journey of recovery!”

            I shouldn’t even be here. That wrench is the reason I’m here. Do they know what I did? Do they know it was HER fault, not mine?

            I waited weeks for a sign, a signal, anything, that Samantha was still alive. Karma has probably gotten to her at this point. I’m extremely grateful that she hasn’t showed up; who knows what would happen if we were left alone in an empty room?

            Why am I still here? The bountiful amount of unanswered questions attempt to kill my brain. This is worse than death. Trapped. No sign of leaving anytime soon. The grotesque woman who slaughtered my heart is also beginning to take over my brain. Thoughts of our moments before the attack slowly come back. The mere appearance of her in my brain makes me cringe.

            A knock on the door. I glance out towards the door. A black and blue, starved, beaten up woman stares back at me.

Samantha?