So, I am alway on the look out for writing contests with inspiring prompts for me to enter. I got really exited when I found this one:
link because I had an idea for it right away. I spent all afternoon researching the Battle of Little Bighorn, because I wanted to set it in the aftermath of that battle, and writing it, instead of writing a biography of William Blake that I was supposed to be doing for school :P. then, when I went to go submit it, I figured out the people wanted me to sign up for a membership to their website for $6.75 a month to enter the contest, which I don't really want to. So, please read this, guys, and give me feedback, because I feel like I worked realy hard on it for nothing.
Aiyana focused on the rhythm of her footsteps and prayed to the spirits of the Earth and wind that they would give her the strength to carry on her journey. Her brown eyes burned from the glare of the setting sun that lay right in front of her, but she refused to turn her eyes from the path in front of her. The dusty Montana soil filled her moccasins and chaffed her feat. Sweat matted wisps of her glossy black hair, tied in two braids, to her forehead. Her deer skin dress was tattered and smeared with dirt. Aiyana believed at a very young age in the Cheyenne principles of nature and living spirits that connected everything on Earth. When a person respects the land around them, the spirits would guide you and provide everything necessary for you to live contently and peacefully. Aiyana knew how to connect with the spirits of soil, crop, water, and sky, and learned to love them, but she knew no one person could own nature as if it was there possession. When the moon-skinned men first came to the Sacred Hill, she welcomed them because they were part of nature just as she was. Soon after meeting them, her blood began to boil against them. They had no respect for Earth and talked to her father as if their intentions were to keep the soil of the Sacred Hill to themselves, without sharing it with anyone else. Their lifestyle was stuffy, pompous, and boring; they never danced or told stories, and looked down on Aiyana’s people when they performed their ritual dances. Her dislike for them collected in her heart and became more and more passionate every day. Then, on a summer day, the moon-skinned men, with their weapons of fire and thunder, slaughtered her kin. She gritted her teeth as the visions of people she loved fell to the ground as the moon-skins unemotionally and ruthlessly went on with fighting. The survivors of the Cheyenne tribe were captured as prisoners; bound by the hands and ruffed into a rickety train car. They were to be driven to a new place, so the moon-skins could posses Sacred Hill. Aiyana was last in line to be forced on the train, right after her mother. Right before she was thrust into the car, she stomped on her captivator’s foot, whirled around, and spat in his face. He, in turn, cuffed her face with the butt of his rifle and pushed her to the ground. He yelled something not of her language, and signaled for the train to start moving. Smoke billowed out of the train and the wheels started to pick up speed before Aiyana had the strength to get up. The last thing she heard from the train was her mother screaming her name. As soon as she got back on her feet, she went to the battlefield and picked up a spear from one of her fallen brethren.
Now, she had only two things on her mind; her mother and revenge. She knew that the train had to follow the path of its tracks, and eventually it had to come to a stop. All she had to do was walk along the tracks and she would end up the same place as the moon-skins brought her mother. For the past two days and nights, all Aiyana did was march between the rails, eyes foreword and head held high, battling hunger, thirst, heat, and fatigue, and she planned to do so until she got to her destination or dropped down dead. She was the face of perseverance, courage, and faith. Like her namesake, she was an “eternal blossom,” beautiful and graceful, but strong and powerful enough to make her mark in the universe, even after death.
link because I had an idea for it right away. I spent all afternoon researching the Battle of Little Bighorn, because I wanted to set it in the aftermath of that battle, and writing it, instead of writing a biography of William Blake that I was supposed to be doing for school :P. then, when I went to go submit it, I figured out the people wanted me to sign up for a membership to their website for $6.75 a month to enter the contest, which I don't really want to. So, please read this, guys, and give me feedback, because I feel like I worked realy hard on it for nothing.
Aiyana focused on the rhythm of her footsteps and prayed to the spirits of the Earth and wind that they would give her the strength to carry on her journey. Her brown eyes burned from the glare of the setting sun that lay right in front of her, but she refused to turn her eyes from the path in front of her. The dusty Montana soil filled her moccasins and chaffed her feat. Sweat matted wisps of her glossy black hair, tied in two braids, to her forehead. Her deer skin dress was tattered and smeared with dirt. Aiyana believed at a very young age in the Cheyenne principles of nature and living spirits that connected everything on Earth. When a person respects the land around them, the spirits would guide you and provide everything necessary for you to live contently and peacefully. Aiyana knew how to connect with the spirits of soil, crop, water, and sky, and learned to love them, but she knew no one person could own nature as if it was there possession. When the moon-skinned men first came to the Sacred Hill, she welcomed them because they were part of nature just as she was. Soon after meeting them, her blood began to boil against them. They had no respect for Earth and talked to her father as if their intentions were to keep the soil of the Sacred Hill to themselves, without sharing it with anyone else. Their lifestyle was stuffy, pompous, and boring; they never danced or told stories, and looked down on Aiyana’s people when they performed their ritual dances. Her dislike for them collected in her heart and became more and more passionate every day. Then, on a summer day, the moon-skinned men, with their weapons of fire and thunder, slaughtered her kin. She gritted her teeth as the visions of people she loved fell to the ground as the moon-skins unemotionally and ruthlessly went on with fighting. The survivors of the Cheyenne tribe were captured as prisoners; bound by the hands and ruffed into a rickety train car. They were to be driven to a new place, so the moon-skins could posses Sacred Hill. Aiyana was last in line to be forced on the train, right after her mother. Right before she was thrust into the car, she stomped on her captivator’s foot, whirled around, and spat in his face. He, in turn, cuffed her face with the butt of his rifle and pushed her to the ground. He yelled something not of her language, and signaled for the train to start moving. Smoke billowed out of the train and the wheels started to pick up speed before Aiyana had the strength to get up. The last thing she heard from the train was her mother screaming her name. As soon as she got back on her feet, she went to the battlefield and picked up a spear from one of her fallen brethren.
Now, she had only two things on her mind; her mother and revenge. She knew that the train had to follow the path of its tracks, and eventually it had to come to a stop. All she had to do was walk along the tracks and she would end up the same place as the moon-skins brought her mother. For the past two days and nights, all Aiyana did was march between the rails, eyes foreword and head held high, battling hunger, thirst, heat, and fatigue, and she planned to do so until she got to her destination or dropped down dead. She was the face of perseverance, courage, and faith. Like her namesake, she was an “eternal blossom,” beautiful and graceful, but strong and powerful enough to make her mark in the universe, even after death.
This is for all the kids who are bullied by words. My teachers always say be bleacher people. Lift others up. I hope this poem gives that message to others.
You yell at me
mean words.
They
pierce my heart.
I say its ok.
I move on.
But the words
still have power.
They still hurt
me.
My friends
tell me
its a big deal,
and that I
need to tell
a teacher.
But I say im fine.
Im really not.
I want to
believe
that im fine,
I want to
believe that
it was
nothing.
But it was
something.
Words always
have power.
Enough power to
strike me
down,
or lift
me up.
Why must
you hurt
me?
You yell at me
mean words.
They
pierce my heart.
I say its ok.
I move on.
But the words
still have power.
They still hurt
me.
My friends
tell me
its a big deal,
and that I
need to tell
a teacher.
But I say im fine.
Im really not.
I want to
believe
that im fine,
I want to
believe that
it was
nothing.
But it was
something.
Words always
have power.
Enough power to
strike me
down,
or lift
me up.
Why must
you hurt
me?
I live in my opinion possibly the most ghetto town in the United States, Pittsburgh. People have been committing suicide all over town. Population all over town has been decreasing, fast. Some of my friends were so depressed that they were thinking about "joining the crowd". I wouldn't live without my friends. I don't want my friends to go as well as my mom and dad. Yes, I'm an orphan. I've been an orphan for about three weeks. My friends have disappeared. I think they went to Clarion; but I could be wrong. There have been tons of fights at my school. Most of the people that were committing suicide were middle school and high school aged. I was getting really tired really fast. I climbed up in a tree and found a comfortable spot and fell asleep. Next thing I knew, I was tied up on a pole.
Sorry for cliffhangers....
Sorry for cliffhangers....