I got a little bored today waiting for my ride to arrive for my badminton tournament in Smithers. Anyways, I decided to spit this little gem out. I hope you likes it, msg me with your comments


He Always Was a Funny Boy
Andrew Benson

At first, he trod softly, his visage that of a pilgrim taking his first steps into the house of his god. Certainly, the air was cold, a bitter reminder of how weak and mortal his body was... but that mattered not; not on this night, and not in this place. Despite his continual visitations here (for the ground, the trees, they were as familiar to him as the unfulfillment that characterized his waking hours), each time he came, it possessed all the same beauty about it as it had when he first accidentaly happened upon this secret place, hidden deep within the manicured prison of suburbia. To descibe, it was a simple place (to those who live untouched by the beauty of nature, at least): a few sickly pines, a stump, and a steep drop going into woods, and, soon past those woods, the city, his world. That which was his world was neon and orange streetlights, pavement and sidewalk; a bland afterlife, carrying in it a dead, stillborn harmony. Sitting upon a knuckled stump, he looked over the town, its lights shimmering: cheap jeweley on an old whore. He was filled with awe, with a sense of wonder and beauty incomparable to anything except the greatest heights of religious esctacy. Here, with wood and soil and delicious greenness, nothing mattered.

The night air became colder, turning his breath into spectres, and causing his flesh to make its reminders of frailty all the much more insistent; he ignored, the rapture more addictive than any brought about by Man's bastard chemistry-children. He felt beautiful: it was not that he himself was beautiful, but that he held beauty against him; he was not the poem, but the paper the poem was written on, and the pen that wrote it. Hundrerds of feet above the city, in this copse of illish trees secreted away in a residential purgatory, he dreamed, wide awake.

The police would find his body the next day, long after the sun had risen. His blue-fleshed and pale leavings would beg many questions, but all the neighbours really knew it was drugs. He always was a funny boy, they'd whisper...

Hey Guys: This is my latest english essay that I did for my teacher I got a 6/6 on it, so msg me with your comments. thanks

The Life of Ryan
By: Andrew Benson
English 12 “A”
Mr. Jordan

My heart was heavy as I walked into the building; its tall cold walls billowed over me. The door automatically opened in front of me, and subsequently closed behind me. It had a haunting resemblance to that of the horror movies where they walk into the haunted house and the door closes immediately behind them, forcing them into facing the perils ahead. Again another stunning resemblance between reality.
I slowly worked my way to the stairs that wind their way up to the third floor. Sure it may only be two flights to the floor which I am visiting. Thankfully I am only a visitor; I could be occupying a bed. No more than two days ago I had seen my friend healthy and happy. We joked together, drove around together, and went to the show together. I can’t remember what show was playing, and I didn’t care right then either; I had more important things to worry about, like the life of Ryan.
I prolonged my trip to the door to his room, number 217. I could barely bring myself to put my hand on the knob let alone turn it and enter. When I finally acquired enough courage to walk in I was stunned at what I saw. He was laid flat on his bed, with his arms by his side; this made a haunting, almost premonitory scene of a very possible variation of the very immediate future.
I sat down beside his bed and looked at him, on his respirator. He had been breathing fine two days ago, and now he needs a machine to breathe for him. The slow and steady hiss of the respirator machine and the monotonous beeping of the heart rate monitor were the only things in the last two days that were unwavering, steady, and reliable things in both the lives of Ryan and me. I just can’t stand to see him in pain.
This accident that had almost taken his life from him, and still could, was completely unnecessary. Even I am not sure exactly what had happened. All I know is that he and a good friend had been driving around after a party. The driver was drunk and stupid. There were coming onto a side street from Main Street when they hit a slippery section of water that had pooled on the road. They slid onto the curb and hit a cement barricade, which flipped the car over and over. The driver was fine, but obviously Ryan was not. Now he is in a coma, one that nobody is sure he will awaken from.
I don’t know whether to have pity for the driver who is at the very least facing a charge of drunk driving, or be angry beyond all reason at his stupidity. He endangered his own life, the life of his friend, and the life of other innocent people. Does he show any regret? I am sure that now he does, but what if that didn’t happen. What if Ryan and him had arrived without a scratch at their destination? What if it was just like any other night and there was no accident. Would he still see it the same way? But again, what does it matter, the immortal “what if” questions will never be answered because we shall never know.
Ryan however needs our attention. The nurse just came in to check him and outside in the hall I heard his parents approach. The doctor rushed to meet them at the door and talk to them. I’m sure that Ryan’s parents saw me at his bedside. The doctor spoke the one sentence in my life that I would never desire to hear come from anyone’s lips: “I’m not sure if he’s going to make it. If he does he will be severely handicapped. I’m sorry, but you may have to start thinking about your options. I’m very sorry.”
I don’t remember if that was exactly what he said, I can only remember how he said it. He spoke with such a cold tone, one that was not purposeful or deliberate, but one that had been conditioned by giving this sort of news to many a person before this moment. “Then can’t kill him,” I remember thinking to myself. “They just can’t!”
I remember crying at that point also. My best friend was going to die, and there was nothing I could do anymore to stop it. The driver was also going to die, and it was his own fault. I was going to kill him. Who am I to do that? What right do I have to exact my revenge? It’s not revenge; it is regret, for I am that driver.