I hope you enjoy the following "scene" essays by Advanced Placement English students!!
Welcome to Reality By Bobby
Civil War General William Tecumseh Sherman described war in one word, "War is hell." For years I disagreed. The thrill of adventure and the lure of honor dominated my war fantasies. Courage marked strength, while fear denoted weakness. However, I was only fooling myself. Finally, after lacing up my brogans and adjusting my forage cap, I confronted the reality.
At sixteen, I witnessed a Civil War Re-enactment in my hometown. After the dramatization, I joined the 1st Missouri Light Artillery Company K. I portray a private in a Union brigade originally composed of volunteers from St. Louis. I first entered the fray at the 145th Anniversary of the Battle of Shiloh, an event that attracted over 10,000 re-enactors. Over the next six months, I fought in two more battles. Most recently, I engaged the enemy at the 143rd Anniversary of the Battle of Pilot Knob, Missouri. For the first time, I truly grasped what it means to march in a soldier's boots.
I expected this weekend to be like the other re-enactments, full of drills and preparations for battle. We would eat, sleep, and laugh around the fire. However, when I awoke on Saturday morning and opened the tent flap, a cloudy haze enveloped the field. In the distance, columns of smoke rose from the enemy campfire as breakfast cooked. I paused and stared at the grassy sides of Fort Davidson, the Union stronghold. I walked somberly over to the earthen fort and sat down on the wall. The aroma of freshly cooked bacon faded away as black powder filled my nostrils. I saw the Union soldiers stationed in the earthwork. I felt their fears as the Rebels charged down the surrounding hills. I heard the shouts of fallen comrades as the pain of hot lead pierced their bodies. My animal instincts awoke at the imminent threat of death. Muskets flashed and cracked while cannons thundered across the field. The stench of burning flesh hung in the air. This was no game; this was war.
I began to sweat. I feared for my life and ducked behind the fort's protective wall. After summoning enough courage, I spied over the parapet and regained the scent of cooked bacon; I was back. I realized that Union soldiers lived, ate, slept, and died on this very ground. Young Missouri teenagers just like me, faced death daily. Lying in that dirt fort I understood the challenge of defending freedom, the same obstacle faced by armies today. The threat of extinction, the cry of suffering, and the renewal of the senses are reborn in every generation of war. For many there is no hero's welcome or Medal of Honor; there is only the untold sacrifice for freedom. War is no playground; war is hell.
More Than Mere Rain By Ryan
I took the path I had always taken on the way home. Get on the highway and keep going, past the school, past the church, and past him. But today was a different day. The rain was falling on my car window not so hard I couldn't see, but hard enough that with the radio off, I could make out a steady rhythm as it fell upon the roof. I turned left onto the short gravel pathway, stopped the car on the concrete slab, and silenced the engine. As I stepped out of the car, I juggled the umbrella in one hand and closed the car door with the other. I walked in silence toward him, or what used to be him I suppose; and as I trembled near, I could hear the short steady breathing coming from within. When I stepped from the concrete into the grass, it was moist, the water trickling on my toes. I drew closer, and when I stopped, the trembling stopped as well. Today was different.
I couldn't sit myself in my usual spot, for the grass was too wet, so I stood, took a breath, and began to speak. While telling him the ups and downs of my day, I felt him draw closer to me. Not in a physical sense, but more a spiritual one. The rain swept under my umbrella brushing my face, as if it was him trying to get closer, breaking the barrier that was used to keep the rain away. The wind blew steadily, and although the rain made an even noise, I could still hear the quiet soar of the wind. I saw the rain vigorously cleaning the dirt from the tombstone, yet gently enough, I could still make out the words written on the stone. Standing a few moments in silence listening to the pitter-patter of the rain was much needed, but it was now time for me to speak to him.
As I finished my petition, and prayers of thanksgiving, I began to let the "Our Father" flow from my lips. I felt him rest his hands upon my shoulders, and a rush of heat swam through my body. There was not a physical being in sight, but his spirit alone was enough for me to know he was there. Although I could not see him, I felt him, and I heard him. As I finished the prayer, I stepped up to his grave, gave him a farewell, and assured him I would be back soon. Before I could bring myself to turn and walk back into reality, the wind pulled my umbrella away from my face; however, I did nothing to stop it. I stood there letting him touch me through the rain. It was then that I sincerely knew he was with me.
The day he left us, snow fell from the sky. Now, every time it rains in any form, he is showing me he is near. I do not see rain as a form of power or destruction but as a soothing agent to my heart. The day I stood before his grave, with his spirit close, I stared into the blue sky letting the rain descend down on me. Standing in this setting, I not only felt the drops, but also heard them, saw them and sometimes tasted them. Using all of these senses combined is definitely more real than just a mere feeling, sight, or sound in itself. The moment had long passed though, and it was time for me to head home and back to physical beings and senses.
The umbrella resumed its initial place over my head, and I kissed the grave he lies beneath. As I let my feet slip off the delicate and moist grass, they hit the hard slab of concrete again. The rain began to take on its same rhythm as before, and just as I stepped back into my car, I turned and whispered, "Goodbye Dad, I'll be back soon."
At the Green and White Barn By Danielle
If I could, I would spend most of my life at Randy and Claire's barn. I have a perfect day by only spending an hour or two there. Nothing extraordinary happens. The world does not suddenly tilt in my favor. All my dreams do not come true at once. But at the end of the tree-lined driveway with white vinyl fencing on each side is a white and green barn. In the surrounding pastures are five horses: Bob, Babe, Pepper, Missy and AZ. I unconsciously start to sing "Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah" or some Christmas song aloud. My ecstasy can no longer remain bottled up. Spending time with the horses simply makes me happy.
I find just as much joy in mucking out stalls as I do riding the horses. Horse manure is the only feces I do not imagine as completely repulsive. While others may gag at the sight and smell, I relish the work the manure provides. If there is poop to be shoveled, then there are horses nearby that made the poop. Each equine deposits feces in a different way. I come across piles of neat, individual pieces that roll off the poop scooping fork with the slightest tilt. A single horse may also leave a single pile lumped together. If the fork has enough tines, I can pick the giant pile in one scoop. However, those piles usually fall apart revealing the mushy insides. I often see undigested fibers as green as the grass in the pasture. But this does not gross me out the way recently deposited manure does. With its steamy odor, fresh poop attracts hundreds of flies. A black mass swarms in a hysterical buzz off the top as I shove the fork underneath the pile. I have the urge to wipe flies from my arms at the thought. Still, once the task is finished, I can focus on feeding the horses.
None of the five horses need special feed except for AZ. That horse has trouble keeping his weight up. More often than not, his rib bones can be felt popping out of his sides. While the other four horses are given one small scoop, AZ receives one large scoop of senior feed, one large scoop of beet pulp, and another large scoop of alfalfa pellets. The fresh scent of alfalfa drifts upward along with the green dust as I pour that last scoop into the bucket. I ration out a scoop for Missy and Pepper of the sickly sweet smelling fitting feed. Bob and Babe each eat a scoop of beet pulp that reminds me of dried autumn leaves. No matter what they are fed; each horse comes to the barn when I call.
I only have to shout two letters to hear thunder reply. All the horses come running when I yell AZ's name. My voice might as well be a dinner bell. When each of the horses is in its stalls, I carry the buckets out from the tack room. Since AZ has trouble swallowing, his food must be watered down. When that silly horse hears the first splash of water, he begins his routine of nickering and neighing. I only laugh at the fuss he makes. When the soupy mess finally has been dumped in his black tub, he calms down. The rest of the horses which have waited quietly and patiently at last receive their meals. Peace settles over the barn to the sound of munching horses and an occasional slurp from AZ.
While four of the five horses finish their meals in five minutes or less, AZ takes at least an hour. To help pass the time, I groom him. His ears swivel back and forth as his attention shifts from his food to me and back again. With the rubber curry comb in my hand, I work circles along his back and rump. Then a body brush sends flecks of dirt sailing through the air. My other hand always follows on his soft fur. Dust from his coat clings to my hand. I can feel the warmth of his body and rise and fall of his chest. I know of no other time when I feel both exhilarated and perfectly calm.
My heart sings when I step past the green doors of the barn. Cobwebs decorate unreachable corners as dust leaves a fine layer over all stationary items. The flutter of birds' wings is heard above. Every so often a strong breeze carries the scent of manure to my nostrils. But even stronger is the indescribable smell of horses. I inhale it in the deepest breaths I can take. Often this is the scene when I arrive and leave. I know I cannot spend the day at the barn. But—the few hours I do stay are worth every second.
