Students Emulate the Best

Today, AP lang students spent some time imitating the masters.
http://theamericanscholar.org/ten-best-sentences/

Here are some of their finished products:

It was a beautiful laugh—sweet and subtle—but it had no authenticity and it had no sincerity, just layers and layers of lies.

It was Michigan in the frigid winter of 1941, and the snow was fresh and the music cheerful and a great many wealthy people seemed to have a sense of seasonal generosity and it might have been a winter of shared memories and rich hot cocoa, but it was not, and more and more people had the instinctive impression that it was not.

There is nothing more offensively rude than an unwanted opinion.

In many ways he was anger itself, overbearing and powerful, full of evil ambitions, slowly boiling, always ready to erupt, standing behind you at any second, a believer in pain and suffering and direct blows.

Any ambitions for the day faded away in the summer sun.

I go to unlock for the millionth time the inviting screen of my phone and to banish all thoughts of productivity from my unstimulated conscience.

In many ways she was like Michigan herself, weak and moody, full of deception, a heart as cold as ice, fighting but failing, never predictable, a believer in the virtues of wealth and adventure and hard labour.

This tiny cottage was tucked away from the roaring city so that it was distant, but still approachable—partly because the owners feared the looming emptiness of the faceless people and nameless buildings; partly because (according to previous residents) once the thrill of a city visit was gone, the owners could simply slip away, unnoticed, back into a hiding place.

There is nothing more painfully regretful than the things left unsaid.

In many ways she was like a novel herself, full of intellect and stories, always judged on how she looked, somewhat ignored but loved when she was realized, the core of her was constant and reliable, yet people took little time to know her.  They watched the movie instead.

She was a garden—lively and beautiful—but she had no paths through which I could navigate.

Like a stream that meets a boulder, like a seed that floats into a field and like crashing into your “mean to be”, fate, in the shape of random occurrences, has never stopped there.

I go to contemplate for the millionth time the wonder of stillness and to cultivate in the quiet of my mind the unhindered reverence of this creation.

For what do we live, but to pester acquaintances with the thoughts that cloud our minds, and disregard theirs in turn?

Fear was swept away in the wind with any trace of weakness.

Like a beautiful newborn child, like the pockets of men who run our country, and like flowers in the spring time, worry, in the hearts of all Americans, never stopped growing.

There was a white light—bright and strong—but it was just a flash and with it came the destruction.

For why do we speak, but to make known our opinions and denounce those of others?

In many ways, the cheese burger was like America itself, large and wide, full of carbs and fat, a being waiting for its next bite, a greasy thing but always filling, always there when you are hungry, a believer in the virtues of simplicity and freedom and fast food.

There is nothing more outrageously simple, yet deceivingly confounding than language.

Sorrow was buried in the ground, along with the body.

I go to encounter for the first time the reality of death and forge in the depth of my sorrow the strength that will guide me.

There is nothing more viciously destructive to the soul of man than the sudden acquisition of his long-thirsted desires.

For what do we breathe, but to release to the wind our own apprehensions and to inhale the vitality of  another person’s courage.

My grade washed away in the river with any future aspirations.

I go to encounter for the millionth time the laces of my racing shoes, and to forge in the depth of my confidence the unfulfilled vision of my soul.

In many ways she was like a fish in a bowl, bored and uninspired, moving around  but getting nowhere, living the same dull monotony day in and day out hypnotized by the world outside but a prisoner to the glass.

There is nothing more undeniably irritating than a pointless assignment.

Like a vine gone untrimmed, like a vagabond in the desert, and like a child chasing a butterfly, her mind, in its constant tangle of thoughts, never stopped wandering.

In many ways he was like the underdog himself, small and powerful, full of undiscovered talent, throwing caution to the wind, unsupported but always persevering, always there to shock you, a 15 seed destroying your bracket with luck and hard work.

It was Madison Square Garden in mid-March of 2014, the crowd was anxious and the score high and a great many devoted fans seemed to have a sense of high arrogance and it might have been a March of high hopes and predictability, but it was not, and more and more fans had the uneasy apprehension that it was not.

This rundown village was miles away from tourism so that the palm trees, orchids, mango trees and aloe versa were intact and the mountain range invited missionaries—partly because they believed if the children would come, they could change their lives; partly because the islands’ tropical aesthetic appeal and whimsical breezes with the rushing water and beauty were very Caribbean, warm and safe; and also partly (according to the staff) because of an irresistible calling to save them.

I go to encounter for the millionth time the never ending maze of human thought and to forge in the depths of my mind the thoughts that I am too inarticulate to share.

For why do we persevere, but to create better lives for ourselves and for those who come after?

I go to encounter for the millionth time my own face and to silence in the depths of my soul the unanswered conscience of my own morals.

There is nothing more magically delicious than a lucky charm.

There is nothing more atrociously smelly than an over-axed middle schooler.

It was a yearning song—full and resonant—but it had no beginning and no end, just measures and measures of longing.

I go to encounter for the millionth time the frustration of programming and to shape in the space of my application the second attempt at my goal.

For what do we live, but to take soma for our sorrows, and search for another gramme in our turn?

It was a fine prison—strong and silent—but it had no ceiling and it had no floors, just walls and walls of imagination.

There are no words more uplifting than the ones that come from your loved ones.

Like the potholes in the road, like the plow trucks crowding the streets, and like the skiers gliding down the Michigan slopes, winter, in the shape of white mounds is never going to end.

In many ways he was like Hitler himself, powerful and demanding, full of detestable thoughts, a roll of lies hanging from his tongue, slow of mind but always answering instantaneously, always there when you least wanted him, a believer in the virtues of evil and deception and forced labor.

It was a fine promise—calm and reassuring—but it had no beginning and no end, just miles and miles and miles of empty intent.

For what do we learn, but to teach others, and to grow from this exchange in our turn?

There is nothing more endearingly graceful than a newborn giraffe.

Like the pebbles on the beach, like the legos in the carpet and like the glass in the street, pain in the shape of unique objects has never eluded feet.

It was a good laugh—loud and long—but it had no end and no beginning, just levels and levels of delight.

Like the ticking of the clock, like the scratching of the pencils, and like the drops of sweat meandering down the necks, stress, in the shape of standardized testing, had never stopped there.

For what do we live, but to disobey our parents and demand obedience in turn?

It was a fine life—healthy and long—but it had no love and it had no loss, just years and years of emptiness.

There is nothing more begrudgingly rewarding than forced rhetorical analysis.

I go to answer for the millionth time the questions of a test and to forge in the factory of thought between my ears the unnecessary stress of standardized testing results.

It was Forest Hills of Northern in the cold early spring of 2014, and the rain was steady and the GPA’s low and a great many exhausted students seemed to have a sense of low motivation and it may have been a spring of 36’s and 4.0’s, but it was not, and more and more people had the uneasy apprehension that it was not.

There is nothing more delightful than the smell of a freshly baked pie that you can’t have.

It was a fine novel—eloquent and long—but it had no beginning and it had no end, just pages and pages of middle.

I go to face for the millionth time, the growing probability of failure and to plant in the depths of consciousness the will to continue anyway.

It was a petrifying scream—exhilarating and blood curdling, but it had no beginning and it had no end, just echoes and echoes of terror.

For what do we live but to fail in our endeavors and learn from them in return?

I go to encounter for the millionth time the boldness of patriotism and to revel in the freedom of my soul the unchained souls of my people.

There is nothing more atrociously cruel than an unstable internet connection.

I go to replace for the millionth time, the light bulb of creativity and to forge on the lines of my paper the unprecedented sentence of my class.

Like the cobwebs in the corner, like the terms and conditions on a website, like the white crayon in the crayon box, insignificance in the shape of forgotten trinkets has never been recognized.

Like the cold, stone walls, like the empty chairs and like the silverware clicking in silence at the dinner table, home, in the heart-warming sense of the word, had never been there.