Post whatever essays you've done for school/college and post them here.
Don't make posts saying how shitty another person's writing is.
My shitty story about the life of a keyboard I just finished for English.
[quote]Quietly, in an unspecified city in the eastern hemisphere, a mechanical rhythm plays. The smell of hot plastic and fresh screws fill the muggy air. The feel is wet and warm, everything is slippery yet solid. The rough skin of the moving belt on my back is somewhat discomforting, while being slowed probed and drilled by several immobile iron arms. I'm only one of many, an endless line of meaningless, identical, cruelly-made products.
I eventually get placed in a snug cardboard box with my own fair-sized window, which was soon blocked by another cardboard box. This box was placed in an even larger box with many of my brothers and sisters. The air was dry and cool here, much more pleasant than before. The box was lacking of stimuli, but it didn't bother me. I wasn't sure how much time had passed, nor did I care.
The next thing I know, I can see through my window again. I'm being moved by something I've never seen before, similar to the machines I had seen earlier, but with rounded edges and soft skin. They also moved more dynamically than the machines. They had imperfections in their movements for each task.
I was then brought and left in a well-lit, chilly but roomy area on a row of other things with their own unique boxes. Some had gaudy colors and strange designs, others were only a solid color with some writing in the corner. There was another box with a picture on it that reminded me of what my siblings looked like, it was flat rectangular piece of plastic, lined by buttons with unique symbols on each. It possessed one particularly long button without a symbol.
I stayed here for a long time, watching boxes taken by those things and more put in their place, nothing of any real significance happened for a while. Eventually, my box was picked up and I was tossed into a large bin, near the entrance to the room, full of other things. Some were in bad shape, some were out of their box. I had a view that allowed me to see my previous home, it was soon occupied by another device, similar to what I am. Its box shares the same insignia mine does, however. The material it is made of has a small luster to it, and its shape is more sculpted.
Time passed. I had occasionally been picked up, but always dropped back into the bin, laying in a different position each time. One day, I was examined by someone for longer than usual. I was put into a cart with wheels and taken around the room. I saw many more kinds of devices on this small trip, including these egg-shaped devices and large cubes with flickering lights on one side. One of almost every device was placed in the cart with me, and I was brought near where the room was entered, and put in a white bag with the other items in the cart. Later I was taken out of the bag in a much smaller room, and placed on a flat surface. Next, my box, which I hadn't been out of since I first remember, was opened up. I was pulled out of the box, placed in front of one of the cubes with flickering lights from earlier, and my tail was pulled through the small crevice near the wall.
I then felt something, a small pinch. Everything went black. Next, I started feeling this mysterious sensation. My buttons started being pressed down. Each one had a different feeling. I had never felt anything like it. It then stopped. After a while, I started feeling again. This became a routine. Sometimes I didn't feel it for a long time, sometimes it wouldn't start again for a long time. Occasionally, I felt what I can only describe as a half-feeling. I felt something, but the usual tingle didn't happen. It was usually followed by the same first sensation again, but I usually felt the tingle this second time.
One time, it didn't work the second time. It didn't work the third time, the fourth time, or even the fifth time. I kept feeling the , but it didn't work. I then felt a slam of several keys at once, and then again and again. It hurt. Each time, it hurt worse, and worse. Eventually, I stopped feeling it.
“Connection Lost”[/quote]
behhh wrote this ages ago
[quote=me] Murray Morrison unlocked the door to the manor, and leaving the resident Edmond family standing in the frigid October air, stepped in. In the window, little Elaine Edmond, three years old, watched him curiously from outside.
Murray was a repairman from the Federal Department of Robotics, Repairs Division. He had been sent to the enormous manor to respond to a call about a malfunctioning robot.
The first room of the manor that Murray encountered was a hall. On the left was a kitchen, where scores of workers created the Edmonds' meals; they all had been evacuated because of the robot. On the right was a dining room, with an immensely long table. In front of him was a grand staircase, leading up to the numerous bedrooms.
And there, on the stairs, stood the robot. Its green-and-silver, streamlined, humanoid body glistened in the light from the chandelier. But the most striking feature was its face. The robot, originally designed with no face, just a blank green sheet of fiberglass where a face would have been, was now wearing layer upon layer of Mrs. Edmond's makeup, which gave itself the appearance of a face, albeit an utterly horrible, malformed one.
On top of the featureless green plate that should have been its face, the robot had applied layers of skin-colored paste to give itself some atrocious “skin”. Finding nothing to resemble eyes, it had settled to just leave a hole in the layer of “skin”, revealing the green fiberglass beneath. It had applied layer upon thick layer of the skin creme to create a shape that roughly resembled a nose. Lipstick was applied to give it “lips” twisted into an ugly smile. And on top of this entire mess, it had slathered on powders and liquids to give it the reds and whites, all the variations in skin tones, of the human face.
But for a robot to attempt to make itself more human in this way was forbidden. The machines were never meant to be self-aware. Murray knew that this robot would have to be reformatted, its data destroyed. That should do the job.
Suddenly, the robot spoke. Its lips never moved at all, for the words were coming from speakers beneath the glass plates that made up what was intended to be its skin.
“Hello, Mr. Morrison!”
Murray smiled at this recognition. Looking down at the ID card pinned to his shirt, he remembered that, with the latest firmware release, machines could read ID cards and name tags, and greet the humans wearing them in the appropriate fashion.
The robot continued. “My name is Marcus, Mr. Morrison.” Although he said it quickly, the words were flawless, formulated without the errors produced by the limitations of a human mouth.
“It's nice to meet you, Marcus.” Robots were officially allowed to be given names, because it made it simpler to give them commands.
“I couldn't help but notice that you're from the Repairs Division of the Federal Department of Robotics- does that mean that you have come to repair me? Am I malfunctioning?” Marcus spoke so quickly, without the pauses a human would have to take in order to inhale more air. It sounded odd, but Murray was used to it.
“Yes, I am here to repair you, as a matter of fact, Marcus.”
“Would you like me to Disable myself then?”
All robots were programmed to be capable of being Disabled. They would drop to the ground and be unable to do anything until they were revived manually from their control panels. It was standard protocol for a robot to be Disabled before it was worked on.
But Murray did not tell Marcus to Disable himself. He found it great fun to instead use the Universal Robot Disabler, or Bot Dropper, as they had been dubbed. This was a device that would emit a signal, Disabling, or Dropping, all robots within a set distance. All repairmen were given low-power Bot Droppers, which could Drop all robots within, on the most powerful setting, say, a city block.
So Murray, without saying a word, smiled and reached for his Bot Dropper, which hung on his belt. If only he'd instructed Marcus to just Disable himself, the robot would have gladly sat down on the soft carpet and shut himself off. He would have been reformatted, and would have been fixed, put back to normal. The Edmonds would still have their robot.
Nobody would have been hurt.
Murray unhooked the first Bot Dropper, resembling a walkie-talkie, from his belt. He had a second, just in case the first malfunctioned. For now, he set the first to the lowest possible setting. The field created at this intensity would Drop all robots within 50 feet or so. That was sufficient, as Marcus was less than 20 feet away, and the house was very large, so the neighbors should be unaffected.
Looking up, Murray saw that Marcus was still standing on the stairs, still expecting a reply as to whether or not he should Disable himself, waiting faithfully and hopefully. The robot still suspected nothing, and if Murray had, right then, said “Yes, Disable yourself, Marcus”, the robot would have obligingly sat down and shut himself off. But instead, Murray pressed the big button on the Bot Dropper.
Nothing happened.
Unconcerned, convinced it was just the battery, Murray set the device to a higher setting, and pressed the button again. Still, Marcus stood up straight, still he waited for a reply, faithfully, hopefully. Grumbling, Murray tried once more on an even higher setting. At this setting, all robots within a city block would have been Dropped. But still, Marcus stood, waiting, faithfully and hopefully.
Murray swore and discarded the useless device, reaching for his backup one. He suspected nothing- the battery was dead or something, and he would fix it later.
He didn't know that the device was working perfectly, and all robots within a city block had dropped to the floor. But not Marcus.
It was only when the second device failed to work that Murray began to realize what was happening. Here stood a robot who was immune to Bot Droppers. No robot was permitted to operate without the capability to be Disabled by a Bot Dropper's field.
Normally, this wouldn't be such a problem, but Marcus was not only immune to being Disabled, but he was malfunctioning in a second way- it was humanizing itself by giving itself a face! It could do worse things! It could attack someone! It could start an uprising!
Murray moaned. Without thinking, he shot the second device's settings up to the maximum, and again sent out a signal which Dropped all robots within a city block. Marcus still was unaffected, still stood, faithfully, hopefully.
This was now an emergency. Murray did what he had always been taught to do in situations such as these.
In the window, little Elaine watched with wide eyes as Murray pulled out a .38 caliber revolver and shot Marcus in the leg. The fiberglass covering his leg shattered, exposing the metal inner works, and Marcus, unable to compensate for the force, lost his balance and fell violently down the stairs.
Without thinking about what had just happened, without even once suspecting Murray, Marcus began immediately to work on repairing his leg. His lips were motionless as he spoke clearly: “Oh dear, Mr. Morrison, I seem to have injured my leg. I'll work on preliminary repairs and then let you-” He fell silent as Murray approached, gun in hand, prepared to shoot Marcus in the head at point-blank range.
That was where the Central Processor was. That was where the most critical part of the robot was- beneath the makeup, beneath the atrocious “face”. A bullet at this range would put an end to Marcus once and for all.
Even today, after Marcus was detained, destroyed, and dismantled, after a full investigation was enacted by both the Federal Departments of Robotics and Investigations, it is not known how Marcus did this. But, right then, Marcus did the impossible for a robot, for a machine controlled by predictable, invariable electric currents.
Marcus thought. And he realized that Murray was trying to kill him.
And he fought back.
Right then, Marcus grabbed the gun. It was still pointed directly at his face, and if Murray had pulled the trigger, Marcus would have been killed. But Murray, whose face had become devoid of color, was too stupefied to shoot. He was unable to think, to realize that he should pull the trigger. Instead, Murray stood into Marcus's nonexistent eyes, the holes in the pasty skin where his eyes should have been.
For a few seconds, the two held this awkward position in silence. Then, in one swift motion, Marcus wrenched the gun from Murray's hands. With irreconcilable, inhuman force, he then threw Murray off of him.
Murray landed painfully on top of a glass table, which immediately shattered, slicing his skin. Now very bloodied and unable to move, he moaned as Marcus stood up, compensating for his injured leg by balancing on the good one, and picked up the gun. Marcus held the gun in front of his own “face”, and scanned it in three dimensions, immediately learning the mechanism, learning what happens when you pull the trigger.
Then Murray watched as he was silently approached by Marcus, his face twisted, contorted into that god-awful smile. Marcus pointed the gun into the center of Murray's skull, at his brain, his Central Processor, and he pulled the trigger.
In the window, Elaine screamed and screamed and screamed.[/quote]
It then occurs to me that my old school work folder containing about 8 essays and 2 short stories is forever lost on my old hard drive. Same damned folder contained serials for half my digital games too.
They both got As without revision to my surprise.
I don't want to read any school essays
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