|
Post by Naj on Jul 16, 2010 18:27:14 GMT -5
Cool little writing analyzer I came across today in a local newspaper. "Birds circle above as the sun closes her eyes. The silence of darkness lullabys my soul." analysis~~~ Here is the page to enter your writing: iwl.me/~~~
|
|
The Reverend Bizarre
Lilly Rush
10 0011 10101 [/b][/color]
"The way your prophet breaks his bread does not speak the future." - Mephirostus
Posts: 2,605
|
Post by The Reverend Bizarre on Jul 16, 2010 19:39:44 GMT -5
This was going around all over LiveJournal. The results change depending on what you put in. For example, I put in the fanfiction "Unorthodox" and I get, iwl.me/b/2b568272Which is awesome, because I like the author. Now, to do an original blurb. The bed felt harder than rock. Strange indeed, because the bed was soft; it was draped with a down comforter; and the pillows were fluffed. Those didn't matter one bit though. Not when the seventeen year old boy's hands were tied to the posts; not when he was trying to get away from his captors. Surrounding his bed were seven priests, all chanting in an arcane language, and tossing holy water onto him. At the foot of his bed was aunt Carol; a religious nutcase who had been informed a lie about Patrick, and his twin sister, Rachel. She believed it to be of the Holy Spirit, and that was why an exorcism was being performed on him. Little did she know that one of the priests was a demon himself, the demon Mephisto. She knew him as Kevin Childress though, and considered him to be a friend. Kevin did not feel the same, but if he could take Patrick, then he would spare the woman's life. Watching from the shadows was the angel Gabriel. Cold blue eyes watched the preceedings, and it took everything inside of her not to vomit. Which for an angel could mean certain death to a human. She didn't want any humans to die tonight. She wanted to stop this whole ugly thing from continuing. iwl.me/b/cfe99843before I've gotten Steven King, H.P. Lovecraft, the dude that wrote Lolita, and William Shakespeare.
|
|
|
Post by Electrophile on Jul 16, 2010 20:12:04 GMT -5
|
|
|
Post by Kassandra on Jul 16, 2010 20:48:10 GMT -5
|
|
|
Post by Naj on Jul 17, 2010 10:27:30 GMT -5
I can see how you got Stephen King, TRB. ;D I just think this is the coolest little gadget. So, kassandra and Electrophile, a little of your writing sample maybe - so we can see.
|
|
|
Post by coldboneslove398 on Jul 17, 2010 12:10:49 GMT -5
I write like Chuck Palahniuk apparently . I don't see the resemblance between my writing and the writer of Fight Club. iwl.me/b/2b568272This was the last essay of my high school career that I wrote for my Sports in America class as our final assignment about how Sports have impacted our lives. In this essay, I discussed the connection of my love for football and how it deals with my everyday life in this family. Here's the introduction and conclusion to the essay: There are 90 minutes in a standard football game. That’s 5,400 seconds. In 5,400 seconds, there has been only one goal, 33 fouls, four yellow cards, 25 shots on goal, and three corner kicks. Yes, I’m talking about that football. The football that makes me get riled up at the television. The football that makes me scream when my team scores a goal. The football that makes me groan at every missed shot. The football that leaves me in awe at every fantastic save made by the goalkeeper. And most importantly, the football that makes those Kodak moments with my family. --------------------------------------------------------------------- Football is a staple in the [my last name] household just like white rice and soup. For 380 matches in the English Premiership and 16 matches in the Champions League, that’s 2,138,400 seconds. And every second is a moment of opportunity to communicate with my father. We go from talking about strategy and memorable plays in football history to our favorite teams, players, and coaches. In other words, I don’t watch football to escape from reality like many people do. I watch football to be comfortable in my own reality. It provides a safe-zone of things to talk about besides telling them about my grades, talking about my prom date with some guy who isn’t Asian, and revealing to them that my life isn’t on the pre-med track anymore. That’s what I like to think about my simple infatuation with football: its ability to help bridge a dividing gap between me and my conservative Asian parents. Because the fact is, I’m trying so hard to follow my brother’s advice, which was, “Never forget that our parents love us very much. It’s hard to see when you are a teenager and all you can feel is the oppressiveness and the stubbornness, but never forget that everything they do is out of love for us. They have the best of intentions, but they are unable to comprehend how truly different we are from them. They are the only way they know how to be.” And, football is the only way I know how to be with them for 90 minutes.
|
|
The Reverend Bizarre
Lilly Rush
10 0011 10101 [/b][/color]
"The way your prophet breaks his bread does not speak the future." - Mephirostus
Posts: 2,605
|
Post by The Reverend Bizarre on Jul 18, 2010 19:38:05 GMT -5
|
|
|
Post by Electrophile on Jul 18, 2010 20:48:19 GMT -5
I can see how you got Stephen King, TRB. ;D I just think this is the coolest little gadget. So, kassandra and Electrophile, a little of your writing sample maybe - so we can see.
|
|
|
Post by Kassandra on Jul 18, 2010 20:58:55 GMT -5
I used a sample of a SBQ for English which is a source based question. And you had to write in any form you choose other than poetry, I chose to write a short story. You only have 50 minutes to plan, write and proof read. So it's not my greatest. It is also from Grade 10, so that says alot!
I think of my life as a genuinely well written soap opera. We have the plot, characters, family issues , secretes and most of all the drama. Every day when I open my eyes its like I can see the credits rolling across the screen displaying every name that has destroyed me in crystal clear high definition. The day plays out the exact same. High school, its like a rich country club just for teenagers, you have the backstabbers, preps, athletes, and outcasts. That would be me. I’m the person people chose to pick on, my family doesn’t have money, I have average grades and I don’t follow the newest trends, but like every other teenage in the world I have deep well kept secretes that threaten to explode every second I am awake and breathing. People ask what is eating at you? Can I help? My response nothings wrong when really my whole family is falling apart right in front of my eyes and I cant do anything but stand by and watch. I was sitting at my desk working on chemistry homework when the first faint sound of a fist pounding on the counter top rang through my ears, Their fighting again. I said to no one in particular. This was the third time this week that the fighting had escalated as far as it had. Since it started I have become pretty accustomed to the screaming and yelling that I can tune it out. But when things get so out of control I crack open my door and sit quietly and listen. As I crack the door open you can just about feel the tension radiating from the kitchen down the hallway. First it starts with the initial hand smashing against the closest hard surface. One will start speaking in a hushed tone which escalates into complete madness. I have never been sure who throws the first punch but when that happens you need to prepare yourself for the worst. Their anger turns to rage in a matter of seconds screams echo through the house like an empty cave making me cringe. Those screams are usually accompanied by the closest breakable object. The most common are the plates, any second the echoing sound of that plate smashing against the farthest wall of the kitchen will fill the room sending my life into a deeper downward spiral. This outmost rage can last anywhere from fifteen minutes to hours. The constant reminder from the plates and various other objects being hurled against that wall was enough for me to question my sanity. How can I just be sitting here on the floor with my back against this cold wall when I could be out there trying to stop them. Everything goes silent just for a moment someone utters the last word and I hear keys being pulled off the hook a jacket being slid on roughly and then at last the front door slams shut and I hear the car pull out of the driveway and speed off. As I come back from reality I hear the master bedroom door slam shut and that’s when I know its over. I wait five minutes before I carefully get up from the place I have been sitting for the last hour and slowly walk down the dim hall to the dark kitchen. I flick the light to reveal how much damage had been done. This time it wasn’t as bad as I thought. There is only one hole in the wall but it looks like they shattered around 5 plates and a few glasses. There was cutlery strewn across the floor and a chair tipped over, but like every other time I push down the guilt and clean up the mess. I have gotten into a routine first deal with the glass then with the cutlery then try to repair any other major damages done. When I finish I walk into my room and continue where my life left off, the chemistry homework gets finished and the room gets cleaned. Then there I am like every other night sitting on my floor with my legs curled and my face hidden and I wonder will my life ever be different.
|
|