shelbyshel22
New member
Hey, so I really want to enter writing competitions for high school students but i don't know if I'm good enough. I figure this is a way to get the opinions of people who don't know me which is what a writing competition would be. If i do get answers saying I should try I'll e-mail my teacher and discuss with him if he thinks I should go for it or not. Mostly because for most teenage writing competitions you need to put your school's name so they get prize money if you win or your teacher's name. Many also ask for a letter of recommendation so i would really have to talk to him about it but i just need to know if anyone thinks I'm good enough. I've been writing for many years and I love it but i really don't have very high confidence. I've included my most recent (very short) short story thing =P Please tell me what you truly think, no need to hold back I can take it thanks =)
How can one object do so much? How does this little thing cause so much pain, and so much distress? If pulled out at a store, people panic. Why are they so afraid of the silver object I hold in my hand? I could never fear it. Not when it could give me everything I want. Silence, serenity, numbness none can be achieved in life. They are what I long for most, I need peace. No one would care if I pulled the trigger, life would go on. You may be thinking, what about your parents? My mother is already gone; she left the same way I plan to. My father….he’ll be too drunk to care. The only time he pays me any attention is when he’s demanding another beer and I take just a little too long. Just one bullet….the pain is nothing compared to what I’ve been through. One bullet or five more years of bruises, scars, and split lips. To me, the decision is an easy one.
A life filled with pain isn’t something anyone should have to endure. I know about all the charities to help kids like me, I’ve called teen help lines, even social workers! They all claim I’m imagining everything. Who else can I turn to? I’m just another teenager trying to get attention. So here I sit with cold metal resting on my temple, tears falling freely down my face.
With a final shaky breath, I pull the trigger. The pain is unbearable, I can’t stop myself, I scream. My hand must have slipped, this death was supposed to be fast. There are hands on my shoulders, shaking me. They just make the pain worse. The world suddenly goes black as I hear sirens. All sounds faded, what was once agonizing pain was now just a dull ache. This isn’t death, of that I’m sure. This can’t be what I gave everything up for…..
How one tear turns to twenty, how twenty turns to fifty, how fifty turns to hundreds, how hundreds of tears turn to a gun….
How can one object do so much? How does this little thing cause so much pain, and so much distress? If pulled out at a store, people panic. Why are they so afraid of the silver object I hold in my hand? I could never fear it. Not when it could give me everything I want. Silence, serenity, numbness none can be achieved in life. They are what I long for most, I need peace. No one would care if I pulled the trigger, life would go on. You may be thinking, what about your parents? My mother is already gone; she left the same way I plan to. My father….he’ll be too drunk to care. The only time he pays me any attention is when he’s demanding another beer and I take just a little too long. Just one bullet….the pain is nothing compared to what I’ve been through. One bullet or five more years of bruises, scars, and split lips. To me, the decision is an easy one.
A life filled with pain isn’t something anyone should have to endure. I know about all the charities to help kids like me, I’ve called teen help lines, even social workers! They all claim I’m imagining everything. Who else can I turn to? I’m just another teenager trying to get attention. So here I sit with cold metal resting on my temple, tears falling freely down my face.
With a final shaky breath, I pull the trigger. The pain is unbearable, I can’t stop myself, I scream. My hand must have slipped, this death was supposed to be fast. There are hands on my shoulders, shaking me. They just make the pain worse. The world suddenly goes black as I hear sirens. All sounds faded, what was once agonizing pain was now just a dull ache. This isn’t death, of that I’m sure. This can’t be what I gave everything up for…..
How one tear turns to twenty, how twenty turns to fifty, how fifty turns to hundreds, how hundreds of tears turn to a gun….