Thursday, March 31, 2011

Making Graphics

     I've never really talked about this obsession, but it's just a little quirk about me that most people don't even know about. I absolutely love designing things whether it be pixelizing people's faces in paint, playing around with pictures, or illustrating graphics on the computer; I just can't get enough of it. It's about time that my latest piece of work is posted onto this blog. At first my graphics weren't that great, they're still not because I'm honestly not a natural, but hard-work and persistence has increased my skills in designing!

     The graphic that I'm posting was one that I made for a Digital Media Festival at my school. It's titled "Mask of the world."

     The face of the Earth is becoming split between man-made technology and the beauty of nature. They can both be beautiful in and of themselves, but they are still very different aspects of what make up our world

Monday, March 7, 2011

Vietnam Wall

     The black wall reflected my white-washed skin, disheveled jacket, and loosely lopsided glasses that hung limply on my face like they had since elementary school. The smooth memorial seemed to stretch longer than death itself as I contemplated the list of names that had been etched into it.

     Memories raced through my mind, outlined by the dense rainforest battleground that reverberated with exploding artillery. I saw several comrades falling to the ground around me, visibly wounded. Others didn’t move a muscle. “Playing dead,” I forced myself to believe, trying to dam the tide of fear and panic that sent ripples of pain through my sinking heart.
“Will, help!" a young and bloodied soldier called to me through garbled groans. A hand gruffly grabbed my shoulder; I turned and met my commander’s steely grey eyes,
“We won’t survive with extra baggage, soldier. Retreat to the copter, now!” He hollered hollowly, his bruised and trembling mouth betraying his truly sorrowful regret.

     I pondered quietly: Die a hero? Or forever regret living? Without a second's hesitation, I hoisted Gabe onto my right shoulder; he seemed light, until I wrapped my other arm around my friend Jesse’s waist and hoisted him over the left. It was less than an hour later that I died from bullet wounds, after carrying them to safety.

     For a single moment, I thought I’d seen my own reflection in the teary-eyed man reading my name. All that I am now is a reflection embedded into the dark granite wall.