"Hogwarts* (Midnight Writing)" by Percival Brendan Noble the Third

*Note: The name of the university in this essay has been changed. The writer didn't actually apply to Hogwarts.

Writing is a very time-specific thing, isn't it? If I wrote this 6 hours ago, it would've probably sounded different. Not that I am ever going to know because this is another subject that will be discussed on another day. I avoided that tangent very smoothly. Kudos to me.

I didn't get accepted to Hogwarts.

It hasn't gotten to me. With its acceptance rates in the single digits, I wasn't surprised. I don't know if I'm ready to completely push the school from my mind though. There's always going to be a Hogwarts t-shirt hanging in my closet that I'm never going to be able to wear ever again. I haven’t worn it since some inexplicit time in June. I've steered clear of all college t-shirts in general. It just seemed too presumptuous and jinxing.

The Dean of Admissions was very kind in the wording. They weren't able to offer me admission. It seemed to take the responsibility away from me. And I really appreciate that, especially given the extra load of responsibility life has decided to dump on me. The Dean attached an article that he wrote for the Los Angeles Times. He had three main points. I honestly do believe that the article squashed any notions of self-pity before they even emerged.

First, I didn't not get in because I wasn't good enough. I might have been among the applicants who met the demands of a Hogwarts education. But, it was just a matter of how many people Hogwarts could actually accept. Hogwarts's graduating class size is 1700, but they have about 40000 applicants every year. According to my calculations, that's an acceptance rate of about 4.25%. That doesn't even round to 10. Second, transitioning from high school to college is a monumental turning point. Instead of focusing on where that happens, everyone, including myself, needs to focus on how it happens. If I spend the next four years lamenting on how I’m not at Hogwarts, I’ve wasted them. And third, "Education is what the student makes of it." [Insert proper citation that I simply cannot do at this late hour of 1 AM somewhere in this vicinity]. I may not have been granted admission, but that doesn't mean my chances of ever joining the Hogwarts family are over. I might just end up there someday doing who knows what. Or I might never go there. But, regardless of where I end up, my life will still be fulfilling.

I am disappointed that I won't be able to go there for my undergraduate years. I've always been able to see myself flourishing there. But, I'm not bothered by it, and I'm not going to let me be bothered by it. I'm not going to be broadcasting this news over social media, but I am definitely going to tell some of my close(r) friends. One could say that I am much more terrified of upcoming Christmas gatherings. And please no hugs. Hugs are reserved for extremely happy moments or bawling-my-eyes-out-in-sadness moments. This moment is neither of those two.

As you can probably tell, this post was just my progression of thought at 1 AM, as are all my other writings that are personal and about me. I seemed to have taken this first college letter quite well, and I hope my reactions stay this way.

Good night.

"The Little Inventor" by E. Marie

This piece was inspired by a photograph on the website "Humans of New York". You can find the original image, published on October 7, here: www.humansofnewyork.com The caption reads: "I'm going to be an inventor. I already have some good ideas." "Oh yeah? What are they?" "I had an idea for an electronic cigarette with a whatchamacallit in it that makes mist so you feel like you're smoking but you really aren't. And also, a toothbrush where you put the toothpaste in the bottom and it comes out the top when you're brushing." "Those are some solid ideas. Anything else?" "A fart gun."

Nothing is more inspiring than a young child passionate about helping others. One young child in particular, we’ll call him Sam, wants to be an inventor. In fact, he already has ideas of what it is that he was going to invent; the first thing he mentions is an “electronic cigarette” which would create a “mist”, causing an illusion, the feeling of smoke. The smoker will believe that he’s smoking and getting the relaxing satisfaction that he craves without the downfalls or the feeling of being addicted. We can gather from this that he more than likely has seen the unfortunate results that smoking brings. He has probably seen it through loved ones and it bothers him; each time he sees a cigarette he gets this anxious feeling, it drives him to the point of insanity. He wants nothing more than to make it stop. For this reason, I’m confident saying that the most inspiring ideas come from children. Sam is so innocent and naive, he doesn’t fully have an understanding of the causes and effects of smoking (ie., why people smoke, what it does to the body) but he does know that the end result is not good. His true desire is to help others, not himself. Sam’s innocence truly shines through when he goes on to say that his next idea is a fart gun. This shows that, although he understands the seriousness of smoking, he still thinks like a child would, allowing himself to take a break from reality by fantasizing about a way to torture his older sister on command. For this exact reason, I think that everyone should do themselves a favor by holding onto their inner child. People would be so much happier that way.

"Senior Year in Comparison" by Lola Lane

Senior year is such a strange time. It’s prefaced by every other student who has experienced it as “the best year of your life”, or, more accurately stated, the best year of high school. Although I have yet to experience the totality of the famous senior year, I think I have already picked out a strong contending metaphor for it. Senior year is like Disney World. I think everyone who has been to Disney World cannot deny that Disney World is awesome. There’s this magic to it that’s pretty much unparalleled by any other place in the world. It’s the place where dreams come true- well at least that’s what they tell me. So, just like senior year, Disney world is hyped up like no other. You’re so excited to go to Disney World because it’s so great, and all, but once you get there your energy goes from a 500 hundred on the excited scale to about a 50. There are lines everywhere. Turns out that everyone loves Disney world, too, and they all decided to come on the same hot day you’re here. But you aren’t going to let that stop you because Disney World is awesome, and you don’t want to be that guy who hates Disney World. So here you are, it’s you’re Senior year, and you have tons of stuff to do- keeping up the grades, writing the prize-winning essays, studying for the final SAT, finding time to play a sport, and lastly  scrounging up time to hang out with your friends. Senior year is waiting in the line at Disney World to go on the great ride that everyone who has ever been there knows about and went on at least ten times. It’s hot, it gets frustrating, you wind up yelling at your parents, and asking how much more time until you’ll be at the front, or when you’ll finally be accepted into college. The line does funny things to you. The crowds create unpleasantness. It’s inevitable. You get in line and your face automatically becomes a shade of disdain and extreme discomfort.  The same is true of senior year. Everyone is bogged down with early applications, stressful, higher-level AP courses, and the endless amounts of wondering about the future and how it’s going to turn out for you. The line drags on, as this weird part of senior year seems never-ending. Finally, it’s January 1^st and applications are due. A huge weight is lifted from your shoulders. You are about ten people away from being on the ride. Then it hits, an acceptance or a denial, but you’ve made it to the end nonetheless. Whether the ride was good or bad, at least it’s over. Graduation, and the next ride eagerly calls your name. Of course, this is only how I assume senior year plays out. I haven’t completed the year yet, but I’m fairly certain it would one thousand times better if senior year took place at Disney World. 

"Open Roads" by Naomi Jean Lewis

The road stretches before us with no end in sight.

Trucks rumble behind me, and other families with other stories drive on far ahead.

The speed limits are higher than I’m used to seeing

But I don’t drive the speed limit at home anyway.

I fall in love with golden fields and open skies as my sister falls asleep.

Her cowboy hat hangs behind her and her snowboard slides on the backseat.

She’s still asleep when I drive past the first few wind turbines.

            Hey, Kristen, I say, shoving at her shoulder

            Look at this.

            That’s cool, she says back, and closes her eyes again.

I keep driving, and the turbines keep coming.

The engine growls louder as I coax Ellie

(My sister’s name for the black Honda Element, not mine)

Up a hill and over a crest

            Kristen.

Displayed before me is a sea unlike any I’ve seen.

Giant white monsters rear their heads.

Thousands and thousands of wind turbines dot the golden fields.

They’re not packed tightly but everywhere I look they stand tall.

            Kristen. I don’t know why I need her to see this,

But there’s something about powerful entities

Resting like remnants of another world in the middle of America.

            Kristen, please.

Kristen is awake now, watching the army of turbines stand at attention.

She doesn’t say anything, but I know she feels the same way I do.

We pay tribute to the newly created gods of the earth in silence.

We soar down the road at a speed that makes me feel invincible.

We pray for something we can’t put a name to.

 I drive with one hand wrapped around the wheel and the other on the gearshift.

The turbines don’t stop coming- there are more on the other side of the road.

The sun setting behind them blinds me as the light sets the world aflame.

(They look like angry deities, standing in the midst of Armageddon)

As the sun dips behind the plains, the turbines become barely visible.

(People have forgotten the old myths they used to fear)

The monolithic, man-made creations vanish as fast as they appeared.

My sister goes back to sleep.

We have four more hours before we can stop.

(Although the turbines still exist, miles away, they are gone from our minds.

They were never an army. There was only a cemetery the an empty field.)

(We forget that we have always created our own gods.)

The HWC is on the Map!

The HWC was recently added to a map of Secondary Schools Writing Centers by the International Writing Center Association! You can view the map of all of the Secondary Schools Writing Centers here.

When looking at the map, you'll notice a dense cluster of Writing Centers in Northern Virginia. We're proud to be part of such a strong network of  High School Writing Centers!

HWC November 2013 Statistics Report

We had our busiest month EVER!

"Pushed" by Bear Force One

This piece was inspired by a photograph on the website "Humans of New York". You can find the original image, published on October 7, here: www.humansofnewyork.com  The caption reads: "I just got out of prison. I was there 37 years." "What'd you do?" "Something I shouldn't have done." "What was that?" "Someone pushed me. So I killed him." 

His unapologetic expression burns into my retina. The wrinkles on his leathery skin seem to be the product of extraordinary stress or bad habits dying hard rather than natural aging. A murderer is gazing right at me with his cold, piercing eyes, yet in them I can still see decency, a sense of humanity. I am feeling pity and sympathy for someone that took away another person’s life simply for “pushing him”. What if the person he killed had a family? What if that person had someone in his life that only he could support? What about his aspirations? Goals? Beliefs? Just what in the hell did he mean by “pushing”? Was the old, weary man in the picture really capable of snuffing the light out of someone for something as trivial as being moved a couple inches towards a certain direction in a semi-forceful manner? I mean, he didn’t say “shoved”, “thrown”, or “pummeled”, so when he said someone pushed him he meant it literally. Goodness, take a second and think how ridiculous that notion is for a second. Just think about how many times you run into someone by accident or walk by someone and nudge them a bit too forcefully in a crowded hallway or room. Well that’s how many times you deserve to die using that man’s logic, and I’m not even considering how meaningless that death would be in the first place. A person’s death can be so powerful and represent so much in such a brief moment. It could indicate the ushering of a new era, a new king. It could lead to hundreds of lives being saved and being able to go on and make families of their own/reunite with their current ones. It could represent the socioeconomic, personal, and mental struggles of a person struggling to find themselves in a world that can seem impossible to make heads or tails of. Instead, what a death like that would mean is that someone needs some anger management.

"Battle of the Brains" by Justin Turner

Prompt: What does your sleeping dreaming mid think in the moments before you wake up? What are its last hopes, fears, or promises to itself as the alarm goes up and it feels itself vanishing?

            Ugh. 5:56. Four more minutes before I have to deal with him.  I don’t have time for his utterly happy thoughts or his complete laziness. There is work to be done, thinking to do!

            5:59. Here we go. 6:00. “Beep! Beep! Beep!”  I can feel Justin begin to move. Come on shut it off. Just a few steps to your alarm.  I try my best to keep him in a groggy state of mind as he slowly inches toward the alarm clock.  Just a few more steps!  I can feel my power over him slowly slip away as my pesky neighbor begins his day.  No. I’m not done yet.  Justin slams the alarm clock and as per usual I coax him back to bed. “Come on just more minutes,” I think to him.  After studying for chemistry the night before, he can’t resist and is soon back on his bed dreaming.  Phew.  He hadn’t finished solving his problem yet. Now he has a few extra minutes before he really has to go.  However I now have my own problem to deal with. 

            “Good morning!” I roll Justin’s eyes in his sleep as my arch nemesis comes for his turn. “How are you today?”

“I was fine until you came along,” I said expressionless.

He lets out a staged laugh, “Looks like you’ve taken some extra time again. You do realize it’s my turn.  There are things for Justin to do and learn you know.”

“No. You say that every morning, yet you still manage to make him procrastinate and watch TV instead of doing something truly productive; as a result of that you cut into my time at night when he’s trying to vigorously catch up because you just had to enjoy every little thing but what he needs to do. I’m the only one actually doing anything productive around here.  Just listen to what he’s dreaming about. He’s problem solving, without your distractions I might add.”

He smiles, and says, “He’s not learning anything! I supply those problems you so desperately want him to fix.  Listen to yourself; you need me!  I’ll give you until 6:15 today, but I expect an awake boy tomorrow at 6.”

“Fine,” I say full well knowing that tomorrow was Saturday and not even he wanted to work that early in the morning.  He disappears for a little while at least and I peacefully sit back and watch the beauty of sleep at work.

Writing Center Bros

HWC Tutor Danny V. (Junior) worked with his brother Patrick V. (Freshman) today in the HWC after school.