Essay Prompts

poetry prompt

https://docs.google.com/document/pub?id=1v-M7N94uxTlFFNXxqrBcpQ4KFnuNGK3n9zmI8gGrdpM

character analysis

https://docs.google.com/document/pub?id=1GVOb3iowqz5kPtZioV_Hh_7cNanXhmV6LUAdyqFVN2Y

open-ended

https://docs.google.com/document/pub?id=1KcVtYA1nz9DmCWkj3MW8GgxMWEXsEsY-z3hUOUHLFpA

rhetorical analysis

https://docs.google.com/document/pub?id=1mn9zkJoBHV6yZP9MPDdT5vptpBC2kMkX4jn2vjYXk7U

persuasive essay

https://docs.google.com/document/pub?id=1TgKMcmmILgfHiv6nXtnJ5Vw0UsMFJLFt___UFZ7w6OU

Passages for Study

The Things They Carried

They carried USO stationary and pencils and pens.  They carried Sterno, safety pins, trip flares, signal flares, spools of wire, chewing tobacco, liberated joss sticks and statuettes of the smiling Buddha, candles, grease pencils, The Stars and Stripes, fingernail clippers, Psy Ops leaflets, bush hats, bolos, and much more. Twice a week, when the resupply choppers came in, they carried hot chow in green marmite cans and large canvas bags filled with iced beer and soda pop. They carried plastic water containers, each with a 2-gallon capacity. . . Some things they carried in common.  Taking turns, they carried the big PRC-77 scrambler radio, which weighed 30 pounds with its battery.  They shared the weight of memory.  They took up what others could no longer bear.  Often they carried each other, the wounded or weak.

They moved like mules.  By daylight they took sniper fire, at night they were mortared, but it was not battle, it was just the endless march, village to village, without purpose, nothing won or lost.  They marched for the sake of the march. They plodded along lowly, dumbly, leaning forward against the heat, unthinking, all blood and bone, simple grunts, soldiering with their legs, toiling up the hills and down into the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then the next and then another, but no volition, no will, because it was automatic, it was anatomy,and the war was entirely a matter of posture and carriage, the hump was everything, a kind of inertia, an kind of emptiness, a dullness of desire and intellect and conscience and hope and human  sensibility.  Their principles were in their feet.  Their calculations were biological. They had no sense of strategy or mission.

It was a graceful, good-sized lake.  Back in high school, at night, he had driven around and around it with Sally Kramer, wondering if she’d want to pull into the shelter of Sunset Park, or other times with his friends, talking about urgent matters, worrying about  the existence of God and theories of causation.  Then, there had not been a war.  But there had always been the lake, which was the town’s first cause of existence, a place for immigrant settlers to put down their loads. . . Now, in the late afternoon, it lay calm and smooth, a good audience for silence, a seven-mile circumference that could be traveled by slow car in twenty-five minutes.  It was not a good lake for swimming.  After high school, he’d caught an ear infection that had almost kept him out of the war.  And the lake had drowned his friend Max Arnold, keeping him out of the war entirely.  Max had been one who liked to talk about the existence of God.  “No, I’m not saying that,” he’d argue against the drone of the engine.  “I’m saying it’s possible as an idea, even necessary as an idea, a final cause in the whole structure of causation.”  Now he knew, perhaps. Before the war, they’d driven around the lake as friends, but now Max was just an idea, and most of Norman Bowker’s other friends were living in Des Moines or Sioux City, or going to school somewhere, or holding down jobs.  The high school girls were mostly gone or married.  Sally Kramer, whose pictures he had once carried in his wallet, was one who had married.  Her name was now Sally Gustafson and she lived in a pleasant blue house on the less expensive side of the lake road.  On his third day home he’d seen her out mowing the lawn, still pretty in a lacy red blouse and white shorts.  For a moment he’d pulled over, just to talk, but instead he’d pushed down hard on the gas pedal.  She looked happy.  She had her house and her new husband, and there was really nothing he could say to her. . .Clockwise, as if in orbit, he took the Chevy on another seven-mile turn around the

lake. 

Lord of the Flies

     Henry was a bit of a leader this afternoon, because the other two were Percival and Johnny, the smallest boys on the island.  Percival was mouse-colored and had not been very attractive even to his mother; Johnny was well built, with fair hair and a natural belligerence.  Just now he was being obedient because he was interested; and the three children, kneeling in the sand, were at peace.
     Roger and Maurice came out of the forest.  They were relieved from duty at the fire and had come down for a swim.  Roger led the way straight through the castles, kicking them over, burying the flowers, scattering the chosen stone.  Maurice followed, laughing, and added to the destruction. The three littluns paused in their game and looked up.  As it happened, the particular marks in which they were interested had not been touched, so they made no protest.  Only Percival began to whimper with an eyeful of sand and Maurice hurried away.  In his other life Maurice had received chastisement for filling a younger eye with sand.  Now, though there was no parent to let fall a heavy hand, Maurice still felt the unease of wrongdoing.  At the back of his mind formed the uncertain outlines of an excuse.  He muttered something about a swim and broke into a trot.

    Ralph shuddered. The lagoon had protected them from the Pacific: and for some reason only Jack had gone right down to the water on the other side. Now he saw the landsman’s view of the swell and it seemed like the breathing of some stupendous creature. Slowly the waters sank among the rocks, revealing pink tables of granite, strange growths of coral, polyp, and weed. Down, down, the waters went, whispering like the wind among the heads of the forest. There was one flat rock there, spread like a table, and the waters sucking down on the four weedy sides made them seem like cliffs. Then the sleeping leviathan breathed out, the waters rose, the weed streamed, and the water boiled over the table rock with a roar. There was no sense of the passage of waves; only this minute-long fall and rise and fall.
     Ralph turned away to the red cliff. They were waiting behind him in the long grass, waiting to see what he would do. He noticed that the sweat in his palm was cool now; realized with surprise that he did not really expect to meet any beast and didn’t know what he would do about it if he did.
     He saw that he could climb the cliff but this was not necessary. The squareness of the rock allowed a sort of plinth round it, so that to the right, over the lagoon, one could inch along a ledge and turn the corner out of sight. It was easy going, and soon he was peering round the rock…
    A sound behind him made him turn. Jack was edging along the ledge.
     “Couldn’t let you do it on your own.”
   Ralph said nothing. He led the way over the rocks, inspected a sort of half-cave that held nothing more terrible than a clutch of rotten eggs, and at last sat down, looking round him and tapping the rock with the butt of his spear.
   Jack was excited. “What a place for a fort!” A column of spray wet them…
Side by side they scaled the last height to where the diminishing pile was crowned by the last broken rock. Jack struck the near one with his fist and it grated slightly.

     “There’s no signal now. Nothing to show.”
     “You’re nuts on the signal.”
     The taut blue horizon encircled them, broken only be the mountain-top.
     “That’s all we’ve got.”
     He leaned his spear against the rocking stone and pushed back two handfuls of hair.
     “We’ll have to go back and climb the mountain. That’s where they saw the beast.”
     “The beast won’t be there.”
     “What else can we do?”…
     He sucked his bruised fist.
     “Jack! Come on.”
     But Jack was not there. A knot of boys, making a great noise that he had not noticed, were heaving and pushing at a rock. As he turned, the base cracked and the whole mass toppled into the sea so that a thunderous plume of spray leapt half-way up the cliff.
     “Stop it! Stop it!”
     His voice struck a silence among them.
     “Smoke.”
     A strange thing happened in his head. Something flittered there in front of his mind like a bat’s wing, obscuring his idea.
     “Smoke.”
     At once the ideas were back, and the anger.
     “We want smoke. And you go wasting your time. You roll rocks.”
     Roger shouted. “We’ve got plenty of time!”
     Ralph shook his head. “We’ll go to the mountain.”
     The clamor broke out. Some of the boys wanted to go back to the beach. Some wanted to roll more rocks. The sun was bright and danger had faded with the darkness…
Bill came up to Ralph. “Why can’t we stay here for a bit?”
     “That’s right.”
     “Let’s have a fort.”
     “There’s no food here,” said Ralph. “and no shelter. Not much fresh water.”
     “This would make a wizard fort.”
     “We can roll rocks--”
     “Right onto the bridge--”
     “I say we’ll go on!” shouted Ralph furiously. “We’ve got to make certain. We’ll go now.”
     “Let’s stay here--”
     “Back to the shelter--”
     “I’m tired--”
     “No!”
     Ralph struck the skin of his knuckles. They did not seem to hurt. “I’m chief. We’ve got to make certain. Can’t you see the mountain? There’s no signal showing. There may be a ship out there. Are you all off your rockers?”
     Mutinously, the boys fell silent or muttering.
     Jack led the way down the rock and across the bridge.

     “You are a silly little boy,” said the Lord of the Flies, “just an ignorant, silly little boy.” Simon moved his swollen tongue but said nothing.
     “Don’t you agree?” said the Lord of the Flies. “Aren’t you just a silly little boy?” Simon answered him in the same silent voice.
     “Well then” said the Lord of the Flies, “you’d better run off and play with the others. They think you’re batty. You don’t want Ralph to think you’re batty, do you? You like Ralph a lot, don’t you? And Piggy, and Jack?”
     Simon’s head was tilted slightly up. His eyes could not break away and the Lord of the Flies hung in space before him.
     “What are you doing out there all alone? Aren’t you afraid of me?”
Simon shook. “There isn’t anyone to help you. Only me. And I’m the Beast.”
Simon’s mouth labored, brought forth audible words.
     “Pig’s head on a stick.”
     “Fancy thinking the Beast was something you could hunt and kill!” said the head. For a moment or two the forest and all the other dimly appreciated places echoed with the parody of laughter.      “You knew, didn’t you? I’m part of you? Close, close, close! I’m the reason why it’s no go? Why things are what they are?”
     The laughter shivered again. “Come now,” said the Lord of the Flies. “Get back to the others and we’ll forget the whole thing.”
     Simon’s head wobbled. His eyes were half closed as though he were imitating the obscene thing on the stick. He knew that one of his times was coming on. The Lord of the Flies was expanding like a balloon.
     “This is ridiculous. You know perfectly well you’ll only meet me down there–so don’t try to escape!” Simon’s body was arched and stiff. The Lord of the Flies spoke in the voice of a schoolmaster.
     “This has gone quite far enough. My poor, misguided child, do you think you know better than I do?” There was a pause.
     “I’m warning you. I’m going to get angry. D’you see? You’re not wanted. Understand? We are going to have fun on this island. Understand? We are going to have fun on this island! So don’t try it on, my poor misguided boy, or else--’

     Simon found he was looking into a vast mouth. There was blackness within, a blackness that spread. “--Or else,” said the Lord of the Flies, “we shall do you? See? Jack and Roger and Maurice and Robert and Bill and Piggy and Ralph. Do you. See?”
     Simon was inside the mouth. He fell down and lost consciousness.

     Piggy handed Ralph his glasses and waited to receive back his sight. The wood was damp; and this was the third time they had lighted it. Ralph stood back, speaking to himself.
     “We don’t want another night without fire.”
     He looked round guiltily at the three boys standing by. This was the first time he had admitted the double function of the fire. Certainly one was to send up a beckoning column of smoke; but the other was to be a hearth now and a comfort until they slept. Eric breathed on the wood till it glowed and sent out a little flame. A billow of white and yellow smoke reeked up. Piggy took back his glasses and looked at the smoke with pleasure.
     “If only we could make a radio!”
     “Or a plane-”
     “—or a boat.”
     Ralph dredged his fading knowledge of the world…
     “Don’t stop—go on up!”
     “Smoke’s getting thinner.”
     “We need more wood already, even when it’s wet.”
     “My asthma--”
     “Sucks to your ass-mar.”…
     The three boys went into the forest and fetched armfuls of rotten wood. Once more the smoke rose, yellow and thick…
     “I can’t carry any more wood,” said Eric. “I’m tired.”
     …Ralph cleared his throat….”We’ve got to keep it going.”
     Eric flung himself down. “I’m too tired. And what’s the good?”
     “Eric!” cried Ralph in a shocked voice. “Don’t talk like that!”
     “Well—what is the good?”
     Ralph tried indignantly to remember. There was something good about a fire. Something overwhelmingly good.
     “Ralph’s told you often enough,” said Piggy moodily.
     “How else are we going to be rescued?”
     “Of course! If we don’t make smoke--”
     He squatted before them in the crowding dusk.
     “Don’t you understand? What’s the good of wishing for radios and boats?”
     He held out his hand and twisted the fingers into a fist.
     “There’s only one thing we can do to get out of this mess. Anyone can play at hunting, anyone can get us meat--”
     He looked from face to face. Then, at the moment of greatest passion and conviction, that curtain flapped in his head and he forgot what he had been driving at. He knelt there, his fist clenched, gazing solemnly from one to the other. Then the curtain whisked back.
     “We’ve got to make smoke; and more smoke--”
     “But we can’t keep it going! Look at that!”
     The fire was dying on them.
     “Two to mind the fire,” said Ralph, half to himself, “that’s twelve hours a day.”
     “We can’t get any more wood, Ralph--”
     “—not in the dark—“
     “—not at night—“
     “We can light it every morning,” said Piggy. “Nobody ain’t going to see smoke in the dark.” Sam nodded vigorously.
     “It was different when the fire was--”
     “—up there.”
     Ralph stood up, feeling curiously defenseless with the darkness pressing in.
     “Let the fire go then, for tonight.”
     He led the way to the first shelter, which still stood, though battered. The bed leaves lay within,   dry and noisy to the touch. In the next shelter a littlun was talking in his sleep. The four biguns crept into the shelter and burrowed under the leaves. The twins lay together and Ralph and Piggy at the other end. For a while there was the continual creak and rustle of leaves as they tried for comfort.

Macbeth

The raven himself is hoarse
That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan
Under my battlements. Come, you spirits
That tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here,
And fill me from the crown to the toe top-full
Of direst cruelty! Make thick my blood;
Stop up the access and passage to remorse,
That no compunctious visitings of nature
Shake my fell purpose, nor keep peace between
The effect and it! Come to my woman's breasts,
And take my milk for gall, you murdering ministers,
Wherever in your sightless substances
You wait on nature's mischief! Come, thick night,
And pall thee in the dunnest smoke of hell,
That my keen knife see not the wound it makes,
Nor heaven peep through the blanket of the dark,
To cry 'Hold, hold!'

He's here in double trust;
First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,
Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,
Who should against his murderer shut the door,
Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan
Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been
So clear in his great office, that his virtues
Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against
The deep damnation of his taking-off;
And pity, like a naked new-born babe,
Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed
Upon the sightless couriers of the air,
Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,
That tears shall drown the wind. I have no spur
To prick the sides of my intent, but only
Vaulting ambition, which o'erleaps itself
And falls on the other.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest; I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.