The Search

By Fatema Shabbir

“The place is a maze,” James huffed, “we’ll never find the key. And even if we do how will we get back to the gate?”

It was one hour and ten minutes to midnight. James and Cora were trapped in a maze rigged to blow up at midnight and if they didn’t escape by then they would be part of the fireworks.

“This is a sick game,” Cora cried out disgusted.

When they woke up and recovered from the effects of the drug Cora found the note pinned to the grey iron gate.

Find the key before midnight and get out or be roasted, it read.

They got up from the pile of broken bones and rotting flesh that line that floors of the maze and resisted the urge to vomit.

The place had no lights. In the distance an owl hooted. The moon had hidden behind grey and heavy clouds that threatened to rain down, denying them any ease in their task.

Suddenly they heart leaves rustling and twigs cracking. They jumped and turned to face the noise. Nothing. There was nothing there.

At forty minutes to midnight they saw something silver glistening in the distance. Despite their condition they broke into a smile. They ran for the key. When they reached the bush, they looked around and to their horror the entire row of bushed was lined with glistening silver keys; some broken, some rusted, some small, some big. They stood there for a moment dumbstruck.

“Which one?” James asked.

Silence engulfed them as precious seconds trickled by.

“418! 418!” Cora exclaimed “That was the number on the door!”

They nodded and split up. If the key was there they had to find it soon; they only had thirty minutes to go. They had covered nearly half the path when a shrill voice from behind laughed. Instinctively they ran to each other.

“I don’t think it’s here.”

“Me neither,” James sighed.

They left the path and moved to the next one, then the next one. They were running out of time. Just when they were about to give in they reached the heart of the maze. There lay a pristine white almost glowing slab of marble, on it was the key.

“It’s too easy,” James whispered but Cora had already made a run for it.

She almost tripped on a skull with its mouth hanging open. She hesitated as she heard feet shuffling nearby, when she stopped to look there was nothing.

She felt the key calling out to her, mesmerized she ran to it again. When she reached it she picked it up without hesitating.

From about her she heard a faint crackle. That was the last thing she heard. The chopping block came fast and there was no time to react. Her blood sprayed onto the horrified James as her head rolled over to the other rotting remains on the pathway. The key fell from her hand and slinked again the white marble.

“59… 58… 57,” a robotic voice from the distant speaker began the countdown.

James grabbed the key and dashed for the gate. Fear for his life has helped him remember the exact way. He wasted no time.

When he reached the door and turned the key it got stuck. Jammed, the door only creaked. James shook it with everything in him, but to no avail.

“3… 2… 1,” the voice dies out as James pushed harder and harder.

A loud band, that was the last thing he heard as a cloud of fire erupted from the heart of the maze, quickly making its way to all corners.

James closed his eyes ready for the blow.

Frankenstein

By Ilsa Rashid

Directed Writing:
I lay on a mattress of steel, writhing in pain that gnawed, not on my body, but my conscience. The cold of the mattress reminded me that this agony and this loneliness were all real.
How much longer must I endure such suffering? When shall I join those innocent ones? The ones that I snatched away from their families, like a stubborn child seizes another’s possession.
I saw their faces float affront my eyes, on the walls of the cell, mocking me. The embarrassment, the guilt of it drove me insane! I remember, as clearly as I saw the turnkey sleeping on a chair behind the bars that I had killed. How many, I do not remember.
The turnkey parted his eyes slightly and said,
“Do you need anything?”
“Death,” I replied.
“Might as well learn to kill time too. You’re not going anywhere anytime soon,” he stated flatly.

Comparative Analysis:

Both, the given passage and my passage, are written in first person singular and are monologues by a person responsible for a series of murders.

Both passages have the same purpose: to show the murder’s agony. ‘Agony,' ‘miserable,' ‘parched’ and ‘terror’ are words that the given passage uses. My passage uses ‘pain’, ‘suffering’, and ‘gnawed’. All these words describe the character’s experience in the prison and create a mood of tension and, sometimes, sympathy. Throughout the passages, the tone of the speaker is that of guilt and restlessness. This is illustrated by the questions in line 5 in my passage these questions evoke sympathy in the reader as they help form a connection with the prisoner.

The given passage uses long sentences and exclamations to show the frustration and helplessness of the prisoner. The given passage uses thus exclamation in line 21, whereas I have emulated this technique in line 10 and 11.

The given passage uses a simile in line 22 where the renewed torture is compared to ‘the turning of the wheel.’ ‘Like a stubborn child’ is the simile that I have used to describe his act of murder.

The given passage repeatedly mentions how the prisoner can’t differentiate reality from a dream, as in line 4, 24 and 47. I have also shown a sense of disbelief and confusion in line 13, where the prisoner does not remember how many he has killed.

Both passages make use of dialogue where a person asks the prisoner a question. ‘Are you better now, sir?’ in the given passage and “Do you need anything?’ in mine. Also, both passages make use of sarcasm: in line 42 in the given passage and line 17-18 in my passage, where the remarks of the outsider hurt the prisoner. This evokes sympathy for the prisoner.

“Gaolers, turnkeys, bolts” is a triad used in the given passage. This creates a sense of pity for the prisoner as it is a list of boring things and people. However, I have not used this technique.

Untitled

By Ilsa Rashid

I thought I heard a dull scraping beneath the floorboards.
“Must be that rat again,” I thought to myself, and switched the channel to Star Movies. ‘Scream’ was about to begin. I crossed my legs on the couch and rested my legs on the cushion.
‘Nothing better than a good horror movie on a Saturday night,’ I smiled.

I was nearly asleep halfway through the movie.
‘Who takes two hours to open a closet door? Horror movies aren’t the same anymore,’ I yawned.

I heard the scraping sound again now, louder this time. It was more like a knocking sound now. Not only did it grow louder, I sensed it moving closer too.
The girl in the film crept towards the closet.
I inched towards the edge of the sofa.
The girl reached out for the knob on the door.
I bent to peek under the sofa.

And then we saw it.

Writhing in pain, silently, was a cat so black that its body blended against the black sofa. All that was visible were its eyes; wide, neon and still. Without a sound, as if choking on a bone, it became very stiff, like stone.

A wave of nausea and terror washed over me and trembling I ran out of the room, leaving the television switched on. With sweaty palms and a breath too fast, I entered the bathroom and threw up today’s lunch. But I wasn’t able to expel the image glued on to my mental screen: the pale green eyes, wide with fear. I reached for the tap, when the light bulb flickered. Flickered again. And went out.

After colliding into the sink, the tub and the door I managed to find the door knob. It wouldn’t open. I wiped my palms off my pants and tried again. I pulled. I pulled harder. It didn’t budge.
‘Breathe,’ I told myself, but to no avail. Air came to me in shorter gasps by the minute.
Frantically, I kicked the door. It smoothly opened wide.
‘Of course!’ I patted my self, laughing half heartedly.

Milky moonlight from through the windows lit the house. I stood tight against the wall opposite to my bed, with my own breath being the only sound in the room. And the rustle of the leaves outside. I shut my eyes and told myself I was being paranoid.

Swinging the door to my room open, I swiftly made my way to the kitchen. The door creaked shut behind me. I had trouble finding a candle but after a lot of tripping and stumbling, I lit one. As parched as I was, I dared not approach the fridge. As I tiptoed into the lounge, I fell back in my feet and screamed in horror. A giant, dark figure, in the shape of man lurched towards me. I collided against the wall, the candle fell from between my fingers and the monster disappeared. An embarrassingly long moment later, I lit the candle and began to walk towards my own shadow again.
‘At least I’m not alone,’ I shrugged, half hoping I was wrong.

I crawled up on the couch again, sensing the stiffness of the corpse that lay under me.
My mouth tasted like vomit. Now that my eyes had adjusted to the blue light that filled the room, I bent to set the candle on the table before me. The candle was still in my hands when the power returned and the television switched on along with the fan.

I sighed with relief and looked up at the television. The movie was ending. The girl held a candle in a dark room. She walked smoothly towards the camera, as if floating. Her face, white as snow, covered the entire screen. I watched my lips slightly apart, eyes wide open, candle wax dripping on hands as they shivered. Ten slender fingers appeared on the screen from behind her and circled around the nape of her neck.

Both of our candles fell.

Holding my breath, I brought my trembling hands to my neck and felt eight knuckles tightening around me. 

Driving License Passage

By Fatema Shabbir

The author uses an extract from his autobiography to create humor by showing the foolishness of his driving lessons. He shows his transition from his initial dread to boredom to irritation and then finally becoming the master. He often uses self-deprecating humor to entertain the audience.

He starts of with an alliteration in line 1 to show his fear and 'dread'. His impression of his instructor is that of a 'Sargent  Major', showing how strict he was. The writer did not 'fraternize; with the 'fearsome spectacle', that his instructor was, since he felt intimidated and inferior. The instructor is described much like an automated machine himself, with his eyes 'swiveling' right and left.

Line 11further enhances how he feels about the gap between his instructors superiority and his own lack of self confidence. It creates a greater impact of deflation by being a single line. It shows that the instructor considers him dumb. He often uses sarcasm to create build up, he says him 'a mere passenger' had not realized how 'complex' and 'laborious' getting in and out of a car was. The repetition of 'in' 'out' creates monotony showing how ridiculous the task was. He lists mundane things terming them as 'interesting' in line 14 showing the extent of the pointless things he had to do before he could finally drive.

He uses shorter sentences to show disappointment and longer sentences to show excitement and 'apprehension'. The build up in the third paragraph followed by the deflation in the fourth paragraph creates an anticlimactic effect.

He uses extreme verbs and adverbs such as vigorously to create humor. The contrast between 'lying' and 'sitting' creates slapstick comedy. He alleviates his tasks  to 'exercises' to show how mundane and ridiculous they are. In line 28-29 he creates irony by juxtaposing 'interesting matters' with things like distilled water. The incongruity creates more humor.

His tone then changes to being impatient showing his frustration at not having moved yet. He lists things he has 'mastered' to create sympathy for his irritation in the reader. He constantly exaggerates such as 'the dust was gathering on us'. And also compares himself to 'road furniture' showing his irritation.

In the sixth paragraph he finally gets to move. He then creates yet another contrast by juxtaposing 'backwards' with 'progress'. He uses witty asides to show how ridiculous his lessons were. The list in line 35 shows the absurdity of the lessons by exaggerating. The repetition of 'all' stretches it out highlighting his 'agony.'

The writer then shows his transition to the master as he becomes a nightmarish student, much like his instructor. He contrasts his instructor to his examiner , the latter being the 'mild' one who 'cracked'. The repetition wrong shows that he is now proud of his newly acquired skills and is enjoying by taking revenge from his examiner for his own lessons. He makes the experience so annoying for his examiner the he felt as if it were an 'aging experience' much like his lesson itself.

The final line shows how he was proud and even after all the 'academic pointlessness' he now felt like he was 'equipped to advance his career', showing his newly found self-importance and inflation.

The Africa Passage

By Shumaila Abbasi

The author writes this travelogue to clear the misconceptions held by the Europeans. He aims to show the positive side of Africa: jungles, rainforest, exotic animals and the resilience of Africans. Throughout the passage he aims to evoke respect for the Africans through a mood of fear.

In the first paragraph, the sun is personified as a predator that ‘ambushes’ and ’leaps(ing)’. Its aggressiveness is emphasized in the alliteration in the line 6. The writer uses harsh vocabulary such as ‘battled’, ‘burns’ and ‘exposed’ to emphasize the extreme living conditions of Africans. It evokes a fear of the sun and commends Africans who have been enduring it.

The writer then talks about the absence of mild temperature in Africa. The repetition of ‘no’ and ‘none’ and the use of ‘soft’ vocabulary such as ‘gentle’, ‘politesse’ and ‘cool’ is emphatic, as it highlights this absence. It poses a question to the Europeans: will you be able to survive in this climate? Also, it reinforces the overall purpose of the passage: Africans are survivors, leading the readers to respect them.

In the third paragraph, the sun is personified as a malicious creature that ‘leaps’ and ‘glares(ing)’. The suddenness at which it attacks is evident in the simile ‘jack-in-the-box.’ All of this is intended to create a mood of fear and intimidation, so that the readers commend the stamina of Africans who have been enduring the sun.

The fourth paragraph emphasizes the power of the sun and its dominance. The repetition of “It will” presents a warning of the sun’s actions. The readers sympathize with the Africans who are even deprived of the shade as the sun “eliminates’ it.

A transition takes place in the passage. The author talks about how in spite of the difficulties, Africans have learned to survive. The fragmentation of the sentences illustrates the slow movement of African life. He is praising them and this evokes a sense of admiration.

He further moves on to compare the gait of the Africans with that of Europeans. He praises the African’s walk, which has ‘poise’ and is critical of European’s, which is evident from the list in line 33. He shows the Europeans as awkward. It serves the purpose of the passage that Africans have a lot of positivity as well.

In the seventh paragraph he praises the women, using similes “ballerina” and “models.” He uses allusion of the Statue of Liberty to emphasize their freedom and pride. The list in lines 36-37 illustrates their skills and ability to maintain grace in spite of all the things they are carrying. Again the author is concentrating on the skills of and abilities of Africans and demolishing the pride of the Europeans.

Contrast in the eight paragraph of “highlands” and “depressions”, “deserts” and “pasturelands” illustrates the diversity of African landscape. The symbol of man on single leg forever evokes respect and awe as it shows Africans’ resilience. He is praising and admiring them.

Finally, the author provides a contrast of Africa, listing all the negative aspects like ‘walking skeletons’ and then positive in the list in lines 53-54. He wants to clear the misconception and wants people to see Africa for what it has to offer. It creates a mood of admiration and the reader is impressed.

“No” in the last paragraph is the author’s final assertion. He uses “dark” and “luminous” contrast to illustrate his point of what people think of Africa and what it actually is.

Personal Statement

By Reja Younis

When I was seven years old, I learned how to say "Hello" in thirty different languages. It wasn't a school assignment and no one told me to do it. I went to the library, checked out a book on it, and started memorizing. I cherished the way those unusual words sounded and wondered about the nations from which they originated.Culture and history have always fascinated me.

I remember myself being immersed for long hours in historical biographies of great figures of the past. Martin Luther King Jr., Abraham Lincoln, Vincent Van Gogh--I read them all. The stories of these individuals interested and inspired me. Soon, history class broadened my horizons. History books were like treasure chests of golden, glittering knowledge--tales of battles, allies, and enemies--I couldn't get enough of them. I fell in love with current events. I would grab the newspaper every morning and blurt out headlines to the rest of the family. I would snip newspaper articles and glue them to a journal. I knew this was history in the making. As an inquisitive child that was eager to learn, I once innocently asked my father who the "bad guys" and the "good guys" were of politics. He answered that there are none. The world's affairs are all about the perspective you see them in.

Growing up, I was a quintessential student. I was a member of the Student Government every year since the fourth grade. In eighth grade, I was elected Student Council President by the student body. I performed in plays and won speech competitions. My childhood was luxuriously carefree. Grief had never touched us. My fondest memories are of road trips and barbeques, picnics and parties. Our family had a close, loving relationship.

However, I was thirteen years old when my history took a sharp, unexpected turn. My beloved father passed away. My life shattered before my very eyes. Soon afterward, my family decided that we needed another tumultuous change to heal the wounds of the first one.

Hence, born and raised in America, I moved to Pakistan. It was a heart-wrenching move. At first, I saw Karachi with the eyes of a tourist and often couldn't believe that I left my homeland so far away. And yet, this unpleasant change became an opportunity to immerse myself in exploring a new culture.

So I accepted this new geography and these new people with their own unique history. It didn't take me long to become part of it all. I smelled the ripe mangoes in the poor vendor's fruit cart. I sat on the furry hump of a camel’s back as it trudged its way across the shoreline, the salty ocean crashing against its knees. I watched my cousins joyfully create colorful, crackling sparks in the sky on Independence Day. I listened to my relatives discuss the city's politics that often permeated everyday life. I made friends, excelled in school, and grew so much.

           
Living in two countries has given me perspective.I have learned how to examine both sides of an argument. I form my own opinions. I now know that the world is vast and contains complex relationships between countries and governments.I want to study how history has shaped us. I want to examine cultures. Hence, I want to pursue a major in International Relations.To keep reading, writing, interpreting, and discovering--this is my calling in life.

           
One day, flipping through a history book, I realized that the past cannot be changed, that the book has been written and the pen has dried. But I possessed the power and the opportunity to make the future brighter. And I suddenly did not want to waste a single minute.

           
My personal history has molded me. I've emerged a stronger, more dedicated individual. I face each day with renewed faith and energy. I would like to attend a University that gives me the opportunity to express my perspective in an environment that respects ideas and their free expression. I can contribute all of my enthusiasm, diversity, and compassion to the University I attend. And of course, greet each student on campus with a "Hello" in their native language. 

Personal Statement

By Nayab Tufail

When I was seven chocolate cookies were a terrible temptation for me. I often stared longingly at the coveted cookie jar and licked my lips. My sister made use of my weakness and started to smuggle cookies from the jar to her room after midnight. When my father found the empty cookie jar I was accused as primary suspect. With no evidence to prove my innocence upon interrogation by my father I used what I now know is legally known as the “Alford Plea.” If I had the temerity to argue I would be charged with two crimes: stealing and disrespect. Therefore, I said to my father “I’m guilty, you can punish me, but I didn’t do it.” Pleading guilty meant punishments but my father remained curious about the “I didn’t do it” bit and the investigation furtively continued until the real culprit was found.

 The case was closed but a new chapter of my life was opened. I discovered my ability for logical thinking and problem solving. As I grew up I fell in love with complexities. Perhaps that is why I was drawn to English Literature. I found a universe of possibilities shimmering behind every story. The unfathomable depth behind situations and characters helped me quench my thirst and after a long time I actually drank my fill. Numbers had always remained on the page. The most I could do was stand tall next to 1, sit on the chair of 4, or curl up in the curve of 5. They never allowed me to slide in, to dive in the deep endless waters of uncertainty. They were facts and there was no room for questioning. Literature introduced me to the superficiality of black and white and to the realism of gray. It taught me that words are an inexhaustible source of magic. Each word packed with layers and layers of meanings. Each word malleable enough to be twisted and molded into a sparkling pun, a biting irony or a deliciously dulcet alliteration.

Reading helped me live a thousand lives and enriched my analytical skills which are of immense importance to a lawyer. Each day a new character was presented in the court of my thoughts. There was Heathcliff, there was Blanche DuBois, there was Mark Anthony, there was Mrs. Cheveley. I defended, I prosecuted. And each time I re-read a tale, another trial took place.

Meanwhile, fate had arranged a chance for me to discover my passion for debating. Whether it was arguing my stance on democracy or modernization the pleasure of putting my point across always surpassed the pride of receiving a gleaming trophy. However, I did not realize my interest in law until I decided to volunteer at Dawood Habib Orphanage. I saw the teary eyes of a twelve year old girl as she shared with me the heart-wrenching story of the domestic violence her mother had suffered at the hands of her father. It was after hearing this tale of brutal beatings, suffering and hopelessness that a window winked open to reveal a world where I could think, analyze and use my eloquence to actually make a difference. Some people call it impulse. I prefer epiphany. It was that moment when my life fell in place and I realized that law to me is more than chocolate cookies and trophies; it is a challenge to play my part, however small, to remedy injustice and serve my society.

Personal Statement

By Afnan Imran

When I was seven, I accompanied my father to his textile mill for the very first time. He expected to fascinate me with the bales of gossamer silk and the array of colorful dye. My reaction was the complete opposite. I was lost in my father’s wonderland for it was alien to me. For me, the highlight of the day came when my father stopped by his accountant’s office to go over some figures. And I was in paradise. Numbers. The books in that office enthralled me; the neat rows of figures, the patterns and sequences of numbers and the simplicity of addition and subtraction.

I realized that my talents lie in an entirely different area than my family’s. Where they were content to live in an artistic mess, I needed the pieces of my life to fall into place like a giant puzzle. Logic was the tool I needed. Math became the air I breathed, the ground beneath my feet, the thread that tethered me to the world. Since my mind had been ingrained with textiles, this discovery, though liberating, kept me up late into the night with worry and fear. I was the only loose end, the only child who did not want to follow in my father’s footsteps. I was very much like the remainder in a long division sum.

My fears were put to rest when my parents encouraged me to participate in my first Math competition in elementary school. And my passion blossomed. The importance given to my achievements in Math, Economics and Accounting was equal to, if not more than, the importance given to my siblings’ successes in sociology and art. I remember announcing to my seventh grade class that math was the career for me, and a career it became.

My passion for the subject was reaffirmed when I met twelve-year-old Ahsan. Enrolled in the Society for Rehabilitation of Special Children, that little boy is the life of every room he enters, despite his learning disabilities and speech problems. As a volunteer, my task was to explore his strengths and teach him to use them. I discovered his knack for mental Math, and he taught me the correct way to specialize in the subject. Give him a word problem, and he remains speechless. Put him in a practical situation where he is required to add, subtract, divide and multiply, and he has a response in seconds. For him, Math is a way of life, not just a remote goal on a pedestal.

Math is in everything: it is in the distance between each planet, in the rate of population growth, in the time it takes me to travel to and from school each day. It is in economics. It is in physics. It is there waiting for me during every shopping spree at the mall. It is every shopkeeper’s companion, every businessman’s secret weapon, every scientist’s research tool. In Math, there is so much to explore, so much to learn, so much to question. I need a school that has a broad horizon for this field, one I can use in my own quest for reality and genuine questioning.