Parley is a commonwealth of academic and creative works that symbolize the excellence and diversity of PPCC's student body.
It’s a lot harder than I had thought it would be, being away from my son for an extended period of time. His father and I divorced almost two years ago. His father recently moved to back to Texas. So naturally, before the school year starts, my son is spending the summer with his dad.
My inspiration for the piece was how electronics serve man, and man serves nature, and vice-versa. But again, its how we came from nature, and in turn we help nature, like how a tree grows and gives us oxygen, and we prune the branches to make it stronger. It was a shout out, really, of appreciation for the simple things that are taken for granted.
I see a soldier who was brave and strong when others were tearing apart who she was as if it would impact what she offered. Her story is the story of hundreds of soldiers, and countless others who have stories that are different from hers, but are stories nonetheless. Soldiers who joined the military when society still referred to them as “kids.” Soldiers who have left their families, their homes, and their ways of life. Soldiers who marry and forego honeymoons for overseas assignments or miss the births of their first children. Soldiers who hold their two year old children on their laps, then do not see those children again until they are a year or two older. Soldiers who kiss the people they love good bye one last time without really knowing it. Soldiers who are fighting for what I, a civilian, stand for.
Two corrupt Iraqi police armed with AK-47s lurked only fifty feet away behind a small building, plotting the execution of as many U.S. soldiers as possible, waiting until the moment that they thought Alpha Company appeared to be the most relaxed and off guard before taking violent and deadly action.
Borne of conscience, drowned at once: My reason rose to fill the space. And nothing can my guilt repair And yet it hangs upon my face. With nothing held and nothing gained By waiting or by moving on . . .
What you see is an empty piece of canvas. Pure white, with no marks of any sort. No wrinkle or tears whatsoever. It’s gone through many hands, since it first came along, but none willing to paint my canvas. I collect dust in the corner, as the time passes by me. Is there something wrong with me? Am I deformed, dirty or even stained, but I just don’t see it?