An essay on paintball.

[ProX9]

I am open to suggestions on this but since it is due tomorrow they probably wont have much effect, not that im worried about it, im just always looking for a second opinion. Mainly the first sentence of the conclusion, i need to restate in a more effective and less bland way.


The assignment: Take an abstract word and give it an extended, subjective definition by describing it. Don't state what the word is, but "define" it through the use of concrete detail.

Anyhow here it is:

--------------------------------->“I reach my state of euphoria”
--->My last teammate fell merely seconds ago, but not before he could eliminate his shooter. The only two markers left on the field aren’t pointing in the same direction. A chaotic silence ensues in which not a shot is fired and tension builds inside me. Adrenaline flows into my veins and permeates every last inch of me as I take my first glance at the field before me, scanning every bunker for my last opponent. Only the sound of shooting breaks the silence as paintballs fly through the air in my direction. I watch as they get closer and closer to me, making a hasty retreat before it is too late. My reflexes reach their peak as the adrenaline rush reaches its plateau and when I hear the sound of silence, I lean out to return the gesture. Plastered to my bunker, I shoot at the first sign of his mask. As soon I started shooting I knew that he was doomed and the satisfaction overwhelmed me as he felt the impact of the paintballs hitting him. For the first time, I can leave my bunker behind, running to the flag knowing that only I remained. Only as I take the last few steps before hanging the flag do I realize that what had seemed like ages took less than a minute to elapse and that I experienced a dilation of time. Once the game is over and I am coming down from my higher state of awareness I feel the pleasure of victory. I reach my state of euphoria coming down from the rush, when the memories are most vivid, and I have the best opportunity to think about what just happened. For a short time, all the bad things in my life are buried in the moment; unable to affect me.
--->I would venture that for most people, the way I define euphoria is similar in concept, but radically different in what I think it actually is. A feeling of great happiness can come from anything, finding twenty dollars could make some someone feel great. It does not require a specific action or chain of events; one doesn’t have to be coming down from an adrenaline fueled experience to be in a state of euphoria. Also, it doesn’t require all thoughts to be in that single moment alone, I only call it euphoria if I have the pleasure of forgetting all the bad things in my life. Once negativity returns to your mind, it is impossible to recover the moment in the same magnitude as before and that is the end of what I think euphoria truly is.
--->If There is one thing I crave above all else, it is to fall into a state of euphoria. I am hopelessly addicted to that feeling of enormous tension, and then releasing of it all at once. The thought of it captivates me; the need for it drives me. I live for that moment of intoxication, if it were to cease to exist, may I as well. “The hopeless addict must continue to engage in his desires, lest he be consumed.”

EDit: I changed the first sentence of the conclusion and Im now completely satisfied with it.

[SpecialBlend2786]

I wrote an essay about my first scenario game, lemme go find it :)
edit: found it. I cant remember the prompt, but it was fun to write!

"The referee blew the whistle, and the shrill sound signaled game on. But the field is quiet. Not a sound can be heard, but the song of a bird in the distance, and the soft rustling of leaves on the dry trees of a cool November morning. Not the rapid coughing of a low pressure marker being shot at full speed off the break. Not the characteristic heavy thump of an outdated blowback marker in the hands of a new player. Nothing but the trees. Being a specialist at Speedball, a kind of paintball game played in a very small, highly controlled environment with five players on each team and five minutes between one team and victory, this game was shockingly different. Dressed in camouflage instead of my usual bright red and black tournament jersey, I resisted the urge to fire and tried to mimic to the best of my abilities the actions and attitudes of my teammates. They moved silently, with purpose, and with determination.

Their goal: to rescue the President of the United States of America, who was being held captive in a small shack to the west of our current location. This was my first scenario paintball game. With 30 elite players on each side, this was a game of epic proportions according to my standards. The President had been kidnapped by terrorists, and it was our teams job to save him. But the other team would be there to stop us. Before the start of the game, my team leader had split us up into three squads. As soon as the game started, the squads had taken up position , and began to converge on the President’s location. The way my squad interacted fascinated me. Instead of the shouting of positions and constant update of information I was used to, this breed of player communicated with subtle hand signals, ones that you would miss if you blinked. Not knowing the meaning of these signals, I attempted to copy the closest player I could find, and tagged alongside him as we stealthily crept through the thick underbrush. The terrain made it difficult to see very far ahead, and I began to panic. Where was the enemy? Hiding in those bushes? Or maybe in the trees up ahead? Could they be behind us? I was incredibly confused as of what to do, and I tried not to display my fear to my teammates.

Suddenly, several shots sliced through the silent air. Each shot was answered by several more, until it sounded like a chorus of disaster. Red Team had made contact with the enemy fortifications guarding the President. My hair stood on end as I continued to move forward, more alert than ever before. I gripped the shroud of my friends marker. The tool felt awkward, with its long stock, elongated body and bulbous air hookups. Not like my sleek tourney marker, which was useless in this environment. In my hands it felt as foreign as an ancient Japanese sword.

As we ascended the hill, the enemy encampment came into view. My squad leader ordered me to cut around the back and do some reconnaissance, in order to discover the strength of the opposing forces. I hunched over, and silently trotted away, with my marker at the ready, like I had seen in so many war movies. The snap of a twig caught my attention, and as I entered a small clearing, I saw a man with a red armband: a terrorist. I walked into the clearing, and upon seeing me; the tall man exclaimed “ohmygawd!!” and took off like a jackrabbit. I fired a few rounds, but he escaped into the bushes. I followed after him, in hot pursuit. Forcing my way through the thick undergrowth, I barely caught a glimpse of the mans white socks as he darted away from me yet again. He seemed to be going in circles, in a teasing manner, almost as if he wanted to be caught then changed his mind at the last moment. As I ran after him, I glanced at my watch: it had been nearly half an hour into the game, and I had fired less then ten rounds. A far cry from the three hundred plus balls of gelatin encapsulated paint that I usually expend on my opponents during a five minute speedball game.
I looked up again and stopped. Where had the guy disappeared to? I panicked, then heard the sharp, metallic sound of a hammer striking a valve, and a loud crack, as a paintball was fired from the mans marker and hit me square in the back. I had been duped. Tricked. I had once been a proud speedball player, who had flaunted his ability to fire at incredible speeds, to make insane dives, and who had been able to reload in the blink of an eye. I had paraded about in my brightly colored jersey, showing off a chrome marker that glimmered in the sunlight. I had once been unstoppable. But here, at this field, playing this game, my skills meant nothing. I had been reduced to a novice."

[ProX9]

i think there needs to be a collection of all serious essays written on pb by aoers

[LittlePaintballBoy]

I have one I wrote in 5th grade, but I think my moron of a teacher kept it.