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Period 1:
Final literature circle meeting
All My Sons
Work on society project
Period 2:
Shortened class due to marching practice
What is existentialism?
Discussing Camus' The Stranger
Period 3:
Our Town... At the graveyard
Period 5:
Publish & Perish
Peer Review
Thought for the day...
The use of language is all we have to pit against death and silence.
—Carol Joyce Oates
36 comments:
Revised version of How I met Hollywood Undead
It was a small blue room with three tables on the left of the door.
The first table, which was parallel to the door, had merchandise for “Hollywood Undead”: black bandanas depicting grenade carrying swans, black hats emblazoned with the band name, and the t-shirts were a combination of both the hats, and the bandanas. The second table was across from the door, and on the right side of the first table. The second table had merchandise for “Senses fail”: merchandise was t-shirts, and that’s about it. The t-shirts were different bright colors which screamed the band’s name, just like the band screams to get the message across in their songs. The third table was to the right of the second table, and it was for “Haste the day”: The merchandise didn’t stand out to me, but there was a podium with a large poster with a picture of “Hollywood Undead,” and under the picture of the band was something that would catch anybody’s eye. It was large text that read, “Buy the c.d., and meet the band.” In an opening in the right of the room there was people surrounding the outline of the room, and there was two large windowsills on which you could sit on. Around 10:30 pm my sister Jen, and I were sitting on the right windowsill. Jen was on her cell phone, when she asked how much the bandanas were, and I told her “They’re $10.” Jen handed me a ten-dollar bill to buy her one. I got up, and went into the room with the merchandise, and went to the first table for a “Hollywood Undead,” bandana, and I had to wait, because there was three guys who could tower over my brother David who is six feet something. I looked down at the ground to wait for the three guys to end the conversation, and while looking down at the floor I noticed one of the guys had a tattoo that was a grenade-carrying swan. The guy selling the merchandise said “Excuse me, I think tat guy is trying to buy something,” and the three guys turned around, and I asked “Are you guys the band,” and one of the three guys pointed to the merchandiser saying ”No, but he is.” I think the three guys of “Hollywood Undead,” I met were Charlie Scene, Da Kurlzz, and Deuce. It didn’t matter that I had met them, because I got all of the autographs of the band.
Your thumping bass
and your snapping snare,
makes my heart race
and stands up my hair.
Cymbals ringing in my ear,
toms rolling away.
The sound is something I don't fear.
What else can I say?
I walked downstairs with bare feet, the coldness of the floor felt like my grandma's body after she died. She was so cold, like ice. I wanted to take her home and wrap her up and make her warm again, human again, alive again.
~Sarah
This is the very beginning of a story I wrote awhile ago.
“To whom it may concern;” was how the letter that changed my life started. Basically, what the letter said was I had to come up with $50,000 for taxes that I haven’t been paying for years in 30 days or my house would be auctioned off. I couldn’t let this happen. Every important thing to me is in that house that I inherited from my parents when they passed away. I have no friends, no family, and nowhere else to go. The only income that I have is what I steal, and stealing is how I plan to get the 50 g’s and keep my house.
Here is a brief little segment from my new story. Project Valkyrie, the sequel to the assassin story I did a while back. This part is at Spike's perspective.
“Where do I begin,” Ann started off as the lights from the post high above us flashed through the window lighting her face then returning it to shadows just as quick as they were light. “After learning what we did on the data disk we stole from Melinor technology, I headed to Arizona, learning that the base was in a disserted military outpost roughly 200 miles from Phoenix. Nothing special happened for the first three months. All I did was keep track of daily shipments and exports. Learning that nothing comes out but a ton of things came in. I took my chance and entered a year and a half ago, on an early winter night. I examined the place thoroughly and came to this conclusion. Project Valkyrie is still active, and in fact they should be completing the project roughly three months from now.”
“Any idea what the purpose is,” I ask as I get off the interstate and enter into the town of Hartland Vermont, the location of my second base.
“Sadly yes I do,” Ann grimaced, this time not of the still unattended bullet wound but that of what she was about to tell me. “Melinor technology as you know was the contractor for the start of the project which produced us. They are still the contractor now seven years later, with the purpose of using the now army of people more trained than that of any army on the planet, to take over the United States. An army that easily is in the couple thousand’s. They even have the backing of the People’s Republic of China and Iran to fund this large scale project.”
“So the US will have China, Iran and a two to three thousand man super soldier army attacking them in roughly three months,” I asked, to which she solemnly nodded slowly. “Any way of stopping them?”
This is just a paragraph from my story "If I Could..."
I wasn't going to let him ruin my night. I was going to have fun, and make some new friends. Thats all I cared about. Felecia came up to me and started fooling around and slow dancing with me. We were both laughing so hard that my cheeks started to hurt, and I had tears built up in my eyes. While I was dancing with Felecia I asked her who that jock was. She told me his name was Josh, and he was the hottest guy in the school.
"He's a jerk if you ask me." I said as I was rolling my eyes.
Here is my hometown little story. I would like to know if there is anything that would make it better that I could add. Also if there is something you can think of that will be a better title that would be wonderful to hear your suggestions. Thank you!
My Hometown
Warren is the best hometown. Yes people make fun of the little home of the Rocketeers, but it doesn’t phase me. In fact, it makes me love Warren more. Warren isn’t as bad as people make it seem. It is true that it is at least a half hour away from any form of shopping. However, around the town you can find lots to do. There is a court where we play basketball with half deflated balls, and a tennis court with no net in the middle This is where the skater punks ride their skateboards cause they think they will eventually go professional.
The basketball court is located on the common, which is in the middle of our little town. When summer comes around it is time to play on the thirty-nine year old broken cement basketball court. The basketball hoop on the left side facing the elementary school has a tiny slant to it. This is because when they were put into the court, a Warren citizen, Brud, backed into it. Now it leans to the left just a tad.
Ancient trees hang over the green grass on the common, with grey and green mold covering every inch. About ten yards to the right is our gazebo, with curses and insults carved into the dark brown wood. White railings come up three and a half feet high off the oak wood floor. It was painted dark brown so the kids who played on the common were not able to read the profanity, but the curses were carved at least a half an inch deep; paint isn’t going to cover it.
The Warren Mall is the topic at school when kids talk about Warren. They have seventy-two year old broken boxes that are marked for ten dollars, calling them antiques. It is consumed with junk piled up to the ceiling that reaches fifteen feet high. For people like my mother, it is a dream; junk is what she is looking for, “one man’s junk is another’s treasure.” If she finds that hundred and two year old hard oak trunk that looks like it is two hundred and thirteen years old, she found what she was looking for. There are people that would disagree with my mother but all I can say is, do they have a mall in their town?
We also have a “Troll Lady”. She is an old woman, mid seventies, who, in the summer, walks around with shorty-shorts and a tube top; this is in the summer. In the winter, her big pale yellow coat hangs down to her Spongebob pajama covered legs. She wears a pom-pom hat is on the top of her old, wrinkly head. Her crippled over hunch walk is what gives her, her name.
Kala, Stephanie, and I were walking to the store one bright summer day, and that is when we passed her. Then the “Troll Lady” all of a sudden turned around in her pink shorty-shorts and red white and blue tube top and accused us of stealing her “Chicken Pot Pie!” We all just looked at each other and started running as fast as we possibly could.
Whenever you need a lending hand there is a whole town that you can depend on. Everyone knows each other. When I have a problem with anything there is nine hundred twenty-two people I can choose from for help or information. When someone passes away, there is an old mayonnaise bucket. The hole in the top allows citizens to place money into the mayo bucket and all the money that is raised goes to the family who had lost their loved one. For example, a man was sick with terminal cancer. Many Warrenites got-together and set up a pig roast for him. There were all kinds of fundraisers at this get-together, the fifty-fifty raffle, pork dinner, and a raffle for a cord of wood. After this fundraiser the family received about $3,000.00, which is fairly good for the town of Warren.
Of course there are some bad things about Warren as well, just like any other town. However, the bad traits that Warren has don’t add up to all the wonderful traits that Warren has.
The fact that Warren has a rocket is embarrassing. There is really no need to have it, but it is there. Also when people talk about directions the rocket is always mentioned because no one can miss it.
All in all Warren is a town where it is fun even though there is not much to do, but we find things to do. There are nice people who would take the shirt off their back to help someone out if they needed it, and there are others who won’t but that is okay because not everyone can be the same, that would be boring. Warren is the town of all towns.
Sarah,
I really like your piece because I can relate to how this girl or boy feels after losing their grandmother. I like how you described the feet coming down the stairs with "bare feet" good description.
Dylan, I like your poem about different instruments, and it's very creative.
Sarah, I like the way that you had your character relive that experiance just by walking on the floor. I can connect with it because somethings that I see every now and then remind me of some of my friends that have died over the years. Simple situations can unlock feelings that have lied dormant for years. Good job.
A Masked Woman
Whos that woman,
wearing the mask,
that covers her face,
except her eyes.
Separated by the dance floor,
standing by the punch bowl?
In the white dress,
with silk white gloves
and the beautiful white shoes.
Curly white hair,
comes to her shoulders.
Berry blue eyes,
you get lost
they are hypnotic.
Wearing the white mask,
hiding behind closed doors.
She looked at me,
with one quick glance,
and took my heart and soul.
I went over,
to see this masked woman.
People were in my way,
blocking my sight of the masked woman.
I was inches away,
until one gentleman took her away from me.
Her loved one.
And left me there,
in despair,
and disrepair.
Goodbye masked woman,
but not forever,
i will see you again,
in my dreams.
Dan, you put a lot of good detail in it like what was being sold at each table and comparing the height of the three guys to Dave's height.
Philip,
you have a very interesting way of starting off your stories. But no matter what the conflict, you always manage to make your characters strong willed and persistant.
~Sarah
Katie H,
I'm excited to read your story and see why she thinks that he is a jerk. In the paragraph you posted you can probably add more information about what he looks like and what makes him the "hottest guy in school".
lauren, I love how your piece goes from unending sadness to being accomplished by getting rid of the haunting artifact of your lost love. The way you described it was just right; not to much, not to little. Great job.
i like how you started the poem and how you said "Snapping snare" and i like how you finish with a question.
---Dylan
Lauren, I am in love with your piece. It really sets a sad kind of mood. I can relate to it. It left me with a lot of thoughts running through my head. Nice job! :)
Decent Old Days: The Beginning
She rumbles...
Anxiously awaiting a chance to please
We all hop in and Stephan mumbles,
About school, girls, and Charlie's fleas
She squeals...
As we pull out and fly.
Cold is how the leather feels
While we pray that Old Blue will never die.
She slams...
Into the frozen snowbank,
We press onwards by the beaver dams.
She's only on a half a tank.
She's persistant...
Plowing the long cold driveway
You can see her no matter from what distance.
She raises our emotions high like a skyway.
She stops...
And her tires autograph the garage floor
The door hinge pops.
And Joanne is still yelling from outside the door.
your story made me feel weird and creepy, but in a good way. and i like how you ended it.
---Sarah
Dylan, your poem about drums has a very strong rhythm and I really enjoyed reading it. The rhymes are very beneficial to the message being sent by your poem.
Justin, I like your story about the United states getting taken over, and I think I would like more of a background, or I would like to know what else happened in the previous story that you about the assassinations, and I want to know the characters.
This is part of my portfolio piece. I need to know what needs more description and where I should add it. Also I need to know if the dialogue is realistic. Also this is a continuation from last week.
Ben is about a year older than me. He was your typical prince charming. He almost looked like a Californian surfer. Every girl thinks he's the hottest guy this year and he's a senior. Every girl wanted to date him.
It's my junior year and I just turned sixteen. That is a little awkward if you ask me. Most of the people in my class are seventeen or older.
I was at my locker getting my things for my first two classes when Chris surprised me and said, "Happy birthday Rach! Want to celebrate?" He was pretty much riht in my face. Chris was the guy I went on the date with. He never really respected my personal space and he was constantly flirting with other girls. He was constantly making me feel uncomfortable and he didn't care. Chris never cared that I was in pain or anything. All he cared was that he was dating somebody with a good body.
This one is an old favorite--I read it at the Plymouth Writing Workshop at open mike, and I finally gave it a title.
My Frog Prince
By Lauren Simano
You were the first one to proclaim
The hardest words of three.
I thought them true, and said to you
That yes, I did love thee.
As time went by, I noticed that
To me, you had grown cold.
The time we spent together died,
Nothing left for me to hold.
At the fair, you shot the hoops
And won a large prize round.
I look at it now and wish that I
Left it on the muddy ground.
That is how you left my heart,
After all I gave to you.
You stomped on it and left it crushed;
I doubted I'd find love true.
For you, my heart did ache and beat,
With each pulse, your name resounded.
And though I thought that it would stop,
You left, but it still pounded.
To you, I gave my heart, my dear,
I thought you gave yours too.
But mercy me, I was dead wrong;
You left me sad and blue.
The only thing that I have left
Is sitting by my bed,
And if I could, I'd take that frog*
And hit you in the head.
The words you never spoke to me:
Parting words I'll never fear.
For it is I who have left you
Abandoned, standing here.
*The over-inflated frog-ball met its untimely end when I moved back into my house in Woodsville. I stabbed it with a screw multiple times before realizing that I could unplug a plastic pin and deflate it. Needless to say, it no longer haunts me.
Philip I really like your piece. I'm hooked. I want to know if he gets the $50,000 and how he does it. Nice job!
Lauren, I loved your poem. I thought that the rhythm carried from the very beginning to the very end. The rhymes were clever and while you talked about a not so happy subject, your poem made light of the whole situation.
Lauren,
your poem is very moving,I could feel the emotions being described through the poetry! I can always relate to your writing one way or another!
Great job!
~Sarah
This is part of my story (the ten page one that we need by the end of the class) This actually doesn't happen for a while into the story. This is Iggy, or the red haired cat, that lives in the soul of a boy named Drake. Drake is just a normal teenage boy, except for the fact that a feline is inside him. This is probably shortly after everyone, including Drake, find out about his existence.
Iggy jumped off the side of the skyscraper and started plummeting towards the waiting bottom. His short ginger fur rippled in the current that was pushing against his narrow, sleek face. His paws were tucked up close to his tiny frame. And his long, slightly ringed tail stuck out like a train on a colorful kite that rhythmically floated on the wind. As he scoped the bottom of where he was gong to land, which looked to be on top of another building, he focused onto a window that appeared to be a skylight that lead into the building below him. The distance between Iggy and the concrete greatly changed as he fell farther and farther downward. He suddenly unfurled his skinny, feline legs and somersaulted in mid-air. Once his back had turned towards the glass window, his ginger coat immediately flared, enveloping his body in the burning fire. The window contiguously pulled the feline closer and closer, until he was about a ½ yard away. At the spurt of the moment, he somersaulted in mid-air, shielding his back from the impact of the glass, scattering it instantly. The room blurred together as he fell quicker with every passing second. In one swift moment, he flipped once more and landed with a quiet thumb (despite the momentum that had festered) on his four skinny and furry legs. He had successfully entered the facility.
Sarah, I’m glad you used that paragraph because it was my favorite line in your piece. I love how to illustrate how cold the floor is, you compare it to the dead grandmother, and flow perfectly into how your character wanted to make her warm and alive again.
Austin, I like how you’re poem is about a car. It isn’t obvious at first, until the second stanza. Your characters seem to care about the car, which you showed in the line “…we pray that Old Blue will never die.” (Cute name for the car, by the way!) I especially love the line “She stops… And her tires autograph the garage floor” because you show how the tires leave skid marks because of how rapidly the character hit the brakes. That’s a really amazing way to show us what happened.
Austin, I liked how you used a poem to tell a story. Also it was full of good imagery and description. I could hear and see every thing. Good Job!
Sarah, I loved how you made your story so realistic. I found it very easy to relate to and I think every one feels the way the character does at some point.
The View
My lips lay speechless, not a whisper. All i could see ahead were hundreds of colors splashed together. It looked like a painting put there just for me. The planes ad valleys of grass and wild flowers bloomed and flowed in the wind. the mountains in the background stood out to me, so bold and strong. They curved and formed around the land. The gorgeous farmhouses and animals all reached out to me, and made it all the more meaningful. The sky had changed from a pale blue, cloudless sky, into a masterful piece of pink and purples. The clouds whisped like a paintbrush does with paint in thick sweeps and swirls. i wanted to reach out and touch it, feel it. It was beautiful.
jacob, your poem was very imaginative and unoriginal. i loved it, it was something unexpected. you described everything so nice and smooth. it was enjoyable to read.
this as a bit from a new story i'm kicking around. (yes, yet another one- i'm sorry.) the opening sequence where we meet the main character. his name, Ryou, is pronounced 'ri-YO'. like the 'ri' in 'bri', minus the b, with 'yo', the common greeting, attached to it the 'yo' is emphasized. 'ri-yo'. 'ryou'. if you need help, just ask me out loud. i still don't think i explained adequately.
Ryou looked up to the stormy gray sky from under the brim of his cap, taking a long drag from his cigarette. it was going to rain, and soon, but the low, heavy clouds still clung to their load. he exhaled, and pushed away from the building he was leaning on, stepping into the dirty streets. he wasn't sure which way he was going. he didn't necessarily care. his shaggy white hair fell gently in front of his right eye, hanging there like it always did. he pulled his scarf up closer around his neck. it was cold out. a car pulled up next to him. a hearse, actually. the front window rolled down, and a well-dressed butler leaned out.
"had enough sight-seeing for one day, young master? there's no need for you to be in such a place."
"beats sitting at home, Thames. if i want to go back to the mansion, i'll call you." Ryou sighed, annoyed.
"but master Ryou, please, look at the sky. it's about to rain. wouldn't want you to catch cold." Thames, the butler, said. as if to rienforce his statement, several drops fell from the sky. Ryou sighed again, glaring upwards.
"i hate it when you do that. how do you always know EXACTLY when the rain will fall?" he asked as he opened the back door before Thames could climb out and open it for him. he slid into the black vehicle, stretching himself out across the entire backseat legs crossed and arms behind his head.
"Master, please fasten your seatbelt. we may crash, and then this blasted hearse will finally hold a dead man." Thames asked, somewhat exasperatedly.
"Drive carefully, then." Ryou rolled his eyes. he had requested that instead of a limousine, he was driven around in an altered hearse long ago. if he was going to attract attention, he might as well do it in his style. besides, a hearse was the only vehicle that actually had room for his abnormally long legs. Thames let the subject drop. there really was no point arguing with Ryou on these points.
Dylan, I like your poem about the drums. It makes it seem like there is one kind of drumming that really gets you excited and then another kind that it boring and doesn't interest you.
Sarah, I like the piece of writing that you posted. I like how you started off with the person walking on the cold floor and then ended about them thinking about how cold their grandmother was when she died. I can really connect to that :)
lauren, i loveeee your piece. it had a could rime skeem and the end really gave it some kick, haha. it made me laugh. but i like how you talked about him betraying you and your time of sadness...but then in the end you say im over it and he was just a jurk. it was quit classical, and i liked it a lot.
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