Ignore this Title

The bell tinkled as Jamie pressed on the door of the dollmaker’s shop. The inside smelled old and earthy, as though someone had not bothered to fret over to the decrepit state of the establishment. Against the wall leaned a dark haired boy who looked like he didn’t want to be there, and inspecting a small Christmas town was an old lady with waist length gray hair. Jamie strode toward the counter, twining her red scarf into a rope between her hands.
Suddenly, an wrinkly old face leered out from behind the cash register. In his gloved hands was a small castle, decorated with intricate designs on the flags and ivy curling down the sides. Jamie approached him anxiously.
“Hello. What can I get ya?”
Jamie glanced around the shop. “I like that castle.”
The old man’s lips curled into a something that resembled a smile. “Ah, of course. And just who is this for?”
Jamie raised an eyebrow. “My little sister. But does it matter?” The old man nodded and set the castle down on the counter. “No. I’ll go get you another one. This one’s just on display.” He hobbled into the back room, shaking the curtain of beads as he passed through.
Jamie’s eye alighted on a pirate ship. She bent her face down to peer at the miniscule workers. Each one was set about doing a different task. She half-smiled and reached for one of them.
“Hey. Don’t touch, or you’ll pay.” The boy against the wall shifted and glared at her. Just then the old man walked out and glanced at the two of them. He glanced at the boy and shook his head. “Now, now, Jared, don’t harrass my customers.” Jamie returned to the counter. The old man added in an undertone, “My nephew. Bit unruly sometimes. So, you like what I got for ya?” Jamie examined the structure. “Yeah, it’s good. How much is it?” She bit her lip.
“About two hundred dollars.” Jamie gulped. Her mother had sent her out with only twenty dollars. “Sorry, I don’t have that much. I’ll just try another store.” She headed toward the door. She noticed that the long-haired lady was gone, but she hadn’t heard the bell ring. She shrugged.
“Wait!” the old man cried. “I just forgot that this one’s on sale! Yours for twenty dollars!” Jamie stopped, suspicious. “Really?” She fished around in her purse and withdrew the twenty dollars. The old man snatched it greedily and stuffed it in the register.  Slowly he placed the castle on the counter.  “Go on, take it.”  He set his gloved hands on the counter, peering over at her.
“Thanks,” she said, tottering under the weight. “I–” Her words were suddenly cut off as the shop owner’s nephew surged forward and tried to take it from her, but before he did, they both flickered and vanished.
“Kids,” said the shop owner, counting the money, and examined the two new figurines in the castle.

GoldenLuckyCharm12 has a very interesting concept on change an tradition. I liked their idea because it incorporated what we learned in class onto a blog. I also like the acrostic layout. That made it fun to look at and I think that this is a good idea about change, that we may like it or not.

And now here is my own blog. Please don’t base your own story on it. By the way, it makes more sense if you read part one.

Brett blinked. He pushed himself up off the ground in a feeble attempt to stand, but eventually he settled for sitting. Dim shapes of buildings enshrouded in mist rose before him. Closer to him he could see other survivors. Survivors. The horrible memories of the flight returned, of the people falling out of the Flight of Dreams. Well, they sure got a flight, he thought groggily. His thoughts moved to his parents. Where were they?

Desperately he crawled over to one of the figures and flopped them onto their back. Their face was streaked with crimson lines, and breath barely issued out of their mouth. Even through the scratches, Brett could still determine who it was, news reporter Daron McAdams. The track star shook the reporter desperately. Finally his eyelids fluttered open, and put a hand to his forehead. Brett anxiously helped the man to his feet.

“Where are we?” The reporter touched his face and drew in his breath, wincing. Brett eyed the others laying on the ground. “I don’t know, but we have to help the others.” Both of them limped over to the survivors. Some weren’t injured horribly, but others, it was too late for them.

Brett ran his fingers through his hair, glancing around; his eyes alighted on the city. He glanced at the reporter, who was tending to a young girl, and silently slipped away.

• a commandeered plane                          
• flies over the World Trade Centers and     0     0    /
• and the plane        /              
• starts to         /           
• plummet    /        
• and…  /    
•     / 

smo                                     ke

blo                             ws
as                   the
pla            ne
hi         ts
the building. the
/ collision is so strong /
/ that the building bur /
( sts into flame and
(BOOM! the fire starts to
( melt the steel and people
( inside scream knowing it
is the end. they struggle to
find an exit through the haze.
tears fall from the faces of
those who think of their loved
ones. it’s hard to believe the

Chernobyl, Russia
April 26, 1986

Yuri pulled himself up from bed. His chest pained him. He muttered about his bad heart and peered at the digital alarm clock. The red numbers flashed 1:22 AM. The old man glared at the alarm clock and got up. His striped pajamas slid off the bed without a sound.Once in the kitchen, he grabbed a glass from the cabinet and began filling it with water. Yuri leaned against the stove, yawning, and fiddled with a hole in his pajama pocket. He turned off the sink and held the glass up to his mouth, noticing something unusual outside. His dark brown eyes widened. The cup shuddered in his hand, slopping water everywhere. He trembled so violently that it slipped from his fingers and fell the floor. Shards of glass reflected the horror displayed on his face.
A large neon green cloud floated over Chernobyl nuclear power plant. In the distance Yuri could hear the crumbling of the structure as well as the muted screams of people noticing the danger before them. If he didn’t run the radiation would surely affect him. He glanced in the bedroom at his wife, Anya. She lay there peacefully, unaware of the constantly growing threat. He mourned for her as he darted out the door. It was too late.
Instantly his breathing became a struggle. A metallic taste filled his mouth as he stumbled forward, his vision growing darker. The last sensation he was aware of was of excruciating pain throughout his body. Yuri collapsed and saw no more.

Somewhere over Ukraine and Russia
24 years later

The Flight of Dreams proppeled itself below the clouds, like a small fish beneath a frothing white sea. The sun flickered dimly in the distance, vanishing behind the small farming villages 8000 feet below. A light breeze whistled through the weeds, curling around the cement structure encasing the old nuclear power plant.
Brett sank into one of many velvet chairs in acre-long lounge, wheezing. After running the length of a football field, even he, the high school’s track star, needed to catch a breath. Since there were only three weeks left until regionals, he was forced to practice while suspended over some of the “world’s greatest sights” his parents had paid to see over the course of two weeks. Like some stupid power plant was interesting. It doesn’t even work, he thought, running his fingers through his mane of brown hair.
The recording crackled to life. “The interesting sight below us is the wreckage of the Soviet Union’s old power plant, based in Chernobyl.” There were murmurs of acknowledgement between the older passengers while the younger ones pressed their faces to the glass, anxious to view the rubble. “The folks in that area believe it to have strange effects on the surrounding landscape, but of course it’s nonsense. Studies have shown, however, that most of the places near the powerplant were contaminated with nuclear material. The history. The enormous task of building this nuclear energy plant began in the 1970s…..”
Brett walked over to one of the massive windows of the blimp, tuning out the sound in the background. If he had been listening, he would have known something was wrong by the recording playing one word over and over in the same choppy voice.
The dirigible suddenly careened wildly to the left, sending the furniture and the occupants smashing through the windows. In the same jerky motion it surged upward, above the clouds. It seemed the blimp had a mind of its own.
Brett hurtled toward the back of the blimp as the sheer force pushed him downward. It wasn’t designed to fly above the clouds, so all the passengers began gasping at their lack of air as they slid toward the broken back window. This is like the Titanic, but at least there were survivors, he thought fleetingly. Brett scrabbled at the wall as he plummeted out, out, out…..