After two years of learning language arts through technology, the transition to high school will probably be a lot different than what we have experienced this year. There will be a different environment, different classmates, different teachers. In high school, I want to learn through things that I enjoy. I want to learn how to make my writing and reading better. I want to be challenged, because I can handle it. In 9th grade, it won’t be very interesting to go over grammar and roots of different words.

The way I learn best is through technology. Textbooks don’t really hold as much value for me. When I have something that I am familiar with and can enjoy, I can understand it better. Last year, our teacher strove to teach us in a way that we could understand. Even though we were challenged, it made us better in Language Arts. We learned more in depth concepts and didn’t focus on things just like grammar and sentence structure. However, if it turns out that we are just reading and writing, that won’t be too bad.

The whole book discusses what has happened to America as a result of the fast food’s beginning. I found it very interesting that many of the people that started places like McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and KFC were school dropouts. Yet today they have multibillion dollar companies that have shaped the U.S.

The book begins by talking about cars. As cars became a more common form of transportation, restaurants began to fit their mobile customer’s needs. Drive in windows soon began to spring up all over the country.

In modern day America, you’re probably satisfied to know that there are people who are happy to be serving you. In the kitchens of these restaurants, there are very strict rules that the employees must follow. Screens dictate orders to the workers, who try and trick you into paying just a few cents more for that jumbo sized order of fries. But some employees can’t handle it. There have been more fast food robberies (some by past employees) then there have been in other stores like 7-11’s.

While reading, I learned that what we eat isn’t always what it seems. Here are some fast fast food facts:

•Fries used to be boiled in beef fat.

•Many of the foods we get, even hamburgers, are artificially flavored.

•Chicken McNuggets used to be made out of chickens who could no longer lay eggs.

•Chicken McNuggets are more fatty than a Big Mac.

•This is kind of gross, but I think it should be included: About 100 years ago, one man fell into a lard making machine and got ground up. Conditions in meatpacking plants today aren’t much better.

•Another gross fact: In a McDonald’s in Colorado Springs, cockroaches got into the milkshake machine and mice urinated on raw burgers.

There were a few other outrageous things I found out. There’s actually a university for McDonald’s employees. Some of the employees only know how to say the names of items on the menu. McDonald’s even created a theme park called McDonaldland. Try and imagine Disneyland with McBurglar and Ronald McDonald. Burger King also made a theme park called the Burger King Kingdom.

After reading this book, my first thought was to NEVER eat fast food again. Reading about all the things they do to our food shocked me. Unfortunately, for some people the effects of fast food are permanent. Eating at many of these restaurants will give you food full of fat and lacking in nutrition. After McDonald’s went overseas, the amount of obese people began to rise.

I think it’s important that people know about this. If you know what’s in food, you know what to do to stay away.

I agree, artists need their rights protected because it’s the only way they make money, but it’s not fair to limit others from using their work.  If you buy it, aren’t you entitled to do whatever you want with it?  If more people are allowed to use it, it creates more publicity for that band and record.

If you remix, it is your original idea.  You decided to mix one song with another.  If you mix songs, it should be personal but not for profit.  It should be shared but not sold.  That was you can create a new sound that you enjoy and share it with your friends.

This is a way to share your creativity.  You can make something new.  I don’t see why it is such a big deal.

And never lead your side

They are always there

To mirror you, to watch you

To mimic every action.

Sometimes they aren't with you

They are wandering somewhere else

Only to return when the light returns as well

To go back to being

A fragment of a person.

They are stuck to you

Every step you take

They are on your heels

Walking behind you

As a dark, vague shape

They are just blurry shapes

A fragment of a person.

Sometimes shadows find someone new

And cling to them

Instead of clinging to you

And you are left alone

Without someone to be there for you

Or stay by your side

You wish you can get it back

But your shadow is always there as

A fragment of a person.

He was small, about four or five years old. He was dressed in a luminous yellow rain coat and waddled around in small black boots. A drop of rain fell down on his head, but he sat on one of the numerous benches, swinging his feet back and forth. Soon other drops peppered the ground, but he waited.

The rusty iron gate at the entrance clanged shut. Apparently they thought everyone had left. The little boy ran up to the fence and stared out. His hair was now wet and matted, and raindrops clung to his jacket before rolling off.  He kicked the gate hard, only to jump around with a stubbed toe before slipping and falling on the ground.

Tires squealed and he could hear someone banging on the gate.  He stumbled towards it blindly and felt someone grab his little hand.  He was crying, but you couldn’t tell in the rain.  He  couldn’t see anything, but he heard someone desperately attacking the lock on the gate.   It opened, and his mother picked him up in her arms.

“Charlie, I thought you were coming,” she said.  “You were right behind me; where did you go?”  He responded, “I couldn’t see where you went.”

It was raining, but he didn’t open his umbrella.  He couldn’t tell where it was, or where anything else was.  He was blind.

Yes, language arts isn’t a time to surf the web, and some of the videos out there aren’t appropriate. But you have to put it into context. Not many students would try to play an inappropriate video with a teacher wandering around.

People may not use Google Video very much, but they don’t have to block it. Some of the things out there illustrate good points that help augment our learning, like the Dove video on beauty.  Google Video also benefits people who are visual as well as auditory learners.

I don’t know if there is a way to petition this, but now they have cut off all the video sites at school.  They added a lot to our blogs, and now they are gone.  There has to be a way to stop them from blocking Google Video.

But have you ever tried to breach the boundaries?

A few years ago, some friends and I attempted this social experiment to see what would happen. Instead of taking our usually seats, we decided to sit with the popular people.* We positioned ourselves at the very end of the table and waited.

*This reference shouldn’t be stereotypical. Not all people exhibit the behavior that these girls did.

I couldn’t believe what I heard.  They greeted each other with some sort of profranity. It got worse when the other girls sat down. They tried to ignore our presence by SHOVING US OFF THE BENCH. They couldn’t fit in the rest of their posse, so they had to get rid of us. Eventually it got to the point where we had to call one of the lunch aides (the people that dismissed you) over. She pointed out that since we had arrived their first, we were allowed to sit there. They relocated.

The next time we came to lunch, they presided over a different table. I was surprised. My conclusion was this: People like the hierarchy they have. Try to mess with it, and things could get ugly.

We never went over there again. We didn’t need to, and personally, I didn’t really like being in their company. I wasn’t fond of competing in their popularity contest again.

It’s true; there’s nothing tangible to see, like a test or a piece of paper with 19/20 on it. But there is this blog.  I’m sure most classes don’t blog every Tuesday, or talk about “-isms”, or start class each day with a question that makes you have to really think.  Here I will try to explain how I will prove to my parents.

Even though they weren’t there during discussions, I will talk to my parents about the topics I am learning about, like Romanticism or Transcendentalism.  I think if I can explain the topics to them, they will know that I understand what they are.

I have also learned about different words, like loquacious or monolithic.  I will demonstrate my knowledge of sesquipedalian words, by going to pseudictionary and displaying what I created.

I will also show my parents my posts.  I am going to show them my most descriptive posts and also the ones that I had fun with.  I have learned how to write in different ways, varying from first person to dialogue.

Even though I don’t have any test scores to prove it, I hope they believe me.  Blogging is a weekly assignment, and it isn’t always easy to find an idea on a regular basis.  It’s also hard to analyze different 19th century concepts.  But it all pays off when you finally learn and understand.

I did this post because it was the first thing that popped into my head.  I found pictures of the same roller coaster and decided to create a sort of virtual ride.  Since amusement parks aren’t operational during the winter, you can ride on a roller coaster without moving away from the computer.

I guess this post could also be interpreted as how life is, because there are lots of twists and turns along the way.  You don’t know what you’re faced with until you come to it.  You have to make the best if your experience.  After all, life is short.

Enjoy the ride!  Admission is free.  Come again!

The gravel crunched under Brett’s feet as he hurried down the road. All the shops were abandoned, except for one with a broken neon sign flashing the word “Di–er” at him. It was an ominous sign. Gingerly, he pressed the door open and walked inside.

Old tunes emanated from the jukebox in the corner. Four chairs were clustered around each vacant table. A few people sat on bar stools, swivelling around listlessly. A teenage girl stood behind the counter, flipping through a crossword puzzle book. She looked up at Brett. “Can I help you?”

“Yes,” he said, leaning against the counter desperately. “A blimp just crashed outside the city. A lot of people are hurt. We need as much help as we can get.” She looked up at him curiously.

“No one here cares, to be honest,” she replied, scribbling something in her puzzle book. “All of us ended up here, from planes crashes to skydiving. In this cloud city.” She gestured to the smog outside.

“But we need to get somewhere with doctors, like a hospital. Are there any places here?” Brett waited for an answer. She filled out another blank in the puzzle and answered, “Yes, but all the buildings have been abandoned for a long time. Even if you did find a clinic, there would be no one there.”

Brett turned back toward the door. “Maybe I can bring some of them here. They need help.” He ran back through the city and to the clearing where the blimp was.

It was gone.

The shock of the crash was now coupled with the loss of the blimp.  Where had everyone gone?  He returned to the diner, gasping for breath.  “It’s….gone,” he said, breathing heavily.  The girl at the counter looked up at him, thoroughly interested.  “Gone?” she repeated.  He nodded and slumped down in one of the chairs.

“Where was it?” she inquired, stepping out from behind the counter.  Brett sat up and peered out the window.  “That way,” he said, pointing to the left.  “But you can’t tell anyway.”

“Incredible,” the girl said.  “That might be our way out.”

A way out.

The foundation was ancient, with crumbling mortar in between the bricks. On the sides of the building were magnificent stained glass windows. As the sunlight filtered through the glass, blue, yellow and purple splashed across the floor, creating an enormous art palette. If you moved farther up, you would see that an old clock tower was perched on the roof. The rusted hands no longer worked; they were only a fragment of time forgotten.

Ivy curled around the shingles, adding to its forlorn appearance. Apparently it had not been attended to for some time; its decrepit state was disheartening.  The dirt road that led up to it used to be trodden over by excited feet, but now lay hidden under the overgrown shrubbery.  Perhaps if someone could find it they could restore it to its original glory; however, no one ever came.

A squirrel slowly shimmied up one of the sides of the building.  As the sun rose to spread its warmth, the small creature’s nose twitched.  Suddenly, it scurried down the front of the building and darted away, leaving the forlorn church alone and forgotten, as it had been and would be.

Did you know that something is wrong with Earth?

It’s being affected by global warming. You probably have heard a little bit about it. Global warming is the result of our extensive use of fossil fuels being added to the atmosphere. The sun sends heat waves down to Earth, but since the atmosphere is thickening, the heat waves are contained, making the surface of the Earth increase in temperature.

It probably doesn’t sound like much, but it is a major issue. The video below is a trailer for the movie An Inconvenient Truth. Parts of it are over-dramatic, and you may not like the narrator, but it addresses what will happen if we don’t fix this problem.

[googlevideo]2078944470709189270[/googlevideo]

One of the problem we are facing is the melting ice caps. The man standing in the picture on the right is next to the last glacier of Mt. Kilamanjaro in Africa. In my eyes, that does not resemble a glacier; it looks like an overgrown icicle. Also, if you saw it in the video, it showed that parts of Greenland and Antarctica are splitting off. Afterwards it showed different areas around the world, like San Francisco Bay, submerged underwater. This is because as the ice caps melt, the oceans raise up nearly 20 feet from the melted ice water. That’s serious.

Since the ice can’t absorb the heat, the oceans are heating up as well as swelling. The most memorable hurricane was Katrina. As it moved toward Louisiana, the warm water made it increase in size and strength. I remember hearing that when it hit Florida, it was just a Catergory 1. When it slammed into Louisiana, it was a Catergory 5. All because of global warming. Also, you may not have heard, but last summer a massive heat wave swept over Europe. It wiped out 35,000 people.

Other countries have taken the initiative to fix the problem that has been created. Europe is using SmartCars; different countries have signed the Kyoto Protocol. The Kyoto Protocol states that it will target certain places to cutdown on the climate issue. Nearly all of the countries have signed except for–US (and Australia). However, Denver and other cities in Colorado are supporting the fight against this climate crisis.

If you can squint just hard enough, you’ll be able to see a miniscule blue speck. As quoted by Al Gore in the documentary: “All the triumphs and all the tragedies, all the wars, all the famines, all the major advances: it’s our only home.” If we keep this up, we won’t have a place to call home. We have to try. We have to combat global warming.

For more info on what you can do to help, visit climatecrisis.net.

2) For once I want to write a continuing story. I don’t want to stop halfway through and get bored with what I was doing.

3) I want to write from my point of view about important topics happening right now. I want to share my opinions both inside and outside of my blog.

What I need to do:

1. Learn about how to write a continuing story

2. Learn about how to create interesting characters

3. Write a short story

4. Finish it fully with an interesting end

5. Write a novel from this story

As I walked by they gave me the group glare, then turned back to each other whispering. I squeezed my racket, wishing I could bring it over one of their heads, but, that’s very immature. I settled for just looking at them and the others who had shown up at tryouts. Some of the other girls were bouncing a tennis ball against the ground, while others were whirling around wielding their racket like a sword; didn’t they know that this wasn’t fencing?

I loved having a last name near the end of the alphabet today. This gave me the opportunity to watch the rest of the girls play tennis. The first girl up (Christine Andrews) looked positively terrified when they said the words “forehand” and “backhand”. When they served to her she dodged the balls, holding her racket up in front of her as a shield. The neon green balls bumped into her repeatedly until the coach finally stopped. Guess she won’t be trying out next year.

The other girls, including the populars, did relatively well. One popular girl accidentally hit the coach in the head, but otherwise all the balls veered away from him. She smirked in a satisfied when they said “Simmons, Andrea”. I frowned, walking over to the net.

At the end of the tryouts, I felt positive about my performance. They had asked me to do basic warm-ups, like ground strokes and volleys. Eventually they asked me to stop because they had seven more girls to try out. If only the populars hadn’t come. The next day I approached the bulletin board. I scanned the flapping pages on the bulletin board and opened my mouth. I hadn’t made it, or at least, on the team I wanted to. It was the B team, and all the populars had made the A team.  So much for Wimbledon.

Her ears pricked up as she heard distant footsteps, and anxiously she scrambled up the two ropes that tethered the tire onto one of the thick limbs of the tree. Deftly she leaped onto another branch and clung to it, glancing down below. A tall man called out, shielding his eyes from the sun. He called out again, slowly turning around. Suddenly his eyes alighted on her, and she swung off from the branch and landed on the ground with a small thud.

“Hey there,” he said. The young girl eyed him angrily. “You’re back,” she snarled. In the distance she could see his Mercedes parked on the dirt road. He shook one of his cuffs and tugged on the lapels of his suit; in the other hand he held a sleek silver briefcase. The man half-smiled at her, and she returned it with a grimace.

“Yes, I’m back,” he said. “I believe the land you own is a prospective offer that would be foolish to ignore. I’m hoping this time your family will accept my offer.” His eyes roved over the house on the hill, and he started toward it, but the little girl jumped out in front of him.

“Stop. This land has been ours forever, and I know my parents would never sell it to you.” He looked down at her. “Well, then there’s nothing to be worried about if I try.” And she jogged behind him as he headed over to the house.

Threads of shadow encompassed the roof. The man got onto the front step and knocked on the door.  As it opened, the young girl plunged inside, hastily trying to explain to her parents that they should shut the door.  But, a moment later, he was already inside.  He draped his black coat over one of the hooks, looking very out of place in their country home.
“I wish to restate my proposition.  Last time my offer was foolish, but I beg you listen to me now.  I have decidede to triple the previous offer.  This wealth would leave you–very well off.”  The little girl tugged on her father’s pant leg.  Her parents looked at each other, calculating the amount they could receive.  Her father said,”The money first, then the property.”  The man didn’t look at all startled, and, reaching for the briefcase, undid the clasps.  Even the little girl had to gasp before he snapped it shut.  He smiled coldly.  “Do you accept?”  Her parents conversed quietly.  Then they turned to him.  “It will take a while to decide.”

“Yes, yes, I’m not surprised.  I will be back at this time tomorrow to see to your decision.”  And with that he left.

The sun dropped behind the mountains, casting its final rays of light out over the grounds.  The man walked calmly down the sloping lawn and then collapsed, or so it seemed. He placed an ear to the ground, smiling.  “It’s a worthy price to pay,” he said, patting the ground.  Then he unlocked his car and sat down inside.  “There’s so much more to this place than meets the eye,” he whispered.  “So much more wealth beneath.”  And with that, he was gone, a satisfied smile residing on his lips.

Cheeks rosy, he retreated inside and settled back into bed, rustling his covers.

JINGLE.

Green eyes shining, he leapt from bed and tiptoed down the stairs without a sound. The old wooden steps creaked, and with great care he manuevered his way down to make the least noise as possible. A large figure was piling presents beneath the Christmas tree. Terrence ducked behind the worn checkered sofa and from his hiding spot watched Santa Claus.

Suddenly, the figure turned around, and all the breath escaped him. The person sat down at the table and ran their fingers through their hair. Delicately they took one of the cookies off the plate and ate it. The person yawned and turned to the glass of milk. Soon all that remained was a pile of crumbs and an empty glass.

“Dad?” Terrence whispered. His father turned to him, shocked. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and picked the little boy up from behind the sofa. They sat together on the couch.

“Where’s Santa?” he said indignantly, feet swinging above the carpet. His dad gave him a look of empathy.

“He’s, um, on his way,” Terrence’s father replied. “He has a lot of stops to make. It’s Christmas Eve.” He scratched at the graying stubble on his chin.

“Really?” the young boy protested. He leaped from the sofa and shook one of the presents. “To Terrence? From Santa? You put these under the tree! I saw you.”

He looked at his father. The old man rubbed the bags under his eyes and yanked off a shimmering piece of tape attached to his sweater. “I’m sorry, son. I’m sorry you had to find out like this.”

Tears streamed down Terrence’s face, and he ran up to his room and slammed the door. He sobbed under his blankets for some time. All the while, snowflakes twirled and sparkled outside as they continued their slow progress toward the ground. Eventually he threw his blanket off and started when he saw his father sitting next to his bed.

His father reached over and hugged his son. “I want you to have something.” The boy expected a gift, but his father just eyed at him sadly. “I want you to have faith in Santa, because he’s real.” Terrence sniffed and looked away stubbornly. “He’s not real,” he muttered.

“Yes, he is,” said his father comfortingly. “In your heart.” He put a hand on his emerald sweater and then returned it to his knee. “Merry Christmas,” he whispered.

As soon as the door clicked shut, the young boy pulled the window open and stared out at the moon. Something small floated by, and very faintly he could hear bells jingling. A Ho-Ho-Ho shattered the night air. “I knew you were real,” he cried. And with that, he fell asleep.

LOTR-

Smilies!-

TV Cartoons-

Miscellaneous Faces-

Holiday-

Cute Animals-

Peanuts-

Other Stuff-

If this holiday had never occurred, what would our country be like? What would have happened if the Native Americans and Pilgrims never had the big feast that we now know as Thanksgiving? What would have happened if Abraham Lincoln had never said it was a holiday?

Imagine for a moment that Halloween is gone. Some people might rejoice, for they can sit back and no kids are coming up to their door, but we’re not talking about those people. There wouldn’t be any children trick-or-treating, or parents standing at the door and handing out candy. Imagine what all the kids of America would do if Halloween never existed. (Dentists would probably be out of a job.)

Do we want to do that to Thanksgiving? When Christmas comes along, people adorn their houses with lights and put posable reindeer on their lawns. And on Halloween, people hang spiderwebs over their doors and carve pumpkins with happy or gruesome faces. Do we do anything for Thanksgiving? No! We just let it pass on and say, “Wow, that was great, where’s Christmas?”

And even now, with Thanksgiving not far off, (unless it’s already occurred when you read this) there are little trinkets for Christmas in stores across America. But anything for Thanksgiving? Nothing, zip, nada, zilch. Do we really just want to leave this holiday behind? It’s possible that Thanksgiving is so overlooked is because on all the other holidays, you get gifts! Well, with the exception of President’s Birthdays, Arbor and Labor Day, you get gifts. Candy, chocolate coins, roses, a brand new baseball bat…..

So, don’t forget Thanksgiving. Because if you think about it, family is one of the most important gifts of all. Christmas and Halloween involve families, because parents take their little youngsters trick-or-treating and buy them gifts on Christmas. But the 4th Thursday is a time for everyone to come together. So on Thanksgiving, be thankful for the people sitting around you. Be thankful for the things you have. But above all, be thankful for Thanksgiving.

“Grandma!” he cried. “Why didn’t you tell me what had happened? The field is covered in weeds, and the animals are hungry.” “Of course,” his grandmother replied. “With no one to assist us, the field was ruined, and the animals were starving.  So every day the boy returned to work on the farm. Because of his efforts he provided a rich harvest to supply his whole family. If you put enough effort into something, it will pay off.

Gently talking to his horse, he stopped at a fork in the road. Gloved fingers scratched at the stubble on his chin as he surveyed the two roads before him. Trusting his gut, he turned to the right fork and and clutched the reins between nearly frozen fingers. He whipped them up and down and Amelia continued toward their destination, snow laden aspens creaking overhead.

It was nightfall when he finally reached the cabin perched at the top of the hill. Smoke drifted from the chimney only to vanish between millions of white specks in the sky. An enticing aroma drifted from inside, but he led Amelia to the stables. Giving her a slight tap on the flank as if to say good-bye, he tossed in a bale of hay and left her to her well-deserved dinner.

Snow crunched under his feet as he managed to get to the top of the hill again and knock on the door. It opened to reveal a slight margin where someone’s eye was peeping out. Suddenly the door flew open and a young boy toppled onto his grandpa, clinging to his knees. A man in the wicker chair adjacent to the wall smiled, setting down his mug on the rickety table next to him. Half walking, half pulling, the old man settled into an unoccupied chair by the fire.

“Returned, have you, Samuel?” his son-in-law asked. The older man, Samuel, stopped warming his hands. Samuel’s daughter deposited a bowl of soup in his lap and gave her father a small hug before hurrying away.

“Yes, I have,” he replied. “It sounds like you’re surprised, Jeremiah. I sent a letter to you nearly a month ago.” Samuel held his spoon up to his mouth and blew. Jeremiah turned white but his expression remained jovial.

“That’s funny. We never received it.” Lying through his teeth, the nerve, thought the old man, continuing his meal. Jeremiah cast around for another subject. “So, how’s Fay faring?” Samuel peered down at the bowl, swirling the contents around. “Not well. But at least my son is caring for her. I was going to pass through here to get supplies, and, that’s why I showed up here, to visit.”

He could that this winter was going to be as frigid as his visit there.

Mark called me in for dinner. Like I’d listen to him, after that horrible moment where he’d pushed me too hard and I’d broken my arm. My heart longed to forgive him, but I couldn’t. I wanted to run away but to where, back to the city, to boarding school? Mark called me again. I set down my paper and sighed. “Be there in a minute,” I yelled.

The sun was almost completely swallowed up by the mountains when I returned back outside to the wicker chair on the porch. The steady thrum of crickets chirping beat against my ears. I smiled. Rover bounced onto my lap, and I extracted the extra biscuit I hid in my pocket and tossed it to him. Dirt caught under my fingernails as I ran my fingers through his fur, thinking.

Minutes spread over into days, and I regretted that I my arm was broken, limiting me from the activities I used to do. Instead I lingered out by the stream nearly every day, dipping my toes into the freezing water as I rocked back and forth on the tire swing. I continued with my essay, every now and then finding a place between the enormous tree roots where I could sit and ponder what else to include in my assignment.

It wasn’t fair that I had to go back, to leave my family in their tiny glade and return to suburbia for another 6 months. I stared the old cottage, the wind whispering through my hair, drawn back in two straight braids. Rover snuffled around my feet, whimpering occasionally. Mark hung back by the doorway, his dark hair obscuring his face. I knew he was jealous of me, because I was getting a better education than him.

The small house vanished as our old pick-up barreled down the road. Rover ran as fast as his tiny legs would let him, but eventually abandoned the chase. Dad tried to get me to talk, but I was silent. It was hard to believe that I, a girl from the country, could have ever made it to such a prestigious place. When we arrived at the train station it was with a heavy heart that I wheeled my suitcase up onto the train. I looked back at my dad, but soon the billowing smoke obscured him. A single tear fell down my face as I sat back in my seat, completely alone.

He watched her interestedly as her eyelids fluttered open. To his surprise she did not struggle, just attempted to sit up straighter. Her expression was cold, yet it somehow added to her ambiance. Zebediah leaned back in his chair, pressing the tips of his fingers together.
“Princess Mariana, I presume?” She did not answer. He had expected this.
“Well then, if you do not speak, I shall,” Zebediah said. “Very well. Princess, I do not wish to harm you in any way. All I want from you, or your father, is to be granted what I am owed.”
“What is that?” She spoke confidently, though quietly.
“Let’s just say it’s a private matter between your father and myself.” Zebediah touched the line on his face, grimacing.
“My men will find you and kill you,” she said sharply. The man signaled to someone at the door, who pulled it back creakily on its rusty hinges. “You mean these men?”
Marianna turned as best she could to survey her soldiers. Their hands were bound, and they had been robbed of their weapons. Slowly she recollected the forest, the ambush, the darkness…

Zebediah’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “You’re not going anywhere until I receive a summons from the king, in which you will accompany to your kingdom.” He leaned over and reached for a quill. Dousing the tip in ink, he inscribed words onto the parchment. The ink gleamed as he sat back, examining his work. “Oberon, take this.” A man hurried forward and delicately removed the paper from sight.
“Florizel,” he called. Another man came to a halt by the princess’s side. “I’m sure your father has tought you how to defeat soldiers, and I’m sure you could easily overtake mine. I’m sorry, but I can’t have you causing any trouble.” He nodded, and Florizel hit her roughly on the side of her head. Carefully untying her, the man carried her out the door, her head bobbing unconciously over his shoulder. Zebediah ran his fingers over his scar for a third time, staring at the far wall.
“Well met, King Thurio, well met,” he murmurred.
And he too left the room, letting the small patter of rain on the windows begin.

I know today that life’s not simple. Now those happy words that we use to call to each other are trodden over by ruder words and thoughts. Now homework is using the Pythagoreon Theorem (what?) and learning the defintions of words like satire and allusion (or blogging). The outside draws our attention, and those minutes of freedom are squashed by the bell, signaling the start of classes again.

Those friends? The ones that you could lose or make by sharing crayons? That, like anything else, is also more complicated. Once you’ve got a good group you’re set for life (during middle school), and it’s tough to let others try and join your clique. Guys bang shoulders and make really gross comments, and girls walk around like a giant perfume cloud and talk amongst themselves.

Now people expect you to be mature. If you get in a fight with a friend, you can’t just sit down and cry. If you don’t pass a class, it’s no one’s fault but yours. Now that we’re older, we have to contend with the level of difficulty we faced in first grade, except what we did then seems like nothing. But we’re still kids. We’re still immature, we still tease, we still have our own little groups.

Growing up is hard. You have acne, sometimes get overemotional, and you have to balance a boy/girlfriend with school. But now you get priviliges, like having a phone or getting a higher allowance. These may not be the greatest years, but they aren’t the worst. Although I bet everyone would feel better if we had milk and cookies once in a while.

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.

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

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…..