tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8529321512393046692024-03-05T07:53:26.603-08:00Color Outside the LinesCassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-62978802185538260272013-05-17T08:57:00.000-07:002013-05-17T08:57:14.864-07:00Cookie-Cutter Perfect<b id="docs-internal-guid-5c50ef3c-b332-80a2-87e2-e2cca5d75a3d" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-5c50ef3c-b332-80a2-87e2-e2cca5d75a3d" style="font-weight: normal;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-5c50ef3c-b335-7746-02ae-647754323b76" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Author’s Note: In this piece I was looking through debate topics and found the one about if beauty pageants are harmful to children who compete in them and I wanted to write a response. </span></b></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Fake eyelashes, fake tan, fake nails, eyebrow waxes, manicures, wigs, pounds of makeup, costumes. This is what a typical beauty pageant consists of. Around 3 million kids, between the ages of 6 months and 16 years, compete in them each year. The question is on how these pageants are affecting the kids who chose, or are forced, into them and if the results are truly worth the risks.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These girls, these little girls, strut across the stage in short skirts and revealing dresses. Sweetheart, you’re four. At your age I had a pair of overalls, old sneakers, and a Dora the Explorer T-shirt. My mom was lucky if she could run a comb through my hair in the morning. These girls sit still as they pile on pounds and pounds of makeup, usually against their will. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Tears and temper tantrums are common occurrences for the pageant princesses. Can’t say I blame them, though. What I find perhaps the most ridiculous of all is how people involved in these events are convinced they are being judged on personality. How can you be judged in personality when all you do is walk down a stage and smile like a trained circus monkey? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t have a problem with pageants--at a certain age. Once they are old enough, and they actually choose to place themselves in a pageant whatever happens from there is on them. With kids, though, more often than not, I am finding that these have little to do with the kids and more to do with pathetic mothers living their sad lives through their four year old daughters. The fame and the fortune that comes with it is merely a bonus. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A wild animal charging a predator armed with...a spray tan gun. A makeup brush. A ruffle-tastic princess dress. These wild animals are more or less the reason pageant moms have their reputations permanently stereotyped as “The Pageant Moms.” Their job? Plan ahead. Before every pageant buy fake titles overseas to boost child’s credentials. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sure, because everyone sympathizes with someone who cheats their way to the top. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Next, before every competition, feed child caffeinated beverages and several Pixy Stix candy, better known as "pageant crack," to keep their energy levels high. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Right, because giving them drugs would be illegal, makes sense. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Note to self: never let child take naps or even small breaks during pageants. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Yes because, god forbid, it might mess up their hair and makeup. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Finally, yell at them for poor performance, lack of enthusiasm or a flawed appearance. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Okay, um, mom, are you kidding me? You need to take a seat and seriously rethink your life. You’re yelling at your daughter, YOUR daughter, because she wasn’t pretty enough to win a stupid, plastic crown? </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When it really comes down to it, what are pageants teaching us? That physical appearance is what is most important? That life is only worth living if your society’s cookie-cutter version of “perfect?” If you want to join one, fine, that’s on you. But forcing your kid into something that they don’t want to do? That’s pretty low. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></b>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-23335170775329276572013-03-22T12:43:00.001-07:002013-03-26T11:39:13.185-07:00Never Again <em style="background-color: white; border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, Droid Sans, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Author's Note: This piece is about something I did over the weekend which was originally a journal I just decided to post. I really worked on word choice. </span></span></em><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'Droid Sans', sans-serif; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">We lined the intricate pieces of silver perfectly next to each other, the brown powder leveled off precisely where the cutting edge of the scoop stopped. A spoonful of cinnamon. Both of us, took the silver handle between our fingers and held it in front of our closed mouths. "Gosh, I don't wannaa do thiis," Sara groaned eyeing the spoon evilly. "Power through!" I broke into a grin, pumping my fist in the air enthusiastically. "Ready," she started, giving her a leisurely pause to prepare herself for the heaping of death, "Set. Go." We shoved the spoons onto our awaiting tongues and waited for a reaction we were scared to experience. It did not disappoint, the results happened almost immediately. It felt as if my throat was closing in and I clenched my eyes shut, trying to keep the powder in my mouth. I attempted to swallow, but it wouldn't go down; it burned furiously in my throat to the point where I held no control when a puff of powder spurted from my mouth and all over the counter, Sara coughed repeatedly over the counter trying to coax the cinnamon from her throat. I had a different idea. I turned the faucet on to a stream of cold water and thrust my mouth underneath. I pulled away, allowing Sara her turn and we alternating spitting clumps of brown into the sink. We finally met eye contact, grinning at the stupidity of it all. "Just did the cinnamon challenge," we typed later onto Sara's Facebook status, "Never again." And with that we clicked send, whirling the warning words into the clutches of the world. </span></span>
Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-63389291633902638522013-02-15T11:37:00.001-08:002013-02-21T11:28:20.598-08:00Even Barbie Isn't Perfect<b id="internal-source-marker_0.46361515251919627" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Author’s Note: This is for the assignment write-whatever-you-want, so while doing a stream of consciousness and came up with Barbie tricycle and came up with a memory from my life--so a personal narrative. Please note my sentence fluency and imagery. </i></span></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.46361515251919627" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Glorious. That's what it was. I ran my tiny four-year-old hands over the sleek baby pink bar running into the white plastic chair perched between the two back wheels. Barbie's smiling face stared into my wide-eyed gaze, soon to be covered by my back. The handle bars shiny white contrast popped against the pink complete with long bright streamers hanging limply down the ends. The plastic of the pouch fastened to the front was perfectly straight, another picture of Barbie's flawless face plastered across the midst of it. I grasped the zipper between my forefinger and thumb pulling it apart with a </span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ziiiiiiiiip</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Pulling my various hodgepodge of things out of my pockets, I stuffed it inside. A cell phone. A tiny plastic brush meant for my dolls. A rock I had found on the side of the road. A fistful of grass I had plucked from my backyard earlier that afternoon. I was all set. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I let out a breath of air, I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in as I slid into the seat. My hands gripped the handlebars so tight, my knuckles turned white. The sneakers upon my feet were placed upon the pedals. Subconsciously, my leg muscles pushed onto the foothold propelling me forward. My driveway was a race track and I was in the lead; the circles I made around the track became wider with each passing one, extending to new depths of the track I had yet to explore. One particular square on the track seemed bumpier than the others, the uneven border between the square I was currently in to the finish line seemed so close. But I had to make it over. In the spur of the moment, I pedaled faster hoping that the speed would somehow get me over the top. My heart pounded as my eyes narrowed in on the crack of the driveway determination setting in. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Whip, whip, whip,”</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> sang the streamers in the wind. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Whoosh,”</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> went the wind on my face pushing my sweaty blond curls out of my eyes as I prepared myself for the victory I was certain I would taste. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Suddenly, I stopped. The back wheels veered upwards into the air and tilted the bike towards the ground, wheeling still turning. I was confused. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I clenched the handlebars tighter, eyeing the ground as it soon met my face. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I didn’t burst into tears or any of that. Instead I just I rolled over pushed the bike off of me and stood up.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “Pang, pang, pang,”</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> pulsed the pain in my forehead and knees, but I ignored it. Nothing that I could see was bleeding, but still I couldn’t shake this feeling of defeat in the pit of my stomach. I had lost the race. That’s when tears began to fill my eyes. My mom and little brother, along with my grandpa and grandma were packing the car. We were going to move to a big new house soon with a whole humongous backyard and a new bedroom with sparkly, pink walls. My mom looked over at me. Wild curls strung up in every direction, eyes filled with tears, skinned knees and a hurting forehead I probably looked like a mess. All I wanted was to get in the car and drive, drive, drive to our big new white house with blue shutters. I was tired of the blue house. “Cassie,” my mom called to me her voice worried yet strained from the stress of the move, “You’re head is bleeding.” Sure enough, I placed palm to my forehead and drew it back. Blood. I stared at for a while as if I wasn’t quite sure how it got there. My grandpa crouched down next to me examining my cut, “Sara,” he called calmly out to my mom, “We need to go to the hospital.” Soon I was in the car, driving away to the blue house like I hoped, but not to the white house. To a big, white, building called the hospital. As we drove away, I looked back at my bike still sitting on my driveway; Barbie's face was scuffed and scrapped off the front of the plastic pouch. Barbie wasn't perfect anymore. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></b>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-51787536077239089542013-01-24T11:03:00.003-08:002013-02-05T11:52:11.279-08:00Fated<b id="internal-source-marker_0.9561088818591088" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Author’s Note: I decided to write a piece on the book I am currently reading, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fated</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, to demonstrate my understanding of “point of view.” I reflected upon Daire, the main character’s views were on Cade, her arch enemy. From there, I wrote the same scene from his point of view to show him their sides differ. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><br /><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My screams fell upon deaf ears as I cried and fought this hopeless battle. Mostly though, I wondered “why?” Why? Why me? Why now? Why </span><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">him?</span></i></span><span style="font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i> Tears should not be falling, this I was aware, I barely knew this boy. But was it wrong if it felt as if my heart had been ripped right out of my chest? Dark eyes stared down at me them, completely overlooking the limp body in my arms. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but you should’ve listened the first time,” he purred, his voice nearly making me gag as I forced myself to look into his eyes. “Come ‘ere,” he said with a 2 quick motions of his pointer finger as he motioned me over to him, but I stayed where I was. “It won’t hurt a bit,” he assured me, “I just need your soul.” I stood up. In the distance, a raven crowed. </i></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"> In Alyson Noel’s </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fated</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> we get a peek inside of Daire Santo’s live as she takes her new role as soul seeker, protecting the world against the only enemy she never knew she had, but as a new feature we can see this enemy’s view on the same scene recreated above. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As you can tell, Daire isn’t too fond of this boy in the scene above otherwise known as Cade Ritcher: the seeker’s only enemy in the blood himself, the El Coyote. The entire book is told from her point of view, so oblivious this boy is casted off as a heartless, evil, character in her eyes. One particular passage, I feel demonstrates this brewing relationship between these two characters, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“‘I know exactly who you are,’ I tell him, noting the way his lip twitches with delight, as his gaze connects with mine. The two of us knowing what no one else does, I’m no longer hiding.”</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> (Pg 173) Doesn’t he just sound evil? From just this passage we can tell he’s pretty full of himself and thinks he can take her easily. Just the way “his lip twitches in delight,” show this evil excitement within him. From all we know, Daire is the good guy in this battle and we all root for her, but what is Cade’s </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">real </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">story? I decided to write a scene along the same guidelines above from Cade’s point of view to emphasize what I think we miss by just viewing Daire’s side of the story. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>I heard my father's voice as I killed him. Yelling at me, screaming at me even, his hateful words echoing in my mind. And her screams. That’s what I remember most. The pleading as she watched him die, the tears as he fell limp in her arms, but I couldn’t stop. There was something inside of me, pushing me forward, something not under my control. I did not choose this life. My father chose it for me. Whipping up magic so dark, so that my soul would stand no chance against it, ultimately guiding me to the dark place in which I now stand. When I am around these “seekers” a sort of frenzy begins, and it is nearly impossible to control my actions, my thoughts. Seeing my brother die, courtesy of me, I paused. I really, truly did. But just as quickly, I snapped out of the trance, I had a job to do. Daire looked up at me, with those broken eyes, and it was all I could to force the words out of my mouth, “I just need your soul.” In my mind, I heard my father as he praised me.</i></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></b>
Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-78548589011026945882013-01-18T12:16:00.003-08:002013-02-05T11:31:10.030-08:00Little House<b id="internal-source-marker_0.7588503630831838" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Author’s Note: In this piece I reflected and analyzed upon one of my favorite songs of all time, “Little House” by the Fray. I think they’re lyrics are incredible and have so much meaning behind them, and this is just my interpretation of one of them. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She doesn't look, she doesn't see </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Fall seven times, get up eight,” an unidentified voice whispered in her ear. But she saw nothing, felt nothing. Numb. Emotions were a strange concept. Her past has been long blocked out of her mind, her memories tinted with age, the speck of remembrance that did remain was ignored. For the sake of holding herself together. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Opens up for nobody</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The walls she built up around herself were...impassable, in a sense. Her family had fallen apart years ago, after her mother had passed. She hadn't seen her remaining family in years. They had kept in touch at first, but slowly the phone calls had turned to none. They had nothing left to say. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Figures out, she figures out</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> She had dreams once, too, but she mustn't dwell on what had once been. That was her past, and this was her future. Unmoving, non progressing, still. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Narrow line, she can't decide</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She kept her head down, she could not force herself to even look anyone in the eyes. Her life was nothing special, she knew, for she was buried deep in her own depression. Every step she took, it seemed it was a step on a tightrope, balancing as not to fall, fall too deep. She didn't know what to do anymore. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Everything short of suicide</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her sleeve slipped down her foreman exposing 2 single words scrawled on her wrist. "Stay Strong." She didn't know how much longer she could. </span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Something is scratching</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> i</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">ts way out</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She had so many secrets. Secrets she dare not share with anyone. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Something you want </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">t</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">o forget about</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">These secrets haunted her every single day. The pain was there. The pain was always there. It never left. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A part of you that'll never show</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hidden, from the world. Her dreams, her hopes, her identity. She couldn’t bring herself to trust anyone anymore. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">You're the only one that'll ever know</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She did have someone once. Someone she could tell all of her secrets too. Someone who would comfort her when she cried. Someone who had promised forever. But like anything else in her life--it came to an end. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take it back when it all began</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She didn’t regret that time exactly. Wished she could erase it from her memory, maybe, but there the idea of regrets was doubtful. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Take your time, would you understand</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Time was a luxury, and like anything else, unaffordable in her case. She didn’t give any to others and no one gave any to her. It was just the way things had always been. Well, until </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">him. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">What it's all about? What it's all about?</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She was confused and lonely. Mostly lonely. It swallowed her, leaving her breathless. The pit in her midst of her stomach would ache full of longing, desperation. With every ounce of her being she forced herself to keep her head down and keep walking. Watching as her footsteps moved farther and farther away from where she wanted to be. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No one expects you to get up</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Her only self confidence, came from herself which was not saying much. There was no one for her to talk to. No one to turn to. No one to catch her when she fell. She only had herself to rely on; she fell to the ground. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All on your own with no one around </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She laid there for a while. Thinking. About how she didn’t want to go on; she wanted out. Out of this misery, out of her life. But there was a little voice in her head. Her mother’s. It was clear now. She stood up, brushing herself off. With a shaky breath she stared at the path ahead of her. And continued on. “Fall seven times, get up eight,” the voice of her mother urged her on her way into infinity. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">-Little House by The Fray </span></b>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-44693322422218825372013-01-08T11:49:00.002-08:002013-02-19T11:54:35.973-08:00Annoying People on Instagram <b id="internal-source-marker_0.9310263188090175" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Author's Note: In this piece I, more or less, ranted about my thoughts of people on Instagram. Please note the word choice, voice, and introduction. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Ah, the journey in the wonderful world of Instagram. Since people have discovered it, ages ago, it seems, it has become a constant routine in their lives. Posting pictures, liking pictures, commenting, following--basically another name for a Facebook copy. Now, the focus of this essay? The things that people do on Instagram that I just cannot even comprehend how this is socially acceptable at all. Besides from the obvious irritating text lingo, we have 3 categories of “annoying” people on Instagram: the self-absorbed, the ranters, and the follower obsessors. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s not limited just to Instagram; it’s all over the block. The idea of abbreviating words especially popular on the internet or apps like Instagram. Text lingo. Let’s focus on a couple, first of all YOLO: you only live once. So inspirational, whatever, but there’s so many people that use it in all the wrong terms. For example, people will talk about doing really stupid things like jumping off a cliff and then they’ll say, “HAHAHA! YOLO! You should!” No. You only live once, so let’s try not to mess it up by making stupid decisions. And then there’s ILY. ILY? I love you, I like you, will someone</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> please</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> explain this to me? Honestly, let’s just cut the text lingo all together because to make it perfectly blunt, you sound like a 10 year old girl with her brand new iPhone that daddy just bought for you. Anything for daddy’s little girl. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now that that’s all cleared up, we move next to the first category of people: the self-absorbed--whose only task is to post pictures of their face. Not with friends or family or standing in front of some cool place they went to. Just repetitive pictures of only their face. Honey, I know you are beautiful and all, but if I really want to follow you I want to look at something other than your countless selfies. Not only are there the pictures not enough, but people feel the need to add captions about how ugly they are. First of all, you’re not ugly and secondly if you legitimately thought that then you wouldn’t have posted the picture. It’s pretty obvious you’re just looking for attention and for people to comment on how pretty you really are. Inside and out. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Riiight. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Next we have come to the ranters. Let’s get something straight, Instagram is an app for posting your pictures. Not a little rant session for you to tell the world how much your life is just awful because your friend told you she didn’t like your shirt. Stick it in a juicebox and suck it up. If you were really depressed, I’m positive you wouldn’t be sharing it with a bunch of random strangers on the internet. And honestly, sweetie, no one cares. Go talk to your cat or something. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Finally, we have come to the follower obsessors. Like I said, it’s a sight for sharing PICTURES not crying because only 20 people like you enough to follow you to see pictures of your face. And they feel the need to share with all their followers like “OMG, guys. I lost 2 followers. Why must everyone hate me?!” Are you kidding me? Also, in their little status they say “Follow me and I’ll follow you back...maybe.” If there is even a sliver of a chance you won’t follow someone back, then don’t even bother saying it. It’s misleading and irritating, and overall just pointless. Or they will say, “I’ll follow you back if you’re not a creeper.” So, then I follow you, thinking things will be all fine and dandy, right? </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wrong. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> For some reason you are under the impression that I am a “creeper” and don’t follow me back. Umm, excuse me? </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some people, I think, are just generally and completely clueless about the real world. Society has practically been brainwashing people for ages and they don’t even notice it. Or maybe I am just being paranoid and over dramatic about all these things that people do online, I don’t know. But seriously. Some people need to be happy with what they have and stop exaggerating everything in the worst possible way. Oh, and maybe getting some hobbies or actually socializing with other human beings would do you some good. Just, please, stop annoying other people who actually want to use these apps, like Instagram, for its actual purpose. </span></b>
Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-39764226577407291372013-01-08T11:47:00.004-08:002013-01-08T12:25:28.061-08:00Wicked: Creative Piece <i>Author's Note: In this piece, I added a creative scene going off of my prediction. I chose someone who I thought was the new "A" if my prediction did prove correct and went from there. </i><br />
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It wasn’t difficult. To steal the journal, I mean. It was after all taken into police evidence, where I walked by only every single day of the week. And police evidence goes missing all the time. And being a cop, I was probably one of the most trusted citizens in all of Rosewood. Not to mention, um, I practically live in the station. There was also little issue with Ian, the one accused for killing Alison DiLaurentis? I knew I had to act soon to avoid any further complications. Well, if I didn’t want to torment these girls as “A” from a jail cell, at least. <br />
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Killing Ian wouldn’t be challenging, I knew. Although we were the same age, went to highschool together even, I had the years of police training under my belt. How were these girls so convinced Ian was Ali’s murderer anyway? Because Mona told them? She was the original “A,” for crying out loud, she’d been filling their minds with lies months beforehand. You have to possess certain qualities to kill, which luckily I had mastered ages ago. <br />
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I’d always known where Ian had gone off too, but instead of reporting it, I encouraged the escape. It was mainly for the suspense for the liars, but part of me knew I just wanted the perfect location to kill him. Deep inside of me I knew it was sick, twisted and sick, yet I couldn’t bring myself to regret the decisions that had lead me to this moment. The crunching of leaves beneath his feet, gave him away even before he had time to reach where I stood. Graceful as always. I had chosen my location well. The midst of the woods, the very exact place where I had killed Ali. And Ian had watched it all. It impressed me that the kid was able to keep the secret this long, judging the way he squirmed every time he saw me. Just at the thought of Ian made me want to laugh out loud, I liked having that power. That power to terrify people. <br />
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“Hello, Ian.” I said, smiling at the look that crossed his face, as he stopped dead in his tracks. Fear. It only empowered me further. “You.” he replied, venom seemingly dripped from his tone. He turned suddenly, but I was one step ahead of him. I grabbed his wrist, pinning it behind his back, enabling any attempt to run. He kicked back against me and I let go of my hold, silently muttering curses under my breath as I did so. Now sooner had he turned to face me, my hands were around his throat. His eyes bulged as I stared into them as the life slowly drained from his face. He had tried to fight back, I’ll give him that, but it was a lost cause. The smirk on my face was present on my lips as I let go on my grip. His body fell to the forest floor. Just like Ali’s had all of those years ago. Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-68702595831576401252012-12-13T11:39:00.001-08:002012-12-13T11:39:04.663-08:00Revenge<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Author's Note: In this book, (which is the same one I made predictions on in my piece Wicked), I showed my understanding of the category of theme on the reader's rubric. I also focused on my word choice especially in the conclusion. </i></span></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.6698492630384862" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She’s back, and as lethal as ever. There’s a new “A” in town who has got lots in store for these pretty little liars. What’s on her mind now? It’s always the same. Revenge. It is what fuels “A” to stalk these girls, taunt them, commit crimes even. The idea of having these girls pay is the idea most satisfying to “A,” and the idea that after this the liar’s perfect lives will never be the same. The main theme in Sara Shepard's </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wicked</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> is not only revenge, but the determination, that intense need for that revenge that you will go to any lengths to accomplish the perfect punishment for those who deserve such.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Revenge in my life is painting your brother's nails in his sleep to get back at him for that ice cold bucket of water he dumped over you at 5 in the morning. “A” obviously has a different idea of revenge. Although "A" is all kinds of awful, I have to say I kind of admire her. Not that I worship evil blackmailers or anything, but I have to say the way she keeps these girls in the dark, knows their next step before even they do themselves, and has the power to make them do whatever she wants with the bat of an eyelash--is seriously impressive. The first piece to the puzzle is the messages. Threatening them. She knows all of their secrets and is enjoying taunting them with it, leaving them petrified as to when she would expose the secrets that could very well ruin them. "These pretty little liars got everything I ever wanted, and now I'm going to make sure they get exactly what they deserve." -A (Pg 172) </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> The second piece? The action. Cut off all the liar’s sources, so the games can continue until she finds the perfect moment to strike. Hanna knew her identity, let’s hit her with a car. Ian, Ally’s supposed murder, knows her identity, let’s strangle him. “A” could be some random psycho, but I doubt it. This chick (or guy, I guess) has some serious willpower. She took out a pretty strong teenage guy with her BARE HANDS. By STRANGLING HIM. “A” not only is an expert blackmailer, but she is one crazy beast going around killing guys like its as regular as you and your friends' Friday movie night. This idea of revenge, this idea of messing with these girls has become so accustomed into this her life--it's like she couldn't stop if she tried. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The theme of revenge in novels isn’t uncommon, in fact the book I am currently reading for social studies, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Cast Two Shadows</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, is a great example of just that. We were assigned to read historical fiction book on the American Revolution, and with just that you can already pick out the theme of revenge with the idea of the British wanted to get back at the colonists for their outbursts against the king. The British are like “A,” think they can take advantage of the liars (or in Britain's case the colonists) and get them to do whatever they want them to do. The war itself is revenge against the colonists refusal against taxes and other events, much like how “A”’s threatening messages are revenge against something these girls did to this unidentified person in the past. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wicked</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Sara Shepard has the constant theme of revenge coursing through each of its pages. “A” is ripping the liar’s senses to shreds, until the darkness surrounding them swallows them whole. Tearing them so far out of reality, slowly claiming their minds. Taking over their lives. For what? No one knows. All we know is “A” wants revenge, and she won’t stop until she gets it. </span></b>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-11882947243871637202012-11-30T11:38:00.001-08:002012-11-30T11:38:06.735-08:00Wicked <span id="internal-source-marker_0.6912509945686907"><span style="vertical-align: baseline;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Author's Note: In this essay, I really focused on showing my skill of </span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;">predicting</span></span><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> on the reading rubric, but also really being able to support what I am stating through solid evidence. I also worked on finding a book where the similar pattern was followed and comparing them. </span></span></i></span></span><br />
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A is dead. Alison Dilaurentis’ murderer that has been lurking in Rosewood since the murder, has finally ended up in his rightful position: jail. All the loose ends have been tied up and Spencer, Emily, Aria, and Hanna are finally convinced they can move on from these occurrences, getting their life back on track in the meantime. It would only seem fair, after everything they’ve been through that they’d be cut a break, right? </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Wrong. </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A might be gone, but a subtle hints implies that the drama is far from over. This is where we are left in the end of the book </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unbelievable</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> by Sara Shepard leading into the next book in the Pretty Little Liar series, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wicked</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Using the clues I have been given in the book prior to </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wicked</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, I am lead to believe the most likely plot is that there will be a replacement to “A”, with just as much reason to want to destroy the liars as the previous tormentor, if not more. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mona Vanderwall, the previous “A”, had gotten all her evidence, more or less, against the liars by Ally Dilaurentis’ journal. The very same journal that included all of their secrets. After Mona’s death, the journal was carefully stored somewhere either back with Ally’s family or somewhere in Mona’s place. Nowhere does it mention it was destroyed and is therefore easily attainable if you set your mind to it. If a person is to be “A” they have to be sneaky and manipulative and surely a person with those qualities could snatch a journal. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Not only would it be easy for the future “A” to snatch a journal, the idea of becoming “A” is practically begging to be bought into. After the whole drama with Mona, the story was released into the press. They were constantly showing replays on the news talking about a threatening messages only being signed with a signature “A.” Enemies of the liars wouldn’t even have to think of an evil scheme. It’s all there, no planning necessary, as easy as stealing a measly, little journal. And you have to admit, it was a pretty brilliant plan...if you were looking to take down four certain girls in Rosewood Day, which is exactly what a future “A” would have been going for. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">After thinking further into my prediction, I realized that this whole idea of bringing a new enemy into a series, as a replacement of sorts, was not a new idea. Not only did Sara Shepard use this technique, Stephenie Meyer of the </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twilight</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> series also did. The way the draw it out it also similar, if my prediction is indeed true because at the end of each book the enemy dies and a new one takes their place, even more lethal than even the first. After all in the end of </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Twilight</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, the Cullens the enemy is dead and Bella is safe with Edward. Same goes for the book </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Unbelievable</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, “A” is dead and the girls are finally safe. Both series are far from over, though. Stephenie Meyer brings in the concept of the Volturi, the head of the vampires, who are out for Bella since she knows their biggest secret, their identity. And as I’m guessing Sara Shepard will bring out “A” to blackmail the girls, revealing them for what they truly are: liars. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Life is never peaceful in Rosewood, this has been obvious since the beginning. Predictions are never for sure, so if this piece turns out to be completely false...well so be it. I’m only certain of one thing. Whether it turns out as I predicted or the author decides to go in a complete different direction--I’m sure Sara Shepard will not disappoint in her 5th book in the</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Pretty Little Liar </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">series, </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Wicked</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span></b>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-22315542509087959642012-11-19T12:06:00.000-08:002012-11-19T12:06:00.073-08:00Mr. Mason's Jars<i>Author's Note: In this piece I demonstrating my skills of predicting on the reader's rubric by predicting the ending of Mr. Mason's Jars and comparing it to the actual ending. From there, I picked which one I liked better.</i><br />
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I think that since Mr. Mason is so shocked that someone like Troy, who at first he assumed was a bad kid, would be so open and not just immediately assume he is a bad teacher like everyone else. Nobody has probably talked to him when he didn't direct a question towards them in class, so for Troy to be giving him the benefit of the doubt is something new. Not really experiencing a kid like this before, he will probably not as private and open up to him about by telling him the history of whatever is in the jars. Soon, after he tells Troy the story word will get around to the other kids. They will be somehow impressed by whatever it ends up being, and give him a chance instead of just assuming he's mean and avoiding him at all cost. Mr. Mason will make a better effort to really connect with the kids. </div>
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My prediction couldn't have been any farther from what actually happened. I guess I have been watching too many Disney movies or something because I have really become accustomed to the whole "happy ending" ordeal. Somethings people can't change, or won't for that matter. Mr. Mason allows Troy to look in the jars, but really when he does it takes his soul. And Troy is now under complete control. That's a little messed up. I mean if you don't like children, don't be a teacher it's as simple as that. But no. Mr. Mason feels the need to take evil to a whole new level. And the way he takes out a sharpie and writes Troy oh-so-slowly as if basking in his accomplishments and places it on the shelf with all the other kid's souls. His accomplishments of TAKING KIDS SOULS. That's pretty serious stuff. While my prediction was all like la-de-da everyone wins, I have to say I am enjoying the whole evil concept. It's so unexpected, you know? There is so much drama in one short story whereas a kindergartner could've probably made the same prediction that I just did. So, I am going to have to go with the original ending versus my own. </div>
Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-43451305474711164052012-11-15T16:34:00.002-08:002012-11-20T11:10:56.397-08:00Tragedy Strikes Local Family<em>Author's Note: In this piece I attempted to show my skill of character developent and how Mia's opinion changed from the beginning to the end of the book with the influence of her boyfriend, Adam. I showed this by using a newspaper article. I also included an extra paragraph relating Mia to a character in another book in order to meet the requirements of the advanced column.</em><br />
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Cassie Doubek<br />
December 18, 2010<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Hamms, a local family, car was thrown into a ditch in a tragic accident on Turnberry Dr. right outside town, yesterday morning Insiders say an unidentified man’s car slipped on the ice and crashed into the Hamm’s car causing them to skid off the road in the ditch. Bill Hamm, 42, and his wife Stephanie Hamm, 40, were reportedly killed on the spot. Their daughter, Mia Hamm, 17, and their son, Teddy Hamm, 7, were rushed to the hospital in grave condition. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Teddy Hamm reportedly died in the hospital 2 hours later and Mia Hamm had fallen into a coma. A nurse to the now orphan girl told reporters, “It’s all up to her now. She decides if she stays or goes, but right now it isn’t looking so good. All of her family is dead, she probably doesn’t want to live anymore. She think she has nothing else to live for.” An insider, who was recognized to be Mia’s grandfather added a follow up statement, “I understand if Mia wants to go. If she does stay awake we all know her life will never be the same. I will learn to accept the fact that she wanted to be with them, if that is in fact what she wants.” </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px;">Her close friend, Kim Schein, seems to have a different opinion, “I just wanted to let Mia know, she still has family. If she wakes up, she’ll still have people there for her.”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Mia’s condition slowly seemed to be increasing until Kim was reported to be bringing in Mia’s boyfriend, singer of the local band “Shooting Star,” Adam Martin to visit her. Inside sources say he paid Mia a visit that was cut short by the hospital staff. Immediately following the little encounter, her condition spiked which immediately resulted in another operation. Yet Adam, was spotted visiting his girlfriend again. No one knows quite what he said to her in there, but it was enough to wake her up, to change her mind. When asked about it he simply said, “I told her to stay.” Heather Wellington, a nurse and close friend of the family told the press, “I bet she'll be a stronger person because of what she's lost today. I have a feeling that once you live through something like this, you become a little bit invincible.” (Pg 122) </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">How Mia Relates To a Character in Another Book</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">In the book </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">Bloom</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, by Alison Noel, the main character Riley Bloom was also in a car accident. Although Mia ended up living though, Riley wasn’t as lucky. The only person who survived the accident, in RIley’s case, was her older sister, Ever. At first Riley was angry, who wouldn’t be? Her mom, dad, and dog had all moved on, accepted their deaths, and “crossed over,” as it is referred to as in the book. Riley, though, feels as if she has to help her sister and be there for her. Many ghosts come looking for her, trying to convince her to join the rest of her family, but she is stubborn. Until, her sister, who had developed the ability to actually see her, convinces her otherwise. This scenario is much like the situation in Gayle Forman’s </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">If I Stay</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> because at first Mia is convinced to die, until a very special person in her life (Adam) influences her to change her decision much like Ever influenced Riley to make the other choice in the main conflict.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;"></span><br />Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-9668244266920500572012-11-09T12:24:00.002-08:002012-11-30T11:39:19.641-08:00Equal Rights? <br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.36036954913288355" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Author's Note: In this piece, I was writing about a topic that was fresh in my mind and it was just something I felt like really needed to be said. My main focus was getting my opinion across and really put my voice into it. Goal achieved? </i></span></b></div>
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<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">No appreciation. No gratitude. No respect. This is pretty much the treatment women and girls received back when the Constitution was still being established. When I was younger, I was surrounded mostly by boys: cousins, brothers, uncles. I learned pretty quickly how much it took to keep up with them and received no special treatment for even doing so. Society has completely altered since these times and now women expect to be treated as equals. They have a right to get an education, a job, and do things for themselves. This I completely understand, yet there is a flipside to this situation, there are girls who are independent and others...not so much. </span></b></div>
<b id="internal-source-marker_0.36036954913288355" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Some girls work the whole “women less than men” thing to their advantage. They expect that just because they are girls the guy should do everything for them. Guys should pay for the dates, guys should give them spontaneous presents, guys should always give them compliments. And what do the girls do? Sit there and look pretty? The thing that really irritates me, in the least, is when these are the exact girls who always say, “Girls can do </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">anything </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">guys can do,” are the ones doing this exact thing. If you want to be treated as equals, why are you sitting around expecting the guy to do everything for you? Saying you can do anything is not the same as actually doing it. And you have the nerve to wonder why women are treated unequally? I mean would it honestly kill you to pay for one date? Say you both have jobs, then why is the guy blowing his hard-earned money? Why not you? Jobs are hard and quite often you work a lot for little pay, so personally if I was a guy I would want to save up my money and not waste it all every time my girlfriend wants to go out. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The girls who actually do care about women's rights are the girls who are going out there focusing on the education and making a life for themselves. Let’s just get one thing straight here, being single does not make you weak. If you are strong you won’t need a new guy in your life every time the old one leaves. Independence is key. Sure, I want to get married sometime eventually, but it’s not my main priority. Education, job, future. Why aren’t those everyone’s standards nowadays? Instead most girls will find themselves complaining about how their life is just awful because the boy they like doesn’t like them back. Here’s a little suggestion for next time: instead of counting how many boyfriend’s you’ve had let’s count how many tests you ace this year. See the difference? </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If you want to be created equals it’s not going to be a cakewalk. There will be actual work involved and if you don’t want to get your pretty $50 manicured nails dirty, well then don’t act like you actually care about women’s rights. I strongly believe in equal rights, and can honestly say that this should have been included in the constitution. But I am prepared to actually act like an equal and work my fair share for my own money. I’m not going to expect anyone to do it for me because they have to work hard enough to support themselves. What I am trying to say here is women deserve to be equal and should have all the same opportunities as guys do, but in order to get there you need to be able to not rely on anyone but yourself to help you fulfill that position. </span></b>
Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-58905579550925423532012-10-17T11:35:00.001-07:002012-10-23T09:48:45.256-07:00A Unforgettable Moment<b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Author's Note: In this piece for my personal narrative I concentrating on telling the story by narrating it in a way that suggests I am looking back on the memory. I really concentrated on my introduction for this piece. Tell me what you think :) </i></span></b><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.000810171477496624" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Kindergarten was not only the kingdom of princesses and superheroes, but the one place where imagination knows no boundaries . Our biggest worry back then was what color crayon to use in our picture; we were children, young and oblivious to the big world surrounding us. We welcomed everyone with open arms because we had never been taught otherwise, never shown another way. Enemies were nonexistent and bullies, unheard of. Friends were easy to make, but as we grew older we learned they were not so easy to hold onto. Sometimes, if you're lucky though, one friend comes into your life not only for a short period of time, they come into your life to stay. That moment when I met that friend for me, is a moment that I will never forget. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was the first day of kindergarten and I was a jumble of nerves. Being the shy kid I was I kept to myself following basic guidelines like never raising my hand in class. School wasn't something I was used to, and I wasn't the type to embrace change with open arms. Shakily I made my way into class and sat down where my name tag was. My mouth never opened once not even to tell my teacher that I liked to be called “Cassie.” When the teacher dismissed my class for recess, I wasn't sure what to do, so I remember aimlessly following the other kids to the playground. The brisk cold made me shudder, and in result I pulled my jacket tighter around my body and my hat farther down my head, pushing my blonde bangs to the point where they almost covered my eyes. Only one thought occupied my mind: I needed a friend. </span><br /><b id="internal-source-marker_0.000810171477496624" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b id="internal-source-marker_0.000810171477496624" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal; white-space: normal;"><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A group of girls I recognized from class had</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">already gathered in a huddle, discussing who would be what character in their made up game of "kitty." That's when I noticed another girl standing slightly outside the group, her wild black hair cropped above her shoulders, dancing in the wind. My hands dug deeper into my pockets, as I made my way over to her. I recognized her, </span></b>her name was Kavitha, I thought. Shyly, I piped up, "I'm Cassie." "I'm Kavitha," she had responded, "Do you want to play with me?" I nodded my head vigorously, unaware that this moment was the start of a friendship to last many years into the future. </span></b><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Slowly, we grew into a routine of sorts. Meet up on the playground and play our own game. It was always the same: witch. Switching off between the witch and the good guy the idea was straight from a classic movie plot. Evil tries to overtake good. Running up and down climbing various obstacles, it was a constant chase; sometimes when evil did win, it would even involve cooking the other in her stew, much to the person’s avail. Everyday from then on we were inseparable and already in some ways already best friends, despite the small amount we actually knew about each other. We were all each other needed as far as friends go. All that would come later, anyway, but now we were perfectly content just where we stood and still stand today. </span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Life is a constant cycle: growing up, outgrowing our childish ways, and finding who we are. All of us are constantly changing, though its subtle. You can clearly agree that you aren’t the same person as you were in kindergarten, but can you pinpoint an exact date when this change occurred? As little as I was at that time, I guess I had good character judgement or maybe it was pure luck, I can’t really say. But I am sure of one thing, I am more than thankful that things turned out the way they did. Over the years, I have experienced firsthand that as kids we don't always make the best choices, but becoming friends with Kavitha? That was a choice I was proud of making.</span></b>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-76342140301194997202012-10-16T05:35:00.000-07:002012-10-24T12:11:36.441-07:00Cause/Effect<br />
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<i>Author's Note: In this piece I demonstrated my understanding of cause and effect on the reader's rubric using the book <u>Flawless</u> by Sara Shepard. </i></div>
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<i>“I know
everything. I could RUIN YOU.”</i>
–A She has the secrets and all he/she
needs is a chance to strike. To let
their dirty little secrets occupy the minds of the Rosewood residents. Everything will unfold perfectly from
there. Hanna, Aria, Emily, and Spencer
are recently bonded over the messages from this mysterious person. Accusations are bouncing back and forth and
the intensity continues. They only want
to know one thing. Who is A? </div>
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In the second book of Sara Shepard’s Pretty Little Liars series,
<u>Flawless</u>, there is no less drama than the first book. A main event in the plot is when all the
girls finally conclude that Toby Cavanaugh, a guy from each of their pasts that
has suddenly reappeared, is A. He has
been the one tormenting them. They are
frantic to get rid of him before anything bad happens, which they all assume
would be that Toby will murder them next just like he did to their friend
Ally. When Emily confronts him about it,
he flips, apologizing and crying, before he finally gives up and runs
away. This is only the beginning. Little did the girls know, he was confessing
to a different crime and this they find out when Toby ends up dead and a new message from A
pops up on their phones leaving the girls scarred and more confused than ever, <i>“Don’t get too comfortable, it’s not over
until I say it is.” -A <o:p></o:p></i></div>
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Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-13977431707048136402012-10-05T11:47:00.002-07:002012-10-16T11:24:51.442-07:00Conflict/Resolution <br />
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<i>Author's Note: In this piece I demonstrating my knowledge of conflict/resolution on the reader's rubric by showing the main conflict in a book I have read recently called <u>The Giver</u> by Lois Lowry.</i></div>
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Jonas lives in a different world. A colorless world that knows no choice, no
ability to do as one pleases, no knowledge of life outside this world in which
he lives. It isn’t a bad thing,
necessarily, it’s what he is used to. No
one knows the of the outside world except for one person: The Giver. Unexpectedly, Jonas has been chosen to be the
next “receiver” in which his job is to receive all of the memories the wise
giver holds of the outside world, memories both good and bad. With receiving these memories, Jonas learns
just how cruel his world is and he knows he must inform the others of the
alternative lifestyle much more free and accepting than theirs is now. There is only one way to do this. Jonas must escape to the outside world. </div>
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The main conflict in this story is a person vs. self
conflict in which Jonas battles his feelings of better judgment in which he had
been raised up on or the desperate need to share his torturous memories of just
how chaotic his town had become to the people. The resolution to this is conflict is when Jonas goes with his gut yet the constant persuasion by the Giver
didn’t hurt. He escapes on only a
bicycle, traveling miles on end in hope of making it to the new world. How he will learn to survive all by himself, he’s
not sure, but he knows once he crosses the line all his memories will be
transferred to the people of his home.
Memories they need to know. </div>
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Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-86770226848504252942012-09-24T11:53:00.001-07:002012-09-24T13:35:17.448-07:00Pretty Little Liars Retelling<i>Author's Note: In this piece I wrote about <u>Pretty Little Liars</u> by Sara Shepard I demonstrated my skills of "retelling" on the reading rubric.</i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">The leader, more or less, of a group of 5 friends has disappeared, taking her friend's darkest secrets with her. Now, a couple years later each girl has grown apart until they each start receiving mysterious messages from "A," messages including these secrets. When her body is found, the girls are all left wondering, who is A? Soon they come to realize that "A" has been messaging each of the girls, haunting them with their deepest secrets.</span>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-81124870586142299672012-09-20T12:35:00.000-07:002012-09-23T15:44:24.084-07:00Under the Willow TreeAuthor's Note: With this piece, which I used as a DWA, we could go in any direction we wanted. I wasn't exactly in a happy mood, so this is what I came up with. I tried to really emphasize the story with word choice and really bring out my voice. Comment below;) <br />
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Betrayal: the breaking or violation of trust. It spread through my veins like poison, but my mind remained oblivious, daring myself not to believe it. I stared him down, the real enemy, as I silently cursed myself for not figuring it out sooner. The suspicion had been there all along, tugging at a corner of my mind, but never submerging into a complete accusation. It sat there, waiting for me to put it together, but it was too late now. “You killed them,” I stated the obvious, trying out the bitter words in my own mouth. He said nothing, but his eyes danced with the truth that I already knew. I could sense him clench the knife tighter in the grip of his hand, sparkling with the blood I knew was there, even in the darkness. I stood up straighter, my eyes still locked with his, with nothing more to say. “See you later, dad.” And with that I turned and walked away, already planning my revenge. <br />
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The vacant street, in which I walked, was where I finally allowed my composure to break; all the emotions I had been hiding seeped through the cracks. It left me breathless, as I stood in the middle of the street hunched over, gasping for air. I willed myself not to cry, but I knew I had no one left. I tried so hard to shake the memory of what had just happened from my mind, but I knew it was no use. I still heard the screams as they echoed in my ears; my hand hovered over the doorknob, forcing myself to open it. The fear was bubbling at the surface, but I ignored it as I walked down the stairs of my basement. I could vaguely make out the outline of the missing bodies, sprawled across the floor. The only emotion I could identify was not the fear, but the shock of my own father standing above them and his eyes as they found mine just before he plunged the knife into his newest victim’s heart: my mother. <br />
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I had so many questions. My feet seemed to move themselves and I didn’t completely register where I was until I was there. My willow tree. It wasn’t the smartest idea, given the circumstances. This had been where my dad had always take me when I was a kid. We’d sit under it and stare up into the stars until I feel asleep in his arms. I wonder if even back then he had begun to lose his mind. Now, I begin to recall the outbursts so vividly, where I could feel him shift into a different person. It ate him up inside, until he was no longer there, his mind was abandoned. If you asked me how long I’d sat there, I wouldn’t be able to tell you. All I remember was in the corner of my mind, I sensed movement. I whipped my head around only to become face to face with of what was left of my father. <br />
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“I didn’t think you still came here.” I didn’t reply as he stepped closer, reaching out to stroke my cheek with his one free hand. I flinched at his touch, trying not to dwell on the fact that I knew his had hand held a knife behind his back while my own dangled empty at my sides. <br />
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“You’re mad.” <br />
<br />
“Maybe so,” he considered, “But I can’t stop. And a secret between two can’t get out if one of them is dead.”<br />
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“There is another way,” I tried to reason with him, but even I knew it wasn’t getting through to him. There was no other way. Rain began to come down, each drop stung as it pelted down upon us, momentarily distracting him. And with that I took the pocket knife I had slipped out of my back pocket and stuck it into his throat as I said, “You die instead.” <br />
<br />
I twirled the knife between my fingers, not letting the reality of what I done hit me just yet. I allowed myself one last glance at him, the fresh blood staining the collar of his shirt. Hastily, I turned away and walked into a search of a new life, one where I left all of my dark past behind me. And that was where I left him. Under the willow tree. </div>
Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-34149301718488020962012-05-29T16:27:00.000-07:002012-05-29T16:27:29.337-07:00Some "Camping" Trip<i>Author’s note: Callie and I decided to write about a hilarious memory that we shared together while at a campsite with my family. We were originally going to make a combined piece, but decided to write separate point of views on the same time. Our main focus in this piece was to see just how much two people’s perspectives may vary from each other and it was overall just a fun piece to write. Please comment on both pieces.</i><br />
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Cassie<br />
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No one can truly express, with any amount of words, just how it feels to have a best friend. When a person comes into your life, that is truly special, that’s not something you are going to get everyday, that is something worth fighting for and holding onto. That’s how it is with my best friend Callie, we click, it’s as simple as that. We agree and disagree, but we accept each other and hear each other out. Finding a person who knows every secret about you and still loves you is truly something that not a lot of people will experience in their lifetime. “Best friends are the sisters God forgot to give us.” ~Anonymous. Enough said. <br />
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The simple memories are ones that in the end, matter most, for every single one is special in its own way. Pulling up to the campsite, Callie and I bounded out of the car and walked down to the fire like the cool cats that we were, still humming the song that had been playing on the radio. A night full of burgers, smores, and sunshine all to share with my best friend equals an obviously great time. With the country music blaring from the radio, I rolled my eyes and set out to change that, turning on my favorite station, a Katy Perry song played through the speakers, only to have it changed right back by my brother who never fails to get on my nerves. Being the classic brother and sister that we are, I changed it back continuing in what seems a non-ending cycle, until finally he gave up and I grinned in satisfaction. The next song came through and let me tell you first off my dad can absolutely not dance for the life of him. Of course, that doesn’t stop as he breaks into the whole routine, unfortunately for all the people around which included my mom, brothers, my dad’s friend Ralph and his son Alex, along with Callie and I. <br />
<br />
The boys having caught fish earlier, I spent the majority of the night getting a piece of fish dangled in front of my face courtesy of Alex, much to my dissatisfaction. We are now sitting at a picnic table, waiting for our cheeseburgers, as Callie is showing off her latest phone background which consisted of us posing while wearing the dorkiest sunglasses we found in Kohls the plastic hanger sticking straight out. Soon, my uncle and cousins along with my dad’s work friend and his wife are all here. Sitting around the fire, I look around at the sea of happy faces stuffing burgers, hot dogs, hashbrowns, and beans in their faces as if they had never seen food in their life. In the moment, although I thought nothing of it at the time, I was truly happy being with my family, some delicious food, and a best friend. <br />
<br />
As night settled in, the boys trudged down to the pier to fish, armed with only flashlights and fishing poles, and the most ridiculous headlights strapped across their foreheads. Callie and I remained, content with the fact that we now had several smores in our stomachs, our music playing, and a marshmallow between our fingers that we were in the process of turning a regular marshmallow into marshmallow taffy, a bonfire tradition. When we got bored we wandered around on the paths, just talking about whatever we came to mind, or in silence because for us silence didn’t have to be awkward, it felt perfectly okay to just know that we had someone with us who understood who we were. <br />
<br />
After sneaking around in the woods, in a failed attempt to scare to guys who had now returned empty-handed to the fire we resorted to one of the tents. I put on my i-Pod setting it to shuffle on one of my Avril Lavigne albums and we plopped on the air mattress joking around and telling each other stuff that wouldn’t make sense to any other person who could’ve been listening. We understood each other and that was all that mattered. When the boys snuck up to the side of the tent in a fail attempt to scare us, we fake screamed and pounded our fists against the side seeing if we’d able to catch them off guard. We crawled out the tent, when we were sure they had left and heard voices coming from the next tent over, could payback be any more obvious? With myself following Callie’s lead we sprinted the distance between the two tents, wincing at any twig that snapped beneath our feet not wanting the parents to catch us in the act. When we got closer we slowed and the next thing I knew Callie was on the ground. “Wait. Cassie don’t-” she started, but before I had time to process anything I was on top of her, a stick painfully cutting into my calf. <br />
<br />
Only then did we realize that the tent was staked into the ground and that was the string holding it down. I rolled off of her, but made no attempt to stand because we laid there speechless, dying of laughter. When we finally did pull ourselves from the ground, we avoided eye contact knowing we would just have another laughing fit, and brushed ourselves off only then realizing we both had some nasty cuts on our calves where the stick had got a piece of both of us, along with scrapes on our hands and forearms. Callie, having volleyball the next day, was frantic to cover up her “battle scars,” so we rushed to the car to get sweatshirts. Returning to the fire, we shared knowing looks, but casually joined in the conversation anyway. <br />
<br />
Being our usual weird selves we took to only speaking spanish and if any one spoke English in response we acted as if we had no idea what they were saying. When Ralph told us to make him another hamburger I responded with, “Yo no cocino hamburgesas muy bien,” or in other words, “I don’t cook hamburgers very good.” When confusion was evident on their faces, we both took the opportunity to bolt from our lawn chairs and act it out, which proved to be a lost cause even with my cousin, who had a few years of practice up his sleeve, helping with a few words. You eventually sat back down, drowning our failure in more marshmallow taffy and singing songs we learned in spanish with Alex occasionally joining in. As we pitched in the conversation, we laughed openly and rubbed our sore legs every so often as night set above us, the stars twinkling over our heads. It was truly the end of a perfect night and some memories I would hold dear to my heart for the rest of my life, though simple as they may be, this is what built up the friendship between Callie and I, into where we both stand today, together. <br />
<br />
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Callie<br />
<br />
I can’t imagine anything better. The weather is nice, I’m outdoors, the music makes me laugh and what makes it perfect is that I’m sitting on a beat up picnic table with my best friend, Cassie, laughing right there with me. Her dad puts on absolutely horrible music and starts dancing in a god awful embarrassing way that makes me die with laughter. Nothing could make this more perfect. Her brother’s perfectly annoying, as usual, and her brother’s friend is walking around with a hatchet acting like he’s so cool and tough, which he’s not. Even that keeps Cassie and I laughing because the mood is absolutely, you guessed it, perfect. <br />
<br />
Her dad grabs some burgers off the fire that he made and offers one to Cassie and I. Ladies first I guess. We pig out until it gets dark and the boys go out fishing for tomorrow's lunch. We decide that this is the perfect time to go explore the campgrounds. We walk around imitating people we know and being perfectly obnoxious as we go. Luckily not too many other campers are around to be annoyed. As a joke we come up to our campsite but cut through the woods instead. Right at the edge of the campsite we duck behind a tree plotting out our attack to scare her brother. But of course, since it’s Cassie and I, we each manage to step on a stick and get everyone’s attention. So much for the element of surprise. <br />
<br />
Once we’ve each had plenty of s’mores, we head back to one of the tents and play music on Cassie’s iPod telling each other random stuff that only best friends would tell each other. Cassie’s brothers and cousins try to scare us by slamming into the tent or putting their hand on it as if they were a ghost. We counterattack by pushing them over every time. We’re too smart for their tricks. Then, as a trick for us, we stealthily run to the other tent where there’s a lantern glowing from the center.<br />
<br />
I duck behind a tree and motion for Cassie to follow. We run behind another before our final sprint to behind the tent. Once we’re clear, I bolt with Cassie close behind. As I’m running I don’t see the tent line jetting out of the corner of the tent because of the darkness and trip. I fall hard on the ground. Just as I turn and start my warning to Cassie, she trips as well and falls hard in almost the same exact spot as me and manages to bring a big stick with her to cut up our legs. <br />
<br />
Our initial reaction was, “Are you okay!?!” but that quickly passed. We lay there for nearly three minutes laughing too hard to stand. Once we finally do get off the cold, hard dirt ground we go into another laughing fit as we realize no one was even in the tent, and the lantern was just left on by her cousin. I nearly wet my pants, or shorts to be more exact, when I fully process just how stupid we were. After we pick ourselves up and dust ourselves down we head to the car to grab our sweatshirts to attempt to cover up the scrapes and bruises we so gracefully received from the fall. <br />
<br />
Still trying to hide everything, we sit down by the fire with some of the adults and start talking to them. Cassie and I decide it would be funny to try to talk completely in spanish from then on and the grownups scramble to try to understand. They pick up a word here and a word there but it’s only funny to us. Every time they attempt to say something back in spanish Cassie and I decide on the response of, “¿Que?”. Their look of confusion makes everything about this night that much better. And the look seems to be plastered to their face as we make marshmallow taffy and lick the sticky goodness off of our fingers. <br />
<br />
What’s their problem? What’s wrong with them? Those are probably their exact thoughts. The answer to that questions is very simple minded. We’re best friends. Isn’t that what they do? Act young and foolish because they bring that out in each other? Embrace each others quirks? Laugh at dumb jokes? Sing so obnoxiously loud that other people complain? These are the perfect qualities of my friendship that I can’t imagine being taken away. The ones that matter.Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-80855094266862167972012-05-18T07:49:00.000-07:002012-05-18T07:49:25.537-07:00A Hunger for Passion<i>Author's Note: I wrote this piece to attempt to explain to the readers just the passion I feel for music because not a lot of people understand not wanting music in your life, but needing it instead. </i><br />
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There are no words to describe what emotions are pulsing through body at the moment when I think of music. I play music for more than the beauty I have it because for me it’s a necessity. Without it, I’d be lost, for when I have a bad day I bottle up my feelings until I can be alone with just me and my music. When I am playing or even listening that is when I am at my most vulnerable position and at the moment I am not afraid to put everything bit of emotion I am feeling into the piece. It is my savior. <br />
<br />
Music is not something that you can thrust upon yourself, for it has to be something that you were born into. Like God took you and said, “This girl she’s going to be something she’s going to make music. That will be her passion.” Plenty of people can say they like music, but only few truly understand it. You only truly know you love music when you play not to bring other people joy, but to bring yourself joy instead, for that is at the moment when music has taken permanent residence in your life.Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-54447374404351943392012-05-16T07:33:00.000-07:002012-05-16T07:33:46.894-07:00Putting Up With the Rain<i>Author's Note: I honestly have no idea how for our new topic my group decided to come up with rainbows. In this piece I didn't write about rainbows, it the literal sense, but instead took the first thing that popped into my head about rainbows and then I just wrote-it may be random, but this is what I came up with.</i><br />
<br />
One of my favorite quotes of all time would be, “If you want the rainbow, you have to put up with the rain.” This simple statement really defines all things, rain defines gloom and depression while rainbows instead symbolize cheerfulness and beauty. Anything that you want in life, no matter how little or big it may be, it will require effort and work. It will be worth it in the end, when you taste that sweet sensation of victory on your tongue, or just knowing that all that work had finally paid off. You had done it. With some dreams, they are more difficult than others, while some industries push you towards success others try to tear you down, testing your boundaries with every strike. One of the most inspiring people in Wisconsin, Vince Lombardi, once said, “It’s not how many times you get knocked down, but instead how many times get back up.” Every obstacle you face and everything hurdle you’ve had to jump, it’s making you stronger. I have learned this from personal experience. When something wouldn’t go right or someone would hurt me, I would break down immediately, in a big emotional mess. Now, it’s like I’ve realized that it really doesn’t matter, you know? Someone says something to me or hurts me I’m just like, “Whatever. I know I am better than this, you don’t me and you have no right to act like you do.” That’s why some say getting bullied was a blessing, it gave them skin thick as lead and I bet the bully couldn’t handle a single person standing up to them. My favorite song to vent out to is Kelly Clarkson’s “Stronger” because she is absolutely right, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger and that’s something we will all eventually come to know.Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-72364065666244632942012-05-14T07:52:00.000-07:002012-05-14T07:52:29.035-07:00Lost Hope<i>Author's Note: My group is kind of going through a "dark" phase as I'm now referring to it as. We did hatred and now murder, so at least it gave me a chance to be more creative. I worked a lot on word choice and really stressing the emotions the unknown character is experiencing. </i><br />
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I watched as he stalked toward me, the dark shadow loomed over my broken body as I attempted to get my breathing back on track. All my life had been spent running from away from a mistaken identity that was a mystery even to myself. And now it was all over. He had won. Staring up at the figure my our eyes locked, his were cold and black that danced amusingly, a small grin playing on his face as he looked down on me sprawled out on the ground. I stared back with pale innocent green eyes, the edges rigid with pain Opening my mouth, I tried to speak, but no words would come out. The flames were getting closer now, parts of the building were collapsing around me, licking eagerly as they started up my still figure My eyes remained open, as I mouthed “Why?” up to the hunter giving him one last chance to explain himself. It was the last he could do. He grinned mischievously and I never heard the answer because that’s when the knife plunged into my heart, taking with it any last string of hope that I had yet to let go of. <span id="internal-source-marker_0.05755316354131368" style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"><br />
</span>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-38988473613710687832012-05-10T07:31:00.000-07:002012-05-10T07:31:36.470-07:00Hatred<div style="text-align: left;">Author's Note: In this poem I decided to define a word in which many have perhaps overlooked. I worked on incorporating some literacy devices. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
Hate<br />
To dislike intensely <br />
It shall not be tamed<br />
Or controlled<br />
For it is everywhere<br />
Even in the places so peaceful<br />
It will surely be a lurking<br />
Hate is like a dark night<br />
Engulfing you whole<br />
Until you know of nothing else<br />
It overtakes you<br />
As you find yourself<br />
So over your head<br />
People throw the word around <br />
As if it is nothing<br />
A lone popcorn kernel<br />
In a super-sized bucket full<br />
It’ll make no difference if you take it out<br />
Yet it'll surely lead to another<br />
and another<br />
An incredible urge <br />
Pushing you forward<br />
To no avail</div><div style="text-align: center;">Temptation</div><div style="text-align: center;">Tempting us, testing us <br />
That is the process of hate<br />
It keeps getting stronger<br />
Chipping away pieces of your heart<br />
Heartless you are then <br />
Broken <br />
Only to be repaired but something even stronger<br />
But impossibly hidden just the same<br />
Love </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-82253037210318996312012-05-03T07:27:00.000-07:002012-05-03T07:27:28.949-07:00Free<i>Author's Note: In the piece, also, I really focused on including literacy devices and I am like frantic for summer. So, I thought to combine the two, please take note of each literacy device included. </i><br />
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I smile giddily and can taste the freedom on my tongue, sweet as sugar. I twirl, spin, and collapse on the hill laughing in a hysterical fit. Crazy as the outburst is, no one is there to witness it as I sit and stare into the forest, everything merely smaller in size because of my current position. Fascinated am I, as if I was a toddler waddling down the stairs on Christmas morning, greeted by hundreds of presents piled under the tree. The sun beats down on me as I lay back soaking it in, the luscious grass poking into my arms and legs. My barefoot are coated with a thin layer of mud and I opened my eyes to see the clouds rolling in across the baby blue sky, the sun blurring in a pink, blurry haze. I intake the smell a mix of barbecue, laundry, and fresh-cut grass, sighing heavily The loud silence was music to my ears as I found myself rolling down the hill, taking my time as I rushed along watching the blur of my summer memories past me by, more than ready to start it all up again. <i><br />
</i>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-28363652994500970942012-05-02T07:03:00.000-07:002012-05-02T07:03:49.707-07:00Broken<i>Author's Note: In this piece I really tried to focus on literacy devices. Please note the variety of them used in the poem below.</i> <br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Lost<br />
As I sit at the foot of the tree<br />
Shade covering my sorrow<br />
And the promises<br />
I believed to be true <br />
Yet here I am <br />
Stranded, stupid girl <br />
In a world so cruel<br />
There is always beauty<br />
Its feels as though the black night engulfed me whole<br />
Swallowing me as a shark would a fish <br />
Still I say I am happy<br />
In a world where pain is all I know<br />
Hope<br />
Is the only thing<br />
I have left to hold on to<br />
For here I sit<br />
Broken </div>Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-852932151239304669.post-9611317349941750692012-03-26T07:29:00.001-07:002012-03-26T07:32:01.775-07:00The Safe Zone<i>Author's Note: I wrote this way back in the beginning of the year and I decided to edit it up and post it just because its a fun piece. It was fun changing it up and doing a personal narrative that I actually learned a valuable lesson from and please notice the word choice throughout. </i><br />
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Rushing wind whipped my hair back and blew hard against my soaking wet face making it go numb. "You're crazy!" a voice screamed in the back of my mind as I held on for dear life, laughing and screaming alongside my best friend. I was blinded as freezing water shattered hard against my face. Now, I was closing my eyes and looking down in a failed attempt to shield myself from the deathly cold that was sure to flood over me. I glanced over at my friend as we sped along crouched in a protective stance, smiling. Putting on heads to our knees, we finally decided to give up seeing what was coming next to just protect ourselves. It was a mistake. We crashed down over the wake and I jerked up seeing the blur of the boat in front of me turning sharply. "LEAN!!" both of of screamed together, petrified, and attempted to go back over into the safe zone. The path. We screamed as we were whipped high of the ground just to come down with a splash. Our next idea was to hop over the wake and we tried to jump up pulling the tube with use and get back over, it goes without saying it was a failed attempt. We managed to get partially over, but it made it worse because now we were tilted on a dangerous angle. I was now b on top, leaning into my best friend as she leaned farther down, inches from the dark water urging us under its evil cover. I tried to upright myself, so I wouldn't push her because we both knew if any one of us was going in, it was her. The boat jerked the other way and we were pulled back on track. We couldn't feel our faces or hands, and we were soaked to the bone. Again I thought to myself, "Tubing is not as fun when it's 50 degrees out." I smiled widely though because deep inside even I knew that I loved it. This is what I lived for…these experiences, the laughs, the memories. Before we knew it we were crashing right back down in the "unsafe" zone as I often referred to it as. Screaming at the top of our lungs, we were pulled farther and farther away from where we wanted to be. We let our ourselves be jerked and jostled and thrown into the air for a while. And while we were still out there, trying our hardest not to give in, that's when we gave the signal. A simple raising of the hand, stop. I think of that ride as "life." Sometimes you stray far away you want to be, it'll be rough, but I always have to think something good is going to come out of this. The only thing that would be different, is when your in over your head you cannot just hold up your hand to make it all go away. You have to find your own way.Cassie http://www.blogger.com/profile/01127628668340421769noreply@blogger.com2