August Featured Writers

Our first batch of writings are here!!!

There are six featured writers this month.  Your job is to read ALL six pieces and make helpful, and constructive commentary.  Please leave thoughtful remarks.  State what you enjoyed about the piece and share any connections you may have.  Our writers love to read their peers' comments.  Take this part of the assignment seriously because your writing month is coming up. 

Writers--Stand by and read those comments.  Respond if asked to and/or needed.  You are also required to comment BUT, only on two pieces, your choice :)

Everyone's comments are due September 12, 2015 by midnight (11:59 pm).

Go Read!!!!!

Oh, and Have Fun, too :)

Frankie

Black River

    Two villages, facing each other, a treacherous river separates them. Although close in proximity, one side possesses a forest of lush green trees, covered in moss. The other, dismally faces the rival village for they do not have the lumber required to fish in the dangerous waters. To make matters worse, a new mother, Lilya, was holding a feast to celebrate her newborn son’s life.
    As part of their tradition, being primarily hunters and fishers, they set out to present a bow and shoot a pig with a flaming arrow. The newborn’s father, Ingemar, would do so. He strung the bow, stretched it back and let loose. He fired it into a nearby tree. A group of young men from the nearby village had the audacity to heckle at his misfired shot. Lilya glanced at her husband, knowing his pride had been injured. As a confrontation arose, the fire quickly spread into the wooden houses. With everything burnt to the crisp, the villagers stared in disarray. Lilya sprinted to her son, knowing that they would need to cross the river to escape the engulfing flames. The smoke suffocated her, she sprinted to the boats, dilapidated, but still with her son in hand.
    Lilya took a rowboat that the indigent villagers used to invade her home. She was elated, having escaped the river, yet she quickly realized the dire trouble she was in. Only the fires in the distance illuminated her path through the dark running water. A gray cloud concealed the light of the moon that she needed to avoid the rocks. Her boy’s screaming masked the noise of the water splashing on the rocks. Dumbfounded, she saw that the boat was tipping. A group of men jumped into the water and grabbed the back of her feeble rowboat. They were dragged across the tides and smashed against the boulders. As she reached the other side of the river, she stared at the glowing red light in the distance. Meanwhile, the rowboat, which the nefarious young men had caused to deteriorate, sunk into the water. Caressing her child, she prepared to be submerged into the violent water that provided for her for so long.

Dima

Power of Art

            The last stroke of her brush pushed against the canvas, she stepped back and examined her masterpiece, the eloquent patterns painted so vividly, an image created from the depths of her mind now alive-alive as beautiful chaos. Wild colors of blue, green, purple, yellow and orange now occupy the once empty white space, her imagination painted onto that canvas, part of her soul, saved onto the colorful peaks and dips of her image, as a clear depiction of her mentality. Art was no doubt what she created that day, for she allowed her own mind to wander and create something magical.

            The ink of his black pen finished, as soon as he started, he completed writing his first novel-a novel that he hoped would take the public back to the Roaring Twenties and enrich humanity with a sense of history and luxury. He longed to achieve stardom for his art, wanting to raise awareness for all the underground artists waiting for someone to make it big so the public could appreciate the arts of language and literature. He dreamed of writing a novel close to that of the story of Gatsby, but could only get so far, for he remained further away from his green light than Gatsby had been.

            As the orchestra finished their performance the crowd longed to hear the sounds of the sweet stringed instruments, the violin, the cello, the viola, the sounds of the subtle percussion and pit, the roar produced by the trumpets and saxophone, and the delicate riffs of the piano. The sound of music causing an emotional response from the audience, some to turn and shiver with chills as goose-bumps crept along the hairs of their skin. The art in which the orchestra produced catalyzed a series of responses from its viewers, the players stood up for their final curtain call, to smile at one another, for they all knew they poured their heart and soul onto that stage.

            I was not the painter, the writer, or the musician. I was Dima, plain and talentless Dima. I was a mediocre piano player and a near tone-deaf singer and nothing more. My only form of self-expression was my ability to communicate with others through debate, but that was not enough to satisfy my wants, I devoted multiple years of my life trying to figure out what my talent outside of school was. I went to numerous art and music schools only to get bored quickly and quit. Wanting to have something I could call my passion consumed every second of my existence, I just wanted to have the validation that I could posses a skill that would differentiate me from a fellow human being. One day my family adopted a DSLR Cannon T3i Rebel Camera, and after receiving a few pointers from my older sister on how to use the equipment, I taught myself to use the power that the camera bestowed upon me to make images that would move others and myself. I found my medium because I never gave up on trying to find something that was mine, some form of art that would be unique to me. My desire to create art pushed me out of my comfort zone, and forced me to chase my visions-my art-my photos.

            Art is the only thing that makes the seven billion people who are living on this planet we call home different. It allows individuals to express their beliefs in a form that is universally understood, it is a passion, it is a way of life, it is a skill, which requires diverse and practiced technique. The ultimate result of art is satisfaction, for “art enables us to find ourselves and loose ourselves at the same time.” It is the way to cleanse oneself of the terrible events of the day and start fresh. Once adopted it is the only thing that stays constant throughout years and years.  To have that much power over individuals inspires creativity and drives change, it is through art humanity evolves. Art has become my obsession, I think about all the things and people I would want to photograph if time was not of the essence.  But, I know that if you need me you will find me behind the ephemeral lens.

Sources:

http://www.goodreads.com/quotes/tag/art

Makayla

Bad Isn’t Always Bad

I am 3 years old. I have 2 older brothers sitting around me and my 1-year-old sister in my lap.  I am watching Television but feel empty. I look around the room and wonder where my mom and dad are. I do not see them anywhere. I begin to call for them but as I do my older brother tells me to be quiet and that they would be home soon. I sit and it feels like forever when finally a lady in green walks in and behind them my crying mother and father. I see policemen and my mom tells me to hide. I run with my little sister into my room and hide where only a little child would, under the bed. It is a minute or so when I see the shoes of the lady in green she bends down, looks at my little sister and then takes her. I am crying. I am scared. I run. The woman in green leaves the room and when she does I look out the window. I am looking for safety but all I see is my mom and dad in a cop car.  Tears rush down my face as I start yelling. MOM. MOM. She cant hear me and suddenly I feel darkness. A man comes into the room and tells me its time to go. I walk with him and he puts me in the car and tells me he is going to find somewhere nice for me to stay. I worry about my brothers and sister and will I be with them? It is two years later and I cannot remember what happened between then and now. But I live with one brother and one sister. My older brother is separated and I have a new younger sister that I do not live with. I have dreams or nightmares about what has happened to me and I worry. We fast forward and I am in 8^th grade. I wonder where my parents are as every day I am asked about my family and I know not whether to call them mom or dad or stepparents or foster parents. I still replay that day in my head and still have dreams. Fast forward once more to junior year. I am curious and want to know where my mom and dad are. I am on face book and I am searching. I find her (my mom) and I message her. Big mistake. She messages back this; “You look so much like your father…it disgusts me.”  That was the last time I talked to her, I immediately deleted her and moved on. I am now a senior with a dad on his deathbed from drugs and a mom on drugs. But I now have a real father and a real mother. And I am OK with it. I am still me. I am still strong. I am still successful. I am ME.  

Tino

Public Speaking

                  The first Friday of Senior Year was nerve-racking because not only was Senior Sunrise taking place at Etiwanda High School, but I also had to stand up in front of all the Seniors that did attend the event and give a short brief speech about how I would like our last and final year to be the year where we all unite as one and graduate Etiwanda knowing that class of 2015 left their mark, a new legacy. As I was told that I was going to give a speech, my heart started racing because this obstacle was thrown at me last minute and as being Senior Class President, I know what I signed myself up for, I know what the expectations are to hold such a prestigious title, however, public speaking has been something I’ve always feared. It’s something I don’t feel confident in because I’m a timid person when it comes to speaking among a tremendous group of people. As I walked to the center of the baseball field, I felt as if I was going to burst because I knew I wasn’t ready to give my speech. In the beginning of my speech, I was doing alright for the most part, until I lost my train of thought and choked, choked as in I ran out of things to say and at that moment, I felt beyond humiliated because all the Seniors were looking at me and I couldn’t manage to get my act together. I was so infuriated and mournful standing there trying to think of something to say, but somehow, I let the fear of public speaking get the best of me. After this embarrassing incident happened to me, I gave the microphone to one of my close friends, Caroline Albanez, and as I walked away, I started balling my eyes out because I felt dreadful and I couldn’t stop thinking of what just happened. I felt like less of a person, I felt idiotic, I felt like my heart was completely shattered, I felt not worthy of a person to be Senior Class President. I couldn’t stop crying because this was the first time I ever gave a speech to class of 2015 and I screwed up. I cried at least four times because I know I did such a horrible job giving my speech and the whole day, my mind was revolving around what happened to me at Senior Sunrise and I couldn’t get over it. After the event was over, I set a goal for myself, and that goal was to get over the fear of public speaking because I sure do not want a repeat of what happened on the first Friday of school. I told myself that I need to work on public speaking this year because this is not the last time I will give a speech. I still need to give speeches in future senior activities and of course, at graduation, so before my senior year comes to an end, I hope to blossom into a new person who is not petrified when it comes to public speaking, so as of right now, I am working on getting over this fear and hopefully one day I can actually say that I have come a long way to conquer this fear.

Ben

Raven

My grandfather has told me stories of how the world was before “Raven”, before the cameras would pursue you through every part of your day. He would tell me the stories of buildings you could go to and order your food, and places you could go to watch a movie. Of course now everything is chosen for us by the “bird” himself. Every morning I wake up to see a small red light pointed at me, watching my every move, I then go and fix my breakfast as the camera stalks me like a hungry vulture. The food like everything is chosen for us. Today, much like every day was oatmeal. I look through my wardrobe, there isn't much of a decision considering everything in the room is white. Suddenly my door swings open and a long somewhat endless looking tunnel is revealed. To me this is normal, but my grandfather would do anything in his power to disobey “Raven” even if it means taking lashes for the offense. Sometimes I wonder how it would be to not be closed in on myself, Its hard for me to imagine a world not in white, not having a directed path, not being spied upon by every waking hour. That is why I have decided to create a rebellion. I don't know how Im going to do it, or when but I cannot stand being treated as an animal while “Raven” is sitting in a world of color soaking in the light of a real sun. My will burns like fire, and only burns brighter every day.
    Today is school day, school is for ages 10-25 we always start our day by studying addition, and subtraction. Every has already mastered this but if we don't participate we have a chance to either be executed, or be sent to “The Winged One.” Next on the list is history, we spend the rest of our class time “learning” about how terrible the world was before “Raven” everyone knows its a lie but their spirits were broken the second they turned ten. Finally after 6 hours we are released to visit our families for an hour. I walk directly to my grandfather. He’s the only one I have. My parents were executed after trying to start their own rebellion. I sit by him as a few cartoons play on the big screen. Everyone else in the room has their eyes glued onto the screen, it was the only time of the day that we were actually allowed to experience color, even if cartoons only ran for 15 minutes. However today I was very interested in what my grandfather had to say. He looks up at me and grins “Good to see you” he says in a somewhat sickly voice. He hands me a paper under the table at such an angle that the cameras wouldn't see it. It reads “I know how to defeat raven”

Winona

Waterfalls of Pain

There was a scream, and a pulse beat within my veins, sudden fear obscuring thoughts and panic bursting to life like a roaring lion inside of my heart.

I could hear a thousand voices at once, each octave a foreign enemy, one I desperately wanted to claw out of the throat of whoever it belonged to. My face soon became wet, and I was no longer the leader—any sign of bravery had vanished as soon as the first drop of realisation fell upon me.

My feet, small and worn, carried me to the ledge of the window, air stuck between my teeth. My lungs gasped in pain, squeezing shut as floods of anger and pain rushed to fill the empty chasm. His feet were so close to the ledge, and mine were only inches away, and if I could—if I could reach out for him and save him—

I was trapped in a jail of hands, paralysed to the ground. My bones were stiff of uncertainty, and despite my love for him, I couldn't bring myself to jump. My face grew wetter still, and strangled cries erupts from my mouth, but all I hear is the aching plead inside my chest for me to be with him.

Kyle pried my fingers, clenched around the bars of the window, away, pulling me from possible doom. My chest was still rising and falling in dramatic manner, the rhythm equating that of African drums—complicated yet so full of power.

“Serena,” I hear my brother whisper, somehow overpowering the beats of my heart. “Serena, please look at me.”

I didn't know what I was saying. I felt no motion on my lips.

“Serena, please,” Kyle begged, and I could sense the tears in his eyes as worry curled beneath his tongue. “I need you to look at me.”

I heard my voice for the first time; it was loud, vibrating against the walls with authority. “No!” Kyle's body shook with hurt. “Somebody save him! Somebody save him!”

“Aella’s getting him,” he promised, fighting to keep his arms around me despite my struggling. “Aella’s getting him, Serena. He’ll be safe soon.”

“You can’t!” The meaning behind my words were incomprehensible. “Somebody save him!”

A new voice joined the commotion, a calm, soothing voice. It was as though the event had not phased him, as though he was, despite battling his own demons inside, nonchalant about the whole occurrence. “He’s safe.”

I stopped my struggling, falling straight into Kyle’s arms. His grip on me tightened as the cage around me closed me in.

Ryan walked away from the ledge, stepping away slowly, as though just standing by the window opportunity, he would somehow be poisoned to his death. I looked at him for the first time. His face was distorted with tears.

I escaped my confinement, and approached Ryan carefully, quickly embracing his tower-like figure and letting go of a few sobs. His body still shook with his own waterfall of pain.