Our First Featured Pieces are Finally Here!!

It's a small collection to start out the year, but a good one!  I'm excited about this year's selections.  I think you'll all enjoy these! Go read and comment!

Remember:
All Students:  Be sure to read the entries for this month.  Everyone is required to comment on at least three different pieces of writing.  You must post the comment here on the blog (below the post is the "comments" link to click) AND cut and paste your comments, complete with dates and times, on to a Word document and turn it in to me by the due date.  You must do both to get credit for comments this month.

Remember, comments must be positive, supportive, constructive, and SPECIFIC.  No "Good Job!" comments, unless you follow that with specific things you thought were done well in the piece.  Show them you actually took the time to read and enjoy their work!

"Tangerine" by Sydney V

On a metro bus he scribbled furiously into a notebook. A tall lanky, awkward, young man watched a beautiful woman from afar. She wore a orange tee shirt with writing he couldn't manage to read from as far as he stood. Her hair was tousled into a bun that drooped from the scalp of her head to the nape of her neck. Her hair a dark deep brunette. She looked awfully sad for, what seemed as the looks of such a beautiful day. Unsure if he was willing to risk the embarrassment to come if he would approach such a creature. His mind played out all the possible pity conversations and hypothetical awkward dialogue that they could exchange. So he just sat back in his seat and wrote some more about her. Her beautifully sad face. His awfully tattered, coffee stained, atrocious black composition barely held together held his beautiful lyrics and poetry. On this fresh page he wrote about her, and entitled it “Tangerine” . Midscribble he lost his train of thought. So he looked up to see her once more and she was gone. Frantically searching he saw her walking past the bus window. Headed north. He wrote of many beautiful women before but, there was something special about her beautiful scowl. A voice he would die to hear. He ran out of the metro doors and caught up to her. He stood only a foot behind her, he could hear her crying. He opened his mouth but nothing could come out. Feeling a presence behind her she turned around gawking up at this tall awkward man in a long billed hat. Immediately embarrassed the man turned around and walked away hoping she wouldn't notice. As he tried to make his great escape, the dilapidated book finally gave in. And all the bindings fell loose and the hundreds of rhymes he composed flew out. Contemplating leaving them he turned around without making eye contact he picked up the loose leaf papers. He could still see her Buster Browns in his peripheral vision, he arose seeing her holding the last one. “Did you write this” her raspy voice croaked. “Depends if you like it or not” he replied a little too quickly. She wiped a tear away. Her sad eyes brightened a little. “Uh i even wrote one about you, actually” filing throw the loose papers he found the piece he began that morning. He handed her the piece. As she read her eyes continued to brighten, in correlation his heart began melting. Her eyes darted up after she read 

“Measuring a summer's day, I only finds it slips away to grey, the hours, they bring me pain. Tangerine, Tangerine, Living reflection from a dream” 

“This is far too beautiful to be about me, but you hit a hammer on the head, who are you and what do you want from me?” her raspy voice seduced him. “I just wanted to know why such a beautiful girl looked so sad this early in the morning, on the looks of such a beautiful day. I’ll be leaving now if that would make you smile.” was his reply. “You’re not going anywhere come breakfast is on me” She took him to her shady apartment in the streets of LA. She lacked much inventory, and since she invited him over for breakfast she cooked ramen from a dollar store, a special occasion. He found her house just as beautiful as her. She was metaphorically as well as literally a starving artist. Her raspy voice surely didn't lack talent but she lacked the “wow” factor(she called it.) The man wondered what could she possibly lack? They spent the day and evening together. The man truly believed he had found the girl, the girl he could write endless novels about. She sang his lyrics to him. Until he fell asleep into a deep lucid slumber. In the morning he awoke to an empty bed. He didn’t know if she had a job or not. Knowing he had to hurry and get to his, he scrambled out of the paper thin bed lacking sheets. He wrote his address on a napkin with a “stop by soon” and scurried quick to catch the bus. On the bus ecstatic and crazy in love he felt words combusting within him. He realized he did not have his notebook. He must have left it. Which meant he would see her again! She would bring it back and confess her love to him as well. And he would be happy and maybe the next person who saw her on that bus, would see her smiling. 
He never heard from her again. He waited everyday for the door to ring. 

It wasn’t until a few months later. He turned on his radio to hear a familiar lyric. 

“Measuring a summer's day, I only finds it slips away to grey, the hours, they bring me pain. Tangerine, Tangerine, Living reflection from a dream” 

He was then seduced and taken by the voice. It was her, it was her singing his songs. She finally had the “wow” factor she was once starving to find. He realized this is why she had gave him the time of day. That exact moment her eyes darted up from his page. He hadn’t left his notebook, rather it was stolen. By the love of his life. She used him. She stole his notebook. She claimed lyrics that he’d wrote years ago. His heart ached for her. His integrity yearned to expose her. For now she lived the life of luxury her sadden eyes once wept for. He wanted to claim his work. Not even to claim them but just to see her again. He couldn’t because he loved seeing her smile, her eyes illuminated, her happy. But most of all, he loved listening to her. (( credits to the Led Zeppelin song “Tangerine” that inspired me to write this, go listen to it ))

"What do you want to be?" by Miranda H.

            When I was little, like most young girls I wanted to be a fashion designer, a movie star, a player on the U.S. women’s soccer team, or even a contestant on my favorite singing show. What seemed like my hopes and dreams at such a young age were unfortunately crushed by the reality that I am clumsy and have zero singing ability. As I approach the end of high school and will soon apply to colleges, I have no idea what I want to be or where I would like to go. When approached with the question of “What do you want to be?” my answer consists of a three word “I don’t know.” Most people react by suggesting I should know what I want to be or tell me their hopes to be a future doctor or lawyer. Others tell me I better find something quick before college, and that I should try to make a lot of money.  Why should I compromise who I am just to find a job I hate, but brings home the bucks? My worst fear in life is spending four years at a university to eventually lead me to a job that I dread waking up and going to everyday. I don’t want to have a dull office job, and worry about making money. I love my parents, but they are the cause of this worst fear. They’ve given up what their passionate about just to raise their children and put food on the table. I want to encourage my kids to find a job they truly love, and not to choose wealth over their happiness. I want to be the one that they look up to as a primary example of having a job that I love and will gladly wake up for everyday.

            What do I want to be? I want to be happy. Being happy to me is helping others, being with the person I love, and treating everyday like it’s a new adventure. Happiness shouldn’t be defined as what society perceives as having enough money to go out and buying expensive flashy cars. One role that I know will make me the happiest is becoming a mother and starting my own family in the far future because I do believe parenthood is the greatest way to impact someone else. When I tell people “I don’t know I just want to be happy and hopefully a mom one day,” I’m told that I have low standards and should strive for more. I don’t understand why other young women of my age see being a mother as participating in typical gender roles and doing nothing with your life. I personally think being a mom is one of the most gratifying jobs on this Earth because you form minds and impact souls every day. This answer has gotten me into situations in which people ask why or look at me like I’m a crazy anti-feminist living in the 1950’s, but it’s a job I see myself doing. I do want a career one day, but since I don’t know what that career is going to be I reply with my options that I’m absolutely positive about.

It can be frustrating explaining to questioning family members, friends, and fellow students that I honestly don’t know what I want to be because everyone expects a better answer. Every family event proves to be the ultimate bombardment center for questions about college and life that I have no clue how to answer. I’m only seventeen, I have my whole life to change my mind and decide on a career choice. Who in society said that everyone must know their path and what they want to be right after high school graduation? I don’t know what road or path I’m taking at all. I guess everyone who doesn’t know what they want to be will be chewed apart and spat out in this cruel world. I’ve never understood why life has to be so black and white. At the current moment my life can be described best by a dozen pointing arrows going in every direction. I want to go in the direction that will be the most fulfilling, and make me the most happiest. It’s possible that I may decide in a year from now or maybe even ten years down the road, but for now I want to stay hungry and stay foolish. I want to live my life my way, and discover never-ending possibilities in college. The question shouldn’t be “what do you want to be,” but instead “who do you want to be.” My answer to that question will always be myself.

“Nightmare Within a Nightmare” By Ashley F.

    

            “Ouch.” I woke up rubbing my head on the cold hard ground, scared and confused. “ I don’t remember falling asleep here? Where am I?” I thought to myself. Uncertain to where I was or why I was here, I stand up to find a cuff on my ankle, which was attached to the wall. Struggling, pulling, and fighting to get the cuff off my ankle and a familiar size shadow covers the light over me. “Nick!” I said as if I had never been so excited to see my sisters high school friend before. Not saying a word , he unlocks my cuff and stands there and looks at me for a minute. “Nick please help…” before I could finish , he reaches for my legs and drags me across the concrete, where I bump my head on a cement stair putting me back into a unconscious nightmare.

​Suddenly, I was back in my house sitting on my couch around the people who loved me. Dad, sitting in his faded brown chair that has been in the same spot for as long as I could remember. My sister Jordynn, laughing next to nick just like old times. Timmy, mixing his protein shake ready to hit the gym, for the third time today.  I heard a familiar voice from my right. “Ashley!! Smile!!!” said my best friend  Lauren while raising her slightly cracked iPhone , ready to capture this perfect moment. She lifts her phone at an angle to capture both of us in the picture, she looks recognizable , but me not so much. Within the picture , I see blood dripping  down my forehead. "What ?" I say softly to myself. Then , a familiar pain arises in my head. All at once , everything looks different, everyone disappearing into a black abyss.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! I feel every cement stair my body hits as I woke up from my dream feeling as if I was still in a nightmare. I was being pulled into a room of people I just not yet met. Unconsciously opening my eyes , these people looked familiar. "Dad?" I say questioning whether or not that is him. He turns around , and all I see are cuts and bruises from the stairs that lead us into this nightmare. "DADDY!" I scream trying to run toward him, while I see I am restricted to the same chain and cuff that I had see before. Crying , i find myself in the same position, trying to break free of this nightmare. "THEYRE COMING!", Jordynn , who I had not seen in the room, yelled. "Please someone tell me what going on." I yelled, frantically tugging on the chain , feeling as if I were only making it worse.

Four shadows emerged down that set of cement stairs, all dressed in white. Lauren, my best friend. Nick, My sisters friend who had put me in this misery. Tim, my brothers best friend , who ironically share the same name. Last in line , with the door shutting behind her, my own mom. I couldn't put together why they were all just standing there while it was obvious my family and I need serious attention. They all lined up in front of us, while my mom began to say. "We have all brought you here, for our own separate reasons. Each of us has decided to kill one of you." I began to cry. I couldn't imagine what my family and I could have done to deserve this. "What ?" I said softly to myself hoping no one could hear me.

Immediately after I had spoken, each of them had pulls out the weapon of their choice, and proceeded to walk toward us. Lauren walked toward me , holding a gun. I tensed up , contemplating whether our friendship was real or not. She pulled the trigger. CLICK.

Frantically gasping for air and wiping the sweat from my forehead , I checked the clock near my beside table to find that it was 2:00 in the morning. Still heavily breathing , I was relieved to say for what felt like the millionth time since my existence, " Oh thank goodness, it was only a dream."

"Israel to Persia" by Jordyn F.

From across the room she noticed the stare. The stare that was transfixed on her face, inviting her imagination to run away with her yet again. She told herself to never entertain those thoughts. This path she was on was the one she chose. If only he knew! Delilah rose from her place next to Ava, to return to her chambers. Partly to escape his scrutiny, which made her feel a longing she hadn’t felt since she had left Israel.

   Although she had walked in the opposite direction from Cyrus she was taken by surprise as he stepped right in front of her just before she was to exit the room. Her breath caught and she took a step back only to hit one of the servants holding a tray of Yokheh. She would have fallen further had not Cyrus caught her. His hand wrapped around her waist and she was suddenly in his arms. He could only see her eyes, thank God. She now wore her usual head-garments. Her face, if seen, would have been bright red. She quickly regained her composure.

“ Thank you, my lord”, she gave in the most unassuming voice she could find. Never more aware of the difference in her voice, and how it now sounded since the accident.

He gave a slight gesture towards the corner she had just left, “ You are Laru’s assistant, are you not?”

She did not know whether to try a lie or accept the fact he already knew.

“ Yes that is I.”

“What is your name?”

“ Delilah, my lord.”

“ Do you live here in the palace with the other maidservants?”

He thought her a maidservant!

“ My Lord I am a part of the centennial council, thus I live with the ladies in court.” What an offense that was to her. Were her garments that unappealing? She was clearly sitting with the other women of the Court. Why would he, in the first place, want to leave the presence of the King to come speak with her? And secondly, to ask the name of a maidservant, which was what she seemed to him.

“My apologies, I had assumed such from the chance of seeing you depart from the East side of the palace more than twice daily. “

He has seen her come and go from Asters room? Why must this conversation vex her so much?

“My cousin Aster resides there.”

“ Ah I see.”

There was not much more said between them. She was desperate to escape his presence. His composure threw her off. She had not talked to him in more than two years. So she said the formalities of goodbye and turned the corner to the chambers to retire for the night.

As the sun rose Delilah exited the palace to the gardens where she was to study Laru’s latest pieces. She sat for an hour attempting to focus on the illustrious descriptions of the new Persian provinces. She gave up after her mind wandered for the 10^th time to the encounter she had the night before with the man she had left her heart with in Israel.

As she looked up Ava approached her. She had that grin on her face that made Delilah’s stomach feel uneasy. It usually meant she knew something of importance, or some type of mischief that Delilah didn’t know.

“Delilah I have news.” She sat on the bench and started twiddling the sleeve of her dress.

“What is it?” always a pause for dramatic effect.

“The queen wants you to travel to Nayum on business with her. You are to have some of the most important family members of the Persian Empire escort you. I would love to have gone but my duty is to stay with Laru, while you are absent from court. Oh what a privilege to be able to go at this time of year! With the addition of the queen personally asking you to go.”

Delilah for once was joyful over the news brought to her. She had heard Nayum was one of the most beautiful Provinces. And the work while traveling would be light. She needed a break from the constant work she was surrounded by here in the palace. Not to mention the women, who although were very nice to her, were rather tiresome to live with.

That night the queen called her to a private meeting to discuss the details of the work she was to do. Two days later she was ready to go. Many of the men and women in her party she had known for years so the familiar faces were eagerly received the morning of. Aster her cousin had come to assist Delilah. She had requested her as a maidservant, as she usually does whenever given the option, so as to spend more time with her.

Aster was eager,” What are we waiting for? We are on business and it need not be delayed.”

Delilah gave her a smile and assured her,” We will soon be on our way, I believe we are waiting for two other men to arrive, I do not know whom.”

As soon as she said so two men came from around the corner. One a face Delilah did not recognize, the other Cyrus.

He immediately made eye contact with her, before she turned away she thought she saw a look of surprise in his eyes, and then a look of pleasure.

He went straight to his horse, mounted and spoke to the party, “ We have quite a long journey together so make sure all your belongings are loaded, and lets start.”

Delilah looked away, and got in her caravan wondering to God why he was so suddenly involved in her life. And why he seemed to be interested in who she was at all. Especially since she was technically just a stranger to him still. Little did she know Cyrus was watching her walk away, wondering the same thing.

"Dance With the Devil" by Raquel D.

She reached out for the hand on the floor. 
The wood board creaks as she pulls away the man to the other side of the room. 
“There,” she said rubbing her palms on her white blouse. She places him on the chair, and begins to clean his face. 
Scarlet rags fall to the ground. 
“Wow, so handsome! Do you want some tea?” she asks. 
His head nods once a “yes”. 
The stygian purple from the mahogany leads to the kitchen. She pulls out a dusty golden teapot, with two chipped mismatching tea cups. 
The sun blazes in through the openings of the house. In the kitchen, branches stretch out to the windows for sympathy.
A long groan is let out from the dining room. She heads out. 
“I’m going — ouch!” she excitedly yelps. She had forgotten to put on shoes again. Her feet were bleeding from the broken glass. 
She thought to herself, green or black ? 
She looked up to her father. 
Her father was silently waiting. His dark face was outlined by the rays of sunlight peeking in from the kitchen. Mixtures of silver highlighted streams flowing throughout the crown of his head. 
Is he mad at me again, she thought. 
She nervously placed the teapot on the table. 
Trembling she picked at her fingers while looking down to the dark void. She kept thinking over and over if she had done anything wrong. 
“I know either is your favorite…” 
He sat there still silently. 
Creepy entities began to wrap around her limbs. 
She desperately whimpered, “Please, no — ” 
Gasping for air, she violently falls to the wood floor creating a long “thunk”. 
Tumbling over her, the man falls on her. 
The room was flushed in dark. 
Bruises marked all over her body ached. 
She wakes to see crimson stained all over her home, shirt, and hands. 
She softly licks her hand. 
It’s sweet. 
Wobbling, she gropes the fallen chair and stands. 
With every thud, she approaches closer to the door. 
Opening the door, a breeze of wind orchestrated the leaves’ dance. 
Scattered abroad, she follows the their lead.

"A Stupid Tale" by Hanna B

We rode our rickety bikes through our town of peasants like warriors, passing the faded, white picket fences with rusty tin cans perched to the side of each one. Some of them were dented and banged up. That might have been our doing, but then again I can’t really remember.  The night was being blanketed across the open sky, but slow enough so that we can have a once around the streets and finish what we originally came out to do, before it was time to go back to our wonderful families, our wonderful houses, and wonderful lives.

This evening, the boys and I were on a quest, a quest filled with dangerous outcomes, yet a quest of meaning. There was no damsel, no monsters, no treasure, just the satisfaction the four of us would receive from completing it.

What exactly was our quest you may ask? Well, let’s just say that we were seeking retribution for our dignity that was wrongfully taken from us. We waited long enough so that the wrongdoers had enough time to bask in the satisfaction and let it sink into their blood like venom from a viper. And now, it was time that we ripped it right from their bodies and took it right back.

We pulled up to one of the few yuppie looking houses that were in the neighborhood, the ones that had a nice lawn, fancy foliage, etcetera, etcetera, and positioned ourselves around the front of it. We pulled out our weapons that were concealed with carton from our bags. A dozen shots each. Forty-eight in total. The barrage of yolk only lasted for a minute, and in that minute the windows and door were covered with part of our revenge.

Oh yes, it wasn’t over yet. We took to our bikes and grabbed the garbage cans that were sitting at the curb. The contents were strewn about the street like confetti during a birthday and we were hooting and hollering while we were doing it. And it didn’t stop there. We took it upon ourselves, as our civil duty to recycle the neighbors’ trash onto the front lawn. Whoever said we didn’t care about the environment was clearly mistaken.

The sun was almost long gone and stars were beginning to poke out of the sky like drops of paint. It was about time for the four of us to start heading back. The boys and I separated at the main street and went our separate ways home, and by that time the moon had taken place on its throne in the sky.

My house was only a block more away. Oh sweet asylum. Mom and dad were probably already asleep, which made it easier to sneak in. I turned the corner and as I rode up, patriotic lights flashed upon my house.

Damn.

                  Just ride past.

I never lived here.  

Sadly, luck didn’t fancy the idea of tag teaming with me. I knew I was done for when I heard a ‘That’s him on the bike officer.’

"Convention and Quality" by Jeannette M

If you are an artist who would like to fuel your emotions, I suggest you take a class regarding the category of art you are a slave to. I have found joy in challenging authority and ignoring the opinions of others, because I gain a sense of control over my life and my work. The worst thing we could do is become submissive.

In taking a Visual Arts Digital Photography Course over the summer, I had to decide, do I want to show people that I know the rules and I understand how to take an average stale picture? Or do I pursue the route I’m dying to follow and would actually make me happy? Is staying true to your art more valuable than receiving an A? I got to taste what many musicians struggle with. There are a few musicians that claim to stick to honest meaningful lyrics with money experiencing a lack of consideration during the writing process. I felt caught. Could I get the A and walk out the classroom and go back to sticking to my own art? Is that smarter? Or is that less respectable?

I knew ahead of time not to pitch any ideas to my professor or TA and just go for it, but out of boredom and being that last in the room, I showed my art that was collectively finished. My professor suggested I take photos more like how Laurie Laren Lee Lord Knows Who Yahoo captures hers. Then my professor suggested I even take them more like himself. Due to a collection of things, I felt drained. I gave up in entertaining people with my art that I felt passionate for and just fed them what they wanted. I still made it very much different but it wasn't the original concept that I wanted. The collaboration with Damairis Lao wasn't appreciated. But isn’t that how it goes? Art is never appreciated. Maybe if you’re lucky it’ll be valuable after you die, but there is a small chance of that. I don't want to be told what to see or how to feel or what to do and perhaps I should’ve just been deaf.

One day in my Junior English Class, I had a friend tell me that I took the class way to seriously. I noticed everyone was half asleep or talking without a care in the world. If you want to get anything out of this world, you have to take it seriously. One of the most influential people in my lives sat me down one day and told me its good to be reflective and take things seriously. I just laughed. It can be a pain. It can be isolating. Everyday usually is. It feels as though there’s a “quality “of thought that is diminishing amongst those around me.  I get teased all the time by my friends because I have to stop to take a picture. I begin to wail if I forget my camera and have to resort to my phone. Always in an art-hunting mode, I’m either taking pictures or picking up things or stealing signs or admiring graffiti. Graffiti artists want to leave their name on this world. That's what it comes to down to honestly. It’s not always about making this world dirty as most believe. Sometimes we need reminders that art is first and foremost about yourself whether you are viewing it or making it.

The purpose of art is to follow what you are feeling and if it makes people uncomfortable, than some may argue you are doing something right. According to the infamous Google, convention is “a way in which something is usually done, especially within a particular area or activity.” I have never been one to ever care for convention. My favorite photos, outside my little art world, are the blurry or off guard pictures I have taken with my sister. There is a story behind every one of those moments. There is meaning and a raw element to those photos because we are unaware of the camera or we are in the middle of moving. Laughter and joy cannot be forced nor recreated. It is luck that snatches those photos. The typical conventional photos, generic selfies, and whole instagram cultural appear to me in a very boring and monotone light.

My next attack is on the word “quality” which is described by Google as “ the degree of excellence of something; the standard of something as measured against other things of a similar kind.” If this is the case, my photos are low quality. I need to continue being the world’s lowest quality photographer and thinker. Quality is a subjective label. It can refer to the appearance of something or it can refer to only its level of function. What if there is nothing to compare to because the item is unique and purposely breaks the rules?  I find the story to be the most important factor in something rather than its alignment to a ruler or what the thing next to it looks like in order to compare. Quality and convention are not important to me. The story is.  

                                          Cheesy Photography That Got Me An A+ featuring zoom & noise