Group1

hunk! One sandaled foot plants itself firmly on the patio. Thunk! Two sandaled feet planted firmly on the patio. Who da man?! I da man. I shrug my shirt to realign my long-sleeved shirt. Yeah, its 90 degrees out. Yeah, I’m wearing a long-sleeved shirt. I wish I had a ring on the end of my car keys. So I could twirl them impetuously. I twirl the car keys impetuously on my chain, in my head. My shorts, if one had to give them a name (hint: they need none) would be best described as Bermuda-“Esque”. They draw attention to me like a violently yellow male handbag does to a man. A man in a mall. I am not a man in a mall, I am a man on a mission. It was handed to me via “text” “message”. Move the car to the garage she said. Move the VW to the garage, she said. Move that Stick Shift to the garage, she said. I said “yeah, sure, no problem.” It’s all in a days work, taking out the trash, doing the dishes, vacuuming, and yeah, moving the car. I approach the car. That's my car. My mode of transportation. My Bitch. I click the unlock button. Twice. That opens the entire car, even though I only need the driver side door open. I get in the car and switch on the stereo. I have my iPod in one pocket of my checkered shorts. I pull it out. I put on the song for driving. (Strum Strum Strum Strum Strum Strum Strum LISTEN ALL OF Y’ALL THIS IS SABOTAAAAAAAAAAGE Strum Strum Strum Strum Strum Strum Strum.) I put on sunglasses. Armani sunglasses. I glance down the length of the driveway. Maureen is taking out the trash and she glances over across the strip of asphalt separating our houses and the expanse of grey concrete that is our driveway. I click the little button at the top of my key that pops the key out of its holding socket and brandish it like a miniature saber. I stick the key into the ignition with a satisfying “slick” and turn the key. My car purrs to life. It purrs to life like a giant cat. A giant cat with attitude. Maureen looks across the strip of asphalt that is our street. She looks across the expanse of concrete that is our driveway. She looks at me. She looks at me because I’m revving this engine like its my job. If this were 11pm at night, the old people to my left would have totally woken up. I gently back the car in a fierce curve to make it face the garage. The right garage. The garage for smaller cars, because the Honda odyssey is in the left garage. The garage for big cars. I’m facing the garage and I adjust my sunglasses to better catch the glare. I look to my left and my right. Like I need to. Theres a red fischer price ridey mobile insolently pointed towards me. I rev the engine again. I shift the car into first gear. This is kind of like my crowning moment of awesome. You know, when a character so defines himself that he will be forever remembered for this. Yeah. This is it.

Ralph's Brigade [WR 3, Group 3]

Of course, along with the tactful catch-phrases and TLC, comes his extraordinary workouts- and yes they ARE extraordinary. Often, just upon hearing them, you will feel a heart wrenching, oxygen deprived stir throughout your body. “Alright, kids, excited today?” followed by a light chuckle, and then “Good, we’re going to do 1-2-2-1-2-2-1-22-1. Walk a 100 in-between each. And then reverse and do it again. Oh, and beforehand, take the three-mile lake-run.” A command like this, given to kids as young as eight, would be expected to instantly fill the youthful athletes with fear and a lack of confidence. However, this was never the case. While Ralph’s constant bantering, teasing, and vulgar humor, coupled with his “motivational” outbursts, appear to be demeaning and counterproductive, they are in reality the foundation of a strong running program and team. What these demands and teasing really do is motivate the athlete, and make each athlete forget about their all too present childhood insecurities. Instead, they focus on what is being said to them. This provided motivation and encouragement (through strong words, yes, but encouragement nonetheless) is successfully delivered to a huge group of people. We were all made mentally tough due to Ralph’s unfaltering ability to recognize fake “pains” when they were acted out before him. His consistent and thoroughly enforced workouts physically built our stamina and competence in running. His unique coaching style creates a strong team; able to conquer any crazy workout together, led by an impossible, yet all-around revered coach. What may appear as “flaws” to an outsider, are the exact attributes that flawlessly build and maintain an incredible team.

Fireworks [WR #3 Group 4]

My main concerns:
Too long without saying enough.
How are the foot notes working?
===
The trip back across Proulx probably took longer than the first voyage, though I made little effort to notice a difference at the time. The water had calmed substantially in our absence like a child rocked into slumber by the loving touch of a frustrated mother. The sun seized its opportunity to vanish, leaving only the now lofty moon as a specter of its once warming vitality. Pulling into port on our newly colonized campsite we found ourselves met with great enthusiasm. Quite impressed with ourselves as well, the campsite turned into an open mic where tales of mosquito inhaling, tree felling manliness penetrated the otherwise placid night air. A warm pea soup, heated by the firewood we had collected earlier sat at attention for our hungry stomachs, a welcome homecoming after an exhausting day of paddling and heroism. Though the first breaths of independence day had yet to be exhaled, we tossed a few parched pine branches from our impressive pile onto the fire, producing a brilliant blaze and magnificent series of pops and cracks as the long past expired needles cried out in agony. Finishing my soup and overcome with a profuse sense of exhaustion I made my way back to our temporary shelter, a tent defined by sharp angles and a rain fly that formed a cave like entry way that could be sealed off entirely. Sliding into the claustrophobia inducing chrysalis of my sleeping bag, who's brand name I cannot recall, I pondered over the idea of awaking to find myself being shredded into a bloody mess by confused, or perhaps simply bored bear in some grim twist of fate. I have a thing for irrational fears, but pushed the thoughts out of my head, the prospect simply too improbable to entertain. Besides, tomorrow would be the fourth of July, and then the fun would really begin.

Infusium 23 (WR#3 group 1)

I couldn’t look. I walked right past the back of car and toward the automatic doors. They welcomed me, opening and engulfing me in a rush of heat. I appreciated it, but really, all I wanted was shampoo and conditioner.

Walking through aisles of drug stores pulls you into reality. The long, pink tinted double row of Valentines Day merchandise causes you to remember how late in the year it’s gotten and the unidentifiable blue fish that sings McDonald’s Fillet-O-Fish song reminds you how far fast food has grown. And in your head, you sing, “Give me that Fillet-O-Fish! Give me that fish!”

I stop to look at a baby shirt that says, “I cry when ugly people hold me.” I would get my kid that shirt, I thought. But maybe not have them wear it around family, just in case. But I guess that would only matter if I weren’t disowned after yet another car debacle.

A Weird Industry [WR 3. Group 4.]

The game hits shelves all across the country and eventually the world, all of the data which the visionary and his coworkers worked so hard to create tossed onto one inconsequential little Compact Disc and wrapped up in a snap-open plastic package with the title and branding on the front. There’s a silly little blurb on the back for good measure, based on the sadly-correct notion that the average American’s mind can be made up based on a few sentences on the back of a jewel case. Gamers line up to get their hands on the newest of releases, most of them nearing bioluminescence from lack of exposure to the sun. They rush home and the CD makes a clatter as they drop it into their computers—some people insist on calling them “rigs”—and begins to spin as a small laser reads compressed data off of the shiny side of it. The reader sends the data through over to the Central Processing Unit, which allocates the computer’s resources appropriately to the execution of the data. The video card is fired up and image data is sent through some kind of cable to a monitor, which displays the data as a picture splayed over a few million points of light. Photons fly out of the screen and into the eyes of the waiting gamer.

All this happens so you and your neighbors can protect a broken-down house from Nazis—who are also zombies, in case you didn’t notice—using period weapons, all in glorious, gleaming High Definition. The gaming business, by nature of what it creates, is a weird place. In a diverse field of war retellings, incredibly in-depth sports simulations, and the stories of myriad heroes on the path to redemption, fame, or what-have-you, what I can’t explain is that the most popular product ever released by the industry is one in which you, the consumer, and up to three of your friends can pretend to go bowling. Just below that is a game that lets you live through the two-dimensional eyes of a plumber, continually journeying to the castle of a giant turtle to save a princess, only to discover again and again that she is, in fact, in another castle.

WW 3 - Group 3

Before my first sister was born, when it was just my brother and I, and before the discovery of whatever drug it is my mom takes before a flight to suppress her otherwise irrevocable fear of flying, and before the invention of GPS and all-in-one travel agent websites, road trips were a family staple. My mom, her sister, my brother, and I would package ourselves into the busted grey Toyota. There was a hole straight through the side of the trunk from when my mom backed into the iron triangular mailbox of rural Mississippian Bed and Breakfast. I used to be able to fight a tiny fist through it. With Shawn and I fighting over the seat behind the passenger, over whose turn it was to see mommy the most, and my aunt with her face buried in the pages of an atlas the size of a newspaper and as thick as a textbook, we would get turned around before we were out of the neighborhood. If there is something to be said about the Sedlak family, it is not our sense of direction.

As our family four person family grew to six, as my mom began to cope (albeit through generous and nonjudgmental assistance) with her fear of flying, as GPS found its way into every car, as we gained the ability to plan entire vacations with one click, we lost our road trips. No more rocks being thrown at our car at midnight in the Atlanta ghetto. No more impromptu overnights at plantations that had been converted into hotels. When we did drive, it was in straight shots. My mother would simply type in an address and a mechanical British accent took us exactly where we were going.

Group 1 - WWIII

I remember the first time I went to “The Baum.” It was my sophomore year and did not really know what to expect. I was a little intimidated because I thought they were so different than me. I was a lot smaller then and must have looked uncomfortable because Matt, a man with glasses who is about 40 came up and poked me playfully on the shoulder. He has a developmental disability leaving the left side of his body almost totally limp. But he threw his arms up in the air and said something to the effect of “why are you standing around? Get moving.” I gave him a smile because I could feel his genuine compassion. We formally introduced each other and I added, “ya, and I’m his brother” pointing over to my older brother who was shooting around with one of the guys. He looked at my brother and then back at me and chuckled saying “oh no, no. Not two of you.” I nodded my head and broke into a large, teethy smile. I couldn’t help but like the guy. I very quickly realized that these were people with feelings and personalities. They helped keep things real for us and reminded us that we were all playing basketball to have fun. They shared a love for a game we thought we knew well. Our purpose was to help teach them the technicalities of basketball and instead, we left every week having been reminded what “a love for the game and our teammates” really meant.

Fern- WW 3- Group 3

I look over her patient chart; according to the doctor, she’s also due for a shot today. As I slowly inject the needle into her skin, her once gleaming eyes begin to appear fatigued and full of desperation. She lets out a faint wail, complaining that the shot gives her a burning sensation. All I can say is, “I know. I’m sorry, I don’t want to hurt you.” My emotions conflict, as I want to do all I can to make her feel better, yet I’m the one inflicting the pain. As I put a band-aid on the spot where her skin was punctured, Fern turns her jaded face towards mine, and softly asks, “So many of my friends my age are still able to mow their lawns, go running, and dance… Why can’t I do that? Why can’t I do what I used to be able to do anymore?” I stare back blankly without an answer, wondering why. I began to see through her façade of bright pink sunglasses and tacky shoes, and realize that she’s just like any person who loses hope and has to confront pain. However, this reflection only lasts for a minute; she soon looks back at the young boy and proceeds to babble on about her messed up nails and next hair appointment.

Alive - Weekend Writing 3, Group 2

There are many ways to euthanize mice. The classic method is cervical dislocation, where one first anesthetizes the mouse to ensure that it doesn’t feel pain when its brain is dislocated from its spine. This method, however, is prone to error, as one member of the lab noticed when the mouse woke up and started squirming as the preliminary incisions into the chest began. The potential for failure makes that procedure considered inhumane according to modern lab standards.

Another way is to overdose the mice with drugs. However, this idea is not foolproof. Legend holds that in my lab, one rat was given an overdose of a muscle paralytic that was supposed to stop its heart within minutes, allowing it to die painlessly due to the anesthetic effect of the agent. The knocked out rat was returned to its container with the other rat that it had lived with for its entire life as a gesture intended allow its companion to spend time with his deceased friend, to understand that it had just lost its only lifelong companion. Heartache is not a codified form of pain in the animal research regulations. The scientists left the rats alone in the lab room and left to eat lunch and attend a meeting. Upon returning two hours later, the knocked out rat was alive and well, playing with the other rat. Flabbergasted, the scientists decided to allow both rats to live through their old age, scrapping their participation in the research operations. That method of euthanasia is now avoided in the laboratory.

Usually, nowadays, we place the mice in sealed containers and replace the air with carbon dioxide. They continue breathing, but once the oxygen level gets low enough, they are knocked out. Their unconsciousness comforts them and allows them to die peacefully from asphyxiation. This method inevitably permeates the room with a thick, bitter stench of death, so palpable that our taste buds cringe, stomachs turn, and eyes shut in disgust. Death by CO2 truly is foolproof; the odor is unmistakable.

My Story Yet Untold (Group 2 WW 3)

For the last five years, I have day dreamed of hearing a question I have never heard. I wish again and again that someone will ask me so that I can answer. How many words does it take to define your life? It takes me only one.
I dreamed a dream just once but it will stay with me forever. He walked down the stairs of the house we once lived in and told me it is all just a joke. That he is not dead. Yet even in the most perfect dream I have ever dreamed, he did not walk off the stairs and I could not walk up them.
I woke up to my reality.

Hiding (Group 2)

They were green now, a dark green, which colored the air around me with that familiar forest smell I always found when I felt home. Little round shaped layers of a bright, tropical lime green poked through the needles in clusters, too young yet to be on their own. The ground, though, was littered what they would become, what everything would become, in the orangey brown mess that guest starred as my carpet.

Again...ending help please?

Group 3, WR 3- Distractions

Our section was relatively clear at the time, so we descended the sharp slope down to our row. I couldn’t hold on to the railing with my Diet Coke and pizza in each hand. Don’t fall, don’t fall, it would be highly embarrassing to fall and break my nose before the game even starts and I still haven’t eaten my pizza. With a big sigh I placed myself in between two of my buddies and began to fill my long awaiting stomach. Just when we all seemed to be taking our last bites and the plastic chairs were beginning to disappear under the mix of colored jerseys, the row in front of us filled in just to the right with two couples. A lady sat on the end nearest us, already screaming and hollering with a beer in hand. Then the lights dimmed and the place went crazy. The introductions of the Cavaliers echoed through the arena with a booming sound and were followed by chants from the diehard fans. LeBron, of course, got the biggest wave of claps and shouts erupting from every side of the place. As the lights lifted, the seats directly in front of us were filled. Four twenty year old boys sat down with their designer jeans pulled just low enough to show their Under Armour boxers, Blackberrys in hand texting away, and most had a large diamond pierced through one ear. Needless to say they thought they were top notch kids. My friend to my left shook her head at me and we attempted to direct our attention to the game. Beer lady had already finished one bottle by the time the game had actually begun.

(WW 3, Group 1) Did You Know We Are All People?

Dear Valued Customer,

You may not remember me, but I am the boy who cashiered for you at the grocery store the other day. At Heinen’s our top priority is outstanding customer service. It’s hard to give friendly service to people who treat me inhumanely. You may not have thought that I was worth the $5.13 you paid for your lunch, but cashiers are also people and deserve to be treated as such. I’m just as vulnerable to a disease as the next person, so I didn’t appreciate it when you blatantly coughed on me as I was ringing your items. You probably contaminated some of your food because you didn’t cover your mouth, and in doing so you might have caused your children to be fighting a cold they shouldn’t have. Please think about this.

Until next week,
Your local Heinen’s cashier

Group 1

I am already sick of it and it is only the third day. I can’t lie, the extra attention from all of the pretty girls at school is nice but they only address me once. I feel like all I do is inconvenience other people. I slow everything down, force others to go out of their way to help me, and worst of all, I feel like I am really letting my teammates down. As much as I hate conditioning and some of the difficult drills in practice, I wish so much that I could be out there. I would run so hard if I could. I want to be tired, sweaty, and sore. I do not care anymore. I have had my time to be lazy but I feel like a total ass telling my friends to push themselves day after day when I see fatigue starting to get the best of them. They honestly have no idea what I would give to be out there with them. They are so lucky.

We are seniors. In high school.

I've seen this in more than a few weekend writings already, so, although you may find this frivolous, bear with me. I want to tell everyone this instead of making the same comment on a lot of different posts.

Affect: (v. tr.)
to produce an effect upon: as a : to produce a material influence upon or alteration in: INFLUENCE

Note the noun form of effect as used in the above definition.

Effect: (n)
something that is produced by an agency or cause; result; consequence: RESULT

Note the verb form of effect as also used in the first definition.

Effect: (v. tr.)
to produce as an effect; bring about; accomplish; make happen: CATALYZE

Three very different definitions. Four years of Hawken education ought to teach us which one to use.

group 1

German rose to prominence in the early 16th century when Martin Luther provided all of Europe’s peasants with their own bible, almost all of them published in a dialect called “Sächsische Kanzleisprache”. It took several years of Church warring with peasants for the German People to take matters into their own hands and establish a so called “Standardized German” a set of spelling and pronunciation rules everyone would follow. Titled “Hochdeutsch” or “High German” it would become the standard of speech even though hardly anyone in Germany could actually speak it. Regional dialects had branched out so far that they hardly remained recognizable as offshoots from the original language tree. However, like the stereotypical images of engineering and manufacturing (which Germans do take very seriously, by the way) Germans fastidiously adhered to the new rules until the language had taken at least a semblance of a hold in all parts of the country. And, as Germans despise being out of the spotlight, the language rose to prominence largely due to the fact that they high-stepped around large parts of Europe speaking it for a good 10 years in the early to mid 20th century. In fact, videos of Hitler giving speeches remain sources of awe and, yes, revulsion largely because of the language he is speaking. “That sounds so mean!” someone will exclaim. (Anyone can give a speech, but not a person can make it sound so fiendish).

Weekend Writing # 2- Group 3

My dad, sister, and I were left in the crowd. Though I was excited for the parade to begin, as I anticipated the beginning I became increasingly antsy. Tired from standing all day, sun burnt, impatient as could be, and holding Mickey mouse-shaped lollipop in my hand, I was suddenly approached by a young woman wearing a Mickey-mouse shirt, Minnie hat, and warmhearted expression on her face.

“Do you want to start a parade?”

With a gleaming smile I looked at my dad to see if he approved. And he said yes! The young lady walked me out into the middle of the street, as I bounced along and followed her like lost a puppy. She took out a cloth bag filled with “tinker-bell dust.” Kneeling down to my height so that she was eye-level with me, she asked me to cup my small palms, and sprinkled some of this sparkly, multi-colored glamorous pixie dust into them. As my mom returned to the scene, she couldn’t believe that out of thousands of people I was chosen to start the parade. Closing my eyes, I smiled and enthusiastically launched the shimmering particles into the air. Consequently, the music began and the floats were approaching into sight; I started the parade. And of course, I truly believed that my pixie dust started it.

"Trophy" Group 4

I’m grasping the pipe with my right hand, dangling off the ground like a tennis shoe suspended by one of its aglets. In one elongated movement I let go of the bar and collapse in a chair stationed three feet away. It’s a comfortable basement, but not so comfortable that it seems like an annex to my living room; the floor’s carpeted and shelves of books plaster three of the four walls, but the paint on the empty one is peeling and the rug’s at least three decades old… I notice these details in reflection only. I’m too busy recovering. Beads of perspiration descend the surface of my skin, letting go only when the angles of my body become too extreme to support a close relationship. This happens most often at my chin, which on particularly humid days resembles a flesh-colored raincloud. I don’t feel like standing up, so I lean forward a little bit and grab my t-shirt, which I folded on the back of the chair, from behind me. I unfold it and toss it over my face, leaning back in the seat and allowing the cotton to wick away the sweat for me. I’ve got one more set and abs, then I’m done. I stand up carefully (one time I leapt up from this position and grabbed onto the bar like an acrobat, but I guess I changed levels too quickly because next thing I knew I was on the ground, gradually regaining consciousness) and reach up for the bar. Knock ‘em out

Summit Day [Group 4. WR 2.]

I blink the sleep out of my eyes, looking around in a daze. I fumble for the alarm button on my watch and grapple with frustration as I try to turn it off. The watch says it’s not even five in the morning. Still not entirely coherent, I struggle with the prospect of leaving my North Face Tundra sleeping bag, which is rated down to negative 15 degrees, and which I only have because my father misread the packing list a few months ago. It’s still dark and, although I do eventually find my headlamp, my glove-liners are soaked, confirming my suspicions that some more snow had indeed fallen overnight. Cursing the absorbent qualities of the stretchy stuff that they’re made of, I struggle with zipper and boot lace and step out into the chill air of the pre-dawn Sawatch backcountry.

Symptom Of The Universe- General comments made by a very qualified advice-giver

I will preface this saying that I am a rather blunt person when it comes to writing. I am also kidding about the last part of this title; I have few qualifications for giving advice. Regardless, I have a few, or at least one (more if I can think of them) comment that I believe a few people will benefit from. My hope is that this thread can be used for writers to give each other general advice, though if for some reason addressing the group as a whole is bad, we could always delete this comment.

Excuse my embellishment.

After reading the first set of weekend writings, and more recently, the second set, I feel numerous pieces suffer the same problem, a symptom of the universe as Black Sabbath lends me. The writings most susceptible to this issue, from what I gather, are the personal adventure stories. The stories where the author reflects on some past experience and draws a conclusion on how it has affected them, or points out the unpredictable impact or outcome they notice years later. To stop beating around the bush, I feel like many of the writings from the last two weeks begin with strong imagery, thorough explanation and intent. And that all departs around seven-hundred words. I can literally feel the author trying to finish the essay and get to bed, a feeling that overcomes whatever else the author wants me to feel as I read.

When writing about a story, make sure to use equal detail and depth, or at least of a reasonably comparable level throughout the writing. As a reader I am much less fulfilled by the story that gives me tons of detail and then plops on a conclusion and seal of approval than the story that takes me on a journey all the way until the conclusion.

I am realizing now that this post is probably as incoherent as possible, but given that time has escaped me and I am just now noticing that it is nearly eleven thirty, not nine thirty as I would have had myself believe, I am content. Look for some corrections/annotations to this in the future, and please reply with your own comments. As our Glorious Leader said the other day, it is always useful to know what others value in writing when considering how we write.

Crazy Neighbors--group 3!

Bike riding, playing baseball all seem normal; I’m all for a little neighborhood fun, but the other activities are the issues. The youngest girl enjoys running around barefoot next to the lawnmower, which the father doesn’t seem to notice the tiny toes next to the spinning blade. She also enjoys running toward the street unsupervised or having the volleyball pummeled at her by the older sister. The mother is always running off to the next errand or whatever she might be doing as the wild kids run amuck in the formerly serene neighborhood. The nine year old girl, scooter girl, pretends to smile that innocent smile as you drive by, but I don’t buy it. Scooter girl rides her scooter, hence the name, all over and by all over I mean our front yard, the neighbor’s driveways, the street, wherever. Is this your private property? It looks perfect to ride my scooter over and make ruts everywhere. Are you sitting in your home looking right at me? Well, why should that stop me from driving on your lawn? Some thought process similar to this must go through her head. The boy is the worst by far. They have the trampoline under their basketball hoop in the driveway so that you can jump and scream on it until one in the morning. The best creation came this summer. A bike ramp. A giant boy from down the street meets up with my neighbor to throw himself off the edge of this thing (the stupid kid that lives there never actually has the guts to do it), and he never once lands right side up. Highlight of my neighbor’s career was yelling at my mother. She nicely asked at midnight if they could start to quiet down and the brat replied, “Make me!” Bad decision. I had to hold my mother back on the porch, she would have “made him” be quiet. You would think with a pool in the backyard they might contain themselves behind their house, but no.

Ducky - Wknd Writing #2, Group #2

Her eyelids snapped shut and reopened, each curly black eyelash in line flapping in unison, shutting out the light from her beady, brown eyes for forgettably short fragments of time. Each blink was accompanied with a clumsy thump of wooden clogs suited for the rain season smacking against the cool marble floor in a dotted waltz, causing her deep breaths of hot, humid air to be fully audible under the synchronized spikes of giggles, accompanied with a Duchenne smile. Creases punctuated my mom’s smooth, twelve-year-old cheeks, her teeth bared and her jaw contorted in childish genuineness.

Her blouse rippled and bounced as she pranced in the kitchen of the large farmhouse out in the Filipino provinces. The late afternoon sun softly penetrated the large glass windows that formed a tropically pastoral view into the farmland behind the house, surrounded by hectares of rainforest, rice fields, orchards, gardens, and birds of paradise. Aunt Carlyn walked from the small pond just outside the kitchen. She balanced on the tips of her clogs to reach the warm door handle, careful not to drop the shallow, red plastic pail dangling from her elbow.

If I Could (Group 2 Captain School WW 2)

Suzy didn’t lift her head off the pillow to look at who walked in and just yelled “go back to bed.” She thought it was Sarah’s younger sister, Hannah, coming in for the fifteenth time that night because she couldn’t sleep. Once she saw it was me, I told her between gasping tears that I couldn’t sleep without my Simba and she held me in her arms until I fell asleep snuggling next to her.

It's a Fact (Group 2)

I am not old enough to know what age is. Age means nothing when you have not lived. I only notice everything because life is new. Every new color, new pattern, new texture is duly noted, but I don’t try to figure it out. There will be time. My kitty is old, but I don’t understand. I call her like I’ve always called her because I want to play. She is big and fuzzy and I always lay my head on her while she makes her funny kitty noises. She won’t come. I call her over and over, all day long. I don’t see my mother’s face. She doesn’t know why kitty won’t come. That is what she says.

It’s a fact, so they tell me. A fact of life. No use debating it, honey. It’s just there. It is. What is it? It is not what, it is. Darling, just don’t worry about it. You’ll find out when you’re older. Why does age dictate knowledge? No one answers. How old are you? Exactly.


I can't decide whether to end it all depressing or more hopeful. Suggestions as to what would work best with the rest of the piece?

Luck, Fate, Evolution and the Human Mind (Wr #2, Captain School)

Standing there, we were like a raccoon, its eyes gleaming with the beauty of the thing it just grabbed, that shiny thing down at the bottom of the hole in the log, the hole through which we could just barely sneak our arm, enabling us to grasp that shiny thing down at the bottom, the thing we had to have. Forget that the arm now was too big to get out, we were not letting go. It was shiny.

If ya'll could tell me what you think as my point and then tell me what you thought was unnessary and could be cut and why. I know it was long, but I felt that I needed it to make it worth reading and get my point across, so let me know what you think.

Grandma's House (WR #2, Group #1)

By the time my sisters and I finish our salads the party is really heating up. I’ll be sitting in the comfortable, faded-brown armchair (because I’m the oldest and I get the best seat) while my sisters share the lighter brown couch with the cushions that sink in even when nobody is sitting on them. The television is our prime source of entertainment. We’ve been to so many parties that we don’t even notice the unusually large amount of pictures (mostly of us) that litter the walls, the piano, the dining room table, the end tables with the lamps that provide the only source of light for the living room and the old chest that houses the broken record player. When we were young kids Grandma would let us use the record player to play music that we would dance to for what seemed like hours. Frank Sinatra and Barbra Streisand were our entertainers of choice along with our personal favorite song, “Memory” from “Cats”. I loved pressing the button that made the needle move from its docked position onto the record. I could always tell when it worked because the record made that high-pitched slide sound that DJs make by spinning their disks.

A Case of Identity [Groupo Tres]

Are the long sentences working? Its pretty much how the whole piece goes.

.....

As I was driving comfortably over the speed limit, as often I do, down the semi-rural streets surrounding my house going somewhere which, after the passing of a long enough period of time, will eventually I’m sure become inconsequential, I passed something so curious as it made me immediately pull into the next drive way, turn around, drive up to it again, come to a complete stop, and examine it in as much depth as one can get from the confines of a beat up station wagon until the driver whom had appeared behind me honked, I must admit not unjustifiably, at me, presumably telling me to get moving. I did so, but inevitably had to turn around again to continue on my way to said inconsequential destination, thus passing the phenomenon a third time, yet on this third passing I was forced to settle for a slight deceleration and not a full out stop as there was already a car in my rear view mirror and I, personally, do not enjoy having passing strangers express their opinions my flawed driving multiple times a day lest they be forced to slow down on the widely unpoliced roads while they unknowingly miss out on what could be a mind blowing experience for them as well. Had I a camera, I would have documented it, to clear up potential disbelief and for the purpose of future examination in hopes of eventually uncovering the marvel’s secret.

Weekend Writing 2.0 (Group 1)

"...Yes, let us open our minds to God and ask him to do something. And for that something, they will forever be grateful.”

We don’t tell her this, knowing we’ll get the same response that we got when my brother once told her he didn’t believe in God. She yelled, denying that he would be old enough to make such a decision. He was nineteen.

My parents are not unreasonably religious people. They didn’t care that my Dad’s family was Episcopal and my Mom’s was Catholic. My siblings and I were all baptized in accordance to whatever side of the family was attending, my sister and I in Catholic Churches, my brother in an Episcopal. And when it came to which Church we attended, they chose by convenience, not denomination. In fact, there is a noticeable rise in holy cataloging while in the presence of other family members, and exponentially greater when in close proximity to my grandparents.

Every Sunday, according to my mom, from when I was about four or five years old, I would be the first one up, out of my room and dressed in my navy-blue corduroy overalls/dress, nylons, and clunky black shoes. We’d all walk over to church together, sit through the whole sermon, and stay for a church brunch. When I was older I joined the choir, but had to quit when my mom wanted my brother and I to go through first communion. We transitioned to the Catholic Church, St. Ann’s, only a few blocks down the road, and my sister switched to the Episcopal Church, where all of her friends went. But as time went on, we’d spend Sunday mornings listening to my sister argue with my Dad over whether or not blue jeans were appropriate for Sunday worship, and then, when I was ten, my Dad stopped going to church, and with him went my brother and sister who claimed that, if Dad didn’t have to go, they shouldn’t have to go either. My Mom and I kept going though, just the two of us, until I decided I knew better.

I wanted to warn you. [WR #2 Group #4]

I'm going to throw this up here for comments, though I recommended waiting for the packet to read the whole piece if you would like to have any idea what is going on.

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I am eighteen hours post-exposure and functioning normally, though this extensive departure leads a frail shiver through the backs of my hands to engulf my earthly body the way an inhospitable Canadian torrent sweeps across a glass lake. The only noticeable symptom so far is the pressure in my eyes. Pressure that feels as if my eyes are staring through themselves, regardless of the impossibility of such a feat. Four hours to go and I wonder if I can stop running.

The most ethereal personalities have long cherished the gray eyes, the eyes of one so afflicted by pain so physically taxed, their singularity their soul their essence vacillates between its earthly bond, and release.

Running is counterproductive, atrophying, reckless. If the key to our worldly existence is knowledge of our own conception, running is a bad idea. Religion teaches the ultimate purpose is life free of material, where angels construct streets of gold, and youthful beauty forms an eternal affliction. A world where corpses fly, breathe water, and relish everlasting vacation in the most comfortable resort imaginable. Reality is four canopic jars and a pile of dusty gold.

Group Four-Untitled

Are you shitting me? Pavement? She’s dancing like that to Pavement? That’s gotta be like trying to build a treehouse with Morrissey sulking in the background. I mean, maybe it’s just me, but lyrics like “Well focus on the quasar in the mist / the Kaiser has a cyst” don’t seem to evoke movement, let alone uncontrolled gyration. Get a grip, lady. No wait, I take that back. She just grabbed somebody’s beer off the stage and emptied its contents straight into her throat. That makes four adult beverages in the ten minutes she’s been bothering me. I’m not a betting man, but if I weren’t me, I’d say that her liver will probably disintegrate around the time Cursive takes the stage. That gives her two opening acts to live. It’s not her, it’s the alcohol.

No Real Title [WR #1 Group #4]

Snow is mystifying. Anyone who has ever examined a snowflake will confirm the complexity of their design. While I am skeptical that no identical snowflakes have ever existed, I remain enchanted by their symmetry and perplexed as to how a process as random as freezing water vapor results in such an amazing display of craftsmanship. Snow is spectacular, and it is everywhere. Pillows of winter's beautiful creation drape themselves across the January landscape like a thin layer of Starbucks venti cappuccino froth. Massive crystal stalactites dangle in a furious display of grace and hazard, ice figurines clutching desperately to the sides of normally inglorious buildings. Frightening gusts of wind sweep snow into the air, obscuring visibility in a gentle, almost romantic way. Anyone who has ever seen the forest after a long winter night knows the world's most eloquent description fails to realize winter's splendor.
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Since everyone supposedly read the full submissions by now, I am looking for feedback on the organization of the piece. Comments on transition between paragraphs especially welcomed. Thanks.

Fragile- Group 3

They are the stairs that even dogs and cats are afraid of, with the space in between each stair like they’re waiting for you to be sucked in. A troll or some other grotesque creature had to be living happily under these dank stairs. After holding your breath up the stairs and sighing that you managed to live to the top, the apartment is hardly a reward. A narrow, dimly lit hallway takes you past a tiny bedroom and into the cavernous dining room. Just when you think the place may be more than the sad first impression, the boar’s head stapled to the wall jumps out at you. It gets me every time. My eyes jump from the boar, to the birds, to the fish, all glued, lifeless, hovering over the room. It smells like the place has never opened a window. I stand with my shoulders tense, arms pulled in at my sides afraid to bump into some other beast I may have missed on the previous trips. My brain was buzzing with the possibility of anyone sleeping here without being terrified some sort of cockroach won’t crawl out from the woodwork.

Group 1 - Snow

During the winter months, weather.com must be my most-visited website. On a school night I check it just about every hour when a substantial amount of snow is predicted. Of course my parents say the same thing every time I mention that there is a possibility for a snow day but I know that weather prohibiting, all will be jolly good. That night it’s a lot like Christmas Eve. If I wake up at all during the night I make sure to look at our streetlight to see if it’s still snowing. If I go to the bathroom or get a drink of water, I check it again on my way back to bed hoping that the snow has started or has become more intense. I try to make out how much snow has accumulated on our street, a small cul-de-sac that will never get plowed during any decent sized snowstorm. I also look at how much time is left until “the point of no return.” If school is not cancelled by 6:30, there’s no hope. The last thing I do is call the school’s weather line, where a recorded, unenthusiastic man’s voice, who I cannot put a face or name to, comes on and says the same thing, “Good morning, school will be open today. Thank you.” In fact he almost seems cheery that he doesn’t have to tell people that they have the day off. I cannot figure out why he wouldn’t make it a lot more exciting; like we have won the lottery. If I could be the recorded guy my version would say, “CONGRATULATIONS! School is closed today. Get some rest, be safe, and enjoy your day off. You deserve it! Happy snow day and many more!” His most recent recording on a day off that we did get was recorded like this, “Good morning. For Friday, January 8th, Hawken School will be closed today due to the weather storm, which is coming in. Thank you.” Given, the important thing is that there is no school. But this is exciting news. A huge feeling of relief and happiness comes over me. By the time I wake up for lunch, the roads are usually pretty safe and this week’s Saturday comes early, unexpectedly, and one extra time. Upon hearing this, I shut off my brain and alarm for the day and go back to sleep under my blanket of warmth and darkness.

"Tangling" Group 4

Case in point: Thomas found a bouncy ball slightly larger than a small pebble. It had streaks of varying colored rubber in it and felt dense in my hand. Thomas brought in said bouncy ball. While tangling, Thomas pulled out the bouncy ball and commenced to bounce the ball against wall. Of course, when the tangle is only about five feet wide, this makes for a fun and slightly dangerous activity. Before long, Thomas heard a lonely, docile freshman walking down the ramp. Thomas’s eyes grew as wide as the sky. I immediately knew what Thomas was thinking, and started shaking my head vehemently. Thomas put his finger over his mouth. “SSSHHH!!” Thomas lofted the bouncy ball over the tangling domain. Thomas, John, and I heard a soft plunk followed by a muffled, “…the hell?” We all laughed in muffled voices.

Of course, the problem with tangling came when we accidentally pulled the hidden aerial attack on a certain Señora Nelson. The consequences were further multiplied when the bouncy ball was replaced with a volume of Walt Whitman’s finest. In this instance, I was up to my eyeballs in the confusing prose of Song of Myself. John came over and merely whispered, “Get ready to run.” My stomach could not have dropped faster if it were the Titanic. Of course, before I could stop the lunacy, over the wall went the book. The muffled freshman exclamation was instead an emphatic, “WHAT?! WHO DID THIS? WHA-? WHERE?” Likewise, our stifled laughter from the freshman/bouncy ball incident transformed to a muffled assortment of oh shits and hot damns. We hopped up and ran. Straight into the door. When we realized it was necessary to open the door and did so, we realized the library was our only chance for escape. It didn’t work. Further effects of the Señora Nelson/Walt Whitman encounter included accelerated heart rate, increased adrenal gland activity, and a study table.

The Struggle [WR#1 Group #4...? DF, EM, TJC, EW]

Eyes open. There sits the computer in a stubbornly not-blown-up state. I groan in vexation at its steadfast determination to destroy my sanity and hinder my productivity for the evening. In a last-ditch effort to establish a connection to the outside world, I push a little harder than necessary on the power button and hold it until the Toshiba forces itself off (the moral equivalent of shutting down the engine of a BMW going sixty miles per hour) and stomp down the twenty-eight total stairs to the basement again. I repeat steps 1 through 5 (See above) and trudge loudly back up the twenty-eight stairs, onto the green-and-beige shag carpet in my room. I turn the Toshiba back on and sit on the floor in a cone of fury and annoyance, the wicked machine looming above me on the loft bed, trying to look innocent.

(Below are steps 1 through 5 as referenced in the above passage:)

1. Pull out the power cable for the modem.
2. Pull out the power cable for both of the routers.
3. Plug modem back in.
4. Curse luck for being surely the only house left in the county on wired internet. Wait 60 seconds.
5. Plug routers back in. Threaten inanimate objects with consequences if connection is not achieved.

LATE EDIT/POSTSCRIPT: Dear Writing group #4, I suggest we name ourselves the Head Cases.

ST [Weekend Writing #1, Group #2]

Sometimes you can’t fall sleep at night, and it really bothers you, constantly shifting positions as the pillow gets warm and then trying to sleep face down until you get annoyed because the air feels so stuffy, whatever stuffiness is characterized by, so you just lie down flat on your back again, let your vertebrae stretch out and crackle, and wallow in your insomnia. But sometimes, even if it’s only nine o’clock, and you feel fresh and lively coming out of the shower after putting on your pajamas, and your dad is still at his computer working, and your mom, the lady whose body was used to create you, whose resources you took in exchange for nothing more than fecal matter and discomfort, with her absurd sleeping habits as hers are, had decided to go to bed an hour earlier, you could lie down next to her unconscious body and just let a hand lie atop hers or an arm gently touch down around her, and magically, even if she is completely comatose by that point, you are able to sleep beside her in any contorted, suffocating position you want and feel completely comfortable, forgetting your regrets and shrouding yourself in a nostalgic yet utterly genuine feeling of innocence and security before drifting off within minutes, your consciousness balancing tiptoed on a precipice, just begging for a kiss to tip it into the oblivion beneath, until dad comes to the bedroom and, with jabs and tickles, heaves you back into the real world and off to your own room to go get some real sleep. I guess a mother’s touch is the best sedation there is.

Something Something Something Dark Side (#1)

Two hours later the phones start ringing. Parents are asking when the two are coming home, and or engaging in the chores left to him. The room is a mess, two pizza boxes, 6 boxes of pop tarts (brown sugar cinnamon) and a cooler filled with now empty soda cans. Apple looks at Windows (although the two denominations would be a misnomer now) and says the first words to his friend since they returned from Best buy 19 hours ago: “That was sweeet…” (His words slurring unintentionally). Windows looks back: “Next weekend? We can find something else to debate at 1 am!” Apple: “Dude!”

Heights [Group 3]

I am afraid of heights. I’m no expert on the heredity of fears, but it may be something I picked up from my mother. A well placed, swaying, “Too high!” - granted it’s usually from me - is enough to draw at least a giggle from anyone in earshot. It was spring break seventh grade at some sort of street festival in Phoenix. There was one of those free standing rock climbing walls set up, and after my brother and I each made it to the top, Mom decided to try too. In a sort of reverse fish tale, it is now commonly accepted that my six foot tall mother got all of one foot [not twelve inches, one of her own two] off the ground before proclaiming she was too high yet refusing to come down. She clung to that wall like a champ.

I am a counselor at a summer camp. I love everyday of it, but I have been scheming to get out of the hell that is known as the barn ever since I got jumped with it my first day as a Counselor in Training. So in the first week of camp that is precamp, before any of the campers arrive, I signed myself up for wall training. The forty-foot tall ‘vertical playground’ is a triangle with a rock wall on one side, a giant’s ladder on another, and some sort of jungle gym with some ropey bits, a nettish thing, and a few tires. From the top there’s a zip line that goes all the way across a huge field and stops at the edge of the woods.

George Inness (Group 2 - Captain School)

He twirls his smooth brush in between his fingers and finally takes notice of the Lackawanna Valley in front of him. The ground is mix of yellow and pale green grass spotted with brown decaying tree trunks. It is a poor reminder of what was. This very valley used to be full of lush trees that blocked your view of the factories below. This very valley used to be an untamed wilderness without factories and railroad tracks. This very valley was never called a valley. It was once a forest.

"Gorilla Man" (Group 3)

As usual, the icy metal chairlift-couch charged at the back of our knees, forcing us to sit down and feel the nerve-piercing winter wind whip our faces. I tried to avoid eye contact with the stranger, but I began seeing him in my peripheral vision. He was a middle-aged man—probably in his mid-fifties—and had muddy brown eyes and black hair with a chalky coating. Lots of hair—in fact, it seemed like his hair was devouring his entire body. I almost asked him why he wasn’t satisfied with his own fur coat and needed a ski jacket.

I’d almost calmed myself of my situation of not only being with a complete stranger, but also of having to site in the middle of the chairlift without any bars on my sides to clench, until the furry animal man spoke.

“I’m totally ready to catch some air today!” he exclaimed.

I tried to ignore his remark and give a simple head gesture of response. And then he tried again.

“I’m just repeating what my 12-year old son said!”

I started to question him and his reasons for talking to my sister and me, and once again we anxiously exchanged glances. The awkward silence allowed my suspicion to amplify and become impractical.