Weekend Writing 6 - Jessie, Eric, TJ, Lauren

For some reason, it wont let my paste anything into this box. I don't want to re-type an entire section, so my piece is the one called "The Incredible Sam I Am"

About the ending, I cut off a couple paragraphs about whats happend with riding since Sam died. I don't know if its stronger without them or if I should have some follow up.

Weekend 6 (actually project writing)- Marmot Gladiators

We had made it, our fellow travelers nowhere in sight, and saw now that the island’s painted white appearance had nothing to do with it being burned down. In fact, the island probably would have preferred a fate that saw it charred to a cinder, but its trees suffered a more humiliating fate.

Were we still getting out? Hell yeah, hell yeah we were.
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Comment on the writing for what it is: half of a larger piece that I haven't finished yet. How is the setup working? I have a fear that the setup for these pieces where we are paddling to wherever and I narrate about our troubles is boring or otherwise un-necessary.

Weekend Writing 6- group uno

I have my hands crossed against my stomach, close my eyes and feel the cool almost winter breeze against my face. Just as I begin to talk to some of my other friends waiting for their rides, Kaylynn’s dad’s car pulls into the school parking lot. Dr. Ruf has a large robust figure, has a shiny bald head, and wears wire glasses that are too small for his face. His personality shines through every time we get into the car—it makes the ride interesting at least. He asked my 11-year old sister the other week, “You seem like you’re afraid of me. Why is that?” to which my sister didn’t know how to reply other than an awkward, mouse-like, “No I’m not…” He is a doctor, and knows you have to be somewhat smart to be one. So with that, combined with the fact that he is an older man who is well off and controls the money in the house, he enjoys revealing his opinions.

Rest Stop (WW6)- Jessie, Lauren, Eric, T.J.

I emerged, with the urge to take a shower as soon as we arrived at our destination, to find my mother wedged in between two hillbillies in the McDonalds line. It would be another three hours before we got to any decent food, so we figured another Diet Coke and chicken sandwich could hold us over. The woman working at the register was the largest woman I’ve seen. There was no way if my mom and I linked our hands together that we would have been able to reach all the way around this woman. She wore a skirt with an elastic waistband (obviously it was the only thing that would fit her) with some supportive shoes and thick glasses. On one leg was a bandage, I told my mother that I thought it was for support because what else would be able to fit around her leg? My mother leaned over and whispered to me, “She looks like a turtle.” Shaking her head she continued, “No, actually, just the inside of a turtle.”

Telescope Eyes (Linus, Margo, Joe, Sammy)

It was almost a calm summer’s day. Through the open window I could hear those especially noisy neighbors racing down the street on their bright pink and green bikes, their towels draped around their shoulders and their swim suits still dripping wet. A few minutes later I could hear the slapping of bare feet on the street as their little brother raced to catch up, yelling louder than the rest combined. “Kelsey, come on, I. Am. Coming!” He repeated it over and over until it became a bizarre sort of motto encouraging him to keep going. As if the already tangible, edible scent of his upcoming cookout weren’t enticing enough on its own.

Experience [WW#6, Marmot Gladiators]

Traffic cameras watched my SUV crawl ten miles per hour under the speed limit down Chester Avenue, lit intermittently by streetlights and the colored tint of traffic lights. I pulled into the gas station, a square just large enough to house four gas pumps and a convenience store, hanging at the edge of a precipice into I-90, surrounded by conifers, grass, and tar.

After twisting the knob to turn off the headlights, I hastily donned my hoodie and my heavy coat, making sure the doors remain locked until I was ready to get out. Hurriedly, I slipped the credit card into the pump and deftly shoved it back into my wallet, which I tucked beneath my layers, and immediately started pumping. I rested my back against the white car door, my feet pivoted on the raised concrete of the pump.

Two gallons. The air evaporated out of my mouth like exhaust. Hearing a squeak, my arms tensed, and I jerked my head aside. A man with a black hood lifted from the down puffs of his red coat scrubbed my windshield using the bright red squeegee affixed to the side of each gas pump. Lit by the streetlights looming above the gas station, his six-foot frame seemed faceless.

Weekend Writing #5...I don't even know which group I'm in (Evan M is in it)...

My gas light blinks. Pale and yellow. Pathetic. There’s a BP about five hundred yards down the road, so I shouldn’t be worried about running dry. But I am. I’m always worried about running dry.

SOM Center Road at 7:50 AM. Mothers sit all high and holy in the thrones of their SUVS, which are even less sexy when caked in thin layers of sidewalk salt residue. I generalize. They are eager to drop off the kids. Ready to get rid of them. Hair appointments, private workouts, and coffee with friends add volume to their schedules, and everything’s unavoidable when it’s written in a planner. Suburban congestion is a byproduct of mom’s obligations. I’m all too familiar.

Weekend Writing 5 Group UNO

Baseball was a good way for my dad and me to bond. We used to go to the batting cages and afterwards get ice cream. We used to go see the Cleveland Indians play at Jacobs Field. We used to play catch on cool summer nights on the front lawn. We did it all so I could hone my baseball skills. He helped me develop lightning fast reflexes. I liked to think that I could snatch a fly with my thumb and index finger like those karate gurus. I remember during one game when I was the pitcher, a batter hit my pitch straight at me and I automatically lifted up my arm to catch it. Everything happened so fast, but somehow the ball landed in my glove. The batter was so mad that he kicked up dirt. The dirt in the air was enough to make someone cough.

Troy- WW5 (Eric, TJ, Lauren, Jessie)

We were on a road trip looking at colleges in New York when my mom and I thought it might be a good idea to visit Hullie. We were not too far from the dilapidated city of Troy, and Hullie would be one hundred and two years old that May. If anyone would live to be one hundred and fifty we figured it would be Hullie, but we figured visiting might be a good idea just in case. The nursing home, maybe two minutes from the brick house we so missed, looked out over top of the city that, if possible, seemed even more run down. The color of the sky was grey, the buildings were grey, and grey smoke billowed from a factory below. As we entered the nursing home, the smell of old people hit us, the smell everyone dreads. The smell doesn’t carry the same significance as cuddling up in grandma’s house with the smell of vanilla and fresh baked cookies. It’s the smell of sanitized hospital rooms, over baked food, and old furniture that carries the smell of everyone that has ever sat in that chair over the years with a musty odor. We found Hullie lying in her bed, glasses askew with their fake pearl chain holding them on her face, white curly hair spread across her forehead, and knobby knuckled hands lying across her matching sweat pant outfit. She looked at us, eyes widening and crooked smile spreading across her face. Her hearing had been long gone, it had faded when she still lived in the brick house, but hearing aids seemed to allow her relatively normal hearing. It seemed silly, but the hearing aids didn’t work on hundred percent of the time so people had to shout at her. Often she didn’t catch anything anyone said, so it seemed people were having conversations with themselves.

It's not Me, It's You [WR #5 [LS, JL, TJC, EW]]

One of Muse’s best, MOTP does a stellar job of melding their heavy Euro-rock tendencies with a fast-paced, dancehall-sounding electro. Playing this song where I can hear it is like flipping a switch. In the nanoseconds it takes for my brain to process the incoming information, I become a different, more exciting, animated person for those four minutes and eighteen seconds. When I’m listening to a truly great song, I am overflowing with energy, unable to contain myself. I become totally unaware of the people around me. The music overtakes my brain completely and for about four minutes, I don’t have anything in the world to worry about. It’s just me and the sounds in a state of mutual appreciation, totally blissful and alone. If the world as we know it was to disintegrate completely and all that got left behind was me, a decent sound system, and a sufficiently massive collection of music, I honestly don’t think I would notice. Okay, I might miss my guitar.

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If you're curious, these are the three songs I referenced in this piece:

Kill the Director - The Wombats


Map of the Problematique - Muse


The Trapeze Swinger - Iron and Wine

Best There Is (Linus, Joe, Margo, Sammy)

Best There Is: Superpowers are soooo badass, I wish I could teleport...that’s right above being able to blow stuff up with my mind and a close third is stretchy body.

We’re supposed to be like fucking superheroes or something. I’m twenty. How the hell am I supposed to be a superhero? Especially when I’m sitting here doing shit for my country. Hell, I wish I were a superhero. Then maybe I could actually do something for America. I’d take those terrorist bastards out in fourteen seconds if I could get my hands on them. Fuck protocol, fuck strategy, and fuck reality. I’m a goddamn superhero, damn it.

Best There Is: Hakuna Matata! What a wonderful phrase Hakuna Matata! Ain't no passing craze It means no worries for the rest of your days It's our problem-free philosophy

Hell yeah I’m a Disney kid. And there’s still nothing better than Disney wisdom. Hakuna Matata? Truest thing I ever heard. Nothing better.

WW 5 - jessie eric tj

I was planning on using this in my project.

I thought five minutes was incredibly early, but we still had to stand in the back. Well, I sat against the wall, my legs tucked in sort of an awkward half-Indian style as to preserve some sense of dignity in my skirt while keeping the aisle unobstructed. The seats were taken up by the 2,300 other high school students tapping the toes of their western-business appropriate shoes and fidgeting with the buttons on their borrowed blazers and suit-coats. Everyone’s chest (except for my friend who staunchly defended that her outfit was “not a nametag wearing” one) was emblazoned with a laminated card declaring their name and school, and the country and committee they would be representing. Eyes darted around the room, scoping out competition. And the opposite sex. Ok, so, mostly the opposite sex. And it was disappointing.

A full pitcher of water sat in front of each of the eight people behind the dark brown dais. It seemed like a waste. My feet hurt already and it was the first hour of three whole days in heels. I poked my standing, non-nametagged friend and asked her for the time. They were late in starting.

KTN: WW5- Group Uno

-The tenses are kind of all over the place. I'm not sure if some parts should be in present or past tense...
-I want to start more in the present time then go to the past and have some flash backs but I am not sure whether or not they're in the order that makes the most sense/is the most effective. Advice?...

This past summer I go to Bridget’s graduation party. Her father was a child of twelve, so relatives are completely scattered throughout her lawn that lies beneath the cheap tent that’s set up. Conversations between Bridget and I usually consist of her telling me that we should hang out soon—but we never do. Or one of us will say, “we should hang out in the summer every day and play outside like we used to”—but it never happens. After a few months after Kevin’s death, my dad didn’t want my sister and I calling her constantly anymore to play. He figured it was silly for us to always invite her over when she was only inviting her other friends—ones who don’t remind her or her mother of the years her brother was sick, to her house. Bridget glides out of her back door into her deep green lawn, wearing a bright yellow dress. She politely greets my family and proceeds to find her friends from school.
From behind me I hear a squeal: “Sweetheart! You look beautiful!”
Mrs. Neff greets me with a hug and wide smile. A few of Bridget’s aunts are clumped around her.
“This is [author], Bridget’s friend.” She rests her hand on my back, tilts her head towards mind. The edges of her eyes wrinkle upwards and she gives me a gentle expression. “They grew up together.”

How To Make A Happily Ever After (W.W.5 - Group 1)

6. Make an egregious mistake in the culture she is based on. If your movie is based on a true story, change the facts in irrevocable ways that would seem unacceptable to anyone who understands even an inkling of the true story. Assume your audience has no such knowledge.

7. A major point of the plot should be that the attributes addressed in number 5 will cause the girl to disappoint her father.

8. Create a touching moment between father and daughter involving the girl’s dead mother. For example, have the father give his daughter some sort of trinket that belonged to her mother or have him say “she would have been very proud of you.” Under no circumstances should this be a major point in the plot, it should be a short scene that you assume your audience will not remember at the end of the movie. You will put this in the movie under a heartfelt obligation to put it in and for no other reason.

Weekend Writing 5 (Group UNO)

“Connecting…” It was a picture of a book I bought her when we were in middle school. It had girly-curly font on the front and she told me it sucked. It was the worst book she ever read. She still makes fun of me for it sometimes. In the message she wrote, “And the Holy grail of our friendship…”

That was a good one. I didn’t have good ones. I really wished I did. I really wished I could find that stupid bookmark with the stupid salt and peppershakers on it but I had been stupid and careless and I lost it. Now I was looking through things that I haven’t looked at since I stuffed them in the pockets I was currently pulling them out of.

I found a note she’d written on my class schedule signed with a peace sign + a heart. I took a picture and sent it, no message.

She texted back, “Damn, girl. Clean your room!”

I didn’t respond. I took a picture of a collection of post-its she’d wrote notes on to me and sent it, no message. I shook my head feeling stupid and careless. I rushed to find something else to send.

WW5 - Linus, Margo, Sammy

My heart pounded and my mind raced as I filed through names of famous, “interesting” people. The edges of my mouth twitched as I thought about how I wished I could meet “The Most Interesting Man In the World.” The gray-haired, bearded man whose accent is unplaceable. The man I’d seen on a television commercial. Who wouldn’t want to meet the man who “never says something tastes like chicken… not even chicken?” But I thought better of using this man, a man who was promoting dos equis beer. I thought of my first answer but I stalled a few seconds longer to try and carefully chose my next two people. No one came to me band I had observed the empty breakfast bar in the hotel lobby behind my interviewer long enough. The first person I could think of would certainly be the number one answer if I were asked this question on the family feud game show. “I would really like to meet Barack Obama,” I said.

Group 1 Weekend Writing 5 (Saints superbowl champs woooo)

It’s not that he enjoys torturing me in this fashion, nor that he likes basking in the radiant glow that comes off my face every time he mentions a sports team when the sweat is starting to bead off my forehead onto the piano keys. No, he merely enjoys showing me that there’s a way. Two quoted studies later (both about the impact shooting 10 free throws a day at the same time rather than 50 every five days will drastically improve your percentage with less effort) and we’re sitting on top of the elephant in the room. To categorize it as such might be a disservice to my inability (or unwillingness) to practice piano because it happens on such a frequent basis. Perhaps we are now sitting on top of the malnourished cat in the room.

Conditioning [Marmot Gladiators, WR 5]

We climbed onto the pitiful excuse for an island, taking turns to hold the canoe from drifting away since a ring of irregular rocks prevented us from hauling it onshore without likely sustaining several dreaded "gel-coat" scratches. The island, circular with a diameter of approximately twenty five yards housed no human occupants, though a flock of seagulls had taken residency in the islands three trees. Specs and splotches of white excrement decorated the ground and shrubbery of the island, a vague premonition of events to transpire in the near future5. The seagulls circled overhead, barking at us as we took turns trodding over their land6.

5 Read Claiming the White Forest who's events occur approximately thirteen hours after those of Conditioning.
6 Unlike the invasion of Native American lands where pioneers sought to rip gold from the bosom of the earth, we were making a deposit. They should have been happy.
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Light Patterns, WW5, Marmot Gladiators

Sunday morning. My dad ordered me outside to clear the snow. I stepped barefoot into green rubber boots with soft fur lining on the inside that sat beside the garage door. I danced on my toes swiftly, making my way toward the boots, and deftly leaped into the shoes to minimize the transfer of heat with the frigid concrete garage floor. I wiggled my toes in the empty space within. With the green plastic shaft of a snow shovel pressed against the rubber grip of my bright red nylon-shelled gloves, I stepped out of the garage and squinted, assaulted by the pure, natural light reflecting off the fresh, glittery snowfall, just as I had as a child defiantly gazing into the sun against the advice of elders, seeing the shape of the landscape and the position of the horizon in scarlet streaks during each blink. Those light patterns were more precise than my blurred vision without contacts. I spent a half hour shoveling and relocating snow until I reformed the psychedelic outlines into a channel that cars could pass through.

When I stepped back into the shade of the garage, instantly, the entire world filtered into two tones. The window emitted a red glow, while the dark corner of the garage appeared green. I kept myself from blinking to maximize the duration of the phenomenon. After slipping the boots off, I stepped back inside, and started to take off some layers of clothes. My eyes began to sting. The entire room shifted slowly from red to green. A cloud must have shaded the sun. I walked into the family room, looking at the emerald piano in front of the large, ruby windows, forming a gradient of colors that blurred the outline of the piano. My eyes were bitterly dry by the time I stepped into the dark green basement. I blinked a few times, and the dichromatic world faded into the full spectrum. The two colors were divorced.

Stuff - TJ, Eric, Jessie, Lauren

On the desk sits my Hewlett-Packard Laptop, a stack of Bass Player magazines, a Burton snowboard catalog, a porcelain piggy bank in the shape of a small immigrant boy given to me by my great-grandfather, a miniature basketball hoop, three pieces of Cleveland Indians memorabilia, not to mention the odd trinkets that don’t belong in my room, period. This would include the glass dolphin with chameleon eyes and filled with water, the glass elephant filled with wood chips, and the dancing cactus. Especially the dancing cactus. This toy cactus wears a purple and orange sombrero, aviator sunglasses, and has orange feet. When poked, the cactus gyrates back and forth while singing, “I am a cactus! I am a cactus! I like nothing very much! I am a cactus! I am a cactus! HAHA! Be careful if you touch!” in a hopelessly poor recreation of an Hispanic accent. Why this cactus is the centerpiece of my desk is a good and slightly disturbing question, but, nevertheless, there it sits, exerting its dominion over the wood chip elephant, chameleon/dolphin, and immigrant boy.

"Ambulance vs. Ambulance....SAme group as Evan M...

We almost die in a median strip in rural Indiana, less than an hour away from Chicago. Not a single cloud disturbs the sky. The sun’s free to torment me. I bring my hands to my head, searching for feeling. To know I’m still alive could prove relieving. My left hand hurts. I’ve registered pain. Cool, but fuck. Orientation’s gone, and I’m not comfortable with anything. Everything? Nothing. Not a thing. And Brueghel’s farmer continues to plow.

Cole- TJ, Eric, Lauren, Jessie (week 4)

Halloween brings out the craziness in everyone, especially kids. First, a kid has to decide what they’re going to dress up as. This is the day that they can transform into a growling, eye patch wearing pirate, drive the Batmobile, or be the princess waiting for their knight in shining armor. To read Pippi Longstocking and have a day dedicated to putting pipe cleaners in braided pigtails, twisting them until they stick out from each side of your head is something kids count on. Halloween can’t be beat. A day to escape school, escape normality, it’s a day to venture into imaginary worlds. Just to put a little sugar on top, literally, kids get boatloads of candy. Plastic bags filled to the brim with chocolate and sugar, or in my case a pillow case full (it allows for a lot more candy). House to house kids walk in bunches with their parents dragging their feet behind them. The kids are running down the driveways, pushing and shoving to get to the neighbors’ front door first. The October nights are usually brisk but the kids don’t even feel their cheeks getting pinker and pinker by the minute. All that matters is shouting “Trick or treat, smell my feet, give me something good to eat.” Of course, when the hours set by the community for trick or treating are up, the old people, relieved that the young balls of energy are tucked away in their homes, go to bed exhausted to have stayed up past nine thirty. The kids, however, have their work cut out for them. The groups of friends go back a house, dump their treats on the tan carpeting and begin the business deals. Reese’s cups are high priority, along with Kit Kats and M&Ms, but the Almond Joys are low on the wish list. The trading begins, with ten year olds haggling over their favorites, with brows furrowed in concentration, stopping to debate the offers thrown their way. The joys of Halloween continue to amaze kids throughout the years.

WW #4, Group Uno

Taking my first step outside of the bus, my eyes immediately stung from the glare of the sun. The scorching 110-degree weather made the air feel like a thick quilt, with humidity heavy enough to sweat for me. Nonetheless, we had made it. After a grueling two-hour bus ride, my group had finally arrived in Suzhou, a popular art city in China. As we gathered outside of the bus, our program director announced, “We will now be entering the ‘Venice of China.’” I saw a canal- 100 meters long at most- with crowds of people standing beside it, anxiously waiting for their turn to take a boat ride. After seeing this, I walked further down the canal and found that either side of it was packed with vibrantly colored souvenir shops, selling anything from traditional Chinese fans to painted caricatures of President Obama. This was clearly a tourist attraction, and while it was very appealing to the eye, I had the urge to explore the genuine village outside of it. I made my way down an alley between two of the souvenir shops and then around a large wall along the main road. I exited the canal area, and I was astonished. The village was living in devastating poverty. The people lived in crammed, run-down shacks, constructed of garbage, mud, and scrap wood. These homes were lined up along a dirt road, with no running water and scarcely found electricity. This sudden transition was nothing short of shocking. I had walked no more than a few minutes outside of the thriving, energetic tourist attraction, and saw the polar opposite: over-populated, crowded shacks in extremely poor conditions.

WR#4 (EW, JL, LS, TJC)

...Frankly, I didn't like this piece all that much. Too disorganized. Ah, whatever.

The campers are somewhere in the middle of a 25-day canoeing expedition down the Riviere de Rupert, which begins at Lac Mistassini and ends in the Baie de Rupert, which empties into James Bay, and indirectly, the Hudson Bay. The Rupert is a businesslike river. It moves very quickly and doesn’t bother with complicated meanders or sharp turns, flowing nearly straight westward. It has gained fame for having some of the most deadly and intimidating sets of rapids in the world. The campers, of course, portage around these most dangerous sets, balancing their canoes on their heads and trudging over rain-slick rocks and roots. Getting around the sets can be a commitment of two miles or more and the overland hiking is especially exhausting. Before seeking refuge from the storm, the campers had just completed a particularly arduous portage around the last of four sets of rapids. It was around these rapids that the sheer power of the Rupert came into view for them. The sets dominate the senses so completely that it is impossible to focus on anything but not falling in. Whitewater akin to what is found on the Rupert is the stuff of legends—the kind of water that will grab hold of travelers and never let them go. It inspires terror, and yet, the campers have ridden 18 hours in a van just to get as close to the river as they can, and maybe “shoot” some of them—they say “shoot” because it’s easier to say than “barely maintain control of the boat while hurtling down the set at unhealthy speeds”—if they can manage it.

WW4- Group UNO!

But first she has to show me a picture of her brand new puppy, which she actually showed me the last time I watched her pacemaker procedure. She loves to talk, which is surprising since her profession doesn’t exactly require people skills. Donna whips her phone out of her back pocket. The puppy is a cocka-poo, which is about the size of a beanie baby and looks like a little ball of golden fluff.

“Isn’t she adorable? Her name is Cosette; my husband and I named her after a character from Les Miserables, our favorite book.”

She smiles triumphantly and slides the phone back into her pocket. Now she is ready to begin.

Dr. Waite begins the incision into the patient’s pale skin.
Each cut is delicate, as she pauses before making her next move. My stomach tightens and I glance over at Nate and ask him if he thinks it’s gross so far. He just shrugs his shoulders, as he’s seen it all before. After Dr. Waite slices the patient’s chest open, she goes on about the puppy:

“…and as soon as I held him it was love at first sight. But my husband will be the type that will tell our little darling ‘Well, I would let you do this, but mommy said no…’ We’ve figured out a schedule for when to walk the dogs. He will in the mornings, and…”

http://www.succeedsocially.com/eyecontact (group UNO writing 4)

“It's easier to make eye contact with people who don't intimidate you vs. people who do. Like most people, I get more flustered looking an attractive or high-status person in the eye compared to chatting to my parents or my friends. You could tell yourself that it's okay if you can't make eye contact with more intimidating people right off the bat, and that you'll work on that later.”

In about third grade I started to make a sincere effort to look my teachers in the eye, mainly, my math teacher. She didn’t like me. She told my mom that I never looked her in the eye and that it was rude. Her, with her big magnifying lenses that made her eyes look abnormally large for her wrinkly head, and with her dull red scraggly hair with the grey just pushing out in chunks from her scalp, clumping like balls of string to the sides of her face. Sometimes she wore lipstick that went above her lips and I’d watch them move when she yelled at me for not looking at her.

My mom said it was easy, look people right between the eyes, at that patch of skin above the bridge of their nose and below the forehead.

I tried, I honestly did, but it was hard when I had been in the habit of turning my desk sideways so it was facing the wall instead of the board. She yelled at me for that too. I didn’t really see anything wrong with it.

WW4 group "uno" (Jacqueline, Julia, Ana, Evan)

To: Sanford
Subject: Performance Review

The purpose of this message is to evaluate your recent performance in the workplace.

Sanford, I am unimpressed with how you’ve been performing. When you bag groceries, you tend to help a customer who already has someone bagging for them instead of helping a customer who doesn’t have one. This is not okay, especially because you like to chat with the bagger you’re helping. I would like to remind you of the rule we have about bagging: there should be no conversation going on between you and a cashier and/or bagger unless it involves the customer. This is so the customer doesn’t feel left out. I also heard about the incident that involved you sleeping in a motorized shopping cart while on the clock. It was an embarrassment to the store when a customer who needed the cart found you in it. This is something that should never happen again. You must be working at all times during your shift, and if you finish one task you must find another. Laziness is frowned upon and can quickly lead to termination of your employment. Please take some time before you go to work again to think about how you can improve as a professional.

(Sammy, Linus, Margo) WW4

“WOAH!” I tend to scream or yell when I see him make one of his “LeBron plays.” I turn back to my dad who is usually sleeping at this point to see if his eyes were open. “Did you see that!?” This time he was watching. “Yeaah, it was a ‘LeBron play’” he says calmy. He does his best impersonation of Austin Carr, “The L-Train THROOOOWS the Hamma Down” of course I wouln’t forget the goofy laugh.

Gang Aft A-Gley (WW #4, Marmot Gladiators)

The noise died and a soft breeze picked up, flinging the sand of the desert and the dirt of the trees into the air, creating tiny imperfections in the white light streaming down from the sun, causing the green light on the forest floor to twinkle quietly until the wind had moved on and the dust had settled back down. The prickly pear continued to grow and the world refused to listen.

I Don't Even Know Your Name (Group 1 W.W. 4)

Maybe that night they talked to each other as young ladies hung on their arms, giggling, batting their eyelashes. He gave the girl in the yellow dress his number and told her which run-down hotel he was staying in but knew that really, it wasn’t her he was telling the room number to. And the next day, when he had that satisfied smirk on his face, he let his friends talk about that pretty brunette he must have nailed that night.

Up Up and Away (Jessie Eric TJ Lauren)

Still, it was too late, I shouldn’t have left. It doesn’t matter. In my glass and metal box I am invincible. Untouchable. Careening down the road, I am safe. Careening through the universe, your axis on a tilt, you’re guiltless and free. I am not. If I had an axis, it would be straight up and down. Predictable. But I do like that song. Maybe I’ll listen to it next. Shit, what’s it called? The road disappears as I near the top of a hill. The day’s mid-July heat is long gone and a spectral mist hovers above the street.

Star Bright (Linus, Joe, Sammy, Margo)

The girl shuts her eyes tight and tilts her head toward the sky. She breathes in and snaps her eyes open, focusing to make sure she can tell which star is the first star she sees tonight. She watches it until she can no longer tell if it is actually there or if she only wants to believe it is there. And she wishes.

But how could stars grant wishes? They do not understand their own mystery. They do not know enough to grant wishes and they can only guess what she is wishing for tonight. They know what it is. But they have learned from watching the world what it is to be too afraid to say what is truest. And so they will never know.