Writings from 2005-2006
Erica Bohac
10/11/05
The Learning Garden
Non-fiction
This story is a descriptive writing about a cold day
in The Learning Garden. The idea came from spending about ten minutes
outside in The Learning Garden. At first I had no idea how I was going
to describe such a typical experience, but I discovered that many
everyday things have more to be described than I realized.
Shuffling my feet, I followed everyone outside and
noticed the gray sky. Hovering clouds matched the very “blah” attitude
that caused my feet to drag and my shoulders to slump. Cold, cloudy
weather seems to drain my energy and make me even more tired. A breeze
of brisk, chilly air, however, woke me up with its fresh scent. I sat
down on the hard surface of the red brick bench, and a gust of wind
blew the scent of freshly cut grass in my direction. Providing the only
burst of color and flavor on the bland, boring day, was the pink
jellybean I was handed. Punchy strawberry flavor starkly contrasted the
nature of the weather and my mood. Against the gray sky, the green
trees stand out. On top of the radio towers, the flashing lights
illuminated the dark sky for a brief moment. Dreary and bland would
better describe the normally bright and cheery flowers on this
particular day. Color and energy seemed to be sucked away from them to
match the drab atmosphere. The sound of people talking is the most
prominent sound. Over the roar of the interstate traffic and passing
trains, the birds are heard chirping their songs. When the train blows
its whistle, the loud, abrupt noise interrupts for just a moment, then
back to the dull roar of the wheels of the train clicking across the
tracks.
“I’m freezing!” someone complains.
“I don’t know what to write!” somebody else whines.
Broken only by the whiff of cut grass and tasty
punch of strawberry jelly bean, this is the constant drone in The
Learning Garden.
Nikki Retzlaff
10-11-05
Run!
Nonfiction
This is my story about when some friends and I ran
into a skunk. I decided to write about this incident because when we
were doing our floor plan activity I remembered a funny event that
happened.
Is it possible
to be both extremely scared and laughing very hard at the same time?
Yep, it sure is… After all five of us jumped out of that newly-washed
car, we all got a feeling that something would happen that would never
forgotten.
It all started
with the click and slam of the car door. We were all in jeans and a
T-shirt, not out to impress. Dad was pulling open the garage door, wet
with a fresh coat of white paint, when he thought of the brilliant idea
that we should go look at the baby kittens in the barn.
“O.K., I’ll meet you inside,” Mom added.
Following the
deep cracks in the sidewalk and guided by the nightlight on the side of
the house, we reached the barn door. The loud creaking of four people
walking on the twenty-year-old wooden floorboards woke the kittens, so
we found them immediately. There were four of them. They were small,
black, and just born a few days before; their eyes hadn’t even opened
yet. As Heidi, Morganne, and I were preoccupied with the new-borns my
dad was looking for a missing tool. Then, out popped a skunk, ready to
spray.
Dad yelled, “Get out of the barn, now, run, skunk!”
Heidi, the most
frightened of us all, was the first one to rush out that cobweb-covered
metal door. She acted as if she was going to get sprayed with deadly
acid. As we followed in a panic, looking back to see if my dad was
following, we heard a loud shatter of glass. Heidi flew through the
glass, landed on her stomach, and tiny fragments of glass flew
everywhere. There was not one place in that entire basement that wasn’t
covered in microscopic pieces of glass. Is she ok? I really hope she’s
not hurt. As Morganne and I stood there in awe, Heidi stumbled to her
feet, covered in glass, laughing hysterically.
“I thought, for
some reason, the door was just standing wide open. Like maybe your mom
left it open or something. I didn’t see it!” she said in a frightened,
yet embarrassed tone.
I was so
scared, but when I saw everything was O.K., that she was just a little
shook up, we all dropped to the ground in laughter. Reality hit us all;
Heidi had just run through my sold glass basement door.
Maybe the fact
that she had just drank a lot of pop, was with a bunch of friends
acting crazy, and it was eleven at night contributed to the incident.
So, we spent the rest of the night cleaning up fragments of glass
powdered all over the cement, basement floor laughing. The broom and
mop became my family’s best friend for about a month afterwards,
constantly finding another mound of shattered glass hidden somewhere in
one of the many corners of the basement. I guess, to Heidi, running
through a glass door and shattering it into millions of pieces was
considerably better than getting sprayed by a skunk and smelling for
awhile. That is one memory I will never forget.
Austin Phillips
10/4/05
Larry
Fiction
This is the fictional story about a regular game in
the life of Larry Fitzgerald, the Arizona Cardinal drafted from
Pittsburgh. The story is set in his high school years and tells
of one game in his lifetime. The idea came from my head because I
needed to write about something I know about to make it a good story
and football is something that interests me. I choose this topic
because fiction comes easy to me and I like to make things up instead
of writing about things that are non-fiction.
There are many things to look at outside at the
school. On this overcast, cloudy day color is easy to spot.
The school’s exterior is tan and red. Many people are wearing
jerseys for the football game. The grass is a brilliant shade of
green.
Everybody’s face is bright and everyone is
smiling. Everyone except Larry. He was ready to play.
School is important, but Larry loves football more. Once the bell
rings he’ll head to the locker room to prepare for the big game.
It’s an important one. The winner gets first in the districts and
moves on to state. This is why Larry is not smiling. He is
excited and eager but keeps it under control. The bell sounds and
Larry makes his way to the locker room at a fast walk. After five
minutes in the locker room he’s heading to the field catching passes
for his warm up.
The stadium is a regular football field with a track
surrounding it and bleachers on both sides stretching the length of the
field.
“ You ready for the game?” Larry’s quarterback
asks him. He was the tall stocky type, built more like a
linebacker than anything. Despite this, he was good at his
position.
“I’m always ready, man,” Larry says as he pumps
himself up, thinking only about the game and nothing else. Then
he hustles to the sidelines to await the kickoff.
The first three quarters are a blur. Larry’s
team is tied with his opponents. The scoreboard shows
twenty-eight to twenty-eight. A good offensive game. Larry
is responsible for two of his teams touchdowns. One was a
sixty-seven yard reception, the other was a nine yard run on a
reverse. At the start the fourth quarter Larry’s team has the
ball with good field position. They fail to score and turn it
over. Ten minutes come off the clock with no one scoring.
With eleven seconds to go Larry’s team has a second and ten on the
twenty-one yard line. They give it to the running back who picks
up three yards.
“ Time out,” Larry says to the ref signaling by
making a ‘T’ with his hands. Third and seven. Again, the
ball goes to the running back who gets nothing. Another time out
is called and the teams hustle to the side lines to talk to the
coach.
“ All right, we need to put one in the end zone
here, so it’s going to you, Larry,” his coach tells him with a
determined look on his face.
They run back onto the field and hurry to the
line. Fourth and seven. Eighteen yards to go and four
seconds. Larry gets lined up and the ball is snapped. He
sprints to the end zone. The ball is in the air. No time is
left on the scoreboard. The ball floats just out of the reach of
one defender and into Larry’s outstretched hands. He lands with both of
his feet barely in bounds for the score and the win. The crowd
exploded with cheers and screams, perfect to fit the occasion.
Just another game in the life of Larry Fitzgerald, future college and NFL superstar.
Cord Becker
10/4/05
Brothers
Non-Fiction
My piece is on my brother and me
always beating up each other when we were little. I got the idea from
the floor plan assignment that we did in class. I remembered some
events but I had to go to my mom for most of the events. I wrote this
because my brother and me used to always fight when we were little. I
always wanted to write about it too.
“Ouch,” says a small voice in a black corner. “Mom, tell Colt to stop beating on me.”
As I run into
the kitchen looking for my last hope to live, a swift, long-fingered
fist swings by and knocks me into the wall. As my brother lifts me up
and is about to hammer my brains out, a mad hissing voice yells, “Put
him down Colt or so help me god I will” and by that time Colt throws me
down and retreats to his room.
Only being five
at the time I only knew to eat, sleep, and mock my brother whenever he
said something. So, trying to retaliate, I go upstairs and do a faint
knocking sound on my brother’s door. The only kind of knocking no one
else can hear but the one you are trying to annoy. Colt, still mad
about me telling on him, knows that I’m outside of his room.
He’s waiting to
pounce on me like a puma pouncing on its prey. Then all at once the
dark hallway turns into a bright living hallway and my brother and me
go at it again. Left, right, another left, another right, and then two
kicks and I fall down with warm, wet tears running down my face.
He pushes my
face down into the carpet to give me gigantic rug burn marks on my baby
face skin. Trying to even the score I give him a swift kick in the nuts
and he falls screaming to the floor. Thinking that I could make it to
the kitchen to tell my mom again what he’s doing, he takes off his shoe
and nails me in the back of the head. After I come to my senses, Colt
picks up his, big, long, size nine shoe and wacks me over the head.
After a couple of minutes, and me not realizing that my mom left for
work, he gets bored and says, “I’ll come back later for you punk.” Me
thinking that I didn’t want anymore of that big piece of big boy, so I
went into my room and forgot about the fight that my brother and me had.
Seth Harris
10/24/05
Etiquette of the Game
Nonfiction
I really love playing golf and since I got the
chance to write about anything I wanted to, well the choice was
obvious. I am trying to make it sound as though I’m going from my dad
teaching me the rules to future times that I used his knowledge.
I learned to
play golf at the golf course in Oakland, Iowa, a miniscule town in the
southwestern corner of the Hawkeye state. Golf was my life from the
time my dad taught me the “etiquette of the game.” I loved golf, just
getting out on the course late in the afternoon with my dad, just when
the wind seemed to die down, the locusts came to life, and we could
swing our clubs with confidence.
My dad squatted
there trying to teach me how to play the game. “Bend your knees…. No
not that much... Ok keep your head down… Not like that… No, don’t set
your head on your chest… Just like this,” he set up for his shot to
show me the posture you must have. “Ok show me what you’ve got.”
I stepped
up to the ball, bent my knees slightly, brought the club head round
behind my head, kept my eye on the ball, and then, with the force of a
hurricane, brought the three wood down upon the silently waiting ball.
“Whiff,” I missed.
“Don’t swing so hard,” the boss
noted. I tried again, this time letting gravity do all the work.
“Crack” the ball flew to the heavens, coming down about 100 yards ahead
in the middle of the fairway. “Wow, nice shot, you’ve got it now.”
I felt I had
overcome the biggest obstacle of the game with that swing. I was on top
of the world. I thought I could play golf like a champion, but I was
wrong, there’s a lot more to golf than swinging a club.
Later he taught
me the “etiquette of the game,” the most important part of golf, as far
as he was concerned.
“There are three rules of etiquette. Rule one is, ‘Be respectful of the person hitting.’”
I’m glad my dad
taught me that one. Whenever my mom went with us, she had issues with
hitting a shot when my dad or I were in front of her. You had to
respect that she couldn’t concentrate if she could see you in front of
her, or else she would shank it right at your face.
We played a few
holes and I had some great shots, but those were far outweighed by my
mental errors, like a few more whiffs. Then he started in about
etiquette again. I really didn’t understand what he was talking about
at the time, but I have never forgotten.
“Rule two is, ‘Know the rules,’” he told me.
My neighbor,
Kenny Killian, who was about seventy-years-old, golfed everyday
starting at 12:00 with five or six other old guys that belonged to the
Country Club. We nicknamed them the “Wobblies” because the youngest guy
in their group was about sixty-five. Nobody wanted to get behind them
because it ensured you’d be golfing for two hours (at least) for nine
holes. I, unfortunately, got behind them once. I now know why you have
to “know the rules.” You are only allowed to play four people to a
party. To have six old guys that have their own little two- minute jig
they do before they actually hit makes the game take a long, long time.
People behind them get lined up 200-250 yards behind each other all the
way back to the first tee box.
Well, we had
been playing for about an hour and a half, and he hadn’t mentioned the
last rule. There were only two holes left. When we got to the tee box
of the ninth hole, which was at the bottom of a giant hill, sloping
upwards at a forty-five degree angle, I decided to jog his memory. So I
asked, “What’s the last rule?” He thought for a moment, then he got up
to hit. He hit a low shot that rose with the slope of the hill. He
looked on with approval, then very casually gave his son the last piece
of the puzzle. “Rule three is very important. You must, ‘Be mindful of
the people around you.’”
I never
understood that one until one day when I was about ten years old. I was
out on “The Westerlies” (the three holes farthest west and farthest
from the clubhouse) and I just happened to be behind some of the
slowest people I had ever seen. They finally got on the green, so I
went ahead and hit. I had never driven the green before, but I guess I
should have known that the time I expected I wouldn’t would be the time
I did. I unleashed a perfect swing, hitting the ball on the “sweet
spot” of the club, a slight draw from right to left (I’m left-handed)
and the ball landed two feet from the hole, with backspin! It took one
great bounce, landed softly and rolled back to within three feet of the
hole. The two on the green looked on in amazement at the incredible
shot. Then, I could sense their amazement turn to anger (I guess almost
being pelted with a ball coming from 200 yards away does that to
people). From then on I always made sure the golfers in front of me
were safely out of my range.
My dad ended up
with a score just over par. We don’t know what I got, since we stopped
counting after three holes. I thought my dad was Superman. He could do
anything he wanted with a club and a ball. He could hit a long drive, a
short pitch shot, he could even put backspin on the ball. Most of all,
he taught me to play a game I can play for the rest of my life.
I don’t get to
golf as much as I used to, since we don’t live anywhere near a course,
but I will never forget what my dad taught me, “The etiquette of the
game.”
Spencer Glynn
10/13/05
Silence
Poetry
This is the
third draft of my poem Silence. I got the idea from a relaxing moment I
spent in The Learning Garden. When I sat down I began to take in the
sights and sounds of the area. After looking at the flowers and
smelling the rain I began to think of ways that I could share this with
others.
The whisper of candy rests on my taste buds
Crawling in and sleeping there for an hour or so
Surrounding me are the benches of brick
Lying like a troop of warriors ready to attack
A small box of dull green limbs grows from the vertical stone floor
Awakening from their year-long slumber
Tiny heads of pollen and petals stretch from their place of resting
The tiny towers tease my eyes with their small pink beauty
The earth shadows them yet they stand unafraid
Every one of their small arms reaches out to me while they silently scream
Wishing for their short flight to reach my nose
The only smell I find is of the thousand tears from the sky
Each one releasing its loving scent when it reaches the destination of its death
Their mission is to feed the mouth of every one of nature’s beauties
I lay my head back and view the wall of grey that blocks the light
They both struggle in a never-ending battle to fight or feed the soil
The cold stone that sleeps under me is bone chilling
It seems to grow harder with the turn of each clock
Every muscle in my body twitches as I try to find someplace comfortable
My limbs surrender, relax, or adapt
The soul inside of me smiles
It has been so long since I had a chance to take in the beauty of this world
Including the bite of the earth’s lungs digging their fangs into the back of my neck
Drilling their poison into my skin and turning it raspberry red
The blood around my spine begins to ice over
I run my fingers over it in an effort to calm its cry
The distance yells to me
Four pistons each making their unique voice
The screams of pollution being birthed into this world
Trying to smother every pure lung
In an effort to over power the cement of the interstate is a sun-colored bird lost in song
Shaking its feathers it opens wide and pretends that no one is listening
The perfect melody leaks from inside of its beak
I close my eyes and start to drift away in the setting of sleep
for it is a glorious day.
Robyn Cota-Sieckmeyer
10-13-05
The Trigger of Emotions
Poem
This is my
second draft of my poem about my experiences in the Learning Garden. It
was a class project to go into the Learning Garden and use the five
senses then write down what you see, hear, smell, taste, and feel. I
decided to use this piece because I could incorporate the “Show Not
Tell” strategies with ease. I put in poem form because I enjoy
expressing my thoughts through poems. I like the part where is says “so
full of thoughts, yet wanting to be thoughtless” because they day we
were in the Learning Garden I was not having a good day and so many
things were running through my mind that I didn’t want to think about,
so that part is based on my emotions.
So full of thoughts,
yet wanting to be thoughtless.
The flies swarm around the flowers like a pack of wolves at feeding time.
I hear the insects buzzing & chirping.
They seem so peaceful.
Maybe I could be peaceful like that.
The smell of wet grass fills my nostrils,
and the cold cement beneath me is causing numbness.
Cars zoom by on the interstate in the distance,
seeming to be on some great journey.
They seem so destined.
Maybe I could be destined like that.
I can smell the clean air,
and it’s like I can almost taste it.
A truck pulls up in the parking lot, and the brakes screech.
Everyone seems to look; yet the man doesn’t care.
He seems to not have any worries
Maybe I could never worry like that.
The jellybean trapped inside my jaws, crunches beneath my teeth.
The sweet cherry flavor surges through my mouth.
Soon the chilly wind blows my bangs into my eyes, making it difficult to see.
There’s a rustle of leaves making there way long the cement
They seem so free.
Maybe I could be free like that.
Caitlin Pleas
10/24/05
The Red Shoes
Non-Fiction
This
is my third draft of a story about a pair of red shoes that I had when
I was a little girl. I got this idea from the floor plan activity we
did in class. I chose to write about this because it was something that
I remember very clearly and know a lot of details about. I began
writing this by just gathering the details I remembered and also
talking to my mom and other family members about what they remembered.
There are those certain childhood memories you’ll
never forget. Perhaps it was a funny moment or a bad fight over who got
the bigger cookie. No matter what it was, each is important and will
remain close to your heart. One of my favorite things as a child was to
entertain my family and friends. As soon as I could wear my sparkly red
shoes, I could drift off to a place where nothing seemed to matter.
It was Christmastime, one of my favorite times of
the year. Being five years old, I didn’t have a care in the world. Life
was so simple and Christmas was just a fun time to be around my family.
There was the usual church Christmas program, Christmas tree, cookies,
and the lights, but one of my favorite traditions was opening presents
from my family on Christmas Eve. One particular package made my face
light up like nothing since then has ever done. Shaking with
excitement, I wondered, What could it be? I tore off the paper, peered
anxiously as I lifted off the lid, and stared in awe at the gift
inside. They were the prettiest shoes I’d ever seen! The red sequins
covered them from heel to the toe and they sparkled in the light like a
disco ball. The shoes felt magical, almost as if I was Dorothy in The
Wizard of Oz. My mom suggested, “Try them on!”
Of course I couldn’t wait so I said, “Yay!” They were perfect.
I wore them nonstop for about two weeks after that,
usually just walking around the house. Our hallway would be sprinkled
with little red sequins. The flower beds outside probably even had
sequins in them. One day, I noticed that I could see myself in the
front part of the stove. For the first time, I had a mirror that I
could see my feet in. After I brought out my little boom box, I
cranked up some music and off I went. With my long brown hair flailing
behind me and my tongue sticking out, I had so much fun. My family
would just laugh at me, but I never cared. It made me happy and that
was all that mattered.
After seeing “The Lord of the Dance,” I really
got into dancing. It was at the Lied Center and I was so excited
because I had seen these dancers on TV and even had videotapes of them.
We climbed up the grand staircase and entered the theater through the
heavy wooden doors. As we found our seats, my best friend Megan and I
sat on the edge of our chairs as the lights dimmed and the long red
curtains were slowly drawn back. Clenching her hand in excitement, I
whispered, “Here it comes!” From the fighting scenes to the graceful
slow pieces, it all just seemed to fall into place and was incredible
to watch, ten times better than just seeing it on a tape or TV. I
couldn’t wait to get home and try out my shoes with some of these new
dance moves.
My mom bought a soundtrack to the show and I
couldn’t wait to hear it. That rush from the show came back and I began
to dance. Striving to be just like the professional dancers, I would
move my feet as fast as I could. I would leave black scuffmarks
on our linoleum floor; but my mom would never get mad, as long as I
wiped them off when I was finished for the day.
My family still reminds me today of those very
famous red shoes. Not that I need to be reminded because I will never
be able to forget them. Hopefully, one day I can pass on a gift like
that to my kids so they can also feel, even just for a few minutes,
that there is nothing they can’t do.
Kasa Schroer
10/13/05
Through Two
Historical Fiction
This is a true story that I took from the Bible and
made into more of a fictional story in first person. I was having
trouble finding a topic to write about so my sister, Kami, and I tried
to find something interesting. We came up with the awesome but
rarely told story in the Old Testament of the Bible about Jonathan and
his armor bearer. Research was easy. In 1 Samuel 13 this entire
story is complete with all the information I needed. Emotionally, I
love this story because of the challenge of writing it but also just
thinking about how it really happened. I can guess but I doubt
that I have gotten every thought or word right and knowing that makes
it so much more interesting for me.
I was born an Israelite and faithfully, if I must, I
will die one, with pride. But not today. No, not today.
We have been at war with the Philistines all my
life, needless to say that I know war. I know that an army needs
weapons and that now our army has none. But better than I
know anything, I believe that the God of Israel doesn’t depend on the
strength of any man’s arm or the condition of his sword (or lack of
one).
So, due to my unfaltering belief that my God will
make us victorious, I am sneaking away from the army with one of the
only two men who has a sword—my prince, the man whose armor I carry and
weapons I sharpen, Jonathan, son of Saul, the king of Israel.
“I am with you, heart and soul,” was my answer when
asked of my willingness concerning this solitary, secretive mission.
Now as I look at the strong shoulders and determined
stride of Jonathan, I am reminded that what we are doing will be
considered suicide; if anyone finds out or ever sees us again. We,
though, trust in our God. Like Jonathan declared through the sparks
from the whetstone that flew around my face as I sharpened his sword to
perfection, “The Lord will save this people, nothing will ever be able
to hinder that. Whether he uses an army or the two of us is His choice.”
Now as we begin to draw near to the pass where the
Philistine outpost is stationed I think about Israel’s army. The only
difference between the army and us is fear and faith. We have the
faith and they have the fear.
The sun is past midday’s peak, but it is still
warm. Jonathan’s plan is, amazingly enough, not to sneak up or
wait until nightfall, but rather, to simply cross this pass and see
what the Philistines say. If they say to us, “Wait there and we
will come to you,” we will stay here. But if they say “Come up to
us,” we will climb up, because that will be God’s sign that we will
defeat them.
“Look!” someone on the cliff yells and I look up. “
The Hebrew dogs are crawling out of their holes! COME UP TO US,
LET US TEACH YOU A LESSON FROM PHILISTI!!!”
Jonathan’s handsome face breaks out into a vicious
smile that makes me glad I am not on the cliff calling down.
“Climb up behind me,” he growls, but I can tell he is pleased with
their haughty response. “The Lord is using us to defeat the
Philistines and give them into the hands of Israel.”
The cliff face is jagged and broken, and about the
height of five men. Hand over hand and foot over foot we climb.
Jonathan is above me, and his sword, strapped across his back, glints
down a steely wink as if enjoying the secret that these Philistines
have no chance of surviving. I see Jonathan heave himself over
the edge of the face and onto the rock-strewn ground that will be this
outpost of pagan’s last sight on Earth. He straightens up and is
looking around us as I make my way to his side.
The flashing sword of Israel’s prince wastes no
time. It has come to defeat the Philistines. The first few men
approach us with swords drawn and Jonathan dispatches them within
seconds. They probably feel nothing, know nothing, so fast and strong
is he. And I am right behind him with my spear, following in a
wake of blood and bodies that had been well equipped with every weapon
and shield that our army does not have. Lots of good their gods
and weapons are—what is that horrifying noise?! I continue to
wonder as a Philistine seems to unknowingly commit himself to the end
of my spear. It isn’t the sound of death or pain (even though
there is plenty of that) but of anger, power, and how-dare-you
indignation—Jonathan’s war cry.
No man is standing before this onslaught.
Something is pounding through my every fiber like ice and fire, that,
put together don’t become lukewarm but are made even more extreme,
pressing me on and making it impossible for any man to stand against
me! They are not made weaker; I am being made stronger. I
hear laughing as a huge man on my left charges. Who would be
laughing at a time like this? Not the man coming toward me; he
has no chance. Doesn’t he know that? Oh, it’s me. How
can he hope to defeat my God? Because now, I am a weapon in
his mighty hand, I am not directing my movements but rather am watching
from a distance. I slide to the right and see the Philistine’s
face tense—he has received a shock through the heart, courtesy of my
spear. I jerk the spear down and simultaneously pull it toward my
belly, freeing it from the mess that was that man’s heart. Where
he has gone is a place I will never see.
Raising my blood-splattered face, I realize that
this was the last one. Jonathan is calmly walking this way, but
his dark face reflects something I’ve only heard of in the stories of
Moses and Abraham. A spirit of peace and a rejoicing for what God
has done is so real it can almost be touched. His eyes, however,
are still flaming from the battle.
“Brother,” he says, as he embraces me like one,
“come see what the Lord has done today. He gave us the strength
for victory against these twenty or so Philistines, but over there,
look at their army!”
As we walk across the ground strewn with rocks and
now with bodies, I am amazed. I hadn’t realized there were so
many, and yet a great number of them have the signature of my spear.
“Jonathan, did I do this?”
“Yes, our God has used both of us to set in motion a
miracle! Through this skirmish God has placed fear and confusion into
the hearts of the entire Philistine army!”
There is a small hill, and as my vision breaks over
it, I cry out just as the ground begins to rumble and shake beneath my
feet.
Before us sits the Philistine camp in turmoil.
Panicked horses run through the maze of burning tents that spiral
smoke, thick and black and impenetrable into the late afternoon
sky. Their masters turn and kill one another in the
frenzy. God has sent this panic upon the Philistines who are now
out of their minds with fear. Little do they know that the “army”
that started this battle is really two brave men-one a prince, who
could be in a tent being pampered and served, and his armor bearer, the
“nobody” of Israel, both who believe in a God whose hand they are now
seeing at work.
As I gaze at the tributaries of men melting into the
distance, it seems like a spring is pumping a river of panicked men in
every direction from this place. Surely, Saul has heard of this
by now and is leading the Israelite army to pursue our panic-stricken
enemies.
Familiar pounding is once again awakening. Lord, let me be a weapon in your hands!
Looking at Jonathan, I see the fire is searing him
as well. For a moment we glance at each other, then that vicious
smile reappears. This time both of us have a war cry as we charge
into the camp of a people who are defeated by the God who can use two
men to put 10,000 to flight-the God of Israel!
Heidi Wall
Oct. 24, 2005
The Life I Left Behind
Fiction
I received this
idea from a picture given to me during the character sketch activity. I
chose to write on this because I felt that I could elaborate on this
subject more.
My
name is Tom Hatcher. I am thirty-six. I’ve spent, what seems most of my
life in a big city where the air is always filled with a constant gray
mist and the sound of horns always honking. There were tall skyscrapers
as far as the world seemed to go on. I came from a small town, where
everyone knows everyone’s name and each street has its own history. To
go back is something I’ve longed for ever since the day I left. The
need to get out on my own and leaving my home seemed like a good idea
at the time, but now that I look back was a little selfish and idiotic.
After college I
moved to New York to work at a multi-billion dollar company. Someday I
wish to leave the big city, get rid of all the 5000-dollar suits and
the fancy haircuts, and just put on some jeans and a collared shirt
that still shows my success but in a very relaxed way.
I finally did
it; there was only so much I could take of the ritzy, high-class life,
so I went home, home to a place where I could breathe the fresh crisp
air of the late afternoon, where the entire world seems to just slow
down. I went to a small café we had in my town, and still after
eighteen years, old Mr. Peterson was still standing behind the counter
washing the glasses, with what looked like the same white terry cloth
he used when he opened up. The café was just a little shop on the
corner of Main Street between the bakery and the candle shop. This part
of town was always my favorite because the air was always filled with
the sweet smell of fresh baked bread and apple-cinnamon wax being
heated to perfection. The café had the old style of brick that looked
one hundred years old.
All of this was
the little piece of my childhood I was missing and it felt so great to
get it back. To just sit and think about the life I left behind, to
laugh all my troubles and frustrations away, and to just live my life
the way it was meant to be lived. Filled with the things I love, the
people I care about, and the memories that will last forever.
Megan Ramey
10/24/05
Nothing
Non-fiction
Really, all that is in this story
is me doing nothing, and that is how I approached it: me going through
the motions in a “nothing” moment. I thought it would be a good
example because it would get people to realize how much they do when
they say they are doing “nothing.”
Creak….creak….creak….. goes the hard
wooden kitchen floor. This is curious, I think to myself.
Everyone should be asleep. Getting up from my desk I feel the
weight of drowsiness upon my eyes. My feet make their way to the top of
the stairs, peering down at the cold stone floor of the entry hall
below.
But that’s all there is, darkness and cold.
Distractedly, my eyes drift to the right and I see some green. The
color of the walls that lead to the tall ceiling, but the color is lost
to my eyes before it met the ivory hue of the ceiling. I
shouldn’t be able to see the color of the walls, I think. Someone must
have left on a light. There it is, the light in the hallway,
making it a tunnel of light filling every dark pocket with vibrant
light; spreading like a delta into the hall covering the nearest
jade, then dimming as you got farther away, so all that is seen is
black.
Transfixed at where the light was coming from, and
leading to, I sitt at the top of the stairs. From the kitchen I
hear chairs sliding back and forth across the smooth wooden
floor. Stop,… start,…
stop,… start…
BEEP- BEEP-BEEP- goes the timer on the dryer,
puncturing the silence of the hallway for a short moment, waking me
from my hypnosis. I go to fetch my mom. Entering her
cranberry red bedroom, I see the place where my father usually sleeps
is occupied by a huge boulder covered by sheets. It isn’t until
it lets out a chest rattling snore did I know, yup, that’s Dad.
My mother is still up reading the paper that is a few days old.
She has a habit of procrastinating on the knowledge of current events
until she has the weekend to catch up. I ask her if she would
come and listen to what I was hearing. She looks at me in an
annoyed zombie-like state. I guess she had fallen asleep a few
time while reading. Getting up kind of robotically, she
heads to the top of the stairs following by me. After listening
for a moment, her chilly monotonous answer is, Dad must be up, and
heads back to her red strewn walls to fall asleep behind The Journal
Star once more.
I know that couldn’t be what is making the
sound. Dad is upstairs in bed, not downstairs sliding a
chair back and forth…
Back and forth…
Back and forth…
Falling back into my hypnosis, my lids begin to slip
over my eyes. So, being tired and somewhat out of it I just shrug it
off and go to sleep in my nice comfy bed the moment my head touched the
pillow.
To this day I don’t know what caused the sound that came from my kitchen.
Catrina Harris
10/24/05
Ever-changing
Poem
This is my third draft of my
poem about how things are always changing. The idea, and basis for my
poem came from the time we spent in the Learning Garden. The time in
the garden helped me to find and write the base of the story when I
realized how things were not staying the same; even in the short amount
of time I was looking at them. I decided to choose this topic because
the idea is something I think of everyday. Listening to the cars on the
interstate and watching the wind blow a pink balloon into the air
inspired me to write this poem. The words and the idea in general might
have came from one of my philosophies that is currently developing more
and more everyday on the way that nothing stays the same.
A world is all around,
Little of it we know.
For, we rarely take time out of our own lives,
To take a look around.
There is so much left to discover,
Through the rarely-reaching potential senses,
Of sight, smell, taste, sound, and touch.
We know the taste of things so familiar,
Sounds of cars and trains,
The touch and feel of what (we hope) will always stay the same,
Sights of love and beauty,
--and of disaster, our train wreck of life.
We know the smells of grass and comfort floating all around.
But, there is so much we don’t know of the world we call our own.
What can we discover? Can we ever learn something?
There is always something,
Even something we see every day,
Just looking at it in some new way,
Is different than the day before.
For nothing ever stays the same.
Like a person or a flower,
The face doesn’t stay the same,
New wrinkles appear to tell the stories,
Of what has passed before now.
And petals do not stay the exact same shape,
But soften the frame,
From all the wear of yesterday.
Change isn’t always bad,
It inspires some to grow.
But, sometimes it’s unwanted,
And won’t put its foot out the door.
Feelings can be deceiving.
In oh so many ways.
Things are always changing,
It’s too difficult to keep up.
Nothing ever stays the same,
For this I am sure.
But, what ever really lasts?
Life turns things into gigantic jumbles,
Making nothing really “simple,”
It spurs the complexity of things to grow,
Into a crossword with no answers.
Change isn’t always full of confusion,
It brings love and beauty too,
Because behind each bad storm,
Comes a rainbow gleaming through.
The beauty both inner and outer,
Is often covered by hate and doubt.
Change affects the way we see things.
Making it hard to look past the distractions,
To see what is truly there.
How can we learn all about,
The confused and disordered lives we lead,
And about the love and beauty,
The many things still left unseen?
Hard to keep the senses up,
As the world passes us by,
Day in, day out things change,
With a never-ending cry.
A cry for knowledge,
A cry for fate,
And one for what lies on the next page of the world’s ever-changing ways.
Brandon Holthus
10/24/05
Learning Garden
Fiction
This is my
third draft of my fiction story about a roly-poly in first person view.
I got the idea from sitting outside in English one day as an assignment
to eat a jellybean and write things about it. We were supposed to write
what it tastes like, what you smell, hear. I chose this topic because
when I wrote it I let someone read it and they thought it wasn’t too
bad. The roly-poly inspired me to write this because I thought it would
be cool to write from his point of view.
One day I
was chilling out at Waverly High, minding my own business looking for
food when a bright pink thing fell out of the sky and nearly landed on
me. I thought it was just the rain that was slowly drizzling down, but
I guess not. I’m a curious little fellow if I say so myself. Like one
time I was so curious I was sauntering down the street and fell in a
gutter. The gutter’s different tunnels, like a maze, took me a week to
get out. All right here’s the story I was walking down the street and a
car drove by and splashed me by a gutter. As I rolled into the gutter I
yelled to the driver, “Learn to drive you bonehead.” I landed in
a deep mud pile that smelt horrible. And then… well never mind
back to the story.
So being my
curious self I walk over to the pink thing and examine it. This
mysterious object looks delicious so I start gnawing on it; I get a
burst of fruity-delicious flavor. It is very appetizing so I keep
going. With my bad luck an enormous deleterious hand picks me up. I’ve
been warned about these enormous creatures before, but I guess I’m just
too curious.
As I’m
being picked up, I get a whiff of a horrid smell. I figured it’s just
the air up here. It’s rotten; it smells like fresh cut grass. I’m not a
big fan of fresh cut grass; I prefer to stay under something or in the
cover of shade. On my way up I see a very dark sky, that’s just more
proof that it will rain. Before it picked me up I was taking cover
because I could smell the rain as it slowly came down. My size is less
than a half-inch long and less than a centimeter off the ground. By the
way I’m a roly-poly.
The warm
fingers start rolling me around, tossing me from hand to hand, and
that’s not very fun. Yes, we have roly in our name but it doesn’t mean
we like it. He rolls me so long I think I’m going to have a roll
attack; but just when I’m about to give up, it sets me down and walks
away. I start walking down the sidewalk avoiding gutters because of the
one time. So get this I’m almost to the plant I’m going to hide under
when I hear a thump, thump. Then I look up and see a giant foot as it
comes down and squishes me like a bug. It squishes me breaking my
shell. Luckily, I survived! If that’s not a miracle I don’t know what
is.
Furious winds instantly starts blowing, me directly
into an open bottle. I still remember that shot; I was like, “ Man is
that a nice shot or what!” The wind blows me down the street and into a
dark deep hole. I’m so injured I just faint because the fall is so
long. When I wake up I am being looked at by a bunch of squinting men.
I now live with a new kind of people who have a new meaning of life.
They are still in an era where they farm by hand and use animals.
Jordan Hartman
10/24/05
Eyes That Reveal
Poetry
This was a
poem that I created off the top of my head in English about myself. I
chose to do this topic and style because I didn’t really like any of my
writing pieces that we did in class, and I enjoy writing poetry. The
way I created this, well I just sort of thought about my emotions and
myself, and let the creativeness flow into my fingers to the computer.
This piece does have a few emotions in it and a few personal feelings
included. It was surprising that I could function and think of good
lines that meant something to me personally in the morning. I was happy
with that.
If you look real close you could see,
In my eyes is the only place you could find me.
My dreams reveal,
A heart that’s healed.
But then I wake, and one look is all it takes,
To know that the reflection of a smile I see in the mirror is fake.
But at least there’s the music... my one and only escape.
Getting lost in the loud noise,
Gives me my constant “rocker poise.’’
Even if you won’t be there for me I’ll know what to do,
I’ll just go home and rock out to the Crue.
Days slip by and time is lost,
No one but me pays the cost.
School’s not for me and the stress takes a toll,
Sometimes it seems I am digging my own gravesite’s hole.
But don’t worry about me, I know my place,
I will sit here, and hide, and put on my fake face.
I don’t care what you think and I know you don’t understand
So all that can heal me is listening to my heart, my soul, my favorite band.
You may think I’m ignorant, cocky or bold,
I listen to loud music and if you don’t like it you’re too old.
I am an enigma wrapped up in my mind,
In my writing is where I confide.
Take it for what you want, I am who I am.
I am always the one, the bad girl with the plan.
No matter what you say I won’t back down,
From me all you will get is a halfhearted frown.
Cuz I’m really not there if you look in my eyes,
Glassy and distant, letting the anger fade out as it dies.
Trevor Wittrock
10/24/05
Cold Hunter
Fiction
This piece of
writing came from the Horse Whisperer paper we did during class. I
decided to set in a cold environment because of that. I choose this
topic to show the harsh ways of the cycle of life. I was inspired to
write about this because I’ve always wanted to go to Alaska, and I like
winter weather.
The snow softly fell on the unforgiving landscape.
Trees, in great numbers, stood like a jury, and the white-capped
mountain like the judge. Leaving the ground cold in its wake, was a sun
blocked by the grey clouds. The normal volley of winter birds were
silent. Only the slight wisp of a winter breeze and the crash of snow
from the jury, were all that could be heard. The coldness of the air
keeping most of the wildlife of the land in the prisons of fur, dirt,
and stale air. Animals sleeping, the young bundled like balls of yarn,
next to the mother. Asleep, was the land. But would not be for long.
A lone deer
crunched the snow, looking with its dinner plate-sized eyes for
predators. Other deer following behind it, with senses keen, and aware.
Any slight sound causing every head to turn is if it was one animal.
Moving slowing, looking for food to fill their starving bellies. They
were having horrible luck. But, now food was the least of their worries.
Cold, blues
eyes stared at them with glee. Their ears laid back, and teeth showing.
The thrill of the hunt exciting the wolves. But they kept their
composure. This plan must work. No food for nearly a week. They waited
for the key moment to strike. No movement or sound being made. Dead
silence.
Slowly coming
to life, the ground exposed a white figure on the ground lying in a
prone position. The snow falling away, like sand, as he moved his sore
joints. He was a lone hunter, with a grandfather bolt-action rifle and
was head to boot in a white hunting gear. His mouth covered with a
slightly off-white scarf and a white fur-lined hood over his head. His
face was red from the cold breeze, which slapped his face like a woman.
The black ski goggles he wore were etched with frost. But, the cross
hairs on the scope were still visible. They lined up with the deer. A
cross making a spot on the deer’s body. His finger on the ice-cold
trigger, he slowly closed his grip. The recoil hit his shoulder and
caused a moment of unpleasant pain.
The sound split into the forest.
The other deer gone in a flash. Only a small spot of color on the white
scenery is all that the landscape shown. The deer was now a fallen
victim of the cycle of life.
All of the
wolves’ ears perked up in alarm. They scattered in fear, running as
fast as they could across the forest. None of them were brave
enough to stay. The fear was too much, at least to all of them except
one. And the hunter ran towards his trophy, a trophy that didn’t have a
chance.
He made his
way, caring little for the surroundings. Snow was crunching at his feet
and his breath making a slight fog as he walked. He came upon the deer,
which lay lifeless with eyes staring up at the heavens. Blood spotted
the blanket of white. The fatal wound was showing. The hunter, with
little emotion, was on one knee looking at it. As he stood up he was
attacked.
A lone wolf
kicking up snow, ran at the hunter. The hungry wolf was so fast the
hunter had no reaction. Gaining speed, the wolf kicked itself upwards,
soared though the air at blazing speed. Claws hitting the outsider in
the chest, causing him to throw his rifle in the air. It spun and hung
in the air, then fell like a javelin stuck into the ground, the butt of
the rifle poking out of snow. The hunter had now become the
hunted.
Like knives,
the teeth dug into his forearm, cutting fabric and flesh away. Blood,
gushed from his arm and covered what was a white coat, and white teeth.
He screamed in agony, while he tried fighting the wolf. Rolling though
the snow, the two spread blood and ripped flesh on the ground. Finally,
gaining some strength, the hunter put his foot on the stomach of the
wolf, and extend his leg with great force. The wolf flew a few feet
away, skidding the snow as it landed on his feet. The fierce fight was
stalled as the hunter stood up, pulling a black survival knife from the
sheath at this side. Their eyes meet, and a silent fury settled on
them.
The wolf, teeth
exposed, and blood running down its snout, made another assault.
Forgetting the pain in his arm, he ran at the wolf, full of rage. He
yelled as he stabbed his knife forward, but the wolf’s quickness made
him miss. Dodging the thrust, the wolf opened his mouth for another
taste of human flesh. A white boot flew like a snowball and connected
with the wolf’s snout, closing the once open mouth. Lying on the
ground, the wolf recovered and looked with its blue eyes, at the
hunter. Looks of pain shown in their eyes. The edge of the knife
glistened in the light of the sun. Legs of thunder hit the ground and
the wolf made one last attempt. The hunter stood and made not one move.
Using its last remainder of its energy, the wolf jumped. The hunter
jabbed the knife forward and stuck into the wolf. They both fell, blood
draining in the snow.
A ball of fur
and white mass moved to life. The hunter, moving the wolf from on top
of him, stumbled to his feet. Eyes of burning blue stared up at him.
Just like the deer, his eyes looked also up into the heavens. The knife
was drenched in dark red. He lowered it to the side of his pants, and
wiped as much blood as the fabric would hold, then returned it to his
sheath. Feeling the need to show respect, he kneeled down to the red
snow and took his unharmed arm and closed the wolf’s eyes. He then
glanced at his arm, and pain filled it. Grasping his scarf, he ripped
it off and made a makeshift bandage. It filled up with hot red and
looked like a garment that the kings wore. Realizing his situation, he
made a slight grin. He couldn’t bring home his trophy. Sighing, he made
his way back to his home and grabbed his rifle as he walked.
District 145 Public Schools
and
Educational Service Unit #6, Milford, Nebraska
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