Double Point of View

Author's Note: I was assigned to write about how the point of view affects the story, and how the story would change if it had been written from another characters point of view.

In Secret Soldier, a historic fiction novel, the story is told from Deborah Sampson's point of view. Deborah explains what life is like putting on britches and entering a world where men dominate. She pretends to be one of them, terrified of being caught. She sees them all as evil masters, creating a world where women are scarcely needed and poorly treated. Further into the story, she befriends a man named Roger. After attempting to bathe with Deborah he figures out her secret. Deborah makes constant efforts to share her story and begs Roger not to report her, but he shies away and refuses to talk to her. Deborah begins to dwell on memories and eventually falls in love with Roger. However, if the story was told from Roger's point of view, the book entirely would not contain the word "love" at all. He sees a demanding stalker with a passion for his trust. Sure, he saw her without britches--or any clothes at all-- but it means nothing to him. Her personal business belongs to her, he should have nothing to do with it. The tale of Deborah Sampson is true, and her accurate views throughout the book prove it. Unfortunately, Roger's opinions were unheard. As interesting of a story they both may have, he died at war without ear caring for his side of the story.

Harrison Bergeron

I sit on the couch as I am supposed to after work. You see, this is the only rest time we receive, besides sleeping time. Today was a long one.

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George came home! Oh how I hate being lonely. Lonely, lonely me..

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George is too tired to go out tonight, so we'll sit at home and watch the television. Oh how I wish he could take those weights off.

"You been so tired lately,"

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"You're kind of wore out," I said. "If there was just some way we could make a little hole in the bottom of the bag, and just take out a few of them lead balls. Just a few."

"Two years in prison and two thousand dollars fine for every ball I took out," he told me. "I don't call that a bargain."

"If you could just take a few out when you came home from work," I said. "I mean-you don't compete with anybody around here. You just sit around."

Im strongly against his formal acts around me. He's no competition to me!

"If I tried to get away with it," he said, "then other people'd get away with it-and pretty soon we'd be right back to the dark ages again, with everybody competing against everybody else. You wouldn't like that, would you?"

"I'd hate it," I thought out loud.

"There you are, the minute people start cheating on laws, what do you think happens to society?"

A few minutes passed.

"Reckon it'd fall all apart," I replied.

"What would?" he said blankly.

"Society," I was getting confused now. "Wasn't that what you just said?

"Who knows?" said George.

Poor George. I'm glad I don't have a handicap. I must be perfect.

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Oh! The dancers are so pretty on TV, I wish to be one someday.

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A boy came on the screen, he looks familiar. Harrison! My son, whatever happened to him. I can't remember why he left us. I feel tears running down my face.

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George walked in with a beer. "You been crying" he said.

"Yup," I replied.

He asked what I'd been crying about.

I had forgotten.

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"Something real sad on television."

"What was it?" he said.

"It's all kind of mixed up in my mind," I said.

"Forget sad things,"

"I always do,"

"That's my girl," said George. His face shriveled in pain. The handicap did that to him sometimes.

"Gee - I could tell that one was a doozy," I told him.

"You can say that again,"

"Gee-", "I could tell that one was a doozy."

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Other People's  Business

Author's Note: This is my prediction piece to I The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon.  Included is a scene I have written that I believe would fit well into the book's resolution.   

After walking outside to greet his friend (the neighbors dog) Wellington,  Christopher was spotted stroking dead Wellington's bloody head.  Mrs. Shears, Wellington's owner called the police and screamed repeatedly at Christopher, who is autistic and didn't enjoy this.  After being released from jail, Christopher makes it his goal to figure out who did kill Wellington and why.

 I believe that Mrs. Shears killed her own dog.  I think this because the main characters shows evidence that her shock after finding out that her dog had died, couldn't have been because of surprise.  Also, when Christopher went to investigate who did kill the dog, Mrs. Shears was not open to talk about it, yet she didn't feel sad.   If Mrs. Shears did not kill her dog, because she is not showing proper emotions,  I am positive she knows who did.  The books mode of literature from my perspective so far is a comedy. 

I walked into the shed of Mrs. Shears, father had told me not to 8 times in the past week and I had been relying on white lies to keep me out of trouble.  It was very spacious in here. I did not like spacious, it reminded me of a show I watched with Mother once; the man walked into a spacious room with all the lights off, and martial arts fighters jumped out from all directions.  I knew this wasn't going to happen here, the worst thing that could happen would be that Mrs. Shears would find me and call the police again. I would not like this.  While looking around and dreaming about the possible uses of all the machinery in here, I spotted the fork.  The fork that was used to kill Wellington was in Mrs. Shears shed.  I ran to the police.  I had solved the crime, Mother would have been so proud.

A Pleasant Way to Die

Author's Note: Here is my abstract piece that was written after I wrote my essay "A Pleasant Way to Die".

In my recently written essay, "A Pleasant Way to Die", I prove that the narrators husband was setting the narrator -- his wife -- up for death by insanity. In the short story, he took her to a house she openly admitted she was afraid of and was never home to comfort her. The husband is a physician. With knowledge of the body, he locks his wife up and confines her to her bed. She refers to "bars" surrounding the walls. These bars symbolize the jail cell she feels like the house is, having no freedom to leave under her husbands close watch. Most readers would think that he is doing this to cure the illness she claims to have, but she clearly states "He does not believe I am sick!" Why does he pretend to be concerned for her well-being? Why does he feed her strange tonics and assign her strange activities? Why could he possibly enjoy torturing his own wife?

My last piece of proof regarding this man's deliberate killing of his wife takes place in the final scene. The husband fainted when he saw his wife creeping along her wall in pure insanity. The reader writes the scene to make us believe he was taken by sadness regarding the small portion of his wife's life that is left. Unfortunately, the cruelest part of this short story is that he does not faint from sadness, he faints because his experiment to turn his wife insane has succeeded. He was so overcome with excitement, he couldn't even stand.

A Make-Shift Mother

Author's Note: We were assigned to choose one character from the novel, To Kill A Mockingbird and write a creative piece from that character's point of view. I wrote about what Calpurnia, the maid, thought about the series of events taking place after Tom Robinson's court case, and what she thought of Scout and Jem.

No series of unfortunate events ain't gonna stop me from caring for these wonerful folks. I came here years ago feelin' bad for Atticus's loss, not knowing his gal personally but hearing stories and rumors about her fine skin and nice personality. I knew I's only apposed to cook and clean, but after seein' the depression in this family I knew it was my time to step up and play the mother role in these kids lives. Jem didn't need me much, seein' as how he's growin' to be a fine man like his Daddy, but Scout..oh that child needed me more than ever. Not only does she refuse to wear dresses, but Ol' Alexandra want her to join all them ladies at the gossip table! Scout wont know what's comin. Hopefully by the time Alexandra say she don't need me round here no more, Ill have left enough impact for lil Scout to be a fit young lady. Yes, I said it. There will someday be a time when Alexandra offically replaces me. Now don't go worryin' about me, Ill be ready. I'm getting old anyway. Black women don't show it, but the ladies down yonder near Dolphis Raymond, they in they deep 50's when they look fit to be 25.

Now two different mysteries have been solved in the past busy week. Number One, Boo Radley's real as the sun shinin' down in the evening. After hearin' them children's stories about his whereabouts for the past few years "Boo Radley's a mad murderer!" "Boo Radley sewed up Jem's pants, Calpurnia!" "Boo Radley ain't left that house for 30 years!" I finally got to see the nice fellow. Saved Jem's life, he did.

The other mystery solved is what Mr. Ewell's been plannin. We knew after the court case that he wouldn't let Atticus out of his reach for long, but none of us knew he would tryin' kill his chillun! After he brought out that knife, any folk in all of Maycomb would've done the same as Mr. Radley. Now he's dead an no longer a problem. Jem's still sleepin his life away, but I suppose he would've done that anyway. And Scout's been trying to contact Dill. Those three chillun are my reason for bein' here. Without them I would be trapped up in my church day and night. Although I am thankful, I must keep 'em in my sight for as long as I can. I'm gonna make sure they grow up to be big and strong, and never forget they make-shift mother, me, Ol' Calpurnia.

What It Takes to Make A Child Cry

Author's Note: I found a piece in To Kill A Mockingbird that really spoke to me. It's found on page 198.

All children are sensitive until they reach their teenaged years, and all cares fade away. But while they are children, cuts, scrapes and bruises can cause tears for hours. Unlike adults though, they have no real emotions for negative words and events. Knowing this, I found it strange how halfway through the court case in To Kill A Mockingbird, Dill broke out in tears. Reverand Stykes, Jem and Scout took him outside and prompted him to explain his emotions. Dill was sick to the point of tears on the racism of the people of Maycomb County. If such unfairness can do this to a child, then just imagine what it must be doing to adults like Judge Taylor. Dills sadness proves what the case is doing to the county, and everyone in it.

Thoughts Not Meant to be Shared

Author's Note: On page 53, Mr. Neck begins a rampage on how his son can't get a job. Melinda and David sit through his lecture with deep hatred.

Mr. Neck: "So tell me why my son can't get a job"

How does a Social Studies class answer such a question? How is it relevant to social studies in the first place? You can't; It isn't. The author put this passage in Speak to showcase how cruel of a man Mr. Neck really is. Simply because his son cannot get a job as a firefighter in New York (because of lack of talent, strength, education, connections, or a possible criminal record -- it does not say) he lectures his ninth grade class on how America should close its borders so that real citizens can get the jobs they need, and opens this up for discussion. Any teacher in their right mind at Pewaukee High School, Middle School, or Elementary school would never do such a thing unless they are preparing for a note asking for them to kindly take an unpaid vacation for the rest of the year. We now know that Mr. Neck has no sympathy for students, is discriminitive toward races besides his own, and has absolutely no passion for teaching. If Melinda's life was ever climbing toward happy before this point, Mr. Neck rolled it up into a snowball and sent it right back down.

Yellow, Blue & Orange Petals

Author's Note: This is my quote analysis from Fahrenheit 451 I chose the quote from Page 120:: "Montag caught [the flying book] with a bloom of fire, a wondrous blossom that curled in petals of yellow and blue and orange."

This particular quote shows how much Montag enjoys burning books. He likes the rush that the heat brings him and seeing the ash colored heads and soot smothered faces of his fellow fire men. The tone seems serene, which I noticed when I read how he resided to a state of peace while burning in the first part of the book. The way he compares the flames to flowers, possibly symbolizes how beautiful they both are. However, the flames he creates aren't campfires if he is referring to them as blue. These are hot, dangerous, death-causing fires. I don't think that he realizes how evil they are until he sees a women sent to ash along with her books. The purpose of this quote is to show how Montag honestly believed that what he did to books was virtuous. Having had no desire to ever pick one up and take in their lessons, Montag remains ignorant and immune to their addicting content and genuine morals.

The Will To Live

Author's Note: This Essay, written earlier in the year about Life of Pi by Yann Martel, is meant to demonstrate my knowledge on dash construction and semicolons.


When trapped on a boat with a hungry Bengal Tiger, just what kind of actions are acceptable in order to live? Pi Patel struggles to battle insanity while sharing a 26 foot long lifeboat in the middle of the Pacific ocean. His clothes have disintegrated, his skin is burned, he has no weapons at hand, and he is weak; fighting is not an answer. Most teenaged boys would have given up by now, acknowledging their fate and letting death take them, but Pi has a strange will to live. In the long run he does fight -- but not the tiger. He fights to live, and keep his furry enemy alive as well.

The manual Pi finds on the boat lets him know that an idle mind sinks. He interprets this that without entertainment, he will literally die of boredom. Pi creates a schedule for himself to follow everyday until his rescue arrives. It consists of fishing, praying, observing Richard Parker, and tending the lifeboat. Pi did not count days, he had no calendar, he survived on repetition and reminding himself that time was an illusion. He showed death that he was not an easy victim, even with a 450 pound tiger lying beneath him.

There wasn't a reason to keep the tiger alive; Pi simply figured he couldn't kill it, and it would serve as entertainment. A tiger symbolized confidence to his fellow Buddhists, and security in the Hindu world. Besides its claws teeth and prey drive it couldn't be too much of a problem. As the days danced by, Pi began a comparison of himself and the tiger. He had transformed from an avowed vegetarian to a merciless killer. When situations became rough and food was scarce, the tiger came first. Its importance was greater than Pi's and they both knew it. The tiger became a part of Pi, and in times of need Richard Parker, the tiger's name, came out from under the boat for Pi's needs. However, in times of peace and filled bellies, Pi found he could tame his tiger. Once the couple reached the island, where food, water, and shelter were all available, Richard Parker disappeared. He was no longer needed; Pi could survive on his own, and so could Parker. Eventually they knew society needed to once again be searched for. Pi packed up his tiger and returned to sea.

When Pi arrived at the safety of land and civilization Richard Parker ran into the jungle, hopefully never to be needed again. Pi then had the tough job of explaining what had happened in the last 227 days to men interested in the sinking of his original ship. They could care less about his story about a "tiger" aboard the lifeboat, nor did they believe it. Now, only Pi had survived the sinking ship. His mother, the chef, and an additional sailor had all killed each other on the journey, so there was no one to tell opposing stories. Pi could make up a world of lies and these men would have no choice but to trust him! Luckily for them, Pi spared their innocent ears from the gore and terror that he had experienced by making up a story about zoo animals. Whether he doubted their belief in the cruel acts humans are capable of, or he couldn't take the pain the real story brought him, we may never figure out. But in the end of the story Pi confirmed that Richard Parker was his alter ego, never having existed at all. The bengal tiger was merely Pi's animated survival mode.

Thinking back to his days on the boat, Pi realizes what Richard Parker did for him. His tiger saved him from many deaths--a death of boredom, insanity, carelessness, and even depression. We all have an inner tiger, just waiting to spring when our lives are jeopardized, however it only appears when we are in danger. From Life of Pi I learned that where ever and whenever I seem to be trapped in my lifeboat, I will be more than greatful to have a tiger by my side.

Character Analysis: Harrison Bergeron

Author's Note: Here's my character analysis on the character Harrison Bergeron. In the story I compare him to Guy Montag from Fahrenheit 451.

Everyone knows one person who is taller, stronger, smarter and better looking than everyone else. Harrison Bergeron was one of those people. Instead of congratulating him on growing to seven feet, the government forced him to be handicapped by carrying around 300 pounds of lead wherever he went, along with a puffy red nose and blurry glasses. He was now ugly, weak, and had a blurred sight. Eventually he fought against this and was taken straight from his home to prison. Just like how Guy Montag in Fahrenheit 451 wasn't supposed to be affected when his friend Clarisse disappeared, Harrison's parents lost memory of his existence.

Harrison broadcasted his escape from prison on live television, trying to encourage the citizens of the US to break free of the governments amendments. He tore off his nose and glasses , revealing his beauty; he ripped off his chains, displaying his strength. He danced freely until an official walked in with a double barreled ten gauge shotgun. His fifteen minutes of fame were up and every citizen watching was taught a lesson that day. They learned how wrong it was to be better than everyone else, the peoples need for equality killed Harrison Bergeron.

Weight of the New Year

Author's Note: My piece on New Years Resolutions was written to inform readers about the concerns of American Citizens to reach a healthy weight. Most Americans dedicated their resolutions for just this, which is worth writing about.

The typical American Citizen, is concerned about their weight. They may be severely obese and should focus on losing some, or unfortunately cursed with a high metabolism and try to gain a few pounds. As our population continues to grow, so does the passion for healthy lifestyles. My mother, father, grandparents, and our guests on the eve of New Years, devoted their 2012 resolutions to a better body. The words "exercise", "salads", and "stairs" all floated in and out of our conversations from 11 to midnight. After the ball dropped I could see the sad faces around the room. Visions of ice cream sundaes drenched in hot fudge were replaced with a pedometer with an unreasonable amount of steps on them. A hard year it would be for those whose progress was successful; welcome to 2012.

A Christmas Carol

Author's Note: The passage I have chosen to asses for purpose, meaning, and tone is the following: The spirit, for which he stood, with Scrooge beside him, in a bakers doorway, and, taking off the covers as their bearers passed, sprinkled incense on their dinners from his torch. And it was a very uncommon kind of torch, for once or twice when there were angry words between some dinner carriers who had jostled each other, he shed a few drops of water on them from it, and their good humor was restored directly . For they said it was a shame to quarrel upon Christmas Day. And so it was! God love it, so it was.

Charles Dickens

A Christmas Carol

Page 58

The passage in Stave Three shows the spirit of Christmas Present's interest in the quarrels of neighbors and families on Christmas day. When an unfortunate battle begins over dinner, gifts, or each others presence, he simply sprinkles the incense of his torch on their doorway, and their Christmas Spirit gets the best of them, as they return to their jolly selves. Its purpose shows what the effects of Christmas day can do to an unhappy family. Whether the spirit is even needed or not could be argued, it’s the time of the year that really cheers families up. The tone of this passage is suggestive. It provides an example of what a perfect Christmas could be, and the steps you could follow in order to have one.

Character

Author's Note: This piece talks about how the main character of Fahrenheit 451 struggles to realize the truth. Once he figures it out, he struggles again to share the truth with his fellow firefighters. He has a power he is unaware of. I also compare him to the maids of The Help.

To have an opinion that could lead the way to a better world, is like being trapped on a mountain with no way down. Sharing the opinion would be to roll down the mountain, dealing with the bumps and rocks on the way down. But to hold back, is to stay at the top of the mountain wondering what would happen if you were to plummet to the bottom. Would you escape? Would you die trying? Speaking out is a risk not many people are willing to take.

Guy Montag, from Fahrenheit 451 is faced with a problem very similar. I believe he will prove to be a dynamic character throughout the book when he realizes that the worlds fate depends not only on his actions, but also on his voice. What he does and what he says, influence other to believe what he does. He might actually get enough people to make a change. He has influenced his neighbor and firechief that the world has other possibilities. Similar to the maids of The Help, Guy does not believe that he has the right to speak up. Unless he bundles up his courage and speaks out to his community, the maids will be waiting for him at the top of the mountain, where he will stay until he takes a tumble and plunges to the bottom.

Point of View

Author's Note: In this piece I am practicing putting myself in a minor character's point of view. In my book The Help I am Skeeter's Mother during her last days.

Dear Lord,

Everyday I worry about my daughter Skeeter. As she poorly dresses herself in the morning, I worry about her finding a husband. As she slowly picks at her lunch, I worry about her health. As she sneaks off to her room to do who-knows-what, I worry about her social life. I know that worrying shreds my hair and paints my skin pale, but she means the world to me and I am willing to risk even my appearance for her. If only I could take her shopping like I used to. Just to pick out a pretty outfit, to do her hair, and to send her off to a party of some sort would satisfy me. These days she hides up to her room during the day and attends bible study group all night. She's so good, so pure; yet, so secretive and unsteady. Is she seeing a man, simply scared for my approval? Is she--dare I say it--seeing a woman? With out her trust I may never know.

The part of my worrying that sends me to laughing fits, is that she worries about me! My cancer only permits me a few months left, I know. But Skeeter has so much more to worry about than her elderly mother! With the pain I receive stepping out of bed each morning I can only hope to see her someday walk down the aisle in a white wedding dress being wed to the perfect man. If I don't live that long, than Lord, please let her know that I am still with her, critcizing her every move. If in heaven I still am not able to do so, then I beg you to take the task upon yourself. My daugher truly means much to me and without her, I am not worthy of living.

In the name of the Father,

The Son,

And the Holy Spirit,

Amen.

Middle School Memories

Author's Note: I planned on writing a poem on middle school insecurities, but I ended up writing a poem on middle school memories. I am working toward a goal of scoring a ten on word choice and voice. I'm not a confident poet, but a break from essays I thought would be nice.

As you lie in your bed,

Panic has glued you to its surface.

The horror stories you've heard,

The killers you've seen about,

The experiences you've already had,

Swarm about in your thoughts

As you try to dream peacefully.

Your brothers

Your sisters,

and close friends,

Tell you about the repulsion

Of Middle School

The girls are said to be so exclusive,

They tilt their heads when they speak

The boys are said to be so insecure,

They knock down your books for pleasure.

The teachers are said to be so stuck up,

They watch it all happen and don’t blink an eye.

Mom tells me it'll all be fine,

Dad tells me don't sweat it kid,

But Sara and Drew?

They speak differently.

I'm terrified,

I'm restless,

I'm only 11.

Will I make it through the first year?

Will I return home after the first day?

Should I purposely fail to repeat sixth grade?

But then I realize,

I'm not alone.

I quick pull up the school's website and accomplish a great feat,

The incoming sixth grade population is:

278.

Two hundred and Seventy Eight

Other kids having the same nightmares

I'm not alone, they aren't alone

I might even make a friend or two.

I fall asleep peacefully

I'm excited for middle school.

Spider Poem

Author's Note: Here is my attempt at a free verse poem on spiders. It's not worth an entire author's note about it and I am not looking for feedback on it. Happy Halloween!

Yesterday

Today

Everyday, I spin my web

I have lost track of the days

The weeks

The months

But my web continues to grow

It grows stronger

It grows larger

And I know my purpose will be fulfilled

I sit in the center and wait

I wait for long minutes

Long hours

Long nights

For a snack

A tasty snack?

Any snack

I've been hungry for a while

A fly!

It buzzes

It flies closer

I wait silently

No breathing

No blinking

The fly is trapped and I move

I spin

I suck

My purpose fulfilled, I must start spinning again

Are You Proud of Your Country?

Author's Note: Am I proud of my country? Yes, and here I state it in my Patriot's Pen response.

I have no vision of our country being any other way than what it is now. Any less relaxed, any less free. If we had Taliban officers scuffling through our homes and schools, I simply couldn't call it America. If we had laws against having more than one sibling, I simply couldn’t call it America. If we had government officer positions inherited instead of elected, I simply could not call it America. Here in America we are free. Each and every one of us gets a say in almost everything we do. It may sound cliché but yes, of course I am proud of our country. We may have issues with our economy, even our nation's health, but in the long run these problems really don't matter. Compared to other countries-we are very fortunate to have such a great space where everyone is free to express their creativity. To rephrase the question previously asked; Why wouldn't I be proud of my country?

Healing One's Wounds with Another's Blood

Author's Note: To work on using my voice I thought it would be fun to use an insane man's voice in my story. Please give me feedback on my syntactic device usage and my voice.

The "vampire," people called me, but a bloodsucker I was not. Little old me? Hah! Vampires symbolize pain, blood, death. In fact, I don't remember doing anything wrong. I held open doors for others, escorted old ladies across the street, and brushed my teeth before bed. Sometimes I heard things, but that didn't make me weak or insane! It simply meant I had better hearing than everyone else. My senses were strong and they helped me survive on my own. All alone.

Drip Drop.

My mouth and nose were wet. It had been a long walk, a long day, a long time since I last ate. Anyone else would be delusional by now, but not me. I was well rested--just a bit thirsty--but ready to continue my journey. Milwaukee to New York was at least a million miles. I deserved a treat! My two feet had been through much. Blood trickled through the seams of my shoes, sometimes leaving traces with my footsteps.

Drip Drop.

A snack! That's what I needed, my intake had been low. I hadn't stopped since Detroit for a sip. Roam, roam, roam, a song flew through my head. I sang for a mile or two until I was rudely interrupted by my dear stomach. It was devastating sometimes, how I bled. My stomach, nose, mouth, even my feet bled. Sometimes it made me thirsty -- hungry even! Where to get my next snack? Should I wait until I get to New York? Could I make it?

Drip Drop.

I wasn't sure where I was. I don't believe I know to this day! It must have been New York, as big as it was. But I don't think I had never been there before. Everyone was wearing red! It was bit strange; none of the people there had faces either. They wore red pants, shirts, and dresses. I liked it. I could've lived there it relaxed me so much! It was like I slid instead of walked. Everything was great; it was grand! But that one man. The one silly man wearing the purple plaid suit.

Drip Drop.

Why? Why would you wear such a thing? To disrupt the peace -- unacceptable! As I stared him down, my eyes began to ache. The red took over until I could barely make out the man, but he was the only one I saw. My eyes -- they hurt when I closed them. However, I couldn't keep them open! By this point the man noticed me watching from afar. He ran. Oh, he was fast -- but I was faster. I was stronger too -- I just knew it!

Drip Drop, Drip Drop.

The pain was getting worse. I had to focus on the man, I couldn’t let him out of my sight. All that confidence in his stride…must have been A negative. I preferred O but at the time either would have been acceptable.

Drip Drop.

I needed to scream, to run, to eat! My senses were fading.

Drip Drop.

I couldn't breathe, my vision was blurring, I tasted blood- my blood. Yet still I ran, the prize would be worth the pain. One last step and I had him! You see, vampires would show no mercy at this point, but I thought deep into the situation and realized that this man had only a few years left anyway! Everyone must die eventually. I lunged toward the man, seizing his throat. He screamed like a baby.

Drip Drop.

I grabbed the man, my nose coming back into existence, and I inhaled. I looked around for the man's suit to see if my eyes still pained me, but my eyes became distracted once I reached its collar. No longer in pain, my eyes, distracted away from the man's suit, focused only on the large vein right along his shoulder vein. Right along his shoulder blade was a large vein, it was purple and throbbing with fear. I couldn't stand it much longer! My thirst had become sickening. I dug in with my teeth ripping through the first few layers of skin. Instantly, my thirst was satisfied, my senses strong, and my strength replenished. Everyone knows the best way to heal one's wounds is with another's blood.

Conclusion Acitvity

Author's Note: My Conclusion prompt was, Alice was at the Wonderland tea party, and the Mad Hatter questioned if she was edible. Here is the conclusion I chose to write, changing the original fairy tale and I liked writing the twist in the story that changes the readers opinion about the Hatter. I would like feedback on my dialog format and how I could change it.

Alice sat down next to the Mad Hatter, a mysterious man he was. He spoke normal sentences, he took normal steps, but he blinked much too often and sipped his coffee like there was no tomorrow. She felt comfortable here. Not only sitting next to this man, but in Wonderland in general. He was very polite and kept asking her if she wanted coffee. She refused; she knew what caffeine did to her, but just to make him happy she took a few biscuits.

"Just a few?" he had said, "Surely you'll want to fatten up, Wonderland isn't for skinny girls you know!"

Blink blink. She ate up and took a few more, and then tried asking for help getting to the Red Queen's tower.

"Oh, Darling, you won't make it there."

The Rabbit jumped up in shock, "Late! Alice is late! Alice run this man is a cannibal!"

Alice froze. The Hatter wasn't a cannibal! He was just quirky! They could be great friends after she defeated the queen.

"No my dear, this silly Rabbit hasn't had his morning coffee. You know, Rabbit," he said through gritted teeth," Say any more and you might need to join us for brunch too!"

"Brunch? Oh! What are we celebrating?" said Alice.

"Why, today is your Unbirthday!" replied Hatter.

"Unbirthday, well I don't think I've heard of such a thing." Alice said with a look of surprise.

"It’s rather like a birthday. Only unlike a birthday, the day of your birth, an unbirthday is the day of your,

um, well to simply state it, your death."

Before Alice could make a move, the Hatter lunged for her head. He grabbed her quickly and Alice celebrated a very gruesome Unbirthday. The Rabbit scurried off to the Red Queens Castle to report another death. Oh Alice was late, the Rabbit thought, much, much too late.

Intro Hooks

Author's Note: Character-Kyle who has recently graduated high school. Setting-Sense Chin-chin's Dojo. Conflict- The moisturizer is running out! These are the topics I was assigned to write an intro on that would pull a reader in.

Have you ever noticed that on the faces, arms, necks, and chins of the elderly lies a jungle of wrinkles? Dry, cracked skin folding over itself adding irritation to the lives of older men and women. Sense Chin-chin had a stressed life as it was, but reaching 49 soon, he didn't need pesky wrinkles finding themselves a way into his life. His only solution from stopping the skin was moisturizer. He applied it twice a day to ensure that the wrinkles didn't take over his entire life.