Introduction
As we all know, the newspaper industry today is slowly, but surely fading. Today’s trends do not necessarily mean the end of newspapers completely, but do signify a change in the way we receive media. With more and more people turning to the internet for information, the students in Ms Roops Creative Writing classes have created a blog. We hope this blog will appeal to readers of all ages.
I'm glad to hear that you're doing well. I miss you more than you realize. And how could I possibly forget? This interminable winter seems to reflect it; the warmth of summer fled soon after you. I, of course, fight every second of it. I've never been one to give up easily, you know that much. But the cold is different, harder to fight. It looms over me, omnipresent and somber. I worry that this will become a sort of phantom limb; the feelings will remain long after the severance is complete. I worry that the chill I feel has little to do with the weather, and is rather the beginning of numbness too profound for me to fully comprehend. I worry that this will turn out to be something permanent. I don’t know why I'm even writing this; I surely don't intend on mailing it to you. Mailing it would mean exposing a side of me that I'd rather not make public. It would, above all, mean trusting you again.
Besides, I already know what you would say if you were here. You'd tell me that I'm being silly, and that the chill I feel is the weather, and nothing more. You would spout some random statistics on how cold weather can cause hormone imbalances, and then we'd return to our carefully constructed facade.
No, I'm definitely not sending this letter.
You know, I would wonder how warped it is that I can't even trust myself anymore, but I already know. I can't write any more of this; it's becoming much too clear how far gone I am, and how utterly dependent I've become on this last shred of hope.
Maybe I'll send this letter.
Then, at least, you'll stop talking to me about the weather. I won't miss it. Nature wasn't ever really my thing. Maybe we'll move on to talking about your new job, skirting cautiously around the fact that you're seeing someone new. You'll be detailed enough that I don't have to ask any awkward questions, and I'll continue to act as if I'm not hurt.
Or maybe you won't write back. Maybe we'll stop writing altogether, and you will slowly fade into the grey monotone that consumes and distorts all memories with time. My mind will try to squeeze you into all the ideals that I never knew I had, and suddenly you'll become just another person, instead of the one thing that keeps me from feeling whole.
I'm tired of constantly feeling this. I might have thought that this would be better than numb at some point, but I now see that I was wrong. I now see that this will be another scarring disaster.
I mean, this is just plain stupid, not to mention childish. You've got my head spinning, and my heart following suit. The mere thought of your face makes my stomach lurch in some strange, joyful way that caused me to shake the living crap out of Laura's irritatingly indecisive magic eight ball the other day.
I have no chance with you, and you have no interest in me. I can't believe this has happened again. I cannot help but think how utterly ridiculous the entire notion of falling in love is.
Well, at least for teenagers.
In my opinion, love is like a well-known song. Everyone understands what it supposed to sound like, what the words are, etc., but few have actually heard it. Sure, we've all heard the cheap covers on the radio, the ones that we thought were real for a few deluded seconds, and we all know the dance that accompanies the song. But perhaps we are too eager to hear this masterpiece. It could be that our young ears are too inexperienced to understand what is counterfeit and what is genuine.
Either way, I'm sure I want no part in it until I'm positive that I will be able to tell the difference.
So why is my heart so hell-bent on making this work? I have so many questions, with infuriatingly obvious answers.
How is it even possible that every single song I hear, no matter the genre or the words, can somehow remind me of you?!
Maybe I don't need to be reminded.
Why is my heart suddenly fluttering like a small, distressed bird?!
It does that whenever I'm near you anyway.
Why can't I breathe when I think or talk about you, never mind whenever you pass me in the hallways and glance at me?!
Because I'm a paranoid idiot who holds her breath when she's excited about something.
Why is it that I'm sure you'll figure out who this is addressed to and confront me on Monday?
(See above answer pertaining to the fact that I am a paranoid idiot.)
And why do I even care?!
Because this is the first time in a while that I've felt anything close to this.
Quite obviously, my heart needs to have a long conversation with my head. I refuse to be made a hypocrite because my hormones couldn't contain themselves.
DISCLAIMER: Okay, you people. This is a work of complete fiction. I do NOT want to be interrogated when I come to school on Monday (or perhaps Tuesday, as the weather is looking rather ominous). The Hoover is not in crush. I REPEAT; the Hoover is NOT in crush. Thank you.
Constance was a cynical young lady. She didn’t expect much from people but was quick to complain when they weren’t up to her standards as she would say. She flounced into a room ready to take down anyone in her way. She liked to move quickly through boys saying she was sampling the crowd. She was lovely, yet a monster, and not just that but an explosion waiting to happen. The thing was being this way didn’t help her and as much as she hated to admit it harmed her. She didn’t have much hope for the world and never followed anything faithfully. She just didn’t have any faith in anyone or anything.
One boy however changed her perspective on things. She met him in a diner slouching in his booth two elbows on the table slurping hot coffee. She immediately was turned off by his actions, how rude he seemed to be. But somehow he noticed her sitting there and after finishing his coffee decided to swagger over to where she was sitting. At his arrival at her table she gave him a polite nod and slightly turned her face so she could hide a smug smirk. “Hello missy” he drawled sitting in front of her. Constance glared. She didn’t like how he had just invited himself to sit with her, what if she had been waiting for someone? “Hello dear so glad you could join me” her voice had a sarcastic twinge to it. He didn’t seem to notice. He gave her a lopsided grin and just began a conversation.
Constance was not impressed, she told him to leave. He smiled and told her she looked like she needed a fellow to cheer her up. They argued her with anger, him with humor and good intentions. He gingerly settled into her uncomfortable little world however. She didn’t like his actions but somehow she enjoyed his company. It was different a twist. To make a long story short this boy, this man Daniel as he called himself ended up making a drastic change in her life. Not while he was involved in it though he tried quite hard but when he gave up.
Daniel was patient but after three months of her dry and pessimistic observations he gave up. He left saying “I thought I saw something in those grim eyes of yours. Thought I could help you open up to the world. Wish I could have. Don’t worry you’ll fly someday.” It was sudden, it was odd, and it was out of place. This wasn’t Constance’s normal way of having a relationship ended. I guess it hit her hard. That day he picked up her hand gingerly, gave her a quick peck on the forehead and swaggered away just as he had swaggered to her booth in the diner.
She decided she was sick of it. Sick of being disgusted and letting her expectations exceed what was in existence. Tired of trying to perfect who she was and put everyone below her. Constance had realized a time or two that what she was wasn’t completely correct but she had decided to ignore it believing she shouldn’t speak negativity on herself. But speaking negatively over other people wasn’t helping either.
She decided she’d make something of not only herself, but people around her. She would smile happily give complements to who deserved them, and create a life worth living. With these positive motives and expectations her life actually began to change. She found herself staring out at a landscape actually appreciating it and the person she was sharing the view with. She had more friends more laughs more fun.
Constance smiled one night at the sky and spoke “God, you’ve constructed this place beautifully. Thank you”. Those words slightly reminded her of Daniel and even though he hadn’t been in her life long he had changed it quite drastically. She hadn’t realized what a gift he truly was. She was glad she could say she had flown though. She wasn’t just ok, she great, she was wonderful. Constance was happy.
Have you ever met one of those people who get so obsessed over something that they just can't seem to accept that you don't share the same tastes? If you are one of those people, STOP . Don't read any further. You are most likely a devoted fan of the Twilight series.
Dazzle. Who can honestly say they use that word in regular conversation? I didn't think many hands would be raised.
For those who are not familiar with the series written by Stephenie Meyer, I will summarize. Twilight takes place in the rainy town of Forks, Washington, following Bella Swan--a maladroit girl of seventeen, who falls in love with a man that craves blood and sparkles. This series started out small and has exploded over the last year or so, acquiring fans of all ages and backgrounds.
I can hardly say that Meyer would approve of the extremes her fans have gone to lately in attempts to convert "haters". It has not yet escalated to murder, but fans are beginning to resort to assault to persuade those who aren't fond of the series. Fights have actually broken out simply because someone expressed his or her opinion to a Twilight fan. This fandom has grown out of control--it's grown into a mob!
I ardently hope--as most preparing their bomb shelters (in case of preemptive strike) do--that this series will live out its fifteen minutes of fame. Our youth needs a new craze. Perhaps we should bring back pet rocks, find something productive to do--like crafts. Take up crafts. Next time Edward Cullen appears in your mind, pick up that knitting needle and get to work. Ginny needs a new scarf!
MARCH 13: Movie Ideas Due MARCH 15: Group Movie Proposals due MARCH 19: ALL Magazine Sumission FINAL DRAFTS due MARCH 23: Magazine layout due MARCH 24: Last day to turn in work from 3rd 9 weeks MARCH 25: Group Movie Scripts and storyboards due MARCH 27: End of 3rd 9 weeks APRIL 1: Creative Writing Magazine-Joke Issue- Goes on sale! APRIL 7: Group Movie Due APRIL 9: Open Mic/Poetry Slam APRIL 22: Style Projects Due MAY 15: 3 magazine submissions-FINAL DRAFTS-due MAY 22: Writing Portfolio Due
Having Writers Block?
There comes a point in every writer, good or bad, young or old, professional or amateur's life when you catch the vicious disease of Writers Block. If you ever find yourself coming down with a case of Writers Block, go to this link for some prompt ideas. http://www.writersdigest.com/
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ReplyDeleteLetter to Pen Pal (revised piece)
ReplyDeletePen Pal,
I'm glad to hear that you're doing well. I miss you more than you realize. And how could I possibly forget? This interminable winter seems to reflect it; the warmth of summer fled soon after you. I, of course, fight every second of it. I've never been one to give up easily, you know that much. But the cold is different, harder to fight. It looms over me, omnipresent and somber. I worry that this will become a sort of phantom limb; the feelings will remain long after the severance is complete. I worry that the chill I feel has little to do with the weather, and is rather the beginning of numbness too profound for me to fully comprehend. I worry that this will turn out to be something permanent. I don’t know why I'm even writing this; I surely don't intend on mailing it to you. Mailing it would mean exposing a side of me that I'd rather not make public. It would, above all, mean trusting you again.
Besides, I already know what you would say if you were here. You'd tell me that I'm being silly, and that the chill I feel is the weather, and nothing more. You would spout some random statistics on how cold weather can cause hormone imbalances, and then we'd return to our carefully constructed facade.
No, I'm definitely not sending this letter.
You know, I would wonder how warped it is that I can't even trust myself anymore, but I already know. I can't write any more of this; it's becoming much too clear how far gone I am, and how utterly dependent I've become on this last shred of hope.
Maybe I'll send this letter.
Then, at least, you'll stop talking to me about the weather. I won't miss it. Nature wasn't ever really my thing. Maybe we'll move on to talking about your new job, skirting cautiously around the fact that you're seeing someone new. You'll be detailed enough that I don't have to ask any awkward questions, and I'll continue to act as if I'm not hurt.
Or maybe you won't write back. Maybe we'll stop writing altogether, and you will slowly fade into the grey monotone that consumes and distorts all memories with time. My mind will try to squeeze you into all the ideals that I never knew I had, and suddenly you'll become just another person, instead of the one thing that keeps me from feeling whole.
Either way, I guess I'll send this letter.
(Katie Hoover)
Dear you,
ReplyDeleteI'm tired of constantly feeling this. I might have thought that this would be better than numb at some point, but I now see that I was wrong. I now see that this will be another scarring disaster.
I mean, this is just plain stupid, not to mention childish. You've got my head spinning, and my heart following suit. The mere thought of your face makes my stomach lurch in some strange, joyful way that caused me to shake the living crap out of Laura's irritatingly indecisive magic eight ball the other day.
I have no chance with you, and you have no interest in me. I can't believe this has happened again. I cannot help but think how utterly ridiculous the entire notion of falling in love is.
Well, at least for teenagers.
In my opinion, love is like a well-known song. Everyone understands what it supposed to sound like, what the words are, etc., but few have actually heard it. Sure, we've all heard the cheap covers on the radio, the ones that we thought were real for a few deluded seconds, and we all know the dance that accompanies the song. But perhaps we are too eager to hear this masterpiece. It could be that our young ears are too inexperienced to understand what is counterfeit and what is genuine.
Either way, I'm sure I want no part in it until I'm positive that I will be able to tell the difference.
So why is my heart so hell-bent on making this work? I have so many questions, with infuriatingly obvious answers.
How is it even possible that every single song I hear, no matter the genre or the words, can somehow remind me of you?!
Maybe I don't need to be reminded.
Why is my heart suddenly fluttering like a small, distressed bird?!
It does that whenever I'm near you anyway.
Why can't I breathe when I think or talk about you, never mind whenever you pass me in the hallways and glance at me?!
Because I'm a paranoid idiot who holds her breath when she's excited about something.
Why is it that I'm sure you'll figure out who this is addressed to and confront me on Monday?
(See above answer pertaining to the fact that I am a paranoid idiot.)
And why do I even care?!
Because this is the first time in a while that I've felt anything close to this.
Quite obviously, my heart needs to have a long conversation with my head. I refuse to be made a hypocrite because my hormones couldn't contain themselves.
DISCLAIMER: Okay, you people. This is a work of complete fiction. I do NOT want to be interrogated when I come to school on Monday (or perhaps Tuesday, as the weather is looking rather ominous). The Hoover is not in crush. I REPEAT; the Hoover is NOT in crush. Thank you.
-Katie Hoover
Revised.
ReplyDeleteConstance was a cynical young lady. She didn’t expect much from people but was quick to complain when they weren’t up to her standards as she would say. She flounced into a room ready to take down anyone in her way. She liked to move quickly through boys saying she was sampling the crowd. She was lovely, yet a monster, and not just that but an explosion waiting to happen. The thing was being this way didn’t help her and as much as she hated to admit it harmed her. She didn’t have much hope for the world and never followed anything faithfully. She just didn’t have any faith in anyone or anything.
One boy however changed her perspective on things. She met him in a diner slouching in his booth two elbows on the table slurping hot coffee. She immediately was turned off by his actions, how rude he seemed to be. But somehow he noticed her sitting there and after finishing his coffee decided to swagger over to where she was sitting. At his arrival at her table she gave him a polite nod and slightly turned her face so she could hide a smug smirk. “Hello missy” he drawled sitting in front of her. Constance glared. She didn’t like how he had just invited himself to sit with her, what if she had been waiting for someone? “Hello dear so glad you could join me” her voice had a sarcastic twinge to it. He didn’t seem to notice. He gave her a lopsided grin and just began a conversation.
Constance was not impressed, she told him to leave. He smiled and told her she looked like she needed a fellow to cheer her up. They argued her with anger, him with humor and good intentions. He gingerly settled into her uncomfortable little world however. She didn’t like his actions but somehow she enjoyed his company. It was different a twist. To make a long story short this boy, this man Daniel as he called himself ended up making a drastic change in her life. Not while he was involved in it though he tried quite hard but when he gave up.
Daniel was patient but after three months of her dry and pessimistic observations he gave up. He left saying “I thought I saw something in those grim eyes of yours. Thought I could help you open up to the world. Wish I could have. Don’t worry you’ll fly someday.” It was sudden, it was odd, and it was out of place. This wasn’t Constance’s normal way of having a relationship ended. I guess it hit her hard. That day he picked up her hand gingerly, gave her a quick peck on the forehead and swaggered away just as he had swaggered to her booth in the diner.
She decided she was sick of it. Sick of being disgusted and letting her expectations exceed what was in existence. Tired of trying to perfect who she was and put everyone below her. Constance had realized a time or two that what she was wasn’t completely correct but she had decided to ignore it believing she shouldn’t speak negativity on herself. But speaking negatively over other people wasn’t helping either.
She decided she’d make something of not only herself, but people around her. She would smile happily give complements to who deserved them, and create a life worth living. With these positive motives and expectations her life actually began to change. She found herself staring out at a landscape actually appreciating it and the person she was sharing the view with. She had more friends more laughs more fun.
Constance smiled one night at the sky and spoke “God, you’ve constructed this place beautifully. Thank you”. Those words slightly reminded her of Daniel and even though he hadn’t been in her life long he had changed it quite drastically. She hadn’t realized what a gift he truly was. She was glad she could say she had flown though. She wasn’t just ok, she great, she was wonderful. Constance was happy.
Twilight Fans Attack!
ReplyDeleteHave you ever met one of those people who get so obsessed over something that they just can't seem to accept that you don't share the same tastes? If you are one of those people, STOP . Don't read any further. You are most likely a devoted fan of the Twilight series.
Dazzle. Who can honestly say they use that word in regular conversation? I didn't think many hands would be raised.
For those who are not familiar with the series written by Stephenie Meyer, I will summarize. Twilight takes place in the rainy town of Forks, Washington, following Bella Swan--a maladroit girl of seventeen, who falls in love with a man that craves blood and sparkles. This series started out small and has exploded over the last year or so, acquiring fans of all ages and backgrounds.
I can hardly say that Meyer would approve of the extremes her fans have gone to lately in attempts to convert "haters". It has not yet escalated to murder, but fans are beginning to resort to assault to persuade those who aren't fond of the series. Fights have actually broken out simply because someone expressed his or her opinion to a Twilight fan. This fandom has grown out of control--it's grown into a mob!
I ardently hope--as most preparing their bomb shelters (in case of preemptive strike) do--that this series will live out its fifteen minutes of fame. Our youth needs a new craze. Perhaps we should bring back pet rocks, find something productive to do--like crafts. Take up crafts. Next time Edward Cullen appears in your mind, pick up that knitting needle and get to work. Ginny needs a new scarf!
Mildly Insane,
Kerri Howell.
Watched
ReplyDeleteby Kerri Howell
The girl achieved great height.
The girl began to soar.
She smiled down atop the clouds,
And the crowd began to roar.
Her smile faded,
Replaced by a frown.
They began laughing,
As the girl was falling down.
Ground became floor.
Walls became white.
No windows stood to tell her
Was it morning, day, or night?
Chunks of dark-brown hair
Were heavy in her hands.
What had happened to
The strange and distant lands?
The walls were now padded,
Her attire thick and bleached.
She cried for help,
Her pallid hand outreached.
"Has imagination,
Once my kind and loving friend,
Become the deception
That brings me to this end?"
The joys of childhood she knew could be no more.
Salt now stained her face.
"Is this the bond that chains me
To this cold, unfeeling place?"
In the wall before her,
There sat a girl upon her knees.
Her dark, wide eyes
Whispered useless, desperate pleas.
The pale spots on her head did not mar her face.
In places her scalp was bare.
She was beautiful, in fact,
But they didn't seem to care.
The locks of hair fell to the floor.
She felt not free, but weak.
Her cries for help remained futile.
A tear ran down her cheek.
The tears halted.
It was all now clear, at last.
The laughter ceased
As they watched her through the glass.