Hybridized Fan fic

The cylinder rose from around me, exposing me to the arena. I was standing in a clearing with the eleven other tributes. I could see a forest in the distance. It reminded me a little of Forks. The announcer declared “Ladies and gentlemen, let the hunger games begin!” The other tributes were poised on their metal circles. Looking around at their faces I realized they were only children. In 60 seconds many of them would be dead, and many others would be murders. I looked around frantically for Edward. I found him crouched on his metal circle a few yards to my right. Something about his stance reminded me of a mountain lion ready to pounce. He met my eyes; his expression was not difficult to interpret. He was scared for me. Perhaps I should have been scared, but when Edward was with me I always felt safe. Edward mouthed “stay” to me. He was coming to protect me, as he always did. Edward stepped of his plate in a swift graceful motion, but he was a moment too early, the gong had not yet rung. I watched, frozen with horror, as my whole reason for living was blown to bits by a land mine. Pieces of him rained down around me, I heard a cannon blast, followed by the ringing of the gong. Tributes raced of their platforms to the cornucopia. I needed to run, I needed to hide from the other tributes but I was catatonic with grief. After a few moments I heard someone approaching from behind me, but couldn’t bring myself to turn around. The tribute grabbed onto my ponytail and yanked my head back exposing my throat. I could feel the cold metal blade against my trachea. The tribute laughed coldly, whispered “like shooting fish in a barrel,” and slid the blade across my throat.

p.s. The terrible writing is an intentional commentary on how Stephanie Meyer sucks.

Humor Assignment

It was April 14, 2013, the Friday before April vacation. It should have been a day of great joy; the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, all the children were giddy with the anticipation of an entire week of fun and relaxation, and all teachers had decided to forgo lesson plans. But during last period, the day darkened. I was standing in a large group of my friends joking around, when one of our fellow classmates awkwardly squeezed his way into our circle. (For the purposes of this story I shall call him Kevin, because let’s face it, no one has ever met a Kevin they’ve liked.) Kevin stood there awkwardly for a minute or two before he interrupted our conversation to say to me, “Hey can I ask you something after class.” I froze. I wanted to say no, but despite the fact that he was without a doubt more annoying than a mosquito, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings…yet. I stuttered “uh-uh sure” in a tone as discouraging as I could muster. He didn’t seem to pick up on my tonal suggestion and said “okay” then returned to his seat. As some of my less tactful friends started to laugh and work on a couple name for me and Kevin, I desired to sink to the floor and shout a Marlon Brando-esque “NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!” I had three options: fight, flight, or grow a pair and just turn him down. Obviously the third option was out, and since I was pretty sure spontaneously assaulting my classmate would have resulted in a suspension, and possibly a straight jacket, that left me one option: flight. So, with two minutes left of class I made my way towards the door, where I waited, feet at the ready, with my hand on the door knob. Upon the bells ringing, I sprinted with everything I had to the girl’s locker room. Now under normal circumstances I’m not one for running, but put a weird boy waiting to ask me out behind me, and I just might beat the school record for the 100 meter dash. From the locker room I called my chauffer —sometimes referred to as my older sister Jessica— to inform her that I would be late. After a sufficient amount of time had passed and I was fairly certain that he had already boarded the school bus, I emerged from the locker room and stealthy made my way to the car, using for the first time in my life those weird mirror things they put up near hallway intersections to check that the coast was clear of undesirable boys waiting to ask me out. Upon arriving home I sank onto my couch and took a deep breath. Crisis averted…or at least so I thought until I pulled out my laptop to check Facebook, and found I had one new message.

Hey sorry I didn't catch you after class, Hmmm I wonder why. I meant to talk to you but I didn't see you, so I guess I'll just ask u here. Honestly I’d be way better off asking u in person but oh well.

Honestly my answer would have been the same either way, and at least online you can’t see the blatant look of horror on my face.

Anyways, would you wanna catch a movie with me or something over vacation?

NO…just no…no…one might even go so far as to say “never.”

We definitely don't talk as much as I wish we did,

We talk much more than I wish we did.

so maybe we can change that?

Yes, hopefully we can.

I decided to do the classy thing and just not respond. I figured Facebook would tell him that I had read his message and chosen not to reply, giving him the hint that I was not interested. Unfortunately for me…and I guess him as well, Kevin was immune to hints the way some people are immune to chicken pox.

The next morning after eating a balanced breakfast, I once again checked my Facebook. One new message. I expected it to be Kevin again and mentally prepared some snarky comments, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was not Kevin but a friendly acquaintance of mine from school, Sam. Any pleasant feelings I had however, dissipated when I read the message.

Hey Kevin said you guys are dating is this true?

Have you ever seen Mean Girls? If you haven’t, you should, it’s awesome. If you have, you should know exactly what I mean when I say I reacted much like Regina George did when she found out Cady tricked her into eating nutrition bars that made her gain weight. After I felt I had screamed a sufficient amount, I angrily, and dramatically, typed my response.

“Not in a million years, and you can tell him I said that.”

                Sam relayed my message to Kevin, and proceeded to tell me he thought I had made a wise decision. Moments later I received a response from Kevin, detailing how it was none of Sam’s business and I should have given him a definite answer myself. I decided to keep my reply short, not-so-sweet, and to the point.

“Fine, no.”

Then, Kevin did something that had he been near me at the time would have landed him a swift kick in the balls. After ruining my Friday, tarnishing my reputation, and worst of all, making me run, he had the audacity to give ME advice. He said:

Make sure next time you tell them that before they get their hopes up.

                I wish I could say I asked myself “what would Julie Andrews do?”I wish I could inform you that I had a moment of compassion in a moment of anger. Sadly that was not what I did. Instead I decided to reply:

“Next time, take a hint.”

                That’s the thing about kids I guess, we’re mean.

List poem

When the little girl on the playground tells you you have chubby cheeks, don't sucker punch her, just laugh.

When your friend asks to borrow your book say no, or at least sew it a protective cover.

When your brother flips you off, don't tell your mom. You'll get in trouble not him. 

When your sister dies her short hair red, don't call her Ronald McDonald.

When a guy says he doesn't like V for Vendetta, run. He's not smart enough for you anyway.

When a friend lies to you, don't stick around. They don't respect you enough to tell the truth.

When your father asks you your opinion on him, lie.

Be the Change You Want to See In The World (Political Satire)

I believe in liberty,

If it doesn’t disturb tranquility.

I believe in preserving autonomy,

As long as you always obey authority.

I believe in the right to free speech,

But don’t disagree with what I teach.

I am extremely political.

I swear, It’s not the least bit hypocritical.

Political Satire Prompt

This poem is about making fun of politics and current events and people.
has to be:
1. eight lines
2. most rhyme (optional)

Ballad

Of the brevity of life, everybody knows.

Yet we wile it away just wishing and waiting,

For Friday, for summer, for love, for a Hogwarts letter, for a handsome man in a time machine

We’ve lost the pleasure of merely being.

So, if you’re thinking Carpe Diem, you’re reading this wrong. I suppose,

What I’m trying to say, is life isn’t just the elating

And blissful moments, but all the messy and mundane in-between.

So be grateful for the dim; it gives the bright its meaning. 

Poem Final

They are the wings of the heart,

The only real magic.

They let one live and die with the heroes pressed between the pages.

They are a bridge to other worlds.

They are love and adventure,

 a hope and a haven.

Inducing laughter and tears,

They are teachers and counselors,

They are the best and most loyal of friends.

Books are so much more than ink and paper—so much more than just stories.

Poem Draft 2

They are the wings of the heart.

They are the only real magic.

They let one live and die with the heroes pressed between the pages.

The bridge to other worlds.

They are love and adventure.

They are a hope and a haven.

Inducing tears and laughter,

They are teachers and counselors,

They are the best and most loyal of friends.

Books are more than just ink and paper—more than just stories.

Editing thing: The wording needs a bit of fine tuning in places. 

Poem draft one

Books are more than just ink and paper—more than just stories.

They are the best and most loyal of friends.

They are teachers and counselors,

Inducing tears and laughter,

Giving hopes and dreams.

They are a hope and a haven.

They are love and adventure,

The bridge to other worlds.

They let one live and die with the heroes pressed between the pages,

They filled my childhood and my memories.

They are the only real magic.

They are the wings of the heart.

Mental editing thing: Reverse the order of the poem to start broad and get more narrow.

synecdoche

I pick it up, press it to my face, and breathe in its scent: a combination of grassy notes with a tang of acid and a hint of vanilla. Roses have nothing on it. That scent is a powerful thing. It takes me back to endless days and nights spent vicariously performing magic, battling dragons, defeating the forces of evil, and making the best friends of my life. Nights spent crying, and laughing, and sometimes even both at the same time. Nights spent without sleep because I just had to know a little bit more. When that scent fills my nostrils, I feel as though a fortress has been constructed around me to keep out all of the miseries of reality. It’s a wonder no one has bottled it as perfume.

Angry Letter (Revised Final)

Dear, She-Who-Will-Not-Be-Named,

            We became friends in the sixth grade, not just the school-grounds-only kind of friends either. We were the sleepover-every-weekend-eat-junk-food-talk-about-boys kind of friends. This meant that you knew me well, better than most people, in fact, which means you should have known one of the most elemental things about me: I love to read. That is not a trivial fact, an amusing side-attribute, or a piece of my pie. It’s the whole damn pie. I am a bibliophile, heart and soul. I would rather sit in my front yard and read a good book than do almost anything else. I have a Pinterest page titled, “Books <3.” My bookshelf is always pristine, and I care for my books like a mother cares for her children. Better to run into a mother bear robbed of her cub than to damage one of my books. So, because you were my friend, I assumed you would care for my book in the same manner to which it was accustomed. What made your crime so horrific was that it wasn't just some book pulled from the bottom of my shelf. It was one of my favorites. One of those books I hate to lend people because I might spontaneously get the urge to read it for the nth time, and be unable to get my fix. Biblio-addictions are a bitch. I could not, however, in good conscious keep you from the reading the glorious book that you requested. I may be vindictive, but I'm not that heartless. So, I lent it to you. When you received it, it looked practically new. No one would have been able to tell just by looking at it that I had already read it five consecutive times. When you rudely returned it to me three months later—I mean seriously, three months? It's not exactly War and Peace—it was mangled. The protective cover was bent in several places. It had a black mark on the back. It had scratches all over it, and the first half of the book had water damage, or should I say mysterious red liquid damage: Blood? Fruit Punch? I didn't taste it to see.  There were also bizarre grooves on the first couple pages that looked like you took a fork them; quite energetically, in fact. When you handed me back my fallen loved one, I was torn between wanting to cry and wanting to backhand you. If someone asked me why we are no longer friends, I would probably say something along the lines of “We’re different kinds of people now” or “Because I have standards and integrity” In reality, this is not the case. I refrain from divulging my true motivation because it would sound petty, and, let’s face it, completely crazy. The truth is, I may never forgive you for what I have come to label The Book Debacle of 2011.

                                                                                                Truly no longer yours,

                                                                                                Lakynne 

Timed Prompt

It was Christmas Eve. Fog stuck to the tarmac at Lindenbergh Field. She was sitting on a bench in the airport, nervously tapping her feet. The Christmas decorations scattered around the airport did nothing to lighten her mood. Her eyes were red and puffy and her mascara was running down her face. Nervous glances were directed her way as people made their way towards their holiday plans. She couldn't blame them; she was a wreck. Last week's argument kept replaying in her head. She couldn't recall the specifics of what had sparked the fight, but she could remember the harsh words they had aimed at each other. She started to wring her hands together. How could I have been so stupid? I can't bring a child into this. He or she will end up with a broken home, that will result in serious psychological issues later in life. It will be all my fault. I'm going to be a terrible mother. Her thought were interrupted by the sound of her name. She stood as her husband sauntered toward her. She had planned to broach the subject carefully, perhaps lead into it with a little small talk. How was your business trip? Was the plane ride nice? But when he stopped about a foot in front of her, the words just came tumbling out."I'm pregnant." She awaited his response nervously, but rather than the blowout she had anticipated, he swept into a tight hug that lifted her feet off the floor. After a minute or two he put her down and said, "Oh! Sorry, sorry, sorry." and laid his hand on her stomach. A large smile spread across his face. She started to smile too.

P.S. I agree with Fanny Howe's point that writing these days often ends with senseless violence that defeats the characters. However, this particular piece does not adhere to that statement, because there is no violence that overcomes the characters, and there is a happy ending.

The Letter (Revised Final)

“You got a letter.” Dave droned as he sauntered through the archway between the kitchen and the living room, tossing a beat up envelope onto my lap. "For Jessie’s eyes only!" was written on the front in large crooked print. The stamp looked new.

“Who’s it from?” I asked turning it over in my hands looking for some clue. 

“How should I know?” Dave snapped.

“Sorry. I was just asking. Take a Midol.” I tore open a corner of the envelope flap and slid my pinkie nail across the top to open it up. I got a paper cut, but was too curious to bother with it right then. 

I withdrew a poorly folded sheet of yellow paper, the cheap awful kind we used to get given in school, the kind that tore if you tried to erase anything... and we always did.
It read: We are writing letters to our future selves in class today. Hi! Whats up? Congrats on being 25! I have so many questions. What are we? Are we a balerina, or an archeologist like Lara Croft? Did we finally save enough for that trampoline? Are we married to Jeremy Sumpter? If not, that’s okay. I understand. Do we ever get a puppy? Whats his name? How tall are you? Mrs. Kirkman just said she wants me to write something meaningful, so, are you happy?

I thought to myself, “No, I’m not.”
Just then Dave came up behind me on the couch and looked over my shoulder. “Good God! who wrote that?”

“I did,” I replied without thought.

“Why?”

“It was a school assignment when I was nine.”

“Were you retarded as a nine year old, because that hand writing is awful.”

As he left the room, chortling about his own joke, I grabbed my pen from atop the Washington Post daily crossword and drafted a response to my younger self on the back of the letter. Never Grow Up. Then I scratched that out and wrote instead, It’s never too late. Find the courage to start over. Then, I rose from the couch went into our bedroom and started to pack. 

The First Date (One Act Play)

(The door bell rings. Rose answers the door.)

Rose: Mr. Foster I presume?

Sam: Umm…yeah. Hi Mrs. Montgomery; it’s nice to meet you.

Rose: Please, come in.

(Sam enters)

Sam: Is Alicia ready yet?

Rose: Not quite, we Montgomery women like to take our time.

Sam: I fully respect that…and I respect your daughter as well sir—I mean ma’am.

Awkward Silence

Interrupting each other

Sam: You have a lovely home.

Rose: Shall we just cut to the chase Sam.

Sam: I beg your pardon?

Rose: Let’s skip the chit chat and get to the part of this night where I interrogate you to ensure that you are good enough for my daughter, and then put the fear of god in you to ensure that she comes home in exactly the same condition in which she left.

Sam: Uhhhh……

(Alicia descends the stairs.)

Alicia: Hi Sam, sorry it took so long.

Sam: Don’t worry about it. Me and your mom were just…

Rose: Getting to know each other.

Alicia: Mom can I see you in the kitchen for a sec.

(Alicia and Rose enter into the kitchen.)

Alicia: Did you have to go all mommy dearest on him?

Rose:  I don’t know what you mean.

Alicia:  Oh puh-lease mom he looked terrified.

Rose: Consider yourself lucky I’m not cleaning my rifle.

Interrupting each other.

Alicia: You don’t have a rifle.

Rose: But if this is the gratitude I get, maybe I should just break out the baby pictures.

Alicia: Oh god, keep your albums on the shelf, okay. (Exasperated sigh)Thank you for not cleaning the rifle that you don’t own, in front of my date.

Rose: Was that really so hard?

Alicia: Yes. I better go back in before he tries to make a run for it.

(They rejoin Sam in the hallway.)

Alicia: Sorry about that.

Sam: It’s fine.

Rose: Have her home by eleven.

Alicia: Midnight.

Sam: 10:30 it is ma’am.

Rose: Right answer young man.

Peer Reviews

Rachel Wheeler's Self Deprecation
I absolutely loved her first sentence; it really peaked my interest. Rachel really captured what it's like to have an obsessive personality. It was cool how she interacted with the reader at different points in the story.

Francesca M's Self Deprecation (60 seconds...or not...)
I loved the structure of the piece. I thought the responses to the dentist were very amusing. I really liked the closing sentence.

Sean Eykel's Self Deprecation (The Most Harmless Thing)
The piece was very well written. I loved the goonies comparison. It was wicked funny but also a little sad. The piece was really great.

A Father's Love

7 pounds and eighteen inches. When that nurse handed me that little pink bundle, I was astounded that in one moment, someone so small could become my whole world.  A lump rose in my throat, and tears sprang to my eyes. I have cried exactly twice in my life. Once when I first held my beautiful baby girl, and the other when I thought I’d lost her. A week ago, when I heard a knock on the door, I’d assumed it would be my wife, home from picking Clara up from school. She was always losing her house key. Why she didn't keep it on the ring with the key to Chevy, I never could understand. When I opened the door, I was shocked to find a police officer standing on the front stoop. He had a grim look on his face and had trouble meeting my eyes. He talked in low tones that I suppose were meant to be soothing, but I didn't hear a word he said. I was too focused on what he was holding in his hands; a plastic bag marked evidence. Inside it laid a stuffed elephant with an ugly red stain across its belly—Ellie. 
Clara had gotten Ellie for her sixth birthday, with a portion of the check her Grandma McMillen had sent. Right as we entered the mall, Clara started tugging on my coat sleeve and pleading to go into the Rainforest Café gift shop, where there was a large display covered in stuffed elephants. I suggested she wait to make a purchase until she visited a couple more stores, to which she responded by bursting into tears. So I took my puffy eyed daughter into the store, where she carefully examined each elephant to decide exactly which one would be her new best friend. When I remarked that it didn't matter which she chose because they all looked the same, she stuck out her chin and crossed her arms. 
I laughed and said, “Okay, you’re right it does matter. Continue.” 
She finally chose an elephant on the right side of the stand and gave it a very long hug, and said,

“I think I’ll name her Ellie.”

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Ellie was the Hobbs to Clara’s Calvin. Clara never went anywhere without Ellie. She would even buckle the elephant into the seat next to her on the way to and from school. So, when I saw Ellie coated in what I could only assume was blood, I felt sick. The office kindly escorted me to the hospital where my wife had been admitted with a few broken ribs, a fractured ulna, and a concussion. The doctor explained to me that she had been lucky; the rear passenger side had taken most of the impact. He actually said that. “Lucky.” No, that wasn't lucky. Lucky would be a car accident where no one got hurt. Lucky would be not sitting weeping beside my wife’s hospital bed. Lucky would be getting to see my baby girl again. When I returned home the next day to shower and pick up some clothes, I realized that the doctor was right. I was lucky, because Clara’s room was open as I walked by, I saw Clara asleep in her bed. I didn't even think anything of it at first. I was so accustomed to seeing her little sleeping form. But the words of Officer Panetta rang in my head, as I raced back to her room.

“I’m sorry sir, there’s been an accident. Your wife has been taken to Lake Forest Hospital, but your daughter was dead on arrival. I’m so sorry for your loss”

The police were wrong. The paramedics were wrong. My wife was wrong. I had been wrong. Against all odds we were all wrong. We had to be. Because as I entered her room I looked down at her bed, I saw her sound asleep, with her arms wrapped around the neck of that damned elephant.

The Probability of Madness (Revised Final)

1.27 Joey’s first 14 quiz grades in a marketing period were

86           84           91           75           78           80           74           87           76           96           82           90           98

(a) Use the formula to calculate the mean. Check using “1-Var Stats” on your calculator

Wow that’s an easy one. I hope she doesn't want me to show my work, I hate when math teachers make me prove my brilliance step by step on the simplest problems. Where’d my calculator go? I swear I had it like five seconds ago. Oh, there it is.

A) 85.

(b) Suppose Joey has an unexcused absence for the 15^th quiz, (Ooooohhhh, playing hookie again Joey. Bad seed.) and he receives a score of zero. (Well! That's a little harsh.) Determine his final quiz average. What property of the mean does this situation illustrate? Write a sentence about the effect of the zero on Joey’s quiz average that mentions this property.

How does this affect his quiz average? Right now, I'm far more worried about the effect that this will have on his emotional health, given his fragile condition and propensity for missing important quizzes in school... and why can’t I just write down the answer? What’s with all this complete sentence crap? It’s statistics not English. I miss precalc. Ms. Nastri never made me write complete sentences.

B) 79, this illustrates that the mean is not resistant to outliers. The zero is an outlier, and lowers Joey’s quiz average by 6 percent and will likely lead to a life of crime given that his every error is hurled in his face and announced to the world in math books across the country. 

c) What kind of plot would best show Joey’s distribution of grades? Assume an eight-point grading scale (A: 93 to 100; B: 85 to 92; etc.). Make an appropriate plot, and be prepared to justify your choice.

What if I don’t want to justify my choice?  Can’t you just take my word for it? This isn't my only class you know.

C) A stem and leaf plot, because it’s a medium amount of data, it will put the data in order, and allow me to access the original data from the plot.

7     4,5,6,8

8     0,2,4,6,7

9     0,1,3,6,8

2 problems and half an hour later…

1.30 Last year a small accounting firm paid each of its five clerks $22,000, two junior accountants $50,000 each, and the firm’s owner $270,000. What is the mean salary paid at this firm? How many of the employees earn less than the mean? What is the median salary? Write a sentence to describe how an unethical recruiter could use statistics to mislead prospective employees.

I’m hungry, but I don’t have time to cook. Screw you, Stats Homework!! Ooooo... Popsicles! I thought I talked to my dad about not keeping junk food in the house. I’m trying to be healthy. Whatever, Popsicle for dinner I guess… God, I’m weak... but then again, they are made with real fruit. They can't be that bad for you; they're practically health food.  

Mean= 60,000, 7 employees earn less than the mean. An unethical recruiter could present the mean to make people think that they would receive more money than they actually would, because the mean is greatly affected by an outlier—270,000. Is the recruiter really responsible for someone stupid enough to think they are going to rake in 60 Gs as a mail boy? 

Two problems and 1 hour later…

1.40 Which measure of center and spread should be used for the following blah blah blah blah blah blah blah?

I think this work is actually making me dumber! I CAN FEEL MY IQ PLUNGING. Fortunately, my starting point is so high I can take a 30% loss and still be sitting pretty.

Two problems and an eternity later...

.54 The mean and standard deviation measure center and spread but are not a complete description of a distribution. Data sets with different shapes can have the same mean and standard deviation. To demonstrate this fact, use your calculator to find the mean and standard deviation for the following two sets of data. Then make a stemplot of each and comment on the shape of each distribution.

I think the shape of each is deplorable. They are pudgy, pale and in desperate need of a few hundred hours on some gym equipment. A better diet wouldn't hurt either... Knock off the Twinkies, Boys!

Unfortunately, the quantity of remaining homework > the amount of time left in the day. I JU-UST WANNNA TAKE A NA-AP!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You Say Obsessed Like It's a Bad Thing (Test)

I’m pretty much your average, everyday, sixteen year old girl. I spend way too much time on my hair and makeup, have several social media accounts, and have even read and watched the entire Twilight Series (Go team Jacob!). See? Totally normal, but my friends and family don’t seem convinced. According to them, I’m “creepily obsessive” about books, movies, and television shows. I prefer to think of myself as passionate, but they refuse to see it that way. When my brother walks into the living room to find me re-watching a film, instead of being impressed at my ability to glean endless amounts of enjoyment from one movie, he condescendingly says, “Really? This is the third time you’ve watched this… today.” I’ve become accustomed to hearing remarks like this whenever I revisit one of my favorite books, too. I don’t understand why they’re so concerned. So what if I’ve memorized Meg Cabot’s entire Mediator book series! The fact that I can recite the screenplay of Pride and Prejudice —the Kiera Knightley version, of course—doesn’t mean I’m obsessive; it just means I’ve developed a higher vocabulary than most.

They think that my infatuation with Jesse, Alex, Jack, Christian, Tucker, Augustus, Peeta, Gale, Finnick, the Doctor, Johnny, Mr. Darcy, Malcolm Reynolds, Sebastian, Aragorn, Jag, Four, Robin Hood, King Arthur, Gwaine, Lancelot, and various other fictional characters is somehow “unhealthy.” Okay, so fine, maybe I’m a little boy crazy; most teenage girls are. Does it really matter whether or not those boys happen to be fictional? My family and friends seem to think it does, since they’re constantly saying things like, “You know you can’t actually be in love with a fictional character?” I always have a good laugh about that one… of course you can!

If you ask me, they’re being unreasonable. Case in point, my sister’s reaction to my already planned nuptials was totally melodramatic. During the course of our conversation at my cousin’s wedding shower, I happened to mention my extremely detailed wedding plans—It’ll be a rustic country theme, with bouquets and center pieces made of daisies, baby pink bridesmaids dresses, and the song “Come to Me,” by the Goo Goo Dolls, playing as I walk down the aisle. Yeah, I know the song doesn’t fit with the theme, but it’s my wedding, I can do what I want.—To which Bekah responded, “Let me guess, you’ve picked out the groom too. Is it the tenth Doctor? No, he’d regenerate into someone else. Peeta? No, that was your seventh grade obsession… It’s Jesse, isn’t it? …It is! God, Lakynne, that’s so creepy; he’s not even real.” Alright, so the groom happens to be fictitious…and a ghost. Who cares? Certainly not me.

Raft Assignment 2

Heel toe, heel toe, elbow bent at ninety degrees, fingers gently curved. You must not waste any motion that does not translate into speed. The track runners think my sport is ridiculous, and often jest that “Those who cannot run, walk.” To them it seems simple, easy, but I can assure you it is not. I spent years training, practicing, and perfecting my form all with hopes of obtaining the gold. It is my life. I mean, it was my life. I spit upon his name in my heart at the very memory of his thievery… him and that accursed blue mini-cooper.

“Three metatarsals were fractured, and your cuneiform is completely crushed.” Doctor Tyler informed me.

“Does this mean I won’t be able to compete in Beijing?”  I replied.

He frowned. “I am afraid with this kind of damage to your bones you’ll never be able to compete again. In fact, you’ll be lucky if you can even walk without the assistance of a cane.”

A life spent training, and in the blink of an eye it was over… or should I say in the roll of a tire over a curb. I prance in place during my training waiting for the signal to let me pass and he bends to catch his tumbling coffee. Perhaps I was lucky he didn't run my whole body over, but in the end he may as well have. The first time I’d realized my dream was shortly before my six birthday, when my father showed me the medal he had won at the Montreal summer games in 76’. He told me it was the only thing he’d ever done that he was ever proud of. I don’t think he was exaggerating, because he certainly wasn't proud of marrying my mother, or having me, because a week later he ran off with a twenty year old stripper named Candy. Neither I nor my mother ever heard from him again. Despite my hatred for my father, I never forgot what he said about his medal, and I became determined to win my own. This is why I refused to accept that I would not be able to compete in the summer games. I knew I couldn't participate in my original event, so, I penned a letter to the board of directors of the Beijing games, begging for a new event to be included in the upcoming games. I suggested that the event be a race in which the participants are required to walk on their palms. It was a Hail Mary and I knew it. As expected, the board wrote back to inform me that it was impossible to add an event to the games on such short notice. Events could only be added after years of careful deliberation. Consider this my note. I hope it is enough of an explanation for you. Not too long ago I took half the bottle of Oxycodone Dr. Tyler prescribed me and chased it down with a bottle of whis