Scenes

=__**Scenes **__=

This is a whole page full of scenes and writing. we may also have guest writing and/or other pieces of ours. Enjoy reading and PLEASE REMEMBER TO COMMENT!!! (no last names please)... FOR MS. HEALY'S CLASS: Please follow the directions on the paper labeled LITERATURE CHALLENGE. Also, you may put something in our handy-dandy drop box!!! (just please refer to the directions on the box) Don't change/ edit this page... Happy reading!!!

She Dressed in Rags By Ali

Her hair was black. Her eyes were dull. She never spoke, for she has no one to speak to. She has no name. People call her //She //; She is nobody. She walked around in her shredded, tattered dress, trudging in her steel-toed boots. No one knew when she was born or who gave birth to her, but no one cared either. She never carried a book, like a schoolgirl, or a flower, like a sweetheart, nor a comb, like a vain girl. All she carried was a box. Nobody knew what was in the box, but alas nobody cared. But from time to time, that small thought crossed everyone’s mind. So people wonder, why doesn’t she open the box? What’s in it? Some fear it is dangerous. One day, she was carrying the box, her head down, thinking, thinking, thinking…She looks to her left and she sees an old shop with broken windows. The house is her. The house isn’t hers—it //is // her. She continues walking and trips. The box flew out of her small hands and landed with a scrape on the pavement. Something rattled in it and shook the box violently. Onlookers kept on walking, as if they didn’t see a thing. The lid seemed to crawl off the box— //alone //. A small object appeared on the ground beside it, then expanded into a ghastly figure and let out a deafening scream.

Sorry I was There By Ali

“Sorry I was there” those words hung like poison in the air. The words that were stuck in my throat grew bigger ‘til I swore I was choking on a non-materiel item. But this hurt… Like an icy dagger prodding the edges of my heart. I tuned back to reality to find her in mid- stab, at my throat. I could feel the blood trickling down the front of my blouse, seeping into the lace of my collar of my white shirt. I knew ‘ //’one move and I’m dead- my head will be a center piece on her table of glory’’ // So I found my self begging: please… please… please…

The Box By Ali

Nadia looked out of the dreary window, watching the storm as if the world were ending. Her sister, Jeannine talked with her black curls bobbing with each, “Yes indeed!” Nadia zoned out and found herself looking towards the deserted coat closet. Every year her mother told her,” Next year, you can look in the closet, but don’t tell me I didn’t warn ya’…” Nadia had no idea what that meant, but she was about to find out. Her parents were out, and her sister wasn’t home. It was tempting not to go into the forbidden closet. Just one peek of the box wouldn’t kill her… or maybe it would. She slowly walked towards the closet, floorboards creaking under her weight. Something wasn’t right. Was it the sharp, moldy, smell in the air? Maybe it was the guilt that she may never //un-see // what she was about to. //C-R-E-E-E-A-A-K-K-K //… the heavy metal door opened within 20 minutes of lock- picking. She solemnly stared at the pile of broken locks and bolts she just unscrewed, guilt-free. She saw the light-switch in the closet and flicked it on… Simple enough. Now all she had to do was reach out to touch the soft, velvety sack that covered the box. Again, very easy. The box was mahogany wood with purple velvet on the bottom. It didn't look scary. What was Mama talking about? The top had some sort of strange hieroglyph on it. That just bothered her for a second. //Ever-so-gently //<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Helvetica,sans-serif;"> she opened the smooth lid of the box, and let out an earsplitting scream.

The Looking Glass by Jess “Roni, Roni! Where are you?” “Roni, come out this instant!” “Roni, oh Roni, please! I didn’t mean to!” Will shouted. Roni, the nine-year-old cook girl, had gone missing. Will, at nine too, was playing hide and seek with her when he said, “I never want to see you again!” Five minutes later, after he turned his back to tie his shoe, she had disappeared. Will turned on his heel and ran for the castle. “Will, come back here!” Mrs. Burnen, the head cook, called. “Will, I want you this instant or you shall have no dessert tonight!” Will sadly trudged back to Mrs. Burnen, shoulders slouched. “Yes ma’am?” Will looked up at Mrs. Burnen’s plump figure. She looked sternly at him. “Will, do you know anything about Roni’s disappearance?” Will shook his head no. Mrs. Burnen looked crestfallen and Will took his chance. He ran back to the castle.

Creeeeak, the door opened into The Chamber. The Chamber was a forbidden room in the castle. Will had only heard rumors. Some said if you went inside, spirits would slaughter you. Others thought you would join the Afterlife for good. Will peeked his blond head inside. He expected ghosts to swarm at him with spears and angry faces. Inside was just a table with a small, glass orb sitting on it. Will tiptoed inside toward the glass. When he was three inches away from it, he held his breath. As Will bent down to look at it, the door slammed shut. Will gasped and as he breathed out, a fog crowded the glass. When the fog cleared, he was looking at a scene. There were birds singing, the sun was shining and the grass was green. All sorts of people were there: women, children and men. They all looked lost and they were all wearing rags of gray and black, a sharp contrast to the landscape. Some carried empty baskets. Will’s heart skipped a beat as he recognized some of the faces. Looking closer, he realized he knew all of the faces. There was his old math tutor, his riding instructor, his fencing teacher, Roni and so many more. As his eyes grew wide, he searched his memory for something that he might’ve done to those people, something he might’ve said. Then it hit him. He had gotten angry with those people and shouted at them, “I never want to see you again!” He sat down, trembling. How could he possess some much power; so much evil? He looked into the looking glass and all the people stared at him blankly. They mouthed the word: HELP…

“I’ll Find You” by Ali “Why? Why him?” I asked. “It was for the good,” She replied. She silently walked away as I looked into his grave at the memorial service. It was so depressing there. My mom walked up to me with a bunch of carnation. I couldn’t help it—I burst out crying. Everything seemed so bad now that he was gone. No matter how many “’I’m sorry’s” I get, nobody will ever experience my pain. My stomach hurt at the thought of leaving this place, letting him go six feet into the ground. “Mmmmm,” I mumbled out loud. “Mmm…” I turned my head down from the coffin to say my last “Goodbye” but what came out were three words: I’ll find you.

WaterDancer by Jess Lilac skipped outside in the noon-high sunlight. Earlier that day, her granna (granny plus nanny) gave her a pretty pastel-blue dress. The skirt looked like a flower turned topsy-turvy. It looked perfect against her honey-blonde curls and her blue eyes of the same shade. Granna had ushered her into the blossoming courtyard after giving her a water smoothie. A water smoothie was made up of water, blueberries, ice and blue bells (yes, the flower). After drinking it, Lilac felt extremely rejuvenated, for some reason. Lilac picked up a leaf and ran her pinky finger over it. She gasped as little droplets of water appeared on it. Lilac ran her hands over the flower garden. Sprinkles of liquid watered the blue bells. Lilac’s eyes widened. She knew it: she was a WaterDancer.

FireCaller by Jess JoAnn sat down on the edge of the volcano. After getting into another steamy stew with her mortal enemy, Lilac WaterDancer, over how Lilac had gotten her powers first. “I mean, you don’t have to be so upset, Jo, it’s not a contest or anything,” Lilac had said gently. But Jo was envious of Lilac’s ability to raise the waves of the ocean or to call rain down from the sky. JoAnn pulled open her knapsack she got on her twelfth birthday. Inside, there was a canteen filled with spark juice. Spark juice was made with strawberries, mint, roses and an ingredient suspiciously like lava. JoAnn took a sip and she felt the hot liquid run through her body. She shivered, and then rubbed her fingers together. A spark flew out. JoAnn gasped. As she raised her hand, the lava from the volcano rose out. The lava flew toward her heart. Then it whispered, “FireCaller…”

WindRider by Jess Alicia’s mind was blank. She was sitting in her Zen-like room, meditating. She was thinking about the postcard she’d gotten from JoAnn, her best friend. It contained two words: JoAnn FireCaller. For the first time, JoAnn had written to her with an Elemental name. Alicia thought about Marie, her second cousin. They were both waiting for their powers. She shuddered at the thought of being a SpaceFlyer with no real Elemental. Marie’s best friend, Lilac WaterDancer was JoAnn’s sworn enemy. Well, that couldn’t be helped. Suddenly a breeze flew through her head. Wait a minute—her head? But then she realized. Alicia grabbed a piece of paper. She wrote JoAnn’s address and scrawled: Alicia WindRider.

EarthGrower by Jess Marie scowled at her mother after she gleefully said, “Alicia just found out she was a WindRider!!” Great. The last thing she needed was the most powerful Elemental being her second cousin. However, she was on the verge of her thirteenth birthday and most people found out their Elemental anywhere from age ten to thirteen. Her mother assured her that she could just be a late bloomer, but Marie was set on the fact that she was doomed to become a SpaceFlyer. Lilac, her best friend, was a WaterDancer; Alicia was a WindRider and Lilac’s arch nemesis, JoAnn was a FireCaller. All that was left was Marie. Now, they all signed their name with an Elemental. Marie was still stuck with just Marie. Now, she was sitting in a patch of grass in the park. Marie balled her fists in anger. To her surprise, the grass stated to wilt and die. In horror, Marie raised her hands up and the grass came back alive, growing to where her palms were raised. Then the leaves started to grow greener, the flowers brighter and Marie’s spirit started to rise. Now, for sure, she was an EarthGrower.

<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 11pt;">Purple Jerseys by Jess They walked past me, single file, shuffling their feet. Some mouthed //traitor//, others simply stared at their black and white Adidas that their rich daddys bought for them. How could twelve-year-olds inflict so much pain? I just focused on the white numbers printed on the back of their purple jerseys: eight, seven, nine, three. All numbers that I had known, that I had seen and thought about, they would be gone, just like that. At fifteen, I had secured a job as a busboy in the old diner, on the corner of seventh street. It was dingy, of course, but I was paid enough. Enough, not well. The neon red lights that said DINER flickered in and out of sight, like that soccer ball, just out of reach of my old sneakers. The booths were ripped up and sightly and the walls showed scuff marks from the drunk men that came in at night and ruined their lives in an hour. The counter had one chunk of mismatching faux granite. That chunk got burned from a toaster, stolen timer, careless waiter and misplaced fire extinguisher. Needless to say, the manager was unable to find a matching piece to for the rest of the counter. I was paid enough to get fifteen-minute violin lessons with Mr. McCress every Wednesday at midnight and Sunday at eleven-fifty-seven in the morning. I ignored the strange times. All I wanted to do was push that rickety old bow in need of rosin over the dusty strings of the banged-up violin that I had on loan. His apartment, thirteenth floor, number 1313, on thirteenth street (he claimed he had secured it on January thirteenth at one PM, exactly), was similar in ways to the Diner. But his apartment spoke elegance and dignity, if not in small amounts. His wallpaper was flowered, still left from the days of letting his wife choose everything. Half the light-bulbs didn't work and there were barely enough lampshades to cover the lamps that decided to emit a small glow of light. His refrigerator was stocked up on white bread from the Super Fresh two blocks down and stacks and stacks of American, Cheddar, Swiss, Vermont, Wisconsin and Gouda cheese. Grilled cheese was definitely his only item in his meager repertoire (I told him microwave dinners and chocolate fudge didn't count on the note that microwave dinners were, well, microwaved and his idea of chocolate fudge was to stick some king-sized Hershey's bars in the microwave for twenty minutes.). Then came the next room: his string room. There were cabinets lining each of the four walls. Some took up only three instruments, like the double bass and others several, such as the viola. Here, the walls were white, but if you looked closely, you could see that he had composed his own pieces on the blank walls. There was an itchy blue carpet, on which stood three plastic folding chairs and two music stands. I would sit there and play, while he nodded, hummed or stopped me to correct a fortissimo here, or a decrescendo there. Oftentimes, he fell asleep. I should have paid more attention to that. When I was eighteen, Mr. McCress died. His apartment was robbed the night of his death and nothing that suited the scoundrel thief was burned, including his precious supply of string instruments. Two weeks before I left for the small community college that I had somehow managed to get into, I got a large manila folder in the mail. Inside were three papers. One was a letter from Juilliard, saying I had gotten accepted. My body shook with wonder as I pondered this. The explanation came within the second paper. It was a letter written from Mr. McCress to Juilliard, recommending me. The third paper was a Xerox of his will. He had left enough money to me to cover all my college funds, as well as a violin, kept well-protected in a bank safe. In four years, I had graduated. In six, I had gotten into the Philadelphia Orchestra. In eight years, I had gotten married, gotten a home, a job that I loved. In ten years, I sat down with my wife on the back porch. We sat there watching two flies buzz around each other over a crumb. It made me think about that night, sixteen years ago. I had stood there on the grass, watching the boys in purple jerseys pass by. Eight, seven, nine, three, numbers that I had almost, but not quite forgotten. <span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Helvetica,sans-serif;"> Note: For Ms. Healy's center project: FireCallers are often angry, but good at fixing things. WindRiders are often calm and relaxed, also good at negotiating problems with others. WaterDancers are often cheerful and optimistic, and somewhat relaxed. EarthGrowers are often tough and athletic. They are not afraid of roughing it in the outdoors.

<span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 14px;">Miss Vanilla by Jess and Ali

Miss Vanilla was a creative teacher. She always wore crisp white shirts from J. Crew, cherry-stained (literally) headbands, and plum-colored stilettos. When she read stories and poems, her voice would become soft and whispery, almost ethereal until Twi had to lean in so close she could smell the lilac, strawberry, and honeydew perfume Miss Vanilla wore to hear the last, ending words, the end. <span style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS',Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 110%;">She could control your mind with a voice as smooth as silk, not a crack or blemish in her language. One sudden schoolday she walked in, and bore a new look- a slit tounge.