Posts Tagged ‘school projects’

Openings and No Endings


THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”

6> Your family already has a roadside cross ready to mark the inevitable spot.

5> Earl Scheib just named his new 160-foot yacht after you.

4> You see more middle fingers than a manicurist.

3> The highway patrol cops in your state have memorized your date of birth, social security number, home address, license plate number and how many points you have left before your 39th trip to traffic school, which is named after you.

This is a piece I had to write for my English class. We only had to write a ‘chunky’ paragraph, so . . . . . . . . . this is the begging, I guess. Enjoy!

Not now, please. Not today, not today, not today … I thought. Still, she kept walking towards me.

No, no, no, no! What did I do to deserve this?

Every day, I read under the awning. Every. Single. Day. No matter what, I was there, nose in a book. Today, it was sunny. A slight wind. It was really one of those days that you couldn’t pass up. It was towards the end of spring, so it hadn’t been too hot, but it hadn’t been rainy either. Not too windy. It was too perfect – I had sat on the swings, leaving my book inside.

Five minutes! Is that all the ‘happy time’ I’m allowed to have? What have I done to you?

No matter. It was too late to run, too late to hide, too late to get help. I had to stay. Try and stand my ground. Try to ignore them. Try to be strong without my shield of literature.

She just stood there. Just for a moment, she looked at me. I had focused onto a picnic table, just to give myself something to do, but I saw it from the corner of my eye. She stared at me. There was no pity in her eyes.

There was nothing except apprehension.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Leave a comment and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

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More Short Stories!


THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”

6> Your family already has a roadside cross ready to mark the inevitable spot.

5> Earl Scheib just named his new 160-foot yacht after you.

 

Okay, here is a short story I had to write for my Language Arts class. Enjoy:

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

Slowly, I was pulled out of my shock by Lizzie.

“Lenny, let’s go!”

“Lenny, if we’re going to do this, we. Have. To. Do. It. Now.”

“I thought you wouldn’t chicken out! That’s why I chose you, Lenny, and not one of the other five girls I was considering!” It was Amy now. She was the one who picked the team for this… this…

Say it already! This mission.

Amy had heard about this arts school near Seattle that was able to give kids as young as eight full GED’s, among other sorts of diplomas. She thought it didn’t make sense, as it was supposed to be a school that emphasized the arts, so she sent Lizzie, our techie, to check it out. Right after the school year had ended, she came up with evidence of government funding. CIA funding.

After many discussions, Amy decided that she had to get in there, so she picked the four of us to help her. We spent all summer coming up with a plan to break into the Lu’age International Bank. A plan which was actually in effect right now. And if we didn’t move right now, our entire plan would be useless because Lizzie had been working for the past hour to shut down their cameras. If the cameras were active, we wouldn’t stand a chance at all — the security is insane, like jumping-off-a-cliff-without-a-harness insane. We each earned our own room in the psych ward of our choice if we continue.

But how could I not? If this worked, and we could get away from Burlington…

Pulling on my own black ski mask, I turned toward my partners-in-about-to-happen-crime.

“Let’s do this. I’m ready.”

Am I?

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Leave a comment, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons


THOUGHT OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”

6> Your family already has a roadside cross ready to mark the inevitable spot.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sorry I wasn’t able to post. My internet was down. Anyway, here’s another piece:

This couldn’t be happening!  We only had another thirty-seconds before it was all over.  And yet, the small white door – the one with intricate paneling that marked it as the target – remained closed.  It had all seemed so, so … so simple when me and my companion were two floors above, ready for insertion.  Nevertheless, the only thing we didn’t predict, the only thing we couldn’t predict, sat there, mocking us: a chunky, plain black lock that sharply contrasted with the rest of the room.  If you looked anywhere else besides that jeering door you would see the colors that sprung at us from everywhere – all shades of oranges, pinks and greens.  You could easily imagine children leaping from sofa to sofa, jumping on the many tables and bookcases, banging on the tie-dyed walls.  Yet we weren’t interested in memories that had never been.  All we wanted was-

“Got it!”
Jumping inside the claustrophobic little room that served as a pantry, I grabbed the bright blue bag.

“Team B, hold off, we have them.  We’re coming up.”  I whispered into the walkie-talkie.

“Come.  On.  Already!  We have to move!” muttered my comrade.  Sprinting up the staircase, we soon reached the safety of our bright yellow headquarters.  Before long, the sound of rips and tears filled the room.

“Crunchy.”

“Sweet.”

“Salty.”

Turning towards the rest of my sisters-in-arms, I sighed in relief, finally having succeeded in our mission.

“Pretzel M&M’s.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * * *

So? What do you guys think? Leave a comment, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

Contest 2.0 Recap


THOUGHT(s) OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

7> After less than 10 minutes in your car, Saddam and his sons change their minds and now “feel like walking to Jordan.”


Here’s all the entries, a sort of recap. Enjoy!:

Red robes lined the small stage, with bursts of yellow sashes for anyone who had done something special. A spotlight was on us, seemingly positioned just so it shined in our eyes.

“… and to our graduating class, congratulations! Welcome to the next leg of the journey that is life. As you very well know …” Mrs. Ionkoo, our vice principal, rambled on and on. Some people called her Oinkoo, because of her unfortunate name, shape, and nose. Really, she was asking for it, she looked like a pig. The resemblance was uncanny.

After her speech-slash-lecture-slash-torture was over, there would be more from other people. None would matter; they were really very irrelevant, just like this whole Eighth Grade Promotion Ceremony. The real reason everyone was tearing up (or all-out bawling in some cases, like Snotty Molly next to me), was because when this was over, we would be – wait for it …

High schoolers. And with that comes parties, peer pressure, and power (and “responsibility”).

Oh. Oinkoo sat down. Cue polite applause. Ike Bayletti, our valedictorian, stood up to announce another speaker. Next up: Superintendent-something. Moth? Goth? I didn’t catch the name. It doesn’t really matter, his speech is boring and predictable, just like Oinkoo’s. Oh well; he still gets some polite applause.

Wash. Dry. Repeat.

Speaker. Applause. Repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat. Stupid repetition – it seems to go on for hours. I wish it would just be over so I can go home and eat some purple raspberry ice cream – my favorite. Of course, there would be an after party somewhere, but there was no way I was going. I probably wasn’t invited anyway.

Another speech over, more polite applause. This schedule was like a malfunctioning robot – Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Can. Not. Stop.

Repeat … repeat … repeat.

After another hour, it was finally time for diplomas, and Mr. Latdon, our principal, took the stage. In a voice that can only be compared to the wheezing of an old computer, he started to call out the names. Even though my last name starts with a ‘D’, it took a solid half hour to get to me.

“Leslie Derem.” Mr. Latdon said into the microphone. Is it possible for someone’s voice to be so monotone? I thought while I walked. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Even down to the very last moment, all this school has ever been is repetition. A half-hearted congratulations later, I was a high schooler. Cool?

When Mr. Latdon finally dismissed us, I stuck around. Why not avoid traffic? It’s easier to walk if there’s no traffic.

I strolled around the school grounds, with no purpose besides wasting time. Before long, it was time to get back and start walking before it got really dark, and I started to jog back around the school to the main road.

Just before the street was within sight, a balloon caught my eye. It was tangled in an overgrown bush that the school means to trim but really never does, blaming funding. It was a very good quality balloon, against all odds; mylar was typical at events like these, yet here is a real helium balloon, which has been drawn on and signed by family.

Quite a few years ago, before the incident, I had a get-together with a few cousins. I don’t remember why, as I was very young, but I do recall going to the fair. There were games galore, dessert delights, and ‘radical’ rides. Of course, there were balloons everywhere. Our parents had underestimated our spending capabilities, and we had already run out of money, so we made up our own sport: Balloon Wishing. The first person to see a balloon would get to make a wish, then throw it up into the sky. If it was kept afloat for longer than fourteen-seconds, the wish would come true. I had fallen into the habit over the years of playing whenever I found a balloon like this one, one that was good quality.

The world suddenly seemed silent. Soundless, as if I were in the vacuum of space.

I picked up the balloon, not hearing the bush rustle as I tried to untangle it. After a few moments, it was free.

I lifted up the balloon so it was level with my face,

 

and read it. Most of it was just simple things, like, “Congrats, Jenny” or, “So proud, Grandpa”. Nestled among the fake, forced signatures was a true gem. It was a famous saying, it summed up my entire life up to this very moment. The world is a very confusing place, how could it not be, but this helped put everything in perspective.

How could I rob someone else from knowledge and wisdom, maybe even hope? I tied it back into the bush. Pay it forward, I thought. Walking away, I finally found myself breaking free from the guilt still present from the incident.

***********************************

and tried to see it’s story. I’m a firm believer in that everything has a story and a purpose. The names were accompanied by cryptic messages.

Rad, dude! That person got a paper cut! lol, Johnny

Do you know where I can find canned unicorn meat? Best summer evr!!!! Luv, Mary

What if cat really spelled DOG??? Haha,ur da best! <3, Penny

Most of the balloon was covered in these. They seemed to be inside jokes, but who knew? All of them were in colorful marker, with no distinguishable pattern. There was one, though, that was clearly different. It was written in plain black, for one, and unlike the rest, was neatly written in cursive.

Stay strong, Leslie. I love you. Never forget. -Grandma Heather

I almost collapsed right then and there. Johnny, Mary, Penny … those were my cousins. From those holiday get-togethers and the funeral. And Grandma Heather – could she be  my Grandma Heather?

***********************************

and tried to decide what to wish for. I wanted so much, I needed so much …

… but Balloon Wishing wasn’t the way to do it. I tied the balloon back onto the bush.

Let someone else have a wish.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

So? Make sure to leave a comment, vote, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

Contest 2.1


THOUGHT(s) OF THE DAY:

10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

9> You spend an inordinate amount of time scraping hair and bone out of your front grille.

8> You get more unwanted tickets than friends and family of the Detroit Tigers.

Do you want me to continue with the TOTD series? Let me know below!

Here’s the next contest entry:

 

Red robes lined the small stage, with bursts of yellow sashes for anyone who had done something special. A spotlight was on us, seemingly positioned just so it shined in our eyes.

“… and to our graduating class, congratulations! Welcome to the next leg of the journey that is life. As you very well know …” Mrs. Ionkoo, our vice principal, rambled on and on. Some people called her Oinkoo, because of her unfortunate name, shape, and nose. Really, she was asking for it, she looked like a pig. The resemblance was uncanny.

After her speech-slash-lecture-slash-torture was over, there would be more from other people. None would matter; they were really very irrelevant, just like this whole Eighth Grade Promotion Ceremony. The real reason everyone was tearing up (or all-out bawling in some cases, like Snotty Molly next to me), was because when this was over, we would be – wait for it …

High schoolers. And with that comes parties, peer pressure, and power (and “responsibility”).

Oh. Oinkoo sat down. Cue polite applause. Ike Bayletti, our valedictorian, stood up to announce another speaker. Next up: Superintendent-something. Moth? Goth? I didn’t catch the name. It doesn’t really matter, his speech is boring and predictable, just like Oinkoo’s. Oh well; he still gets some polite applause.

Wash. Dry. Repeat.

Speaker. Applause. Repeat.

Repeat, repeat, repeat. Stupid repetition – it seems to go on for hours. I wish it would just be over so I can go home and eat some purple raspberry ice cream – my favorite. Of course, there would be an after party somewhere, but there was no way I was going. I probably wasn’t invited anyway.

Another speech over, more polite applause. This schedule was like a malfunctioning robot – Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Can. Not. Stop.

Repeat … repeat … repeat.

After another hour, it was finally time for diplomas, and Mr. Latdon, our principal, took the stage. In a voice that can only be compared to the wheezing of an old computer, he started to call out the names. Even though my last name starts with a ‘D’, it took a solid half hour to get to me.

“Leslie Derem.” Mr. Latdon said into the microphone. Is it possible for someone’s voice to be so monotone? I thought while I walked. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Step left, step right. Even down to the very last moment, all this school has ever been is repetition. A half-hearted congratulations later, I was a high schooler. Cool?

When Mr. Latdon finally dismissed us, I stuck around. Why not avoid traffic? It’s easier to walk if there’s no traffic.

I strolled around the school grounds, with no purpose besides wasting time. Before long, it was time to get back and start walking before it got really dark, and I started to jog back around the school to the main road.

Just before the street was within sight, a balloon caught my eye. It was tangled in an overgrown bush that the school means to trim but really never does, blaming funding. It was a very good quality balloon, against all odds; mylar was typical at events like these, yet here is a real helium balloon, which has been drawn on and signed by family.

Quite a few years ago, before the incident, I had a get-together with a few cousins. I don’t remember why, as I was very young, but I do recall going to the fair. There were games galore, dessert delights, and ‘radical’ rides. Of course, there were balloons everywhere. Our parents had underestimated our spending capabilities, and we had already run out of money, so we made up our own sport: Balloon Wishing. The first person to see a balloon would get to make a wish, then throw it up into the sky. If it was kept afloat for longer than fourteen-seconds, the wish would come true. I had fallen into the habit over the years of playing whenever I found a balloon like this one, one that was good quality.

The world suddenly seemed silent. Soundless, as if I were in the vacuum of space.

I picked up the balloon, not hearing the bush rustle as I tried to untangle it. After a few moments, it was free.

I lifted up the balloon so it was level with my face, and read it. Most of it was just simple things, like, “Congrats, Jenny” or, “So proud, Grandpa”. Nestled among the fake, forced signatures was a true gem. It was a famous saying, it summed up my entire life up to this very moment. The world is a very confusing place, how could it not be, but this helped put everything in perspective.

How could I rob someone else from knowledge and wisdom, maybe even hope? I tied it back into the bush. Pay it forward, I thought. Walking away, I finally found myself breaking free from the guilt still present from the incident.

* * * * * * * * * * *

So? What do YOU think? Leave a comment, vote, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

Contest, 1.3


THOUGHT OF THE DAY: 10> You have a reserved parking space with your name on it — at traffic court.

For the next ten TOTDs, there will be the top ten signs you’re a bad driver. Each day I’ll post the previous ones and then the newest one at the bottom. How does that sound? After this, should I continue to do TOTD series, or do you like having a random question? Leave your comments below!

Take a look at the past three day’s posts to see the previous ‘entries’. Here is entry number three:

A cascade of shells and machine gun fire ricocheted around my feet. Wind pounded in my ears. All I could smell was fear. All I could taste was dust. It seemed like the unstable four walls that held my life together were about to collapse. How did I end up here? That’s when my sole sanctuary came into view, the only thing I could trust, my lone refuge- the embassy.

As my feet pounded against the sand, my destination moments away, dread filled my mind. They had already started to evacuate the embassy, no doubt, but there was little hope for those that weren’t on the fleet of helicopters that was kept there for emergencies. There was no way another helicopter or plane could get through to this place once that too-small squadron had left. And by the looks of it, there was only one helicopter left inside the embassy.

No. No, no, no, no, no! I thought. This can’t be happening.

The final helicopter started to leave.

Finding strength, I sprinted to the gates. I had to get onto that helicopter. There was no way I was getting left behind.

Flailing my arms, I tried to attract attention. There wasn’t any possibility of me getting on board unless it slowed down.

“Wait! Please, wait!” I screamed. I knew it was useless. With the gunfire constant, the shrill of the rotor blades getting ready to fly, nothing short of a jet taking off would be audible.

It flew off. I was utterly and completely alone, and there was nothing I could do about it. I slowed down and felt cold metal pierce my heart.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This is the final entry in Keep The Lemons first contest! Place your votes below, leave a comment on why you chose the ending you did, and don’t forget to subscribe!

Sincerely, Lemons

Contest Time!


THOUGHT OF THE DAY: After eating, do amphibians need to wait an hour before getting OUT of the water?

Contest time! Contest time! Contest time!

I had to write different endings for the piece I posted yesterday, and I’m going to post all of them. Then feel free to vote, and whichever ending wins will … get a prize? Ha, I’m not sure. Here’s the second ending:

 

A cascade of shells and machine gun fire ricocheted around my feet. Wind pounded in my ears. All I could smell was fear. All I could taste was dust. It seemed like the unstable four walls that held my life together were about to collapse. How did I end up here? That’s when my sole sanctuary came into view, the only thing I could trust, my lone refuge- the embassy.

As my feet pounded against the sand, my destination moments away, dread filled my mind. They had already started to evacuate the embassy, no doubt, but there was little hope for those that weren’t on the fleet of helicopters that was kept there for emergencies. There was no way another helicopter or plane could get through to this place once that too-small squadron had left. And by the looks of it, there was only one helicopter left inside the embassy.

No. No, no, no, no, no! I thought. This can’t be happening.

The final helicopter started to leave.

Finding strength, I sprinted to the gates. I had to get onto that helicopter. There was no way I was getting left behind.

Flailing my arms, I tried to attract attention. There wasn’t any possibility of me getting on board unless it slowed down.

No matter what I did, that helicopter wouldn’t see me. I knew it now; it just wasn’t possible. I had to move on, and I thought fast. Just ahead, there was a pile of boulders that had no purpose except for beauty. I dove behind them, trying to get my head on straight. Thankfully, someone was looking out for me, and a dead revolutionary had had the same idea as me.

His gun was fully loaded, and I was going to give that last helicopter as much time as I could.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * * * * ** * * * * * * *

So? What do you think? It’s not time to vote yet, because we still have one more ending left that will be posted tomorrow. Leave a comment, and don’t forget to subscribe to Keep The Lemons!

Sincerely, Lemons