Playception

Playception

By Matt Horner

Characters:

Director:  A smart man in his late twenties. He lives alone in his apartment in New York. He was accepted to Stanford, but instead went on to pursue a career in theater. Everyone at Peet’s Coffee knows him by name.

Producer:  A businessman in his late forties. He lives in the suburbs of New York, and drives a BMW to his high rise office every day. Part of his duties involve checking in on the theaters and their directors to make sure the company is successful.

Scene 1

                10:00 p.m. An empty ornate theater. A massive chandelier hangs from the ceiling, shedding dim light across the stage. Two men sit in red velvet chairs in the center of the seating area. PRODUCER sits at  SL, DIRECTOR at SR. DIRECTOR has a clipboard in his hands.

PRODUCER:  This better be good. You have until tomorrow afternoon at four to come up with an idea that will give this company a shot at Broadway. (Annoyed) No more of these lame comedies and crappy musicals. Can you do that?

DIRECTOR:  Yes. Fine.  He shrugs. Why the urgency?

PRODUCER:  Because this company is losing money, and fast. And I need to know that my director is creative enough to make a decent show for once. (Calmly) I want to have time to hire a new director if I need to.

DIRECTOR:  I’ll get it done. Gets up to leave. Goodnight, Sir.

DIRECTOR extends hand for a handshake. PRODUCER stares straight ahead in his chair, no acknowledgement.

Scene 2

DIRECTOR sits at home at a desk in a dark room. Two sources of light, one from the writing lamp that casts bright light onto an empty sheet of paper. Another light comes from the TV, where a pirate movie is playing. Three empty cups with coffee remnants litter the desk.

 DIRECTOR:  Ugh. Why did I choose this job? Of all the occupations in the world, I had to choose the only one that I get paid like a laborer, and treated like a slave. I end up spending all my wages at the coffee shop so I can stay up late to do more work that I don’t get paid for. I could have been living in California spending weekends at the beach and building new technology. This reminds me of my sophomore year in high school, always staying up late the night before a writing assignment was due. Oh well. These three lattes aren’t going to let me get to sleep anytime soon, so I might as well make the most of it.

 

Scene 3

10:00 a.m. in the theater. Sunlight shines in from large overhead windows, giving the place a happy feel. DIRECTOR sits in a chair in the corner, with a stack of papers six feet tall.

PRODUCER enters from doors at top of aisle stairs. He walks down to the center of the stairs, where DIRECTOR meets him.

DIRECTOR:  Good morning Sir! I have a surprise for you.

PRODUCER:  (sighing) This better be good.

DIRECTOR:  Instead of one play, I was feeling so funny last night that I just wrote three.

PRODUCER: (Surprised) Really? He reaches out his hand to look at them.

DIRECTOR: Yep. This one’s about Pirates. He hands him a mass of papers. And this one’s set in medieval times with dragons and such. He hand him a second mass of papers. But this one is my favorite…He holds up a third mass of paper, but doesn’t give it to PRODUCER.

PRODUCER:  These both look decent. But what’s the last one about? (Looking intrigued)

DIRECTOR:  It’s about two guys. They need to come up with a hit show to save their theater company. But the problem is… they don’t have any ideas what to write their play about. They think and think, and try out a couple different options, but they finally end up writing their show about two guys who need to write a play.

PRODUCER: That’s brilliant! (Excited) He leaps up out of his seat. This is exactly what I’ve been looking for! Kid, I’m gonna give you a promotion.

I wrote a play about someone writing a play about writing a play. It's a play within a play within a play. The assignment was to write a short one-act play with dialogue, at least two characters, and a central conflict. This play is meant to be a comedy. If I had to revise it, I would add more scene descriptions to give a better feel for the mood. It shows creativity even though I was unable to think of a traditional storyline. 

 

Is it Worth the Price?

Is it Worth the Price?

Background:

         Everyone enjoys a cup of coffee to help them wake up, fight sleepiness, or stay awake to cram for finals. Popular coffee shops like Peet’s, Starbuck’s, and Blue Bottle can be found on almost every street corner. According to the National Coffee Association, coffee originated in Ethiopia, and then was spread to the Arabian Peninsula, where it was spread by Muslims on Pilgrimage to Mecca. Coffee really became popular in America after the British imposed a tea tax on the colonists. Now, coffee is grown all over the world, in Africa, South America, the Caribbean, Pacific Islands, and Asia (The History of Coffee).

       According to StatisticBrain.com, over 100 million Americans drink coffee every single day, spending, on average, $165 per person each year on coffee alone. Four billion dollars each year is spent on importing coffee from around the world, and Americans spend about $18 billion on specialty coffee. The average size of a cup of coffee is nine ounces, and costs about $1.38 (Coffee Drinking Statistics). In late November, Starbucks began to sell a limited-time brew of coffee priced at seven dollars for a sixteen ounce cup. The coffee, called Costa Rica Finca Palmilera, is the most expensive cup that Starbucks has ever sold (Sanburn). Jimmy Kimmel introduced the coffee on his show, and conducted a taste test to research whether people could actually taste the difference between the $7 coffee and the regular brew. However, both brews in the test were identical (Kimmel). People’s belief that they were drinking a superior product altered how their taste perceived it. This concept inspired my own project, also with coffee, to see if people in San Francisco could tell the difference in the price between two drinks. How does product association relate to more expensive products versus cheaper products?

Detail:

         The taste test was based around the premise of researching if people could actually tell the difference between two cups of coffee, based on what they were told about the coffee, even if they were the same. For my research, I conducted a taste test with two groups:  one group had two different beans of coffee, and the other had the exact same bean in both cups. I wanted to compare people’s opinions between the actual test and the control test to see if they were able to identify a more expensive product based on the taste. To conduct the test, I surveyed 22 adults, many of whom drank coffee on a regular basis. Both coffees were African blends from Peet’s Coffee and Tea.

As part of my research, I visited Peet’s Coffee and Tea in downtown Walnut Creek to purchase coffee and examine their prices. For marketing reasons, Peet’s does not allow photographs of their menus. For my study, I used the Uzuri African Blend, priced at $14.95 per pound, and the Arabian Mocha Sanani, priced at $21.95 per pound. By comparison, Peet’s House Blend coffee costs $12.50 per pound. At Peet’s the coffee of the day costs $1.80 for a 12oz small, $2 for a 16oz medium, and $2.30 for a 20oz large. The coffee of the day offered usually varies between roasts of coffee priced between $12.50 and $14.50, although it can sometimes include higher priced specialty coffees, like their Holiday Blend. No matter the price of the beans, a single cup of coffee purchased in store costs the same amount.

On January 3, 2013, I tested 22 of my mom’s employees in San Fracisco from 9:00-11:30 a.m. To prepare for the taste test, I brewed a ten-cup pot of coffee with the same coffee maker and the same amount of coffee grounds. The Uzuri, the cheaper roast, was divided into two separate thermoses for the purpose of appearing different when pouring. The cups used were labeled A and B for the actual test with different coffees, and X and Y for the test between two cups of the Uzuri. I did not take video of the research because I wanted the subjects to be honest and open with their opinions, without feeling self-conscious, and to respect privacy.

        The results showed that people were mostly able to tell the difference between the two different coffees. In the actual test between the two different blends, 62% of people preferred the Arabian Mocha Sanani, and 69% correctly guessed that it was more expensive. Participants said that they would pay about 35-50 cents extra for a cup of the Arabian over the Uzuri, while another claimed that he would pay 50 cents extra for the Uzuri, which is the cheaper blend. People’s comments about the Arabian coffee included that is was “easier to drink,” “stronger,” “polluted, and not fresh,” “robust,” “more intense,” “smoother,” and, “has many flavors.”

The results of the control taste test were more interesting. Of the nine tested, 88% of the participants claimed to prefer one of the coffees over the other. The table above on the right shows which people had a preference of one of the cups of the Uzuri over the other. Only one person correctly claimed that there was no difference between the two cups of Uzuri Blend. Two people said that both coffees would cost the same. Another said that he would pay “an extra twenty to thirty cents for this coffee,” gesturing to the cup he said he preferred. Comments about the differences in this test included: “one is more acidic and seems nicer,” “one is a darker roast, but they’re both good,” “smoother, richer,” and “stronger.” The most emphatic supporter of one of the cups claimed that “Coffee Y is lighter, and Coffee X is more complex, and is a richer bean. X is definitely more expensive.”

Throughout the entirety of both tests, there were some repeating trends. Every person who mentioned a stronger coffee always preferred that one. A participant stated that one of his cups, which had the expensive Arabian Mocha Sanani, was weaker, and as a result, he would pay 50 cents extra for the Uzuri solely because it was stronger. A common difference in the control test between two cups of the Uzuri was that one cup tasted more acidic than the other, with three of the nine reporting this claim. 

Reflection:

        The findings reveal two pieces of information about how consumers value and judge their products. First, the actual study with the two different coffees showed that, in general, people preferred the more expensive product for a variety of reasons: stronger and bolder was preferred. The test subjects were also clearly able to tell correctly which product was higher quality. In terms of coffee, people tend to prefer the stronger drink, even if the bean is less expensive. 

Second, the control test showed that people wanted to believe that one coffee was nicer than the other because it was more expensive, so their knowledge clearly influenced their taste. They were told that they had two different blends, so their belief created a difference.  This belief that customers have based on their knowledge of price could be exploited by advertisers if they were to put the exact same product in two different packages with a different price tag on them. The customer, thinking that the products were different because of the pricing, would create a difference in the taste or quality of the product. Advertisers might be doing that now, but as a consumer, there’s no way to tell without buying each product and comparing it to a separate product, and that would still be profitable for the company because they just sold two products. For example, how much different is one brand of soda than the other? The more expensive one does not always taste the best. 

From this study, I have learned that a consumer should buy the products that they prefer, and not always assume that higher expense means higher quality. In my research, I did not tell people which one of the coffees, A or B, was more expensive. If I were to do another study, I would tell people which cup cost more, to see if the results became even more lopsided in favor of the expensive one. I would test this theory on more products, like pretzels, sodas, and cheeses, which are all commonly consumed foods.

An area of possible error in my test was the fact that all of my taste testers worked for my mom. The test was conducted in her office, and her employees have a certain amount of trust in her, so they may not have been as skeptical of the two coffees as they might have been if this test was conducted out on the street, like Kimmel’s test was. 

Works Cited

"Coffee Drinking Statistics." Statistic Brain RSS. N.p., 31 July 2012. Web. 03 Jan. 2013. <http://www.statisticbrain.com/coffee-drinking-statistics/>.

"The History Of Coffee." National Coffee Association USA. N.p., n.d. Web. 03 Jan. 2013. <http://www.ncausa.org/i4a/pages/index.cfm?pageid=68>.

Kimmel, Jimmy. "New $7 Cup of Coffee at Starbucks." Jimmy Kimmel Live. ABC. Hollywood, 28 Nov. 2012. YouTube. Google, 28 Nov. 2012. Web. 3 Jan. 2013.

Sanburn, Josh. "The $7 Cup of Starbucks: A Logical Extension of the Coffee Chain's Long-Term Strategy." Business & Money. TIME Magazine, 30 Nov. 2012. Web. 03 Jan. 2013.

22 Employees in My Mom's Department. "Coffee Taste Test." Personal interview. 4 Jan. 2013.

Visit to Peet’s Coffee and Tea. 1343 Locust Street, Walnut Creek, CA. 7:00 p.m. 2 Jan. 2013. 

Visit to Blue Bottle Coffee. Ferry Building Marketplace, San Francisco, CA. 8:30 a.m. 3 Jan. 2013. 

      This is a report from December, during the media studies portion of the class. I really liked this assignment because it was so open; the only criteria was something media related. I conducted my own research about something that I really enjoy:  coffee. The project itself is creative, however, the writing is mainly informative. I learned a lot from this project because it is about something that I was interested in, rather than a topic forced upon me, like many research reports in other classes are. 

6 Word Memoir

This is basically a short description of my swimming life. I don't ever get to sleep in due to workouts and homework, even on the weekends. The assignment was to write a short memoir about yourself in six words exactly, then bring it to life with a visual component. I considered other aspects of my life to write about too, such as my dedication to the things I love or family, but I chose this one because it is supposed to be slightly funny. 

The Burning House Project

The Burning House Project

Name:  Matt Horner

Age: 16

Location: Walnut Creek, California

Occupation:  Student-Athlete

Website:  creativeswimmer.blogspot.com

List: 

Stuffed brown bear from childhood

Car keys for Dad's car

NCS Championship medal from water polo days

Panda, favorite stuffed animal

San Francisco Giants 2012 World Series Champs commemorative Sports Illustrated issue

 Giants Buster Posey Jersey, present from parents

Laptop computer, with family pictures and important documents

All-American swimmer patch, earned with relay team

Las Lomas Swimming Rookie of the Year Award

NCS swimming medals, earned with record-setting relay

Watch, given to me by aunt and uncle

Glass dolphin from Italy, represents traveling

Driver's license, earned after 16 years of waiting. Key to freedom

Blanket made and given to me by my girlfriend.

This project is a collection of the things that I would save if my house was burning down with short descriptions of each. It is meant to show what is important to me, both because of sentimental value and monetary value.  This project shows many of the different aspects of my life, and is more of an artsy project than a writing project. 

Swimmer/Student

Swimmers are also studentS

We always try to win, buT

It is not the only thing that drives yoU

Managing everything leaves one tireD

Maintaining grades and times is a challengE

Every night is a struggle withiN

Read, study, or sleep? We will find out later tonighT.

 

     This poem is a double acrostic. The first and last letters of every line spell out a different word that both represent who I am. I wanted this piece to show some of the aspects of my life as a student-athlete. I like how everything fits together in this piece; it flows together well. If I had to revise it, I would try to make it rhyme internally.

Trees in the Woods

Trees in the Woods

The two stood face to face, as they had for the past three hundred years. Their thick trunks had weathered many storms and seen children play every sort of game imaginable. The trees were located in a small forest, just outside of a small town in Montana. A two-lane road separated the forest from the townspeople. In the winter, the tops of the trees became dipped in snow, while in the summer, their leaves shone bright green.

                The two trees were the perfect distance apart, and the perfect width for a child-sized hammock, which had always been there, its colors wilted by the sun. The trees were a favorite hangout for Jack, Nick, and Michael, three boys who lived in the town. The group of friends came to the two trees every day during the summer, and played tag, frisbee, and took turns in the hammock.

                Jack had always been more adventurous than his other two friends. He was the one who always wanted to try new things, and push the limits of what was safe. His parents were always tied up at work, which left Jack alone to do as he pleased. One summer, Jack decided to camp out in the woods and sleep in the hammock. He prepared for this by finding a lantern, some beef jerky, a sleeping bag, and a water bottle. He loaded his supplies into his pack, and walked into the mid-afternoon forest.

                After a five minute walk, he arrived at his hammock, where he spread his sleeping bag. He hung his lantern on a low branch, and took a sip of his water. Jack dozed off in the late afternoon sun, and when he awoke, it was dark outside.

                The forest had never seemed so dark to Jack before.  The wind rustling in the trees seemed louder and more mischievous. Jack heard small animals scurrying around on the ground, making leaves jump and crackle. All of a sudden, he heard a louder thump, like a tree had fallen down. Jack heard the noise again, and this time, he felt it too. Even though his hammock was suspended off the ground, he could feel the vibrations. The thump came again, so Jack knew that it wasn’t merely trees falling or squirrels and chipmunks. The thumps came faster now, and much louder.

                A bear crawled through the darkness, its eyes two yellow marbles in the night. The bear walked with purpose towards the trees, where Jack lay motionless in his sleeping bag. The bear walked right up to the first tree and began to sharpen his claws. From his hammock, Jack heard the screeching and scraping noise as the tree’s bark was torn apart, hoping that his body would not meet the same fate.

                The bear finished his claws, and tore apart Jack’s bag, grabbing the beef jerky. At that moment, a wolf’s howl echoed in the distance, jolting the bear from his snack. As he rose to his hind legs, his claw swiped past Jack’s leg, tearing it open from his ankle to the middle of his thigh. Jack bit his lip to prevent himself from screaming in pain. The bear lumbered off to investigate the howling noise, taking the beef jerky with him.

                Jack lay in his hammock, unsure of what to do. Tears rolled down his face as blood dripped onto the ground from his leg and his tongue. He tried to sit up, but he couldn’t control his leg. It was all he could do to stay conscious, as he felt himself sway and lose balance. At that moment, he saw the beam of a flashlight wandering toward him. It was Michael, with Nick not far behind. “Jack? Your parents were looking for you. Are you okay?”

                “My leg…it’s hurt,” he replied with a struggle.

                “Okay, then let’s get you out of here. Nick, you grab his good leg, and I’ll hold his arms,” said Michael. They picked up Matt and dragged him to the forest’s edge, into the circular glow of streetlamp.

                “I’ll go for help,” said Nick as he ran off. Michael comforted Jack, while elevating his leg so that he didn’t lose too much blood.

                After only five minutes, an ambulance arrived, sirens blaring. Jack was carted off to the hospital, where his leg was amputated. He would spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair.

                Jack’s parents, appalled and upset by what had happened, immediately complained to the city council. The council members debated about the safety of having a forest in such close proximity to the town and children, especially when there were bears and other dangers located within. After weeks of deliberation, the council decided to replace to forest with a grassy park. A single tree would be left standing as a tribute to Jack, one of the two that his hammock was strung from.

                Thirty years later, Jack, a successful business man, returned to his hometown. He rolled his wheelchair onto the sidewalk next to the park and admired the perfectly mown grass. In the middle, was the single tree, where his head had lain so many years ago. He remembered the whole forest, and his two favorite trees, but now, after thirty years, there was one.

                This assignment was to revise a previously written story to devolop it and add a plot line. I revised as much as possible by writing a whole new story with the original prompt, which was to start with the line “The two stood face to face,” and end with, “Then there was one.” This story uses the prompt to set the scene of a story about a young curious boy. It is sad, but I wanted to be able to have some suspense and develop the plot, which I was not able to do in my previous draft. I accomplished this by creating the bear as the antagonist, terrorizing a little child. The result is an interesting story with dialogue, action, and a resolution that ties everything together.

The Handshake

The Handshake

I swam fast, with the deep blue water rushing past me. I felt the pressure on my face, with the gurgle and splash of the water in my ears. As I touched the wall, the wake of water behind me leapt into the gutter with a crash, like a tidal wave. But my speed didn’t matter here, it was only warm up.

                The sun was sinking in the sky, casting long shadows across the pool. The walls were crossed with dark triangles at odd angles. The flags above my head flapped and yelled at the wind.

                I sat on the wall for a minute, my feet hanging below me like a jellyfish’s tentacles, flowing with the currents of the pool. It was almost my turn to swim. I propelled myself out of the water, raining little droplets and large buckets of water onto the deck. I headed over to my lane.

                Before I got there, I was stopped by the person I was trying to avoid. Cold dislike was my immediate thought. There was no way that I could let him of all people beat me. There would be no joking, no smiles, just a desire to touch the wall first. 

                He walked up to me, hand outstretched. The crowd was loud and alive behind us, and I struggled to hear his words. There was water in my ears, blocked in by the maroon cap with golden L’s on it. He sounded distant.

                “Good luck, man”

Even though my goggles were fogged, I could see his smile that made it sincere. I grasped his hand firmly, and felt the rigid muscle cords and bones beneath the skin. I held it for a second as I responded, “Hey thanks, you too.” I released.

In the warm down pool, as I was swimming smoothly, I thought about what had happened. It had just been a simple greeting and expression of sportsmanship, but it changed the way I view the sport. Now, instead of feeling the cold separation and rivalry, it’s a warm feeling of happiness and friendship.

I felt ashamed, guilty, that I hadn’t realized this before. Everyone was there for the same reason: to enjoy their sport and to achieve their goals.

     This memoir is written about a time at a swim meet when I made a new friend, and learned more about myself and sportsmanship. The assignment was to write a memoir with as much detail as possible. This piece shows my athlete life, and how important it is to me. If I had to revise it again, I would include more sensory details such as the temperature outside and in the water, and the emoitions associated with the memory. I would include more dialogue as well.

 

Victorious

Victorious

Defeat takes over you.
It’s all you can feel.
Defeat feels like someone has taken something,
It’s not a dream, it’s real.
To come so close,
Yet finish so far from the goal, the win.
The ground is cold beneath you.
It starts a fire from within.
 
You can smell victory,
Hear the cheers.
All sweet emotions of victory,
Are drowned out by the tears.
 
Defeat is falling from the mountain
You’ve struggled to climb.
Before reaching the summit,
You collapse and crawl, just wasting time…

To be truly triumphant,
Epic even, you must climb the mountain.
And promise yourself that
You will never feel defeat again.
 
Remember the feeling
Of lying on the ground
Blood, sweat, and tears
Mixed all around.

Train hard,
Wake up sore,
Tell yourself
That you need to be more.
 
Defeat is all you will ever know.
So get used to it.
No matter what, in rain or snow.
Because I will always be victorious.

This poem was inspired by a picture of a football player on the ground after losing a home game. As an athlete, I know how defeat feels, and it is a terrible feeling. This poem tries to capture that feeling and the struggles before and after the fact. It was revised by my Creative Writing classmates, and the feedback was that I needed better structure and a better description of victory, even though the poem has a defeated mood. The poem includes alliteration, consonance, and rhyme, along with juxtaposition.  The rhyme scheme is consistent throughout. The end result is something that really speaks to any athlete on any level.

Room Sweet Room

Room Sweet Room

     My room is painted blue, with two windows in the far corner. When the blue shades are up, sunlight fills the room, setting the scene for an afternoon nap. When they are down, some light still seeps through the cracks at the edges. My light is in the middle of the room, and it casts a bright glow over the entire room, like a mini sun. My bed is in the corner, pressed up against the wall. It has 3 pillows, some covers, and a stuffed panda sitting on it. At the foot of my bed are towels previously used for swim practice, some wet, some dry. In this pile are backpacks, books, and empty Gatorade bottles. My athletic life is clearly represented in the items in my room. Speedos and gym shorts are strewn all over the floor, mixed with pants and the occasional shirt. Sweatshirts hang in my closet, full during summer, but barren in winter. Hidden away are my Buster Posey jersey, my parka, and my down jacket. On the floor lays a pile of clothes, some of which are smelly. In the final corner is a desk. Long hours and late nights have been spent seated in the office chair in front of it, bent over the smooth, dark wood. There is a whiteboard above it, with very little writing, just posters showing my level of Giants fan.

     The walls of my room are sparsely decorated.  Pictures of friends hang on my bookshelf, and cherished medals lie in cases high above my bed. Plaques line the area above my closet, each representing something special.

 

In-room analysis:

    As I sit on my bed, I notice that I left out many of my stuffed animals. The brown bear, orca, and dolphin were all left out, possibly because my panda has traveled with me most recently. Socks are strewn across the floor. My room is not as clean as I originally thought it was. My bookshelf contains much more than just picture frames. Old cell phones, gift cards, speakers, and pocket tools sit cluttered on the shelves. I left this out because it doesn't have a lot of meaning to me; its only use is a place to empty my pockets. I left out my dresser, with its drawers always wide open. I might have left it out of my original because it is unorganized, and I place less value on clothes than I do on other things. I spent only a couple seconds each morning at my dresser, compared to hours at a desk or in my bed.

     There is a white sheet that covers one wall of my room, next to my bed. It covers a mural or a train, drawn when I was five years old. I left it out because of my desire to hide it, as shown by the sheet covering it up. It was something from my childhood that I wish to leave behind now. 

     This piece is a detailed description of my room, the place that I know best (except for maybe the pool, but that's boring). The assignment was to describe the place from memory with as much detail as possible, then write a second paragraph while sitting in the place. The second paragraph was meant as analysis of what the orignial paragraph leaves out and why it does that. Descriptions include the emotions and senses connected to the room. This piece shows my attention to detail and deeper thinking about what matters to me in my room

A Disaster in Paradise

A Disaster in Paradise

                He thrashed and fought wildly in the water, trying desperately to get free. Finally, he was released. He couldn’t swim, and felt his body sinking to the bottom in a cloud of blood.

The night before, Paul sat at his dinner table in his hotel, staring at the empty seat across from him.

“Where is she?’ he thought sadly. Paul and his date, Alex, had agreed to meet at seven at the hotel restaurant. Minutes passed, and she was nowhere to be seen. Those minutes turned to hours eating away at Paul’s stomach, filling it with sadness. Finally, at eight, he gave up. He walked slowly up to his room, undressed, and climbed into bed.

                The next morning, he walked out onto the beach. Paul felt the cool, fresh Hawaiian breeze on his face, and smelled the faint scent of coconut on the air. He walked down the beach and spread his towel in an isolated place, away from other people. After what happened last night, he just wanted to be alone.

                Paul listened to the sound of the waves crashing on the beach as he sipped his pineapple juice. The sun steadily rose across the sky. He tried to tell himself that his only worry in the world was getting sunburned. Paul’s face became too hot, so he grabbed his surfboard and jogged into the clear Hawaiian water. Water splashed around his feet, scaring a striped fish away. Paul stopped before he got to the breaking point where the waves were mountains in front of him. He admired the clear water, a deeper, purer, blue than anything he had ever seen. The sun reflected off the water into his eyes.

                He dove through the waves and paddled effortlessly on his board to go catch a wave. He arrived at his spot, and waited. He waited for half an hour with no waves. Paul began to get cold, and he shivered. By then, he noticed that he had drifted out too far from shore, and he wasn’t sure that he would be able to get back. He wondered what he would do.

                As Paul started to panic, he noticed a gray fin snaking towards him. He climbed onto his surfboard to stay out of range of what he presumed was a shark. The shark hit the bottom of his board, and rocked Paul into the water, knocking the board away. Paul tried to stop shaking and calm down, but he couldn’t. The shark came closer, and Paul felt a sharp pain in his left leg.

                He was dragged underwater, thrashing at the shark and clawing at its eyes. Judging by the pressure in his ears, he was being pulled deeper and deeper. He fought wildly in the water, trying desperately to get free. Finally, he was released. He couldn’t swim, and felt his body sinking to the bottom in a cloud of blood.

                Through the red haze, he noticed another gray fin, and knew he was done. He closed his eyes and waited. When it hit from beneath, it was soft. The bite was gentle, this time, and it was tugging him towards the surface. He was beginning to lose focus, although he was able to recognize that the shape was different than that of a shark.  A dolphin had found him. With new hope, he sputtered for air at the surface, then hung on to the dolphin’s back as it swam toward shore faster than he had ever moved before. He flopped onto the beach and crawled up the sand, leaving a trail of blood behind him. He collapsed on his back and closed his eyes.

                When Paul woke up, he was in his bed at home in Arizona, miles from Hawaii. He was lying in a pool of sweat. He looked down at his leg, searching for the shark-inflicted bite marks. He found none. His wife Alex was in bed next to him, still sound asleep.

“What happened?” he wondered to himself. “Maybe it was all just a dream.” He lay awake in his bed for a while before falling back asleep. When he woke up in the morning, Alex had a surprise for him.

“We’re going to Hawaii!” she exclaimed with a smile.

     This story was an assignments based on music, and the ideas that we associate with it. A series of songs were played in the classroom, and we were to write a one paragraph story starter for each. I then chose this one to develop into a full story. The fifth paragraph contains a version of the original paragraph. I really like this story because it includes a flashback, develops the character, and is somewhat realistic. It shows creativity and a love for Hawaii, as shown by some of the positive descriptions included. Similar to many of my other stories, if I had time to revise it again, I would develop Paul's character further, and increase the timeline of the shark attack.

Love Poem

Love Poem

Roses are red,
Violets aren’t blue.
This line will not end
The way you expected it to.

Roses can be red,
They can be pink too,
Either way, they show
How I feel about you.

Sunsets are red,
Sunrises are too.
I’d be down to watch
Either one with you.

The beach is sunny,
The water is clear and blue
Let’s go swimming together,
And catch a wave or two.

Whether I’m feeling happy
Or maybe a little blue,
Nothing is better
Than spending time with you.

     This is a love poem written around Valentine's day. The style is explained in the first stanza, and every line plays off of a basic "Roses are red, violets are blue" form. Each section is its own set of feelings that were inspired by my girlfriend. I put many things that we have talked about doing, and put them into writing. This shows a more thoughtful and romantic side of my writing. I wanted it to convey my feelings for a special girl. I would definitely be able to add more stanzas to this poem.

Realistic Three Little Pigs

Realistic Three Little Pigs

Once upon a time, there were three little pigs that had just finished school and were moving out.

“Go out and build yourself a home,” said the mama pig to her three sons.

The first pig was a bit of a cheapskate, and wanted to spend as little as possible on his house. So he walked along the streets until he found a pile of straw, which he believed would be suitable for a comfortable, cheap house. He built his house along the main road after acquiring all the necessary construction permits.

The second little pig could not find any free straw, so he had to walk farther than the first to find materials, but he finally arrived at a pile of twigs and sticks. He too built his house along the main road. Being built of sticks, his house was more stable than his brother’s, but it still would not pass satisfactory earthquake requirements.

The third little pig had money to spend, so he spent it on his house. He was able to put more effort and resources into his home than his brothers. He ordered bricks and mortar, and hired a construction crew to build his home. The end result was a well-insulated, structurally sound house that passed all the current safety measures.

Now, living in the world with all kinds of folks, there was a wolf in town. The wolf was constantly hungry, but did not have enough money to buy his own meals. So when he saw three new pig houses being erected nearby, he saw it as a buffet. The wolf thought to himself, “I’m going to be eating well for the next few days.” He began to plan his attack on the piggies.

The wolf woke early one morning to commence the first part of his attack. He arrived at the first pig’s straw house, and walked up to the door.

“Hello Mr. Pig, I am a neighbor wanting to welcome you to the neighborhood. Would you mind if I came in for a drink?”

To which the pig replied, “No Sir, I’m sorry, but I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”

The wolf, unsure how to respond, panicked. He stuttered out, “If you don’t open this door right now, I’ll um, huff and puff and blow your house down!” The pig was silent from within.

So the wolf took a great breath, and then blew as hard and as fast as he could. The front door of the straw house quivered and shook, but the wolf had some trouble. He just stood there blowing air onto a house, when all of a sudden he had an idea.

The next day, the wolf returned with a lighter. He again asked the first pig if he could come inside, to which the answer was again, “no.” So instead of blowing the house, he first lit a corner of the house on fire. He still blew on the house, but this time, the fire spread. The pig was barbequed inside his house, and the wolf enjoyed a nice grilled rack of ribs for dinner that night.

The next day, the wolf moved on to the second pig’s house. After news of the first pig’s murder, he knew that the second pig would not let him inside. Unable to blow down a straw house, there was no way that he would be able to blow down a stick house.  So with his lighter, he attempted to light portions of the house on fire, but the flames wouldn’t last. Hungry, the wolf returned home.

In town, after smelling a gas leak, the wolf had an epiphany on how to burn the second pig’s house down. He acquired some gasoline and a few eggs from a buddy, and returned to the pig’s house that night to soak the sticks with gas.

In the morning, he lit a single twig, and like magic, the whole house went up in flames. While the house was burning, the wolf cooked some eggs. When the flames had subsided, the wolf gathered the cooked bacon, and had a bacon and egg sandwich for breakfast.

Addicted to the taste of pig, the wolf desperately wanted to eat the third and final pig as well. He thought and he thought, but could not think of a way to kill the third pig. Fire and gas wouldn’t work because bricks aren’t flammable. He didn’t have the resources to demolish the house, with dynamite or construction equipment. So the wolf paced around the house, looking for any possible ways of entry. He finally decided on the chimney.

The third pig was somewhat paranoid after the deaths of his brothers, so he was looking out for the wolf. When he saw that the wolf was pacing his house, he called the police.

When the police arrived, they saw the wolf on the roof headed for the chimney.

“STOP! THIS IS THE POLICE. Please exit the roof, and no harm will come to you.”

The police began firing tasers at the wolf, but he was able to run behind the chimney. At a break in the fire, he hopped into the chimney.

The police began running up onto the roof to assess the situation. When they looked into the chimney, the wolf had gotten stuck a few feet below the rim. The chimney was far too narrow for a wolf with two pigs inside him to fit down it.

The pig talked to the police officer, who relayed the news. Smirking, he returned inside and lit a fire for himself. The wolf screamed until the police pulled him out and took him to jail, where he was sentenced to life.

The third pig thought he would be living happily ever after. He relaxed in his comfortable house, and spent time on his nicely mowed lawn.

However, one day, the wolf escaped from jail, returned to the third pig’s house, and ate him while he mowed his lawn.

The moral:  Don’t be cheap.

     This is a story meant to be funny as a realistic version of the fairy tale The Three Little Pigs. The assignment was to change a fairy tale, while maintaining a recognizeable storyline. It is completely fiction. I wanted the story to become more realistic, and it shows my sense of humor. If I were to revise it again, I would develop each of the pigs' character a little bit more so that it was more meaningful and sad when they were eaten.

 

 

The Car Crash

The Car Crash

I felt my car spin. The wheels spun fast. There was not a thing I could do to stop. I could not see the red car next to me, but I heard the crash. My head snapped back, but the rest of me flew to the front of the car. I hit the brakes as the air bag smashed into me. This time, the sound of the crash came from my car. Then, all things were still. My ears rang for quite a long time, and I sat in the car for what felt like hours. At last, a man came to my door. The taste of blood was strong in my mouth. I must have bit my tongue. A nice man said, “Are you hurt?” But to tell the truth, I did not know. I glanced at the red car, smashed and wrecked. Soon, I heard a voice. It was a cop. He was with a man that saw what took place. I tried to walk over there, but my legs were no help. The shook and I fell down. When I woke up, I was still there, but the man in the red car was not. He would not come back. It was not my fault, but I some times think I could have done some thing to save the man in the red car.

     This story is written in first person perspective, and uses only single syllable words. It is nonfiction, which allowed for more creativity. I worked with Sydney on this story, and we wanted the story to convey a sense of disorientation and to leave the reader thinking. This shows an ability to write within a set of requirements and the ability to be creative with limits. If I had to revise it again, I would add more detail and expand the story to show more of what took place.

"Appointment With Love"

"Appointment With Love"

Six minutes to six, said the clock over the information booth in New York’s Grand Central Station. The tall, young army lieutenant lifted his sunburned face and narrowed his eyes to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that shocked him. In six minutes he would see the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had sustained him unfailingly.

Lieutenant Bradford remembered one day in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of enemy planes. In one of his letters, he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her answer:

“Of course you fear…all brave men do. Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: ‘Yea, though I walk among the shadow of the valley of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me.’” He had remembered and it had renewed his strength.

Now he was going to hear her real voice. Four minutes to six. A girl passed close to him and Lieutenant Bradford started. She was wearing a flower, but it was not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was only about 18, and Helen Taylor had told him she was 30. “What of it?” he had answered. “I’m 32.” He was 29.

His mind went back to the book he had read in the training camp. “Of Human Bondage,” it was, and throughout the book were notes in a woman’s writing. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man’s heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Helen Taylor. He had gotten hold of a New York City telephone book and found her address.

He had written; she had answered.

Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing. For 13 months she had faithfully replied. When his letters did not arrive, she wrote him anyway, and now he believed he loved her and she loved him.

But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. She had explained: “If your feeling for me has any reality, what I look like won’t matter. Suppose I’m beautiful. I’d always be haunted that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I’m plain (and you must admit that this is more likely), then I’d always fear that you were only going on writing because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don’t ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall make your decision.”

One minute to six…he pulled hard on a cigarette. Then Lieutenant Bradford’s heart leaped. A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears. Her eyes were blue as flowers; her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her pale green suit, she was like springtime come alive. He started toward her, forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small provocative smile curved her lips.

“Going my way, soldier?” she murmured. He made one step closer to her. Then he saw Helen Taylor. She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump; her feet were filled into low-heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose on her rumpled coat. The girl in the green suit was walking away.

Bradford felt as if he was being split in two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep his longing for the woman whose spirit had companioned and upheld his own; and there she stood. He could see that her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible; her gray eyes had a warm twinkle.

This is where the story stopped. The ending that follows was written by myself and classmates Sydney and Hannah.

Bradford wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to meet the woman who had been by his side throughout the war. He walked up to plump woman with the rose, trying not to glance back at the beautiful woman in green. She said, “Hello Lieutenant Bradford, I’ve been waiting a long time to meet you. Let me show you the city.” Her voice was hoarse and raspy. They walked off together.

They then went into a coffee shop. To Bradford’s surprise, the woman in green was seated at a table with an empty chair. This time, she was wearing a red rose. The woman in green walked toward Bradford and the old woman. “Hello Lieutenant. I’m Helen Taylor. Nice to finally meet you. You still gave me a chance even though you thought I was old and plump.”

 

            This assignment was a collaborative exercise in which we finished the story “Appointment With Love” by S.I. Kishor. Sydney and Hannah worked with me to write an alternative ending. We wanted the story to convey the power of love based on who someone is, not what they look like. If we had time to revise it again, I would continue the story to tell what happens after they meet. It shows creativity as a writer and the ability to write for a given situation.

Matt's Magical Moment

Matt’s Magical Moment

 

Matt appeared to be just a normal second grader…

 …But...

 He was actually destined to be a hero. He had no idea yet, but this day would change his life forever.

Matt woke up in his bed, with his cat Nemo sitting next to him. He walked into the kitchen, and said, “Hi Mom! Hi Dad! Hi Brittany!” Then he had some of his favorite breakfast, and headed to Murwood.

He hopped out of the car, and hurried off to find his friends Robert and Lucas.

 Matt walked into Room 9, and said "Hi!" to his teacher, Miss E. He sat down at his desk and pulled out his geography homework from the night before.

At recess, he walked out to see his friends and play some kickball. “I’ll get the ball,” he said as he sprinted off. He then ran back to the field to choose teams.

But instead of the normal field, there was a massive orange stadium in its place. Today was the day of the World Kickball Championship.

Matt assembled his team. “Murwood, unite!” They were playing a team from some other far-away place that they didn't know. Every single one of their opponents was dressed in black and eating a taco, Matt's least favorite food.

The game started, and the teams were very even. At the 9th inning, Matt's team was down by two. Matt was supposed to be up 5th.

Both of Matt's friends before him got on base, but then the next two kickers got out.

All the pressure was on Matt. ”C’mon Matt!” said Lucas.

“You got this, Dude!” said Robert.

Matt had practiced so much for this. All those kickball games at recess and in his backyard had led up to this moment. He would not fail.

The pitcher looked at Matt, and Matt stared right back at him. The pitcher rolled the ball slowly right down the middle of the plate.

Matt took a step forward, then kicked the ball as hard as he could. The ball flew so high and so far that it couldn't be seen.

He ran around the bases to home plate, where the world championship trophy was waiting for him.

All his teammates said, “Good job Matt! We won! We are the best kickball players in the whole entire world!” Matt celebrated for a while, and then went back inside for science class.

After science class, his teacher, Miss E., came up to him to talk to him about the prizes. “Matt, one of the prizes for winning the Kickball Championship is getting to ride in one of the Blue Angels Jets. They have a show later this afternoon.” Matt was so excited that he was unable to speak.

When Matt got home, there was a shiny new plane waiting in front of his house. The pilot said, "Hop in Buddy! You've earned this."

They flew around, doing flips and rolls above Walnut Creek, while everybody cheered for him. He was a national hero. Wherever he went, everyone knew his name.

At night, he went home to his family. His parents and Brittany had made a dinner out of all candy, complete with chocolate apples, and drumsticks for dessert. This would be a day he never forgot.

At school the next day, the stadium was still there with a new team to play. Without hesitation, Matt stepped up for the challenge, confident in his team and his amazing abilities.

This is a story that I wrote for a second grader named Matt. I interviewed him to find out what kind of things he likes, then wrote a story based on that information, in which he is the hero. I then transferred the written story into a book, complete with illustrations of Matt's endeavors. The goal was to create something special for him, and to leave him with a positive image of Las Lomas students.If I had to revise it, I would try to include more details about Matt into the plot of the story. The photo shown here is the cover of Matt's book.