Feature Article - Outlining

Use this link for a digital version of the outline

Extra research Sources

H/w - You will receive a grade tomorrow for your SLANT and SUPPORTING IDEAS e.g.

Feature Article

Your digital notebook for FA Link

Enjoy this RF scene from Erin T.

Title of Story: The story where all flowers die

Whenever I looked out of the car window, I didn’t just see the long road winding up that narrow street that had grown so, so familiar to me over the past 23 years. The rigged road was all the same with its bumps, dents, and sharp turns in places only a madman would think to  invent. The tall, proud standing oak trees that world drop so many acorns in the summer, that no one dared walk in the grass in fear that one of those aged green/brown blades would be hiding the bare foot’s worst enemy.

Well… worst enemy next to legos.

I gripped the steering wheel as I turned into maybe the worst kept house in the neighborhood, no state seems to be more accurate. I slowly grabbed my skateboard and bags from the passenger seat, wary of what can be easily described as the march into battle, gunshots guaranteed to be fired once that door opened, but in this case, I was only the messenger attempting to be a soldier. I managed to shuffle to the door, watching the windows for any sign of her. I stepped onto the doormat, which I wouldn’t be surprised if it read “Welcome to Hell” because that’s all this house was to people anymore. No one comes around to say hello, or good morning. Even the paper boy does it. On occasion, I’ll see him stop for a second, almost considering it, but then continues on, throwing papers house to house, the same as everyday. I’m still waiting for that boy to realize it’s pointless, you know, to keep doing the same thing over and over again just for a shiny green slip of paper. Nothing’s going to change, and no matter how hard he tries to, he can’t make it so.

I cracked the door open slowly, the hinges letting out a loud screech as I entered. I kicked it shut as I bent down and stowed my bags under the table. As soon as I straightened up, my eyes connected with another. For a second, I froze, just taking in those oh so familiar features. “I’m home, Mom,” I whispered, stroking the picture frame carefully. The picture was taken years ago, when we all seemed to be in the same world. I had stepped on one of those hidden acorns and mom had come rushing over the exact second it happened with those “mom senses” as dad said. However, as soon as she got there, I didn’t cry like most stupid little 7 year olds do. That day, I just laughed, because Josephine had started stepping around the acorns like the grass was a minefield. Dad had burned his finger on the grill as he turned to watch mom and I. Mom had come running as fast as what can be accurately compared to a bullet train. And of course, I had been the cause of disaster, but at least it wasn’t as disastrous as Josie’s decided to cause about a month later.

I tip toed to the kitchen, hoping to sneak a snack, but this time I felt a different set of eyes. “Hey!!! You’re back! How’s it go?,” she slurred her words as always. I flicked around my head and eyed her for a second. Josephine seemed to match the house as she was just as much of a mess as it was. She seemed to have slept in those baggy sweats and Harvard shirt that she was wearing, which was funny because she never went to Harvard. Her mousy brown hair was matted again and her eyes seemed to be glazed as she transitioned to looking me up and down for a few seconds. “You’s gonna say anything or are we jus’ gonna stare at eachother?,” she gestured to me with the half empty whisky bottle in her left hand and rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly with her right.

“It was fine, just go back to drinking your… whatever you stole now,” I replied in a low tone, knowing she’d back off if I just acted uninterested enough. I shuffled over to the sink, watching her out of the corner of my eye and grabbed a measuring cup. Only fill it half way, or you’ll overflow the pot, Josie used to say. She loved that flower and before her… problems started it used to be healthy as a horse, but after she started, the plant slowly began is wilt until it just became a shriveled up depressing looking reminder of how corrupt life has become. Though, every time Josie is off the alcohol for a few days, she water’s the poor plant and it seems to be getting better, but then she falls down that same spiral and the flower’s back to its wilted self. Same. It is a beautiful Poppy.

I finished watering the poor plant and turned to see Josephine was still just lingering in the entryway, staring. “Hey… don’t be mean now. I’m trying… ok?”, she sniffs, looking at me with her warm hazel eyes. I couldn’t help but scoff at this and turned my head back to the sink. Yes, and you’ve been trying for how long now?, I thought and shoved past her towards the living room. It hadn’t changed much over the years. The brown carpet, black leather couch, tiny little cable tv that probably hasn’t been sold since 1999.  

All Classes - Monday - RF Celebration - You can bring in FOOD to share with your class as you read out your RF stories

Make a copy of this file: PE Research Feedback

RF - Scene Writing

The majority of you have NOT copied your final draft into the correct file. Search for the file with your name on it in your drive

Your grade will automatically be 0 if this is not done today. I will not then get around to grading your work for a week!

H/W- You should have visited a minimum of at least 5 sources and collected notes on your topic by tomorrow.  The MOST important stage of your Feature Article Unit is the note taking. Make sure you have plenty of content to share. 

Mentor Sample - What moves has this writer made? How will yours compare?

Title of Story: Draw on Iron Bars

The water splashes my face and wakes me up to a dreary day. It’s identical to the dreary days that came before and the dreary days that will come after. Luckily, the sink is only a few steps away from my bed, as I’m already not able to walk around the white compound by myself. It doesn’t bother me too much, for I’ve never been one to love wandering a boring white hospital amongst worried visitors and identically clad patients. The stench of fear, misery, vomit and generously dispersed disinfectant is enough to drive anyone away. Instead, I spend most of my free time watching the television. I reach for a paper towel and dry my hands.

My parents swear they try to visit. Whenever they repeatedly apologize over the phone, I want to hate them for their absence. That’s always followed by guilt. After all, it is my body’s fault for the fresh lines on their face and the extra holes in their shirts. They can pretend the holes doesn’t exist. We all know they do.

That hurts. To know that the thrifty fashionista my mom used to be, gives up the sales and night markets to doll up a ticking time bomb. That my father calls everyday on his way to work, as if hugging and protecting the cold orb will stop its foreboding ticking. Anyone in their right mind, would throw a bomb as far away as possible. I know this, while I watch them in their painfully happy facade. But I’m not stupid. Fifteen days turned to twenty-eight. Twenty-eight to thirty-five, and the money is still draining down a bottomless pit.

I glance at myself one last time in the mirror. Dark circles under my eyes. A dull, empty look. Pale complexion. Rashes. A bald head. I used to wear a wig, an expensive, glossy and elegant wig, back when I cared. Back when I believed my appearance mattered more than the itchy, sweaty feeling. But, what’s the point of decorating a prison cell? I turn away from the sink with a surprisingly smooth motion. Today was a good day. My mind wasn’t as blurry and hazy, and my train of thought was surprisingly fluid. Ish. Maybe I’d actually finish a few episodes of the Big Bang Theory without forgetting halfway the plot halfway through. I really have my priorities straight.

I rush back to my bed with my turtle pace and slight nausea. I know the steps by heart, and I keep my eyes straight ahead at the rows and rows of identical white beds, matching the white walls, white doors and white labcoats. For the past few days, I haven’t really thought about too much. Maybe it’s hard to think with so many tubes and annoying machines around you, or maybe it’s hard to think when you’re locked in your own jail of a body with the execution date labeled on your forehead. I sluggishly lay back in my pillow-lined coffin and watch as a nurse hurriedly buzzes towards me, hooking me back up to some leukemia-related machine.

Closing my weary eyes, I try to drift away. Suddenly, something pokes me in the arm. I groan with an incredible amount of annoyance for a girl who knew very well she wouldn’t have fallen asleep. The eight year old boy who usually occupies the bed to my left is standing over my body. He’s only just been admitted into the hospital, and I usually just ignore him and his restlessness.

“Hi. Um, I know I don’t really know you, the nurse said that your mommy said that you can draw really well.” I stared at him in confusion, I hadn’t drawn in years. As he shifted from side to side, I didn’t even attempt to save him. “Yeah, so, my mommy wants me to make friends, and I really like drawing,” He glances sheepishly at the floor, before procuring an object from behind his back.

“This is for you.” I glanced dumbfounded at the new notebook in his hand. Optimus Prime was staring valiantly back up at me from the front page. Feeling a little awkward and confused, I smiled and accepted the Transformers book. I don’t know what he’d say if I told him right now that I’d never watched the Transformer movies.

“Thank you so much,” I say instead. My tone sounds forced even through my own ears.

“I have an idea,” he pulls out his own Bumblebee notebook, “I think we should draw pictures to put up on the walls and you know, make this place happier. We can draw cars or robots or ponies,” he pulled a face and I tried not to giggle, “We can fill up this entire wall with collages,” his eyes brightened, “Oooh, and maybe, we can draw portraits of other people for money.” His wild gesturing stopped and he cautiously flipped to a page in his own barely used book. “I already drew one of you, you don’t have to pay me or anything, I know it’s bad, but maybe you could also teach me?”

I was staring back at a mirror image, well sort of, of me. A bald stickman with googly eyes and a wide, wide smile. Instead of faded blue uniforms, I was clothed in an outfit I wouldn’t exactly choose myself. A flowery skirt and a baggy yellow shirt. I covered my mouth, but this time, the laugh rang loud and clear. My gaze shifted to the boy next to me. The boy with bright eyes and a wide, wide smile.

A dam broke inside of me. Nearly toppling out of my bed and ignoring the sharp pain in my side, I reached out and tightly hugged the confused boy. We may be in a jail cell, but we can always draw on the iron bars and paint over the emptiness. Nothing’s to stop us, from singing, laughing and drawing. “I’d love to teach you!”

What's unique about this one?

Snack Day Disaster

It only takes 5mins to drive to school from Jonathan’s house. 54th street, if you follow it down just far enough you’ll find a petite yellow house nestled between two great redwoods. Peeking out from stained curtains with a sad excuse of home painted sunflowers decorating the rim, was a brown button nose. Jonathan Fischer. Now at that time, the owner of the nose was in an irreversible state of despair, as his mother had made the ever so clever decision, of turning on the goddang curling iron at 7:56am. This wouldn’t, of course, be an issue if Mrs. Henning's class started at 4pm, which was, based on the owner of the noses calculations, be roughly the same time his mom had concluded that her ringlets were presentable enough to be seen by the public eye, aka. the lunch lady and the traffic patroller. So as the button nose hung around, pointing its tip at the papery leaves lazing outside in the sharp fall sun. The mom came storming into the room with her jet curls bouncing about, as she gathered her keys and purse into her rose-lotioned grip. “Ready Jonathan-sweetie pie?” she squeaked, eyeing the boy through a thick curtain of Hollywood hair. “Call me Johnny.” he sighed rolling his eyes to the floor.

Jonathan couldn’t help but see the shame on her face, as he hurried her out to their Honda. Brushing the frost of the chrome handle before opening the door; “Mama I don't wanna be late again.” A somber grin spread in the rearview mirror. “Hunny I want you to have fun at school, don’t stress about it.” She clicked the car key, and turned to place her hand on Jonathan’s knee. The boy’s mom always goes all ‘lovey-dovey’ when they’re about to be late for school. He jerks his knee away.

The ignition beats against his eardrums as they pull out of the beaten driveway. In an  marigold blur, the oaks melt away to a fading mist, outside the air conditioned car. Jonathan sees his mom tapping her fingers on the driving wheel. 2 blocks down- the owner of the nose shouts “OY MOM WE FORGOT THE MUFFINS!” He lurches his head out the back window. “REVERSE, REVERSE, REVERSE MOM!” His eyes watch 54th street melt away behind him. “Sweetheart calm it. We’ll be just fine. School is for fun.” His mother flicks on reverse, and hand-over-hands them back to 54th street. Jonathan grasps his seatbelt until his knuckles go white.

“Arrivederci Harvard…” he thinks as they pull into their driveway. His knuckles already about the same color as chalk on the road markers, unclick his seatbelt. Flinging the door open, Jonathan catapults into the house. Catapults into the house, and into the kitchen. Into the kitchen, and into the refrigerator. Into the refrigerator and past the mustard. Past the mustard, and he finds the muffins. Grabbing them, he swims back out to the their Honda. Glancing at the sunflower curtains, before throwing himself into the car. “GO!” Whipping down 54th street, 55th, 56th. Pulling into the school car park. “WE’RE HERE HONEY-BUN!” Jonathan rolls his eyes before slamming the car door. “I’m here mom, but are you?”