Mr. Buxton 7th Grade RLA

Tuesday, March 28, 2017

Writer's Craft TECHNIQUES

Final draft - Make a copy of this file and drop it into the RLA folder

Which craft moves will you have in your piece?

Adding symbolism to writing

Monday, March 27, 2017

TRi Time Toolkit - This is for my HB. There are lots of resources on here for your Tritime.

Lesson Recap

Scene planning - You need to finish your scene plan for class tomorrow. Your graphic organizer MUST be filled in.

Exemplary Paper - 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!”