Sentence Phrases - Check in Assesment - You will be tested on your ability to write sentences using your NF notes and your phrases technqiues: Absolute, appositive, participle - Any practice work you do on these tonight CAN be used in class. (G/H - You will do this NEXT MONDAY)
H/W You need to have started your Charing today. You should have one column of research at least.
Was this piece written by a student or a professional writer or a student that might very well be a professional writer?
Moon
I was never able to go to school. Yet Mama would always bring home books. I never had any idea where they were from. She claimed the local private school would donate them to her when they considered the books to be useless. Some of the books I got were ripped or drawn on but that never ever bothered me. What really bothered me, was that people were considering books to be useless. Books are always full of adventures with interesting characters. Books have their own feelings, their own lesson. Yet, they share their power with us. We are not the most powerful beings on the planet; books controll us. Books controll me, but I never was able to experience the power of books until Mama taught me how to read.
“Jake, come I need help.” Mama’s voice echoed out from the other room. I walked away from the smudged window, away from the empty farms and fields. Walking at a good pace I swiftly moved around the crumbling wood table and entered the cramped kitchen. Moon scurred next to my side and grabbed his green, squeaky bone out from under the couch. Edging me to play with him. His paws moving towards the back of my heels, I continued towards the kitchen.
“What do you need help with?” I asked Mama. She looked up from the pot of vegetable soup on the open fire place and asked,
“Will you open the cupboard to get some matches, please?” My first thought: vegetable soup and bread, the meal we had almost every night. I also struggled to see why she could not do it herself but obeyed her request. I reached up for the highest cupboard handle, my hand curling around the metal knob. And I gently pulled outward.
“Mama, the matches are not in here,” my open hand searching in around the almost - empty space.
“Well could you please find them, I am occupied at the moment.” Mama has always seemed so adult - like since Papa passed.
Growing up in upstate New York, I learned that dirt is dirt and gold is gold. There is nothing in between. You're either on the top of the food chain or not. For the normal week, all of the other “rich” kids are in school. There is almost no one out here, only fields and farms. The closest free public school is 2 hours away. Mama says we could never do that trip 5 days a week, and no bus could reach us.
Living out in the middle of nowhere, and as an only child, I needed someone to play with. So, when I turned 10 my parents decided to get me a dog. This was the first present I had ever gotten. I had declared It was the best moment of my existence. His huge, furry paws hit my chest as he raised his head to touch his nose against mine. Almost instantly, I knew what I was going to name him. Moon. His fur was dark like the night, but somehow he seemed to be the light whenever I needed it.
The memory hit my head like a stone. For only 3 days after I got Moon, Papa died in a terrible motorcycle accident. Since then, it has been hard for me and Mama. I don’t blame him, all the time. We lost our house and our normal life. I quickly learned you can’t have everything you want.
I brushed a tear from the bottom of my eye, and continued searching. I finally decided they were not in the top cabinet and checked the one below. My gaze followed my eye down from the dark brown cabinet to the white one right below it. I opened the door and peered inside, standing on my toes. The matches were barely visible in the back corner of the cabinet. I reached in a grabbed the matches pulling the out from their hiding place. Exposing them to the single light on the kitchen ceiling.
I opened the packet and pulled out a single match, the last one. Its wood, smooth against my fingers with not a single splinter. The tip a bright fluorescent red. Making my way toward the main table I positioned the match to the side of the dirty, flimsy box. Sitting down in a chair I struck the match with quite some force against the box. No sparks. One side of the match was black. I repositioned the match so the ‘still good spot’ was right up to the striking surface. I struck again, nothing. I knew there was only one chance for the match to light or there would be no light for supper. Last strike, one match, one chance. I closed my eyes for a brief second. And struck.
Opening your eyes to a light, no matter how small, always seems to warm you up. I quickly brought the tip of the match to the single candle on our main eating table. The first time I raised the lit match up to the candle there was no reaction. The candle only slightly burnt from the match's heat. I rose the match to the candle again this time leaving it for slightly longer. Still, no fire. Standing up, I tried a third time, watching the fire burn down the stick getting near my fingers. I shoved the match towards the candle and let go. The candle lit and I quickly smothered the match on the table cloth.
Mama came out from the kitchen with the soup in two bowls and the bread on a plate. She set them down and sat across from where I was standing. I sat down as well. She motioned towards the food. I took my bowl and a piece of bread.
I told her that I had thought about Dad again. And how I had been thinking about what had happened since. She seemed rather offended when I mentioned about that I thought we were below everyone else. Moon also started to whimper from his pillow on the floor.
“I have you, and you have Moon. We have everything we want. Things we want don’t need to be on a table, or stuck to a wall somewhere in this house. We have everything, Jacob”
I do have Mama, and Moon too. Moon started to bark and give me kisses all over my face. Mama laughed. And that made me laugh too. Whenever the stars shine, Moon just seems to shine brighter.
What the social issue in this piece? How do you know?
Unstitched
The light directly above me rapidly flickers on and off. Darkness washes over me, but in a blink of an eye, the brightness returns. I watch as the light struggles to hang on to the last bit of energy it has to illuminate part of the room. Eventually, it’ll go out, drained of anymore fight. I tap my fingers in time with the slow, steady ticking of the wall clock. Time is almost up, and the next period is going to start soon. Where is he? My palms are slick with sweat, and I continue to hastily try to keep the worn out baseball glove from slipping through my grasp. Jer promised he’d be here, and he told me he wanted the mitt. I can practically feel the questioning side glances of the other kids crowding the library, quick peeks from behind books and whispered conversations. I mean, who else stands alone in a library, doing absolutely nothing but stare at a door while fidgeting with a baseball mitt? Jeremy is the only person who willingly talks to me, so there was really no one else to chat with. Glaring at the various leather-bound books lined up neatly on dusty, wooden shelves, I pace back and forth on the carpeted ground, awaiting my best friend, Jeremy Forge, to arrive. Of course he’s late. Jer is never on time for anything. One book catches my eye, the bland, dark gray hue of its cover a stark contrast to the flamboyant colors of the books surrounding it. The title reads “Thirteen Reasons Why”. I vaguely remember my RLA teacher recommending me this book a couple years back, but I never got around to reading it. Apparently, it was about some girl who committed suicide and made recordings of the reasons why she did. I’m assuming the book doesn’t have a happily ever after for any of the characters. I anxiously pick and fiddle with the mit clutched in my hand, accidentally snapping some of the lacings. Unable to hold themselves together, the glove’s fingers fall apart. I’ve tried to repair this glove a million times over, but some things are just beyond fixing. At least it complements the torn leather patches scattered across the whole mit. It used to be my most prized possession back when I was 8 years-old. It used to be my lucky glove. I made the most important catch of my life with it.
A half eaten hotdog carried by an excited fan abruptly appeared right in my face, blocking me from the game. The world series. I still couldn’t believe that Dad got us such good tickets. 14th row. Only 5 above the Indians’ dugout. Cleveland. My home town and possibly the new world champions if all went well tonight. I had my favorite glove positioned in my right hand prepared if anyone hit a foul ball. Jason Kipnis at bat. He gripped his shiny, black bat above his head, ready for the first pitch. “WHOOSH” brisk swing but a miss as his bat barely grazed the top of the white and red baseball that went straight into the catcher's mitt. “Strike!” hollered the umpire, mocking me and my team. “Come on Kipnis,” I whispered into my mit. The next pitch, this one low and fast. No swing. “Strike 2!” NO! We had gotten so close, we had come this far. The next pitch, a loud “THWACK” echoed throughout the stadium as the crowd cheered wildly. The ball rocketed over the left fielder's head and Kipnis flew across the field, he moved swiftly around first base and bolted to second. The outfield struggled to gain possession of the ball but they quickly threw it in making up for lost time. The second baseman made a desperate swipe for Kipnis’ back. His hand hit air. “Safe.” We had just gotten 2 bases. Next batter, Francisco Lindor. Yes! My favorite player, we are going to get a run in for sure. Lindor walked confidently up to the plate. He tapped it twice and brought the bat up over his head, ready. First pitch, too low. Second pitch, too high. The pitcher found his rhythm, and the next two pitches were both solid strikes. “C’mon Lindor we need this, we need to win,” I softly pleaded. The pitcher stood firm on the mound, unfazed. He brought his hands together and lifted his front leg. He went into a big stride and launched the ball towards Lindor with incredible power and deadly precision. I held my breath. Lindor swung. “SMACK!” the ball and bat made contact. The ball soared high. It was an obvious foul ball. But it was close to the field. The first baseman raced over to the stands. The entire crowd rose up, trying to get a good look at the flying baseball. I stood up and raised my mit towards the sky and opened the leather body, hopefully. I clenched my eyes shut. There was a loud noise followed by a powerful, downward force as something struck the web of my mit. I lowered it to my face. The stadium fell silent. I couldn’t believe my eyes! Nothing else mattered. Not even the sound of the third strike. Not even the fact that Lindor was in the dugout. This must be a lucky glove. I had caught the ball.
As I relish in the memory, I absentmindedly run my palm across the smooth, cool surface of a nearby table. A couple of tears well up in my eyes, threatening to spill. How could I let this mitt go? For a slight moment I forget why I’d planned on giving it up in the first place. I squint my eyes, attempting to erase the baseball glove’s obvious flaws if only for a second. My hand reaches the sharp edge of the table, and the wood digs into my skin. The glove’s rips are too big, and all the parts are too detached. Giving it up is my only option. It’s just too destroyed to have any value to me anymore. It’s just some stupid, useless glove that can easily be thrown away and replaced. The bell rings signifying that lunch is over. He didn’t show. I guess Jeremy didn’t care about the glove after all.
