Fill out this survey for a friend Ashley :https://goo.gl/forms/ApnHX4t1zHY2ya233
ChristianL: survey link

Drop your claims in here: Claims and 1st paragraph

Book Club Presentations:
Due Thur (E/F  class)
Due Friday (C/D  class)

Phrases Test:

End of Year Grammar Phrases Test: Friday 27th April.

Use these links to practice for the different phrases

Go to NoREdInk - Practice Phrases exercises are waiting for you
General Practice: http://www.proprofs.com/quiz-school/story.php?title=phrases_9
Participle Phrase: https://www.quia.com/quiz/463033.html?AP_rand=1256430711
Gerund or Participle?
 http://faculty.gordonstate.edu/k_guffey/English%20grammar/assignments/verbals_1--gerund_or_participle.htm
https://www.quia.com/quiz/666265.html?AP_rand=1570720110  
http://www.grammaruntied.com/blog/?p=1884 


Coming soon - War of Words - Writing Competition


You need  to bring your own 'Writing Notebook' to class by NEXT MONDAY. (any design) This can be any empty notebook that you have at home.  You will need this for the W.o.W. Competition. No notebook - you cannot compete!

Ava did a great job of building a 'multiplicity of problems' for her character. Notice how she never mentioned the dead computer  but inferred it. This piece really did a solid job of building the conflict what lots of small problems. Notice also how the character ended 'in the light'

Leaving Everything Behind

“I hate myself. No, I’m not kidding. I hate myself, I really really do. Everything I do is wrong. Every word I speak is incorrect. Every step I take is false. Every breath I take is not deserved. I hate myself.” These thought bubble up in my mind as I open my hand me down laptop. I sigh as I see hundreds of rude emails among the one from Mr. W. It’s Tuesday evening. 6:32 to be exact. My weak body lays on top of my gray and purple duvet that is sloppily placed on the bed I have had since I was 8. I look up from my laptop. As I scan my room I see dirty clothes and old homework assignments that I never bothered to finish. I see a test the I completely failed last week. My grades are slowly dropping and I don’t want to spend my summer in Mr. W’s room so I am quickly trying to do his homework. I stare blankly at the email he sent to me.

It says “Dear Skylar, In order for your grades to drastically improve before the end of the year, you will have to complete this extra credit assignment to the best of your ability. Interview both of your parents about how they grew up. Then write a 500-word essay on how they have different lifestyles. Use what we have learned in class about different cultures in this essay. Best of luck. Sincerely, Mr. Wilkinson.”

Unfortunately, this particular extra credit assignment involves interviewing both of my parents and comparing their lifestyles growing up. “This isn’t going to be fun,” I thought to myself. I turn my head to peek out the cracked door. I can hear them arguing in hushed voices that are steadily rising. I hear my dad’s voice. Harsh and angry and loud. I can feel my body tensing up. Clenched fists, I dig my nails deep into my sweaty palms. I slowly slide my laptop off my lap and carefully step down from my bed as if I was trying to be quiet. Stepping over dirty clothes, I reach the edge of my room. With blank eyes, I stare out my door. I look the empty hall up and down, thinking of all my siblings in each of their rooms. I turn around from the door frame and walk back to my bed, and plop down and open my laptop back up.

“Great,” I whisper to myself. I get back up and grab my charger and shove it harshly into the wall. I now have to wait for my stupid computer to charge. I sigh. Finally, my computer comes back to life. I grab it and immediately sign in. I check my email and see nothing but rude cruel words. “The world would be a better place without you.” and “You should just stop trying to do anything” and “Go kys”. I grab my phone, whipping my face quickly every 2 seconds. I run into my small bathroom and reach for the medicine cabinet and yank it open. I turn the lights on but them immediately turn them back off. I grab bottle after bottle and line them up neatly on my sink counter. I quickly search for something, anything that can hold water. All that I can find is the old cup that holds my toothbrush and toothpaste. I grab it and pull the faucet to the side and the cool water quickly fills the cup to the brim. I dump something in my hand not knowing or caring what it is. I move my trembling hand up to my lips and hold it there. My body won’t let this happen. I put down the old cup and reached for my phone. All of the sudden it was like I didn’t have control over my body. I swiped past all of the relentless texts and without my knowing punched in a number and held it to my ear. Someone picks up on the other end.

“Hi, I’m Janie. Can I help you?” All of the sudden I remember when I was 9 years old. “Only 6 years ago,” I think. We had just moved into our old house on the other side of town. I was so excited to finally have a house with a pool. We got to our new house and got out of the car and ran to the door begging our parents to unlock it. We ran in and started playing tag because when the Mosholt’s find a large space, there is always some sort of game. I loved our new house. But unfortunately, 1-2 years after moving our parents started fighting. First, it just seemed like a normal everyday thing that parents go through. It started dragging out for like one year. It started to get worse and worse. I didn’t know why this was happening. It got to the point where I would be lying wrapped in a blanket crying myself to sleep because I was so scared about what was going to happen. I blamed myself. It was my fault. There was no particular reason why, but I always felt like it was my fault. No matter how many times I told myself it wasn’t. People said I became quieter. Keeping to myself just seemed smarter than talking about home. I spent most of my time reading about anything and everything. I put myself in other people’s worlds. Live their lives. And I loved it. At some point, people started whispering about me behind my back. Soon after that, it just came to make fun of Skylar. I hated it. And every single day since then, it has been getting worse and worse. I snapped back into reality and stared down to look at my wrists. I thought about if mom or dad ever saw these or if Anna, Coop, Seb, or Carson ever saw these. I shudder at the thought.

“Yeah,” I said after a minute, no longer caring to whip the tears from under my eyes. I let them simply stream down my ugly face. I managed to say between breaths.“I just want to give up. I can’t take any of the mean things people are saying to me anymore.”

“Don’t give up,” she said as if she really truly believe in me. “You can do this. You can get through this. We are in this together.” a small pause, “Don’t give up,” she whispered on the other end of the line.

“I won’t,” I whispered back. I caught myself by surprise. A complete stranger was telling me not to give up, and I just agreed that I wouldn’t. Wow. I turn the lights back on, and walk out of the bathroom. Leaving everything behind.

M.I.S.O. Research

Please complete this survey for Kush, for Sarah, for Siri, for Swayer, for Tanisha, for Grey, for Miku. for Luci for keya, for Aaron. for Zack

MISO

It is expected that you use 3 out of 4 (for exemplary) of the different types of M.I.S.O.

Media - Interviews - Surveys- Observations

Be thinking over the break:

Lesson Recap - DQ to Charing Notes

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.