RF Summative

Enjoy this excellent piece from Sara. How does yours compare?

Two Piece

The big bright dressing room screaming summer made my heart start to pound.  I looked down at the small chair next to me, but shook my head and pushed myself to just stand. I snatched the crumbled invitation out of my pocket. I un-crumbled the frail paper, and I examined it, my heart beating, my stomach rumbling, and my head spinning. I looked back and forth from the pool party themed invitation to the large mirror right in front of me. I pictured all the girls with the perfect bodies and cute swimsuits. Was my body good enough to go? Do I even come close to meeting their “pretty girl, skinny body” expectations? Maybe. Then, I remembered how the pool party was next week and I could quickly get ready. I chuckled in my head as if there was even a reason I would not go. Then, I peered my head out from the white thin curtain and through the store door. I saw Eden, my best friend, walking towards the store with her starbucks cup. She waves at me, and I wave back looking at myself through the glass door. I quickly turn away and proceed looking through the swimsuits I’ve picked out.

Eden and I have been best friends for a long time. Back when we were two little girls who had no cares in the world other than who got to use the pretty barbie, with the long legs and small waist. The pretty one. We would always steal our mom's makeup and heels from their rooms and put on our nicest dresses. We would go into my bathroom, and look into the  big long mirror, and we would laugh. We smiled, danced, sang, posed like the models we thought we were, and overall, we loved ourselves. One time, back when we were 9, we got all dressed up, hair, makeup, nails, and all. I was wearing one of my oldest dresses, but my favorite. It was a little tight around the waist, size 10, but I still pulled it off.

“You look beautiful,” Eden said, proud for being my friend. I looked in the mirror, and my face lit up, and not because of all that foundation I put on. I really did look beautiful, I really did.

She ran up to me and gave me a hug. Her arms wrapped around me all the way, with even more room. I hugged her back, but my arms did not wrap with space.

“Oh my! Brooke, these bikinis are so cute,” she said jumping up and down examining the swimwear, “I better give you some time to try these on! I will be outside just tell me if you need anything.”

After she left, I grabbed the first swimsuit off of the hanger. It was size XS to fit the physique I have worked so hard for. I easily slipped it onto my body with no problems at all. I glanced in the mirror to see my ribcage popping out from my skin. On top of my disgusting boney shoulders, were the straps of the swimsuit. My eyes moved towards the end of the bikini top to find a complete open layer between the rim of the bikini and my body. The bottoms I tried on kept slipping down as I constantly pull them back up. It was to big.

“Hey Eden,” I call out from the other side of the curtain, “uh, I need a smaller size I think.”

“An extra small is the smallest size they have,” she paused for a short minute, “Oh wait! They have a kids section, I will be right back.”

My head fell deep into my tiny hands and stayed there until she came back with the large selection of kids swimwear. I hadn’t shopped in the children's section of a store since I was 12, 5 years ago. I examined the flower and tribal printed bikinis, and I thought I might as well just give it a try. I grabbed one of the flower bikinis and slid it on. My physique was still small and bony, but the suit fit perfectly. I reached in the back to check the size. Size 10. I looked back into the mirror, and I noticed one of the lights in the dressing room had turned off, making it harder to see. I managed with the other one light to examine my suit. Disappointed in my lack of progress in the last few weeks I rolled my eyes in the mirror. Do I look at my ribs or the unnecessary layer of skin around it? At this point, I don’t even know.

“Hey B, how is it going in there,” I heard from right outside the dressing room.

“Oh, um, ya I think I am going to get this one for now,” I said back hesitantly.

“Let me come in and see,” she says tugging at the curtain. I quickly grap the other end and keep her from opening it, my face red, my heart fast. I push and push harder.

“What’s going on?,” she questions.

“Um, I like, um,” I panicked to think of an excuse, “I have already started changing and took my bikini off.” I looked in the mirror and shook my head at myself through my reflection.

“Oh my gosh! I do not know what I was thinking, I am so so sorry!,” she started, “How about I will go pay.”

I handed her the swimsuit, and she ran to the cashier line. I put on my baggy sweatshirt and long pants  to stop the freezing cold air conditioning the store provides. I started to walk out of the dressing room, but I turned and looked back one more time.  I shake my head unaware of what to think of myself. I quickly exit before any more thoughts of doubt entered my mind.

Summative: Social Issues Story

Summative for scene writing instructions below:

Turn in a digital copy of your final piece

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

You will design a cover page for your piece that hints at meaning or message. e.g. below:

Student Sample - How does yours compare?

Like glass eyes, my vision was locked to the screen. I scooted forward in my seat and leaned closer to the television as Aaron Rodgers, quarterback for the Green Bay Packers, raced across the field, dodging other players while holding a football. He crossed the goal scoring a touchdown! I was the first to stand up and cheer, my arms flailing around as if I had just scored the winning point for my team.

Well, at least that’s what I wished had happened. Instead, I watched as an army of muscular men dressed in chunky armor of bright colors battled furiously, comprehending nothing. Okay, maybe a bit like I knew the leather 3D rhombus is called a football (I think), but that’s pretty much it. You see ‘football’ isn’t my first language, in fact it’s not my second or third or fourth. Instead of trying to learn how to ‘speak’ football, I was focusing on some more important things. You see when you are someone like me, your priorities are just different.

As I was saying, I sat there on our cracked and stained, dark brown leather couch waiting until I could finally go back up to my room. I could feel my legs getting numb from sitting down so long, which is why I switched it up a bit and placed my right leg over my left. Ah, comfortable again.

But I immediately changed this when I saw how my older brother, Bart, was sitting. I studied the positioning of his legs, how he placed his arms and how much his head was tilted. Why am I doing this you may ask, well who else better to copy that Brawny Bart. You see Bart speaks fluent ‘football’ plus fluent baseball, soccer, hockey and pretty much any sport you can possibly imagine. Surprisingly, Bart doesn’t bother me about knowing how to speak effortless ‘kitchen’, but instead is especially supportive, especially during my Easy Bake Oven phase, or maybe this is just because he likes cookies. My parents on the other hand cannot stand it when I’m in the kitchen instead of out in the scorching sun, throwing some ball around. Which is why I am here watching this football game in the first place. After my careful analysis, I then uncrossed my legs and spread them out, placed my feet flat on the floor, draped one of my scrawny arms over my left leg and leaned forward just enough so that my elbow could rest on my right thigh as my chin rested on my knuckles.

How is this natural at all? I thought to myself as I awkwardly stared blankly into the screen.

My thoughts strayed away from the game, and instead drifted to what I was going to wear the next day- Ripped, baggy jeans beneath a dirty, navy shirt like Bart or my floral button-up shirt paired with navy short-shorts. In other words, sporty guy I want to be or me. Why is it so hard, don’t ask me. I hadn’t yet finalized my outfit before my thoughts turned back to the game.

Stop losing focus! The only way you can be more like Bart is to make sure you do what he does, if you aren’t paying attention how is anyone supposed to believe you? I scolded myself. I glanced at the timer at the top right hand corner of the screen. Only a few minutes left, thank jesus. The Green Bay whatever were behind by 5 points (I don’t understand football but I can still do math okay) and according to what Bart was muttering to himself, the only way they could still win is by scoring a touchdown (um what even?). But really, 6 points and less than 3 minutes left? No way.

That is where I was completely and utterly wrong.

I guess christmas miracles, I mean just miracles happen because with barely anytime left I watched as the brown pointed cylinder thing shot across the field like a bullet and landed right into the hands of a man dressed in white and green. Final score: 32-33.

Writing Craft Techniques: Participles - Leads - Figurative Language

Word Level - Addding adjectives like professionsal writers

Paragraph level - Craft moves to create openings

Language - Adding figurative techniques

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

Planning a Scene

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!”