My bug bite disasters have been the closest thing I've got to getting hurt (knock on wood)...once I got bitten on my ankle and I couldn't even walk, it was so painful...but that's another story for...another time...?
It was just another day at the Zoo. Well, maybe not just another day because we were going to sleep over at night. Just so you know and to put it into context, I was there for a summer camp. So yeah, fast forward to that night. We were playing man hunt in Africa - the whole lot of us that were sleeping over - and I got so into the game that I thought it was smart to hide in these bushes. Mind you, it was at night, so I couldn't really see a thing. Maybe except for those mosquitoes or other related bugs that kept flying around my face. The game was done, and I got out. My eyelids started to feel itchy...I don't know what compelled me to do it but I put specks of bug spray just above my eyes. We played another game, went to sleep, everything was great! Until the next morning when I woke up with my eyes basically swollen shut. I'm quite allergic to bug bites - some chemical thing my body doesn't like - so...every time I get bit, that area just swells. Both my eyelids had been bitten by some bug. I had to spend the rest of the day putting ice on both eyes, making walking around the zoo and doing things quite difficult. I looked like a...I don't even have a word? But I looked bad...maybe even slightly funny to others. Even better, had to attend my grandfather's big, surprise 80th birthday the following night looking like some kind of alien...
My bug bite disasters have been the closest thing I've got to getting hurt (knock on wood)...once I got bitten on my ankle and I couldn't even walk, it was so painful...but that's another story for...another time...?
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When she says the word "math" in an English course...you expect many groans in the room because...it's math.
There are four types of students. One: the business, two: the social sciences, three: the languages and the arts, and four: the maths and sciences. Me, you could call me a well-rounded student except for...I'm not a maths and science person at all. The only times I've ever gotten 70s on my tests and completely bombed my quizzes. Math. What's funny is that I used to understand it - 100% average first term, grade 6, ending the year with...like...a 96%; math award in grade 4 - yeah, I used to be pretty decent at math until they added letters into the numbers. It just went downhill after that. Barely above 60% on my grade 10 math exam, barely an 80 average in the course for grade 11...but come grade 12, my brain has been thanking the Heavens! NO MORE FUNCTIONS! I'm taking what some may call the "easy math course", but I call it the "different math course". Data management. The useful math (like really, when would you need to calculate the sine, cosine, and tangent of a triangle in your everyday life?). My brain just isn't hardwired for numbers and logic. But data is an exception...so far. For once in my life, I actually enjoy math. But if I really had a choice...I'd still go for the arts :) underneath the starry sky of the forlorn night a single lonesome wanderer journeys on trekking, encompassed with a cloak of blue in search for his true love seeking to find this love hidden deep within in good time a deleterious and intricate thing it be, time its occurrence shifting from day to night acquainted with the clock ticking within the wanderer journeys on surviving solely on the thought of love he meanders into the blue once in a moon of blue appearing as the interlude of time the sky uncloaks herself - his one true love a failure to recognize this union of the night the wanderer continues to journey on seeking to find this love hidden deep within the outcry of his feelings within are nothing but coloured blue the gleam of the sun has gone on a once upon a time for journeying on, he will, through the night until he finds that love where the Northern Star points: love telling him to evolve the language within and speak to the night ridding him of feelings of blue stars fall, a race against time the wanderer must cease to journey on with such ignorance, sorrow will carry on unless he locates that love before the termination of time obliged to search within to extract the blue born amidst the forlorn night journeyed on; failed to search within for love, his heart transmuted to a midnight blue time stops; heart swallowed by the night I wish to write a poem
But I don't have a rhyme. Not the faintest idea I have To dwell on in this time. The drama class I came from, My mind dumped on the page. Not the faintest idea I have To put up on the stage. My stomach hurts. This means I'm stressed. About what, I do not know. I look out the window and one thing's for sure: There's just too much snow! Oh lookie here, I've got a poem Although it's not too great. The first of its kind, it is, so... I guess I shall not hate. A rock. An ovular piece of granite; streaks of rose bring beauty to the ashen surface. The surface, smooth to the touch, yet also rough. Hinting at its inner wealth, the crystallized particles shimmer under the light. Sturdy and weighty, just another rock in the road. Unnoticed. Found nearly anywhere, it is ignored by all those passing. Just one of many more rocks, nothing special. locking the path, a burden to some, unintentionally hurting others from a dramatic kick. This granite rock, the outside seemingly dull, boring, and just like any other rock, bears great beauty within; great value. With the proper techniques, the shine from the inside will come through; its value immediately increased. One just has to be willing to work at the rock, patiently, to reveal the value within.
I come from the many layers of coziness that sleep on the bed in which I wake in the early morning. 7:00 AM, not too early. Following the same old repetitive schedule of minty toothpaste to scents of bitter orange blossom (a grand fragrance, by the way), back into the coziness I crawl. Just another 10 minutes, nothing much. Family - parents and dog - already chattering and barking away during the rising of the sun...sometimes I just wish they would be quiet...but I keep to myself and go on with the schedule. At times, tired and introverted, other times, full of life and extroverted. That is how I come to school and approach my friends at what we call the "Asian Corner" (because...well...we always hang out there). At this very moment, this second, heck this millisecond, I come from a writer's block. Mind and soul detached from the skull, my head is not there. Unable to formulate thoughts.
Nothing. ( In the storm she felt whole. With the rain she became one. Under the umbrella a safe house to her misery no more she poured her heart. ) The pitter-patt of the rain beats in time to the thick timbre of the thunder as it echoes endlessly miles and miles. Overhead the maestro lifts his wand; the leaden clouds motif and the drone of the rainstick prolonged. Drops of diamonds from the celestial skies of Heaven briskly dance the dance of a pluviophile. ( Rain like traces of tears
soundlessly seep into the earth unnoticed. In the storm she felt whole. With the rain she became one. ) ~ c. L'amour prend patience,
(we who wait endlessly for "the one") L'amour rend service. (we who take our gifts and give) Il ne jalouse pas, (they who are thankful and blessed) Il ne se vante pas. Il ne s'enfle pas d'orgueil. (they who humble themselves) Il ne fait rien de malhonnête, (they who tell the truth) Il ne cherche pas son intérêt, (they who are selfless) Il ne s'emporte pas. Il n'entretient pas de rancune. (they who forgive and forget) Il ne se réjouit pas de ce qui est mal. (they who show compassion) Mais il trouve sa joie dans ce qui est vrai. Il excuse tout, Il fait confiance en tout. (we who take a strong stance) Il espère tout, Il endure tout. (we who pray for the betterment of the world) L'amour ne disparaît jamais. (Together, we will show the world what love is) -- 1 Corinthians 13 : 4-8 A story I wrote for my school's October writing contest: Venerate the Villain. I wasn't planning on entering, since I don't enjoy writing short stories (I don't have the patience for it and it's more difficult to express your feelings in short stories than in poetry), but as a Writer's Craft student, I had to. So...here's my not-so-great short story, venerating the Evil Stepmother and Evil Stepsisters from Cinderella. Once upon a time, in a small town in France, there lived a king and a queen. The queen had just given birth to her first child – a precious baby boy by the name of Henri. Watching over Henri’s birth was the queen’s older sister, Agathe. Now, on the outside, she appeared to care much for her younger sister, but on the inside, she truly despised her. She was jealous that the king had chosen to marry her younger sister rather than her, the eldest daughter of their family. And now her sister had given birth to the country’s newest prince and soon-to-be king. Prior to Henri’s birth, Agathe had tried countless times to sabotage her sister’s pregnancy, but was always unsuccessful, though nobody ever suspected her. Eventually, she caught the flu and passed away, but not before she married a wealthy merchant and gave birth to a daughter of her own. Agathe had a pair of glass slippers in her possession – the only pair in the world. As a family heirloom, it has been passed down to the eldest daughter in the family for generations. And now, it belonged to Agathe’s daughter. Cinderella.
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Authori am just an ordinary teenage girl. my name and whereabouts are unimportant. this is my story. all written work is original unless credited. Archives
June 2014
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