Week 6 Prompt III

A picture postcard view and you hate it, because postcards belong to anyone with the money to buy one. If the tourists ever got past the obvious, they'd see what you see....

If someone came down our road, traversed the worn path to the turn, they would see rather a quaint spectacle. As the paved road turns aside, the woods rear up before the watcher, creating a nice spectacle. In the spring and summer, the verdure is flashing bright to the eye, in the fall, it is brilliant colors of the leaves that spring forth to the oculus, in the winter, the snow lays draped over the canopy, as if a fragile pure white blanket was laid across the forest, its rich but thin, silky fabric torn apart by the trees on which it lands.

But most casual observers would not go on past this snapshot, would not learn more about the history of the area. For the privileged and informed, such as myself, the road does not just curve on to the left. It also continues directly ahead, into the trees. For this was the original main road of the town of Winterport, several hundred years ago, as old as our house. Slipping through the trees, I discover the path, with a stream filtering through it, and the new "No trespassing" signs, that I disregard, having been put up by our neighbors across the street. During hunting season, occasionally people would be coming down here, but normally there is only our neighbor who owns the property, and one person who comes with his dog, named Bob. (Not sure which, think it might be the dog).

But following this path along, it curves through the trees, passing large boulders, and monstrous trees, left standing by the loggers who cleared a lot of the tinier trees out last year. I reach a large gate, with more no trespassing signs on it. The gate did not use to be there, and I hurtle it and continue down the oft traversed path of my childhood. My mother would lead my sister and I down here. I walk to a pit. There are debris inside. It is where a house used to be when this was the main street of Winterport. It is a little more buried than it was when we used to come down here, but it is still there. Farther on are some stones. Nearing them, they reveal themselves as headstones. Here is what used to be the main cemetery of the town. The names on it are faint, but legible, with years such as 1800 inscribed in the stone.

Turning away, I veer away past a rock wall, and to a stream. I follow the stream a good ways, as the sides of the banks gain continually upon their height, until the tops of the banks are near out of sight, towering above. I turn aside and scale it, and walk the rest of the way on the right bank. Eventually, the bank begins to slope down, and suddenly a vista of blue is opened up. It is the Penobscot River. Once, a dog we had, Jack, tumbled into the river, and had to be pulled out. I carefully descend to the shore for an unobstructed view. It is not much of a shore generally, as the water for the most part is right up to the sloping wall of loose dirt and trees. But the sight is amazing, as there is probably a 200 degree viewing radius of the river. On the other side are diminutive buildings, part of Brewer presumably. In the winter, the slippery slope of the bank becomes even slippery, as the waterfall that there is when there is extra rainwater freezes, into a thick slide all the way down. Not one I would want to try.

As I walk back onto the pavement, I think of how much anyone just looking at the trees from the outside misses. It is like an iceberg, the majority is below the surface.

Week 6 Prompt II

When you finally arrived it was nothing like you had imagined....

Sometimes, I know that how I imagine a place is not at all what it will be like when I get there. Yet I still entertain these fancies. For me, it is often not "When you finally arrived, it was nothing as you imagined", but instead, "Someday when I arrive there, it will be exactly as I knew it had to be though nothing as I imagined."

Namely, this for me is with foreign countries. The real appeal for me to foreign countries is just that. They are foreign, they're exotic. They are everything Maine is not. Don't get me wrong, I love Maine, and could not imagine living anywhere else but Maine. In the U.S. Besides maybe Vermont or New Hampshire. But anyhow, foreign countries are really the x factor for me. I don't know much about them besides what I have seen in pictures or heard about, and I have always wanted to really experience them.

Eventually, I started reading books from the early nineteen hundreds, and though I love the books, something else in them appealed to me, which was how alien the culture and such seem to me. Most of these books I read are set in Europe, and I read of the fancy clothing, the different cultures, and they just fascinate me in how different they are. And in my mind, I picture these places as exotic and foreign.

Unfortunately, there also is prominently in my head the knowledge that even Paris has probably dozens of McDonalds. And really, who would go to Paris for McDonalds? And my reason appeals to my logical self that these places would be dull and exactly like all the places over here that you've experienced, and you don't even have to cross over any oceans to go to McDonalds here. I respond that I have never been to McDonalds anyhow, and even though I know that these places are most likely to be typical of all places, overseas or not, it is too much like crushing a wonderful daydream to admit to myself that these places would be like that.

So forgive me for anticipating the prompts somewhat, but eventually I will go to these places I have imagined so much about, and even though I know that they likely won't live up to my standards of "exotic", I can still hope that I can locate some small place untouched- unsoiled, by the uncleanly and avaricious fingers of our unwholesome society.

Week 6 Prompt I

The safest place in the world is a somewhat difficult thing for me to determine. Safest from what? If it were the safest place in the world from earthquakes, then that would be a doorway. If it were the safest place in the world from tornadoes, then it would be the northeast corner of the basement. But if it were the safest place to avoid noise while I am doing homework at the college, it would have to be in the library.

When I first started taking classes at the college, I would sit in a place next to some vending machines that had basically a bunch of wild party people in the next room, and a constant thin stream of people shuffling by to their classes. It did not take me very long to figure out that I did not work well with much din at all, let alone as much as I was being subjected to. I set off to try to find a somewhat calmer place in the campus.

At first, the best I could locate was a bench outside, which worked fine during the early fall, when it was still at least twenty degrees or so, but if it got too cold then it wasn't very good for the laptop. So I ended up migrating like a bird in the face of the cold snow, to a warmer spot, namely, the library.

The library is cooler than a lot of the building, presumably to maintain the condition of the books, which I appreciate, being a mammal. Also, a library is synonymous with something I did not experience much next the vending machines: quiet.

I located a room in the library that is very quiet, that people do not really seem to know about since it is at the back. It is a room for books by Maine authors, with several chairs, and that is where I have done homework for the past two years.

And it is rather a paradox that the calmest place in the college is next to the Stephen King books.

Week 5 Prompt III Retry

(It is only evening, so I suppose that posting on a Sunday will be fine.)

The earth has moved under your feet, gloriously!--and nothing will ever be the same again

We arrived at the college at about 8:00. My english teacher had been fine with me missing a class, as was my calculus recitation teacher. So I had decided to spend the whole day at the GIS conference. My GIS teacher was there, ready to drive us down to Augusta.

"Hi!" he said. "Get in! It's a little bit of a mess, but-"

My sister Felicia promptly got into the back.

"Would it be easier if I sat in the front or back?" I queried him.

"Whichever's fine."

I assumed that usually people sit in the front seat, and that he would probably be happier driving someone in the front, and I was glad I had thought so. Because:

"Where's the seat belt?" Felicia asked.

"Oh, it's not there?" he asked. "It probably went behind the seat."

"I don't see it."

He went around and managed to get a hand on it, and after a minute of effort, was able to extricate the delinquent buckle from its location of concealment.

"Normally the dog sits back there, so sorry about all the fur," he said. "You're probably the first person to sit back there in a year."

We started off, and he asked me to put "Augusta Civic Center" into the GPS. I tried, but considering that I had never used one of them before, and such, I had a little difficulty, and once I did get it in, it did not recognize the civic center, so the teacher had to just drive by memory.

The drive down was interesting. He answered a multitude of questions from me for my isearch on GIS. We reached the civic center without many mishaps, and we were interested in some school buses outside. The teacher, because if they were there for our conference, then it would give the young people some interest in GIS; me, because if they were there for our conference, then that would mean a bunch of little kids running around. It turned out they were there for something else, and I was most probably the youngest person at the conference, as there were only about two other students there, the remainder were teachers from various colleges and high schools.

We met the other two members of our class inside, then left our GIS poster in the poster competition room on the wall, and attended all the various speeches. There was one about using colors in GIS that are friendly to color blind people, and another speech talking about GIS with respect to his internships and eelgrass or something, the person who gave it was in need of my speaking class, though the content was interesting. We went to the lunch, and voted for the GIS posters afterwards.

We went to a speech that turned out to be more for high school teachers, so naturally not so interesting to us. Then there was one on GIS as a study, that was quite interesting. Everyone then gathered in the main room where they announced that the winner of the undergraduate poster competition was EMCC. It might have helped that we could vote for our own poster, and that we had four people there already with the poster, but we were still delightedly ecstatic to have won the competition.

A few weeks later, we got to see our poster that we had all designed grace the college newspaper, on page 11 or something like that. But it was in there.

Week 5 Prompt III redo

You’ve lost It! Where is It?

We were doing our warm up at our baseball field before going to our away game. I was ten, and for the first time ever, I forgot my glove. I left it at the field, and did not notice until I got to the game that I was lacking the possession of a glove.

"Coach," I told one of them, "I think I left my glove in Winterport."

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Well let's see. I don't think we really have any extras. Are you sure you left it?"

"Yes, my mother is going back to get it."

"Missing a glove?" another coach asked.

"Yes, he left his at the field," the head coach replied.

"I've got mine," the assistant said, holding up his glove. "I don't know how much use it will be to you."

It was his own little league glove, that was probably about fifty years old. I put it on, and it was not just broken in, it was broken. It was so pliable that it was almost like silk. I went out and tried it though, and only missed a few ground balls. And we still won.

(I am totally at a loss as to what to use for the narrative topics. I don't know how well this one works, all the other ones just seemed half hearted once I finished them.)

Week 5 Prompt II MacGuffin catered to a little more.

I found out that I actually did not need the SAT's to go to EMCC, and that they would have no purpose to me at this point, but I took them anyways. After some difficulty in getting it in Bangor as opposed to New Hampshire, I went to take them.

I attempted to do the test in the uncomfortable one piece table and chair, and was surprised at how quickly I could get through it. I would have fifteen minutes left at least after completing each section and going back over it. I occupied myself during this time in collecting myself for the next section, and in observing the rest of the room.

The test was exeedingly regulated. The moderator could not say anything not from a prepared speech. Once the time for each section was running out, the moderator would stand up, and stare at the analog clock on the wall until the second hand concluded its minute. Then he would say "Pencils down." Also, if I was not doing a math section, then I had to have my calculator on the floor under my desk, though they did not explain how a calculator could assist you in doing English.

Throughout the test, I had occasionally noticed a queer humming noise. It was exceedingly loud, and I was surprised that no one else had noticed it. I had looked, but been unable to recognize the cause of the disturbance, and I assumed it must be the grate that was above the clock.

I finished the last section, and I determined to see if it was the grate. I watched it, as the noise was quite raucous at the time, and I could not see any reason the grate would be this noisy. Then I looked down, and realized that it was the clock. The second hand had gotten stuck on the minute hand, and was straining to continue past the slower moving restrictor. I looked around the room, and was shocked that everyone, including the moderator, was seemingly ignorant as to the drama unfolding above their heads. I was getting seriously concerned that the clock would break, when the second hand sprung free, and shot around the clock leaping at five second intervals, as if making up for lost time. It went around the clock in probably about ten seconds, and reached the minute hand again, latching on. The straining motor sound was probably as loud as a bus driving by our house, yet no one noticed it. The second hand broke away, and streaked back around, this time not hooking onto the minute hand, and eventually slowed down to its customary second or two per second.

At the end of the section, the moderator stood up, and waited for the second hand on the analog clock to reach exactly the minute mark, then said "Pencils down."

It was ridiculous to me that when this was so regulated, it was using such a seriously messed up clock. One of my teachers at EMCC told me that if someone had complained all of our scores could have been thrown out. I ended up with good scores, and because of them the college allowed me to take Mr. Goldfine's English class. So if I had not taken the SAT's, then I would not be writing this blog. And I have never seen another clock like that again, fortunately.

Week 5 Prompt III

18. The earth has moved under your feet, gloriously!--and nothing will ever be the same again

The Earth moved. Well, technically, the van moved that I was sitting in, but it moved gloriously in spite of its bedraggled and broken down appearance. My Senior League baseball team had won the state tournament, and we were heading down to the regional tournament in New Jersey. And we were going down not in a team bus like other teams most likely were, but in a rented van and the van of one of the player's fathers. We of course had chosen the twelve year old van.

We regretted it really quickly, as it had practically no air conditioning, while our gear in the other van was kept nice and cool. The van actually seated thirteen passengers, but we fortunately only had twelve players as one of our players took enough space for probably two and a half. We kept the two windows that opened wide open, but that did not assist us all too much. The majority of the seatbelts worked, but were not used all that much. The players predicted that we would be excited for an hour, then the adrenaline and excitement for the drive would wear off once we hit the highway, and everyone would sleep the rest of the way down. Fortunately, that did not happen for the most part, as it would have been a most boring ride down for me, as I definitely could not sleep.

The ride down was certainly highly enjoyable, as a dozen bored sixteen year old boys can generally come up with something interesting to occupy themselves with during a thirteen hour van ride. Like holding signs up in the window. The first sign that one of the players came up with said "F*g" on it. That one only lasted for a little while. The people outside probably could not see through the tinted glass windows, and hopefully no one would have taken it personally anyhow. The next one a player wrote said "Show me your titties." The other players had a lot of fun holding it up at old fat black guys who we were passing, and always thought it hilarious when someone looked.

The two adults who were driving, pretty much let the players do whatever they wanted, but eventually after probably eight hours or so told them not to use the sign anymore. We could not go above fifty because all the weight made the van sway back and forth and make it feel like it was about to tip over, or fall apart. Not to mention that the check engine light came on halfway down and stayed on for the duration of the trip.

After a few hours the van was a total mess of food and things all over the floor and seats. I lived on cinnamon gum. But altogether, I had much more fun riding down in that way, with the rest of the team, even without air conditioning, then it would have been otherwise. We took a 300 mile detour to avoid New York City, got into New Jersey, then realized that we could not get to where we needed to in New Jersey without going through NYC. It was fun, but it was nice to get there finally. And play a game the next day. Needless to say, we did rather poorly, and got to come back to nice not humid Maine.

And we made sure we rode in the new rented air conditioned van this time.

Week 5 Prompt II MacGuffin Accentuated

I found out that I actually did not need the SAT's to go to EMCC, and that they would have no purpose to me at this point, but I took them anyways. After some difficulty in getting it in Bangor as opposed to New Hampshire, I went to take them.

I attempted to do the test in the uncomfortable one piece table and chair, and was surprised at how quickly I could get through it. I would have fifteen minutes left at least after completing each section and going back over it. I occupied myself during this time in collecting myself for the next section, and in observing the rest of the room. Something that I was interested in was that I kept hearing a humming noise. It was exceedingly loud, and I was surprised that no one else had noticed it. I had looked, but been unable to recognize the cause of the disturbance, and I assumed it must be the grate that was above the clock.

I finished the last section, and I determined to see if it was the grate. I watched it, as the noise was quite raucous at the time, and I could not see any reason the grate would be this noisy. Then I looked down, and realized that it was the clock. The second hand had gotten stuck on the minute hand, and was straining to continue past the slower moving restrictor. I looked around the room, and was shocked that everyone, including the moderator, was seemingly ignorant as to the drama unfolding above their heads. I was getting seriously concerned that the clock would break, when the second hand sprung free, and shot around the clock leaping at five second intervals, as if making up for lost time. It went around the clock in probably about ten seconds, and reached the minute hand again, latching on. The straining motor sound was probably as loud as a bus driving by our house, yet no one noticed it. The second hand broke away, and streaked back around, this time not hooking onto the minute hand, and eventually slowed down to its customary second or two per second.

At the end of the section, the moderator stood up, and waited for the second hand on the analog clock to reach exactly the minute mark, then said "Pencils down."

One of my teachers at EMCC told me that if someone had complained all of our scores could have been thrown out. I ended up with good scores, and because of them the college allowed me to take Mr. Goldfine's English class. So if I had not taken the SAT's, then I would not be writing this blog. And I have never seen another clock like that again, fortunately.

Week 5 Prompt II

You go on a journey.

My father had determined that it was necessary for me to take the SAT's to enter EMCC, and I did not find out until I was already registered from an official at the college that the SAT's were unnecessary and would not do a thing for me at this point. I was half-disposed to not take them, as I had some trepidation.

My sister had taken the GED's, and had gotten ridiculously good scores on them, but the SAT's were a whole other species. They were much harder, and the study books I got said things like: "Go in with a target score. Say that you want a 1500. Then only attempt to answer 40 of the fifty problems." Then why the heck are there fifty if it is not for me to attempt them all? I went in with the mindset of attempting every problem unless I didn't have a good idea on how to solve it.

Originally, I had been scheduled as having the SAT in some place like Scarborough on the very border of Maine and New Hampshire, at nine in the morning. It was changed to Bangor High School. I was uncomfortable going there, but I entered, and received the number of the classroom I would take it in. I was one of the first ones there, and the moderator took my ticket, and checked my calculator to ensure that it was an acceptable model. We waited, and people came in, but about half of the classroom was still empty when we started, and the moderator guessed that a school bus of kids had not made it.

The desks were the worst I have ever experienced, in that the chair was attached to the table. This meant I could only squeeze into it from one side, and it made it difficult for me to sit comfortably. The chair only went halfway up my back, and via the attachment from the chair to the table on the right arm side I had virtually nowhere to rest my arm comfortably. I had the feeling that the chairs were designed for kindergartners.

We worked on the SAT's, and I was pleased with the rapidity with which I was able to do the work, in spite of the uncomfortable situation. Instead of leaving off ten questions like the books suggested, I would go all the way through, answering every single one, and check them all over for mistakes, and even after that there was not a section that I had less then fifteen minutes to collect myself before the next one.

It was ridiculously regulated, with the moderator reading a prepared speech all the way through. We had to have our calculators on the floor underneath the table when we were not doing a math section, though I do not know how a calculator could assist anyone with English. It was randomized so some people would do a math section while someone else did a reading one. And there was a dummy section, randomly selected that did not count to your grade. So if I did really well in a writing section, and it was the best I did in the test, but it was selected as the random dummy section, then obviously it would affect my final grade.

The SAT books I had read prior to the test also apparently expected SAT takers to write their essay out in one burst directly onto the grading sheet. With no notes. The SAT do provide a sheet for notes, but no one apparently used it. I did, and the moderator checked to make certain that I knew that it would not be graded in the notes page. I wrote it on the notes, made changes, then copied it to the answer sheet. And I finished the 25 minute essay with a little over five minutes to spare.

My nose started running near the end, which made the last few sections even more uncomfortable, as I had no tissues. I ended up only omitting two questions in the entire SAT, in the math section. Throughout the test, I continued occasionally hearing a quite noisy humming sound. After the last section, I was waiting twenty minutes for the SAT to end, and I recognized the sound again. Before, when I had heard the disturbance, I had only glanced up and assumed that it was the ventilation grate or something of that sort over the clock. I determined to see what it was this time, and studied the grate from my chair, unable to see anything with the grate to make it sound like that. I looked a little lower, and realized that it was the analog clock below the grate that was emitting the offending sound. The second hand was caught on the minute hand. It strained, and was trying to keep going, yet was hooked. It finally broke free, and motored around the face of the clock at leaps of five seconds, until it reached the minute hand again after only about ten seconds. It hooked on it again, and strained at its bonding hand. I glanced over at the moderator, who apparently was not noticing the drama above his head. The second hand broke free again, and did not hook on the minute hand again for the remainder of the test, but it had probably done it ten times or so over the course of the test.

It was ridiculous to me that when this was so regulated, it was using such a seriously messed up clock. The moderator would use his cell phone so that he would get a general idea of when he needed to look at the clock, then he would stand up and stare at the clock until the second hand reached the top, then he would say "Pencils down." One of my teachers at EMCC informed me that if someone had noticed the clock and complained about it, then all of our scores would probably have been thrown out.

As it was, I ended up with an overall score of 1930. And because of my servicable writing and reading scores, (630 and 690 respectively), the EMCC officials allowed me to take ENG-101 with Mr. Goldfine. And if I had never had Mr. Goldfine, then I would not be writing this blog. So all in all, I do not regret taking the test at all. And I am thankful that no one complained about the clock.

Week 5 Prompt I

We name the guilty man!

I was attending the awards ceremony at the University of Maine at Orono, again. I had partaken in the math competition, and obviously had placed as I had done the couple previous years. My sister was there as well, and we were all shown around the college, shown different programs and things going on. There were all sorts of experiments and things. Then we got to a room with robotics. The teacher had a Ph D., and showed us all of the robots, like a robot that played chess, that was finicky and generally did not work. Then he showed us the large towering robot in the corner.

"Who wants to try it?" he asked.

All of the other students were apparently all from one high school, of the "I'll just hang at the back with my head down and hope nobody notices me" variety. Since no one else was willing, my sister and I volunteered, and went up to the robot. Other graduate students who had worked on these projects were looking on.

"It took us a long time to get this one to work," the teacher informed us.

It was a large arm anchored in a larger base, reaching up towards the ceiling.

"Here is the remote control. You press this button to turn it left, this for right."

I looked up at the monstrosity I was about to operate. I pressed the button to turn right for a moment, then let go, and pressed the stop button. Sure enough, the machine registered it, and turned exceedingly slowly to its left. Unfortunately, it did not register that I had released the button and pressed stop. The arm turned, and being in the corner of the wall, it reached it and attempted to continue through the wall.

"Turn it off!" the teacher shouted.

"It won't!" I exclaimed.

I thrust the controller into his hands, happily ridding myself of it, and he frantically pressed the stop button repeatedly, and nothing happened.

"Turn it off, turn it off, turn it off!" Felicia screamed, jumping up and down.

The arm was pressing into the wall. We could hear the parts straining, as it inevitably used its incomparable strength against the brick wall.

The teacher, seeing that all efforts at the controls were futile, dove down to the floor, and unplugged the robot. It halted. There was pitch silence.

"I did not mean to do that," I commented.

The robot would be fine, nothing was broken, and it was obviously a glitch on the controller, that the button got stuck. One that apparently was in need of repair. I ended up finding out that I was first place for my grade later in the day, but I think the incident with the robot was the most memorable experience of the day for me.

Week 4 Prompt III

Wishing? Lying? Dreaming? Dancing? Boxing? Cooking? What is writing like for you?

English to me, is like early twentieth century espionage.

In the commencement of the nineteen hundreds, espionage is a critical, yet underappreciated, and sometimes unknown aspect of life. The same is true with writing now, some people do not realize just how wonderfully potent the magic of words can be. Both old time espionage and current writing are crucial to a person's well-being, in my opinion, and life without either would be dry to say the least. A good majority of people never actually perform all that much of either. Most people a hundred or so years ago got to practice some diminutive and minute manner of espionage in the form of their countless daily subterfuges and sneaking about.

And now with English, all people write some English in the course of their academic career. Yet for both of these, the people experiencing them only get to see the very top of these fields. If they dive down deeper into these, inditing, and clandestine activities, then and only then do they finally begin to appreciate the deepness these subjects truly are in possession of. The adventure that both brings to the practicer are immeasurable, the enjoyment in exercising such wonderful arts is simply delightful, and the pure, unalterable feeling of doing something wonderful is always with me, as I write.

But I much prefer English to espionage, as I prefer not to be in constant fear of my life being attempted.

Week 4 Prompt II

You have a friend, lover, s.o., parent, whomever--and you have a magic potion. Once they take it they will tell you the absolute truth for one minute. Who do you give it to and what do they say?

I have a dear friend, who I would love to understand, yet who, when speaking to me, still is not quite able to draw me into their world, to let me see what they see, through their eyes. And since this magic potion would make them be able to "Tell me the absolute truth" for one minute, I would give it to this friend of mine, my dog, Della. And she would explain to me exactly what it is like to see the world from her eyes, only a few feet off of the ground, her unique perspective on life. She would inform me how it feels to her to only see so much of the world, whether she would appreciate some form of education, which is required for human children who I do not see as being much more intelligent that Della is. She would explain her absolute devotion to people, and whether she would prefer to be free, running through the trees. Whether she misses such things that she has missed, and whether she resents her captivity, and basic slavery.

And then I look over at Della, who is smiling at me, wagging her tail ecstatically at the mere sight of me. And I realize that I do not need the potion after all.

Week 4 Prompt I

Somebody just offered me the chance to get paid for gassing on about one of my favorite topics: dogs. What would you like to be paid to talk about?

That is a difficult choice. There are so many things I would enjoy discoursing on.

One would definitely be authors I read. I read many early nineteen hundreds authors, and enjoy it greatly. Upon this subject my verbosity is unlimited. Jeffery Farnol writes wonderfully nice books on life, and conversations that would seem trivial to other people, yet he fills many pages of the book with fascinating conversations. One of his favorite ways to start a book is to have the character living in luxury, leave, setting off with very little money, walking down the dirt road. And, Farnol created his favorite character, and mine, Jasper Shrig, a Bow Street runner, with a severe London accent so that he interchanges his "W"s and "V"s, and calls himself Jarsper. And he is able to tell if a person is going to get murdered or murder someone by seeing their face once. And has a booklet where he writes down the names of all these people and other information on them.

And there are other authors I love, like E. Phillips Oppenheim, who often writes about the World Wars, while the first one is happening, and only three years after the Armistice predicting the second one to start only four years before it did. And Albert Payson Terhune, who wrote about his collies, and other books, all of which I found fascinating.

But there are so many other subjects I would love to be paid to exercise my loquaciousness on. Like music, and the bands I like; like Linkin Park, with a rapper and a lead singer who screams a lot during their songs; and Edward Maya, a Romanian singer who makes dance or club songs with flutes and accordions. And Owl City, who does synthpop music, who is finally making his albums from somewhere other than his parent's basement.

Or, I probably would like to talk about GIS, which I am taking, that is fascinating to me. Gauging the damage caused by natural disasters, constructing weather prediction models, making maps, and all sorts of other endless things I would talk about, paid or not. Actually, I will be paying to talk about them this semester in my speaking class. But altogether, I think that after writing this, I would really love to be paid to talk about what I would love to be paid to talk about.

Week 4 Theme Part 1: Fully Veracious Version

I walked from the computer back to the shelf, with one of Edward Maya's songs playing through my mind. Yes, if the book's title really did commence with a "Q", then it was not there. I went back to the computer. Yes, it was "The Quest for Winter Sunshine", by E. Phillips Oppenheim, and it says that it does belongs to this library, and that it is in stacks. And there certainly was no "Q" book on the shelf for Oppenheim. My mother walked over, and she could not find it either. I saw a librarian reshelving books.

"Hi, I'm looking for a book that I can't find," I said, "Could you help me?"

"Oh certainly."

She went to the shelf where Oppenheim's books were, and I directed her to the books. She looked, and could not locate it either.

"I'll go look in the card catalog," she said. I surmised that she must still be in possession of that habit from when the library used to have a catalog of cards for the books. We went back to the computer, and I noticed a door in the wall. I didn't think it could lead anywhere, as that was the edge of the wall on the third story. The librarian went to the computer, that actually still had the book up from when I was searching for it.

"Oh! That's what it is!" she exclaimed, "It's a nonfiction book."

"Oh!" I unintentionally imitated, "I didn't know he wrote any nonfiction books! Thank you."

I went into the nonfiction stacks area of the library, which I had hardly explored as of yet, and I located the nonfiction book by my favorite author.

Week 4 Theme Part 2: Mostly Veracity Version

I walked to the shelf, my Ipod playing Edward Maya in my ears. Yes, if the book's title really did commence with a "Q", then it was not there. I checked on my smart phone. Yes, it was "The Quest for Winter Sunshine", by E. Phillips Oppenheim, and it said that it belongs to this library. And it is in stacks. And since I could not locate the book in the Q spot for Oppenheim, I located a librarian instead, reshelving books. She was trying to put the book on the top shelf, so I assisted her in accomplishing that feat.

"Now that that book is reshelved, could you help me find another one I'm looking for?" I asked.

"Certainly," she replied.

She went to the shelf next to us where Oppenheim was (figuratively speaking), and turned to me.

"I can't see it either! I wonder where it could have gotten to?"

"I checked it on the catalog earlier."

"Oh, good idea, let's look again," she said.

I handed my smartphone to her, and she looked at the book.

"Oh! This has NF next to it. For the life of me, I can't remember what that means."

"Nonfiction, perhaps?" I suggested.

"Oh yes! Nonfiction! It's in the nonfiction section of course, that's why it wasn't on the fiction shelf!"

"Oh! Thank you. I didn't know he wrote any non-fiction books."

"Oh, don't thank me. See you around!"

I walked to go get the book from the non-fiction section, and noticed a door in the wall that was open. It led out of the wall and outside. I did not wish to think what it led out to, as we were five stories up. I went away, and located the book with minimal difficulty.

Week 4 Theme Part 3: What the Heck? Version

I was walking in stacks with my friend Edward Maya, who was singing one of his songs softly to himself. I don't think that singing is allowed in a library's stacks, but who cares? We reached the shelf, and I checked it. Yes, there was no "Q" book there for Oppenheim. I checked my Obama quality blackberry. Yes, the book was entitled "The Quest for Winter Sunshine," by E. Phillips Oppenheim, and it was in stacks in this library. I turned to my very own personal librarian, who had been trailing behind at a discreet distance.

"Where is 'The Quest for Winter Sunshine'?" I queried.

"It is a non-fiction book," she responded.

"Where is it?"

"In our new, renovated non fiction center," she said, pushing open a door in the wall. There was a plank leading out to a door in the opposite door, with nothing but air between us and the ground thirty stories below.

"We plan to have this fully wheel chair accessible, but for now, we apologize for the work in progress," she said.

Edward Maya looked up.

"You might want to not look down."

"Thank you."

They laid a red carpet over the plank, which still did not make it much more appealing. I sprang across, and they followed presently, though I went back to help the librarian over. We entered the non fiction section, and I walked to the centerpiece book of the room.

"Shouldn't this be in the fiction section?" I asked, holding up the book, which was written by me.

"Oh no, it is such an epic book that we put it in each section of the library as the centerpiece so that everyone can get to see it."

"Thank you."

"Aren't you going to get the Oppenheim one you were looking for?"

"Thank you, but I just realized that I can just borrow a signed copy from my friend, Oppenheim's Great Great Grandson. Thank you all very much."

And I went off in my personal hovercraft.

Theme Week 3

"It is a success speech. You will give a one minute speech on a great success you have had, and you will bring up a symbol of it. You cannot have any notes."

My communications teacher always has interesting conversations. Generally on the speeches, though she often does digress slightly.

"It is due next class."

I got the speech, went up, and the combined fluorescent lights, headache, and terror of public speaking made me have one of those times when I have no clue what I am doing, saying, or seeing. I had no clue what I was doing or saying, but came back to myself in time to realize that I had not shown my symbol. I did that, and concluded it somehow or other, and headed back to my seat.

"I didn't lose consciousness," I commented to the person next to me.

"What?"

"I stayed conscious the whole time. That was more than I expected."

The teacher gave me my grade. I had gotten 76/80, and had spoken for 1:43, and did not remember a single second of it.

"Good speech," the teacher said, "Good hook. Congratulations. Lightning!"

"Lightning? Did I talk about lightning?"

I recollected my topic however, and hoped that I actually be there for the next speech. Because I certainly was not this time.

Week 2 Prompt II not Humorous

Those who forget history are forced to relive it, first as tragedy, then as farce.

Playing football with myself is quite interesting. Especially when I never learn. I play football with myself outside in the winter, and it appears that there are some things that I will never learn. Firstly, I landed on my right elbow pretty hard once. So, I did not learn from that, I went out later and did it again. Until eventually it developed a sort of perpetual sore bruise, lasting for months, getting reaggravated as I was constantly landing on it. So then, since that was not enough, I had to land on my right knee instead. I ignored it, and it developed into pretty much the same thing. So then, I had to complete the trifecta, sliding along the ice and ramming my right hand into an outjuting protuberance of ice a couple of days ago. It had only been my palm, and with a little effort, I could still touch my pinky finger with my thumb, so I went out two days later, and landed on my hand, elbow, and knee repeatedly. I know I will not stop to let them fully heal while there is still snow and ice outside. I will just try to be a little more careful next time. And try not to start in on the left side.

(I was obviously too concerned about the farce part of the prompt before. Does this work better?)