If the Slipper Fits, Part 2

Part 2

Preparing

I ran up to my room, not minding manners along the way: Not being dismissed from the table,  not lifting my dress to go up the stairs, and of course, the biggy, not walking. But who cares? I’m going to Italy!


I arrived in my room, frantic to get everything packed as soon as possible. A suitcase, that’s the first step. I go to my closet, then started throwing things around, excited to find one. I slowed down, knowing something was wrong. I then stopped.


“Why am I looking for a suitcase? I’ve never been out of the house, and never planned on it, so why would I have a suitcase?” I said aloud.


I headed back downstairs, this time following all the rules applied in the castle because I wasn’t in such a hurry.


“Does anyone have a suitcase I could borrow?” I asked pathetically.


“I was wondering about that,” my mother replied with a grin on her face, “look in the closet next to the restroom.”


I ran back up the stairs, yes, I ran, and swung the door to the closet open. Just as mother had said, a suitcase sat before me. I grabbed it, then rushed into my room to get my things packed.


I opened my closet, grabbing all of my dresses, shirts, skirts, and trousers. I folded them all in half once, then once more. It resembled a ball. Knowing that I was hopeless, I whistled for one of my servants.


A tall man with a shiny bald head rushed in with his navy blue uniform fresh and tidy. He bowed before me, then asked, “Yes, Madam?”


“Do you know how to pack a suitcase?” I asked him.


“Of course, dear lady. May I ask what for?” he politely asked.


“My Aunt Darla and Uncle Robert are taking me to Rome. I think it will be a great time!”


“Yes, yes it will! What would you like to bring, ma’am?” he questioned.


“I would like a few of my ballgowns, a swimming suit, sunglasses, sandals, nail polish, sundresses, all of my cellular telephone cases, yes, all, and some sunblock. I would also like my swimming suit cover-up, some facial cream, and some cucumbers to put over my eyelids while I am resting with the cream on my face. I think that will be it. If there is anything you think I am forgetting, please pack it anyways,” I instructed.


I left the room, leaving my servant to pack my things. I glided back down the stairs, taking my seat once again at the table.


“Shouldn’t you be packing?” Aunt Darla asked me.


“No, I realized that I should leave the expert to the job rather than me. If you saw how I started off, you would agree, then whistle for him for me,” I explained.


“Sounds good,” mother told me.


There was a long moment of silence that seemed to go on forever, all because no one had anything to say.


“Nice weather we’re having,” I said. There were some mumbles of agreement among me, making it noticeable that I, along with everyone else, ran out of words to say.


I then heard a sound come from upstairs, a bell-like sound. I trot up the stairs once more, knowing I already got my daily workout from going up and down those stairs.


I arrived in my room, and sure enough, the servant was finished packing up my things. I glanced at his suit, and there was a name tag sewn on saying that his name is “Farfal”. Farfal. That’s an interesting name.


“Thank you,” I told Farfal.


“Anything for you, ma’am,” he replied. He then bowed, then left the room.


I plop onto my bed, staring at the ceiling. I watched as the blades of the fan spun round and round, making me dizzy. I sat up, then shook my head to get the dizzy feeling out. 

“Isabelle, we are leaving! We will see you at 4am sharp,” Aunt Darla yells up the stairs.

“Goodbye!” I replied.

I glanced over at my clock, seeing that it was already 21:08. I decided that I should probably get to bed. I put on my dressing gown and fell back into my bed, then shut my eyes as I fell asleep.

* * * * * * * *

I heard a knock on my bedroom door. I looked over at my clock, noticing it was already 3:30.

“Dear? I think you should get up. You need to get some breakfast in you and get ready before your Aunt and Uncle get here,” my mother whispered through the door just loud enough for me to hear it and not my sleeping father.

I blinked hard several times, then sat up. I slowly did a little zombie walk down the stairs, then made my way into the kitchen.

“What’s for breakfast?” I asked our personal chef, Carmine.

“A fresh egg white sandwich with cilantro and my signature sauce,” Carmine told me with his thick Italian accent.

I licked my lips at the sound of my breakfast that I would soon be eating. It was already starting to smell like perfection, as Carmine’s dishes always are. He quickly brushed through his English moustache, then continued on his cooking.

“Isabelle? I am in the living room,” my mother said.

I made my way into the living room, finding my mom sitting on the couch. She looked very sleepy with bags under her eyes and still having a bed head.

“How are you this morning?” she asked me.

I replied, “I can’t wait to go. I am shaky!”

“Breakfast!” Carmine shouted. He stuck his head around the corner of the room, then chuckled.

I walked into the dining area as I was served my breakfast. An egg white sandwich with cilantro and Carmine’s signature sauce was my favorite thing to eat, and I wanted something that I would remember from home before I left for Italy.

I dug in, completely ignoring the fact that I was a princess and needed to use my manners. I gulped down my orange juice, then patted my mouth with the crimson napkin that sat beside me. I stood up, then turned to go upstairs to dress myself.

What to wear, what to wear, I thought to myself. I couldn’t look scrubby, but I didn’t want to look too 

over the top. I grabbed one of my sundresses, then threw it on. I walked over to the mirror, then looked at myself. I decided that this would do. Then, I put on some earrings and a nice necklace. I brushed through my blonde curls with my fingers, then pulled it all over one shoulder. I nodded in agreement with myself, then walked out the door after slipping on some sandals.

The doorbell rang. They’re here!

If the Slipper Fits, Part 1

Author’s Note: About three days ago, I started this piece, not knowing if it would be a very strong piece or not. I started to write, wondering if I should continue. I got about a page in, then got sucked in. I kept on going, and realized that it would be a nice piece. During this piece, I was hoping to accomplish improving my vocabulary and dialog structure.

I stared out the window, hoping that one day I would have the chance to step outside, feel the fresh breeze blow through my hair, and the soft grass tickle between my toes. But no. I’m a princess, so a chance like that is hopeless. Why even try if you know you will fail?

I turned and walked back to my love seat, then kicked my feet up over the arm. If my father was in the room, I would be grounded for eternity for doing so. But I am already, so I guess it’s eternity and a half.

I took a deep breath in, then sighed. Why is it me that’s locked up here? I just don’t understand. I shook my head, then decided I was already uncomfortable in my new position. I started to pace around the room, stopping to look in the mirror several times. And no, I was not one of those princesses that are so full of themselves that they have to look in the mirror just for enjoyment, I just need to look nice for dinner.


There was a knock on the door, and I jumped from the change of silence to pounding.


“Isabelle? Come down for dinner, dear,” my mother quietly said through the door.


“Coming!” I shouted back. I started to go for the door, then turned and brushed through my long, blonde hair once more. I opened the oak door, revealing a well decorated hall filled with portraits lined with gold, paintings lined with gold, and of course, doors lined with gold. Yes, my family was rich. Nothing to hide that.


I picked up my pink satin dress, then tip-toed down the marble stairs which led to the main room. 

With each step, my glass slippers clicked on the hard stone.


“Isabelle, my darling! How are you?” my aunt Darla asked me as she came running up to me, arms outstretched for a hug. Her blue powdered wig bounced with every step she took.


“Just fine. How are you?” I asked her.


“Perfect, dear. Oh! I seem to have smeared your mascara when I hugged you. Let me get that for you,” she gasped. She started wiping under my eyes. I was tempted to slap her away, but everyone knew that wouldn’t go over well. Once she was finished, she told me, gesturing an arm towards the table, “Sit, Sit! Make yourself at home.”  Funny thought, actually. I was at home.


Aunt Darla was a perfect woman hid behind a mask of makeup. She has done so many things to support the community, donating her time, money, and belongings. Many years ago, and I mean many years ago, she was woman of the year here in Glearville. But, she was so caught up in all of the posters of her, portraits, and fame that she decided to make a new her, resulting in huge ballgowns, powdered wigs (a new color each day), and walls of makeup slammed onto her face. Fortunately, this did not change her personality even a tad, but she was unrecognizable with her new look.


My father sat at the head of the table, then off to his right was my Uncle Robert. His monocle sat over his right eye, and his greying hair and moustache sat just perfectly after mounds of grease combed were through it. The wrinkles and grey hair made him looked more aged than he actually was.


“So, Joseph,” Aunt Darla started towards my father, “we were thinking of taking a trip to Rome, Italy, Robert and I. It will be a great experience, yes?” Her British accent was heavy, along with everyone else in the household. “We were wondering if Isabelle would like to come with.”


I almost spat out my dumpling, so surprised by the offer. I stared at my father, hoping for a brief yes.


“Now,” he began, “ why would you like to take my dear Isabelle along with you? She has never even been outside, much less out of the kingdom. I don’t think she is ready for a big event like this.” My heart sagged.


“I believe this would be good for her. She needs to get out of the castle every once in a while. Never being outside? Joseph, you have to let her off the chain sometime soon. No child deserves to be locked inside a castle for their whole life,” she explained, “and how come she is not allowed outside?”


I saw the pressure in my father’s eyes, knowing that I was sitting there, and even I haven’t a clue.


“It started when I was a young boy. I decided that I would go outside for a walk in the woods when my mother wasn’t looking. I walked outside, then made my way into the forest. I was a couple of steps in, then a swarm of bees came flying at me, chasing me into the castle. I was stung several times, and I knew from that day forth I would never go outside except to get into the carriage to travel. The world is dangerous, you know,” he did a little point towards me.


We all stared at him in silence, wondering if that was the whole story. We sat there for what felt like hours, until Aunt Darla started to crack up.


“That’s.... your.... reason?” she said between spurts of laughter, “You have to be kidding!” Her face was turning crimson, and she was pounding her fist on the table.  The rest of us chimed in, laughing at the ridiculous reasoning.


“How does that affect me? I have never once been stung by a bee,” I told him.


“That’s because you’ve never gone outside!” he yelled. He was obviously not amused by us giving him a hard time about it. “You are not going to Rome, and it’s final!”


“But Dad!” I yelled.


“Don’t sass me, Isabelle. You are not going. There are too many responsibilities for you to cover, and you haven’t done enough to deserve to have this done. No Rome for you.”


“Fine, I’ll be the girl that never left the castle, sitting in my room for eternity. I will never know what it feels like to have the sun on my face, the grass between my toes. I will never meet a man, have children, and there will not be another queen and king to take over the throne. I will always be an outsider, or an insider, at this point, and I will be locked inside, becoming a different person by the second. Is this what you want to happen, father? Another person will have to take the throne, and you will never know this man. He could bring this kingdom to a stop, making us all his slaves, dying from terrible events. I will ask again, do you want this to happen to us, father?” I made my point, ending in a brief nod.


“I don’t think not letting you outside is going to affect if we all die or not. You are overreacting,” my father told me.


“I disagree, Joseph. The girl is right. It is a big chain of events that are slightly possible to happen, but at the same time quite possible. You don’t want to take your chances like that, now, do you?” Aunt Darla: you’ve gotta love her.


“Do you really want this?” he directed towards me.


“More than anything, father,” I said.


“Fine. Go to Italy. Eat some pasta. Have fun,” he told me. He didn’t seem to happy about the concept, but hey! He said yes.


“Isabelle, darling, pack your bags. We will pick you up 4am sharp tomorrow morning,” Aunt Darla instructs.

Writing Conference (Along with Writing Goal)

I stepped into the museum, magnified by the art surrounding me. Children my age walked around with the same expression on their face as mine- amazement.
I was invited to the state writing conference sometime in the beginning of the year, not knowing how many people were invited. In one word? Hundreds.
We start off splitting up, then sit down at our assigned table with about 6 other students all from different schools. We all introduce ourselves, then put a name badge on.
Next, we make our way to the theater. We watch a 30 minute video of how we would be writing that day. We were to write a non-fiction story of 300-500 words, reflecting on something which recently happened. Soon after the video, we branch off into our groups once again. We scavenge around the museum for about two hours, looking at different pieces of art as we went around.
Once we find a piece that inspired us to write a non-fiction piece, we found a spot around the museum and began to prewrite for an hour. We were to prewrite however we wanted, as long as it was organized and easy to read.
After that, we head to lunch. Hundreds of boxes of pizza sat before us, awaiting our arrival. It is just sitting there, getting cooler by the second. Finally, they dismiss our table, ours being one of the last.
We finally arrive at the table of pizza, having the choice between sausage, pepperoni, and cheese. Everyone starts to grab at the food like hungry apes who have gone hungry, leaving minimal food left. At least, everything but pizza.
We sit down once again, devouring our food to the last crumb. After all is gone, we go and start to write for 2 hours.
Soon after the writing, explore the museum once more, able to look at our inspiration and other art pieces. I go into the infinity chamber again, this time having it be much more enjoyable. Why? I have no clue.
We were then to sit down and start our final draft, having it be double spaced and written as neatly as possible, this being so the publisher could read our handwriting.
After we finish up writing, we have to wait for everyone else to be done with their work. Once they are done, we make our way out to the busses, then are transported back to our school.

TTYL

I have been told over and over again by my parents, ‘If you are going to text so much, why don’t you just call them?’ I have responded, ‘This is easier,’ or ‘I’d rather do this.’ But, while many adults say that the fact that children and teens texting is irresponsible and inconvenient, I believe that it is just as or more effective as making a phone call.

To start off, I think texting is more efficient than making a call. You are able to say what you need to say without having to repeat yourself because the person on the other line didn’t understand you. Also, if you are somewhere where you don’t want everyone around you to hear what you are talking about with the person on the other end, you don’t have to have everyone hear the entire conversation. Plus, if it is too loud for you to be able to hear the other person or vise versa, they will be able to understand you perfectly, rather than hearing a bunch of jibber-jabber in the background.

In adults’ defense, texting is more time-consuming, and I will be one of the first to admit it. Also, you are able to show no emotion whatsoever. For example, if you say “Whatever,” to finish up a topic, you can sound like you are being rude and do not care about what the other person just said. But, if you say it on the phone, they will know what you meant. I think those are the two downsides to texting, but I don’t think that they overpower my opinion to make me want to make a phone call instead of sending a simple text.

Another great thing about sending a text is that you are able to look back on the conversation without having to ask the person to repeat themselves. That is a plus because you are able to have the entire conversation in the palm of your hand without having to call them back or have them repeat any of what they just said.

I believe that texting is more efficient than calling because you are able to read the entire conversation, be in private, and be able to understand the person on the other line without having to ask them to repeat themselves.

Clown Brawl

         Author's Note: In the collaboration area, I started a writing drill with Mr. Johnson and 9 other students. Mr. Johnson started us out with the first two paragraphs, and then he had each student come up with a part of speech, and then we had to incorporate it into our story as soon as possible.

         As soon as the elephants left the center ring, Henry leaned forward to see which act would come out next in this strangest circus he had ever seen. So far there were bicycle-riding bears, lions jumping into pools of flaming water, and seals who tossed bowling pins to one another, balanced on the tips of their noses.

         Henry leaned so far forward, he almost fell out of his seat when the first performer appeared… his greatest fear became realized. It was the clowns!

         The man with the makeup made his way into the arena, waving and squeaking his horn. He tipped his hat, then grabbed his unicycle from the side of the stage along with his juggling balls. He started to juggle, but that was just to get the show started.

         This plump man is going to make me crazy! thought Henry. He was shaking in his seat. He reached for his soda, but decided better of it because of the shaking. Slowly, he sat back in his seat and tried to focus on something else. There were children screaming happily, a woman with a blue wig two stories high, and an obese man with his shirt off. The circus has more interesting people in the audience.

         Next, a giant sink full of clowns came rolling in. In the sink were men with red noses, makeup, suspenders, and rainbow afros.

         "Mom? I think we need to go," Henry told his mother.

         "Why? The good part is just starting! The clowns are my favorite part!" she exclaimed.

         "I think the opposite, but, okay," he said nervously.

         "What, are you just a baby?" George, older brother, teased.

         "No, I just think it is very embarrassing to be sitting here watching men in polka-dot suits with suspenders piled up in a sink with nothing better to do with their life,"  he lied.

         The host, Jeff Vermont, exclaimed, "Time for Clown Clobberball! Let me explain the rules. Each clown will be on one side of the ring, each holding a racket. This racket has a hole straight through the middle, making it difficult to hit the ball. And of course, we are playing with balloons. Since there are heilium in the balloons, the clowns must be suspended in the air. While on bungie cords, they must try to hit all 50 of the balloons onto the oppponents' side. Now, during the racquetball game, we must cheer on either the Bolunga-lungas or the Striped Sock'ems."

         Henry and his family could already tell that the Bolunga-lungas had one-one millionth of a chance of winning this, judged by the Striped Sock'ems name. But, maybe somewhere over the rainbow, there's a chance.

         One of the many people on the tech crew, Preposterous Ronald,  ran out and hooked up the 6 clowns on each team. Ronald unintelligently tripped over the wire on the way out, but quickly regained himself. When he finished, he ran backstage, done with his job (Everyone thought). But then, all of the sudden, the line dividing the two teams started flaming up. Mark the Iguana, one of the clowns, started warming up with a quick self-volley. Then, he spiked it down to the ground. That was a prepared clown, alright.

         "Let the games begin!" yelled Jeff Vermont.

         Autumn leaf-colored balloons started bouncing around the arena, leaving everyone in awe. The holes in the rackets were really fitting its purpose; Clowns kept swinging and missing. Balloons were flying everywhere, and some children were fortunate to catch some of them. With only 36 balloons remaining, 24 were on the Balunga-lungas side. 12 were on the Striped Sock'ems side. The Striped Sock'ems strategized, having 3 members of the team blocking the shots of the Balunga-lungas, and three were shooting over.

         The plan worked. Now with all 36 balloons on the opponent's side, the Striped Sock'ems arose in victory. The show was over, and security was unpolitely asking people to leave.

         "Mom?"

         "Yes, dear," Henry's mother answered.

         "Can we paint over Star Wars and put up some clowns in my room?"

Spitball, Part 1

Author's Note: I recently did a Word Association in the Collaboration area with about 10 other students, and Tightrope was one of my words I came up with. Immediately, I thought of a tightrope walker, leaning over a tall building for their first appearance in front of many people. 

         A blast of wind gusted through my brunette hair as I made my way through the door leading outside. I grabbed my pole, and told myself not to look down. Just don't think about the height- just balance. Balance. Balance. 

         "And now, introducing," the announcer paused, "the Amazing Balestica!" The crowd below me roared, jumping up and down. "Now, audience. Please quiet down so Balestica can keep his balance. We wouldn't want him to fall, now, would we?"

         The crowd immediately quieted. I could hear the shhhs of the adults to their young children. This was it. Time to Tightrope.

         But this is months, even years in the future.

         "Mom! I have to go! Can you just throw some Life cereal in a bag and pour in some milk? I can take it on the bus," I yelled down the stairs to my mother.

         "Just hurry up, Henry! You're going to be late!"

         I came rushing down the stairs, still fastening my belt.  I grabbed the bag out of her hand and kissed her on the cheek before I bolted out the door to catch the school bus, which was just starting to pull away.

         "Wait! Wait!" I yelled to the bus. To my surprise, it actually stopped. I sprinted to the door, and they flew open. The bus driver, Arnold, had an annoyed look on his face, giving me the idea he really didn't want to stop.

         "We're on a tight schedule, kid. Next time get out here earlier," he said with his raspy voice, throwing his thumb towards the back of the bus to gesture for me to get moving.

         I found a seat next to the craziest kid in high school- Travis Hukerman.

         "Whatchya got there, cereal in a bag?" He asked me as he pushed up his glasses across the bridge.

         I gave him a 'No-Duh' look, and said, "Yeah."

         "No spoon?"

         Dang it. I sloshed my cereal around in the bag and shook it a little. My mother didn't get the milk-to-cereal ratio right. Dang it! 

         I opened the bag about halfway, creating a spout. I then poured my breakfast into my mouth. Jimmy Houstchon turned towards me and giggled, nudging his friend.

         "Check out the geek," he said. His sidekick, Phil, shot me a pathetic look, pretending to feel bad for me.

         I just ignored them, as I have to do every day.

         We finally arrived at school after the long, boring bus ride.  First hour: Science. Yay! (Fake enthusiastic cheer)

         Mr. Pevchlonit (Not a name he expects you to be able to pronounce when you first meet him) passed out the quiz.

         "Class, first we need to take the pop quiz." There was a moan from the class. Mr. Pevchlonit sighed, "We need to get it done, so quit your complaining." He sounded bored and tired, along with the rest of the juniors, considering it was a Monday morning.

         I got a sharp feeling on the back of my neck and I almost fell over by the surprise. I felt around, and my finger touched a wet ball. I pulled it off, and turned to the moron sitting 3 seats behind me, one row to my right. Jimmy pulled the straw away from his mouth and was snickering as he did a knuckle-bump with one of the many people in his 'jockey', as he may  call it. 

         "I bet you couldn't keep your balance if you tried, klutz." 

         "I beg to differ!" Wow, I didn't know it was possible to sound so professional and nerdy at the same time.

         "Oh, really? Try to keep your balance with this!" He walked up to my chair and tipped me out of it.

         Mr. Pevchlonit looked up from his magazine and saw me on the floor. "Get up, Henry."

         I rolled my eyes. Really? He just came up and pushed me out of my chair. But, I got up anyways and brushed the humiliation off of me.

         I got home that afternoon, and my mother asked me the typical question.

         "How was school today?" She asked as she was drying off the last of her dishes.

         I completely ignored her question. "I want to be a tightrope walker."

         "Excuse me? Why is that?"

         "Jimmy told me I have no sense of balance, and I want to show him wrong. He thinks I'm just this pathetic geek with no goals in life, but now I do. And after this, he won't be able to just push me around, he'll be the one I'll be pushing around because I was right," I concluded. "Sorry for the dramatic speech, but I'm serious. Tightrope walking is for me."

         "You really think there is no other solution? Can't you just go do one of those mechanical bull things at the pub down the street?" I could tell she really didn't feel comfortable with the topic.

         "No," I denied, "I'm gonna tightrope." I said with a smile on my face.

         A couple of days later, we found a trainer online for beginning tightrope students. Mack Drang was his name, and under his profile, it said, "Call me Drangon. Not Dragon. Drangon." Strict and to the point. I like it. 

         We dialed up Mack Drang and told him that he has an inexperienced hopeless little soul coming for him to fix up. He said not to push our self esteem down to a minimum, but what have I to lose?
         The training started on Wednesday, from 4-7 pm. We went to an abandoned storage warehouse, the perfect place if this happened in a movie. Nets hung from the ceiling in case I fell, (I'm guessing I would) and ropes were tied from ledges built into the walls and were hanging over the nets. 
         "Call me Drangon. Not Dragon. Drangon," Mack echoed from his website in his booming voice. "What's your name?"
         "Henry," I answered. My voice sounded pathetic and squirrrely next to his low voice. "How are you going to train me for keeping my balance?" 
         "Practice. Determination. Pain. It's all it takes, but you have to be prepared to fail," he told me. He sounded like a Nike commercial. "We should start with some simple exercises. Do the splits."
         "What? I'm not even close to flexible, sir," I told him, and I could feel my eyes widen with disbelief.
         "One of the words in my motto is 'pain'. Now let me tell you again. Do the splits."
         I got down on the ground and attempted to do the splits, but my legs only made a 90 degree angle. He  pushed my shoulders down and made it a 180.
         "Ouch! I think you just dislocated my hip!" I yelled.
         "Stay down! Stretch!" he screamed, still holding my shoulders. Finally he let go, allowing me to feel my toes once again.
         "What did that have to do with me being balanced?" I snapped as I got up painfully.
         "You have to be able to catch yourself if you fall, making you be quick, sly and flexible." 
        "Do I get to actually tightrope today, since that's what this class is about? Not stretching yourself to the extreme limit until you can't handle it anymore," I told him.
         "Don't tell me how to run my class," he demanded. "Now, just bend down and touch your toes."
         Simple enough. I bent over and grabbed my toes. "Like that?" I asked him.
         "Yes, good job. Would you like to try to tightrope? There is a net underneath, just in case you slip. Actually, once you do fall, it is quite fun to land because the net bounces you back up, like a trampoline."
         "Sure, I'll give it a go. How do I get up there?"
         "The ladder," he answered quickly, and made me feel a little dumb.
         I walked over to the ladder and I climbed up the ladder. Each rung, it got harder and harder; I've never really climbed a ladder before. But, finally I got up to the top. I made my way over to the rope, and Drangon yelled out, "Just keep walking! Get to the rope, and just walk!"
         I followed his instructions, and just kept walking. Well, I didn't get very far, until my flexibility came into play. In other words, I fell. But, Drangon was right- it didn't hurt, and it was fun. But if I ever became a professional, (good luck with that one, Henry) there would not be a net there to catch me. Just a busy street.

        
TO BE CONTINUED...
        

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