"Thoughts in Silence," by Natasha T.

     I usually don’t talk. It's just me in my head and no one else. I like it that way, because that way, I am in control. If I want, the landscape of my mind can be as quiet as a winter morning, with everything frosted over making a snow globe of silence, like that Hawaiian one I see on my desk every morning when I wake up. Or, if I want, it can change. Spring, with its beautiful flowers fighting their way out of the snow, and some who don’t quite make it. I like to think of myself as one of those flowers, the ones that pop up like popcorn through the snow, today they’re not here and tomorrow they are, strong as ever, as if it’s their right to be beautiful. Which it is. But maybe I’m not at all like them, and that doesn’t really matter because I think I’m like them and that’s what matters. My thoughts are what matter because my thoughts are my world. And nothing else.
     My footsteps slip a little when they hit the icy bridge. They don’t click on the ice like I want them to, but in my head they do. Click clack click clack. Their sound is full of pride. I walk along the bank of the slippery canal that weaves its way through Venice like a snake. Curling round and round. I wave, and a gondola comes over. As it stops it drifts ever so slightly, sending ripples across the water that had once been so still, it was almost solid. I step in and murmur one word.
     “Wherever.”
     And we’re off. The man sitting across from me clearly isn’t a tourist, or he is one who just happened to know what the weather would be like and had two warm fur coats in his bag. So, he isn’t a tourist. I keep waiting for him to say something, to try and start a conversation, but he doesn’t. I like him. We sit in silence and I study him. He has a raggedy beard clinging to his face like overgrown moss on a tree. And if he were a tree, he would be an ancient one. Not the frail kind but the tough and polished by age kind. His peppery brown and gray hair is almost completely covered by a burgundy hat with ear flaps. His skin is a medium brown, and even though I can’t see them I imagine his hands are rough like tree bark. Over his tree-bark-hands he wears practical black mittens that match his black overcoat.
     I wonder what he saw of me. Probably a petite girl engulfed by a chocolate brown wool coat. With worn out boots that look older than my years. Maybe he would even look carefully enough to notice that my cinnamon stocking cap I wore over my thin tawny hair was the only thing the really fit me. It was unlikely, but maybe he would even notice how my coat is men's cut and my boots are sturdy woodcutter’s that my dad used to wear every day in winter. And maybe he is some close relative of Sherlock Holmes and he can tell that the heavy weight of my clothes is not the only burden that weighs down my small frame.
     He studies me and my odd ensemble of clothes, an unreadable look passes over his face. His eyes seem to see closer to the truth then anyone yet but still... not quite there. I almost hope that he can see the truth in me just so I can see it reflected in his face. I feel his face would be the perfect canvas for the truth. But instead he looks away, as if he knows that I’m not ready to see it anyway.

"A Red Jacket," or "Come Home, Little Brother," by Edith A.

     I held the red jacket out to the little boy, showing it to him.
     “Come here, little brother. Look, I have found your jacket. Come put it on, you must be cold.” Slowly he emerged from behind the tree, toddling over to where I stood. He wore a dirty long-sleeved shirt with frayed arms, and jeans muddy from the wet ground.
     “Hello, sister,” he said. He stood cautiously in front of me, eyes focused on my face, but aside from that, looking as though he might startle and dash away at any moment or movement.
     “Hello. Oh, your jeans are filthy and wet.” I surveyed him, taking in the little scratches on his face and hands, the holes in his shirt. “Here, put on your jacket; it is warm.”
     He reached out in a shy, nervous sort of way, one skinny little arm tugging gently on the fabric of the jacket sleeve, pulling it from my hands, holding it in his. He clutched it to his chest, but made no move to put it on.
     “Put on your coat, brother. Aren’t you cold?” He shook his head no, gazing up at me.
     “Well, come on then. Let’s go inside.” I led him into the pile of rubble, stepping over the little gap at the edge of it where I had moved bits and pieces aside to retrieve the red jacket.
     We came to a circle, near the center of the rubble. I sat down on a chunk of metal and motioned for him to sit on the broken bit of mattress across from me.         In between us was a cast iron black pot sitting on the dirt. I handed him a cup.
     “Here, little brother, it is your special cup. Take some soup from the pot. The fire has kept it warm for us.”
     He took the cup, but made no move to take anything with it, instead curling his hands around the clay and gazing up at me mournfully.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     “Hello, brother.” I studied him carefully. A beat of silence. Then,
     “Oh well, I suppose you’re not hungry.” He shook his head: no, he was not.
     “Well, we can eat later. Let’s play a game,” I decided.
     I stood up and held his hand, guiding him over to another space among the rubble. This time I handed him a doll.
     “Look, it is your favorite doll that mother made for you. Here is mine, too. Let’s play with them.”
     He took his doll, examining it, feeling the fabric, the yarn hair, the beaded eyes. Then he passed it to the hand still holding the cup, the same hand attached to the arm which had his red jacket folded over it, and shook his head no.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     His voice sounded like an echo.
     “Hello, brother,” I responded. “Well, there must be something we can do. What about sleep? Tomorrow we can begin other adventures.” I led him by his
free hand over to another clearing in the rubble, passing him a pillow. He tucked it under his armpit, the same one attached to the jacket hanging arm, the doll holding cup held by a hand.
     He shook his head.
     I stumbled, almost falling. My vision was blurry.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     I was shaking my head to try and clear it, falling to my knees. “No,” I breathed.
     “Hello, sister,” he said.
     The world went dark.

   
     The boy was walking through the woods, trying to find something, anything, really, that could be helpful. The disaster had passed, and now here he was left, alone, searching through the rubble, scrounging for anything useful.
     He came to the remains of a dwelling. It was spread out, but clearly had never belonged to a wealthy family. It also held a girl, wandering through the rubble.
     He watched her for a while, and as he watched, his heart grew heavy.
     Everyone who survived had lost their family in exchange. He buried his efficiently. This girl was not doing the same.
     He found that there was a young boy, presumably the strange girl’s younger brother, buried beneath a particularly large, heavy pile of rubble. All that was visible of his corpse was one side of his torso, along with his head. From hand
to arm to armpit to shoulder to head his dusty body was in open air. And the strange girl was crumbling. She moved around as if not in touch with her surroundings. When he caught a glimpse of her face, it was a blank slate, and he could see dried rivulets where old tears had cleared paths on her face free of dirt.
She was arranging his body, the boy realized, with old trinkets. A jacket, a mug, a doll. When she was done she collapsed over his body quite suddenly, as if her conscious and life had been instantaneously transported somewhere else, leaving her meat sack behind.
     He walked up to her cautiously. He knew what to do. He knew how to bring them back home.
     He came to stand beside the young boy’s corpse and tapped her shoulder. She was alive. She didn’t respond. He lifted her head, now.
     The lost girl turned her face up the rest of the way to look at the stranger before her, but her eyes were glazed and unknowing.
     “Wha?” she managed.
     “Hello, sister,” the bystander said. “Welcome home.

Blogging Links #3

Sophia K.: Sophia's Ocean Life Blog
Charlie: Charles Patton's Blog
Gabby: Your Average American
Estelle: Much Ado About Reading
Harper: Harper's 80's Blog
Ian: Br'er Blog
Kevin: Aeronautical Foam
Sienna: Harry Potter and Other Things
Zoe: The Magic of Books
Tyler: Movie and Game Review
Wynter: On the Asphalt
Yoon-Soo: Oof Magic the Gathering
Jasmine: Worldwide Animals
Willa: Art, Kpop, and Music
Paige: Paige's Eddsworld Blog

Greta Thunberg and School Strikes for Climate

Greta Thunberg is a 16-year-old high school student from Stockholm, Sweden. In August 2018, rather than return to school for classes as normal, she began sitting in front of the Swedish
Parliament Building with a handmade sign which read "School Strike for Climate." She documented her school strikes on Twitter and social media. A handful of people would sit with Greta throughout the day. She caught the attention of news organizations, and was interviewed by reporters from TV stations, newspapers, and internet sites.

As summer turned to fall, Greta's profile rose. The number of people joining her at the Swedish Parliament Building grew and grew. Young people from across Europe began holding their own school strikes for climate. Greta did return to class, but she continued to strike every Friday. Greta began to travel by train to large climate protests in Europe and she spoke at several climate events, including the United Nations Climate Change Conference in Poland.

Greta has Asperger Syndrome, which is a form of autism. People with this condition often have an intense preoccupation with a particular subject. For Greta, she became concerned with a lack of action from politicians regarding climate change. She did not believe the protocols established by the Paris Climate Accord were enough. Even though Sweden is often considered a leader in environmental policy, she criticized her home country for not doing enough to combat climate change.

Here is an interview with Greta published in The Guardian, a newspaper from England. Here is a profile of Greta from The New Yorker.

Here is Greta speaking at the United Nations Climate Change Conference:



Here is Greta delivering a TED talk:



On March 15, students from around the world walked out of class and participated in a global school strike for climate. The Washington Post reported on school strikes from around the world and the United States and the Seattle Times reported on the school strike which took place in Seattle.

Portuguese students protest in Lisbon. (Rafael Marchante/Reuters)

Children rally in Brisbane, Australia. (Stringer/Reuters)

Greta Thunberg has been nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize for her climate activism and her influence in creating a climate movement. Young people across the globe are at the forefront of the fight for a habitable future planet. Greta continues to advocate for global reductions in carbon emissions--all while maintaining a full schedule of regular high school classes!

World Physical Features

Uluru, Northern Territory, Australia

North America
South America
Europe
Africa
Asia
Australia

Joshua Tree National Park

I visited Joshua Tree National Park in 2017. It is one of the most beautiful places on Earth.

During the government shutdown in January, vandals drove off-road vehicles in the park and caused significant damage. Here is an article about this from The Washington Post.

I highly recommend visiting Joshua Tree National Park. Here is a travel article from The Seattle Times. Joshua Tree is located east of Los Angeles and north of Palm Springs.

You can study all the U.S. National Parks with this Quizlet set.

Flash Fiction Links

"Envy," by Estelle M.
"Seconds," by Stuart W.
"A Day in the Life of Death," by Alexandra R.
"The Starbucks Coffee Effect," by Ren.m
"The Fairy Tale Insane Asylum," by Ian S.
"A Red Jacket," or "Come Home, Little Brother," by Edith A.
"Thoughts in Silence," by Natasha T.
"NOVA Enrichment Sheet," by Ian S.

"The Fairy Tale Insane Asylum," by Ian S.

In the Insane Asylum for Fairy Tale Characters.

It’s the only place I’ve got to call home.

My only friend is Geppetto, if I can even call him a friend. I don’t even know if I can trust him, but he’s better than the other people here. He plays with marionettes, and calls them his children. We all know that they are fake, but we don’t tell that to the old hag.

  

If there is one person that you want to stay away from in here, that person has got to be Cinderella. She always insists that all of her clothes are made by her little rodent friends. She says that a “Fairy Godmother” came to turn all of her pumpkins into carriages, and her rags into beautiful gowns. 

She’s a psychopath; but aren’t we all.

Another person (or animal) that you want to stay away from is The Cow. I believe he hallucinates every night about going to the moon and back. No cow has ever done it, and no cow will ever. Well, that’s what I thought, until the day Buzz Aldrin ate a McDouble on the moon.

But who am I?

My name is Paul Bunyan. I carry around an axe everywhere I go, and ride on a big blue ox. I’m either color blind, or crazy. But I’m in here, so the answer is pretty obvious. I wear overalls and chop down trees for fun. So far, I’ve set hundreds of forest fires, and chopped down thousands of trees. But right now, I’m stuck here.

It’s the only place I’ve got to call home.

In the Insane Asylum for Fairy Tale Characters. 

"The Starbucks Coffee Effect," by Ren.m

She finally let go of the hot coffee cup, if it could be called that. Ouch, she thought. Starbucks coffee effect. One would think that the people responsible for creating a whole moon base runnable by one person, for creating space suits that kept you warm out on the surface, for creating effective radiation blockers, would be able to make a passable sleeve. She caught it before it hit the ground, the low gravity giving her plenty of time to make a grab. It wasn’t a proper cup—it was a special one, designed with a lid and an automatic seal to keep astronauts from splashing themselves in different gravity—and it wasn’t Starbucks, but the analogy held its meaning, even 250,000 miles away. Tomorrow, she would be the farthest from Earth as she’d ever be, at 252,088 miles. 

She continued down the hallway, the monochrome white and grey palate broken up with bright neon lights imbedded in the floor leading to various different rooms. She followed pink, coming into the control room at last. Setting down her coffee on a touch sensitive control panel that should’ve been far above being used as a coaster, she looked at the image on the main screen. Clear as a window, there was Earth, spinning majestically away from her, a green and blue sphere. Only halfway out of the dark, she could see the lights of civilization. 

They must look up and think of the universe. They must envy me; hoping for adventure and seeking greener pastures even here, where there’s no green but what we bring.  

They don’t know what it’s like to be on the moon alone, to be the only human around for a quarter of a million miles.  They don’t know that I look down and think the same things. Wonder the same things. 

They don’t know how much I envy them. 

She sighed slightly and sipped her coffee. She would be home in a year. One year--and then real Starbucks.

You can visit Ren's book review blog here.

"A Day in the Life of Death," by Alexandra R.

The familiar sound of winter comes, and follows me, like it always does around this time of year. The snowflakes pass through me as I pile souls in the snow. I almost feel watched, but I know that is impossible. The mortals on this world and all like it can’t see me. And never will. I send the pile drifting off into the wondrous fuchsia sky from the snow. The souls that had a right to live. Unlike me.

A small fact

I am death.

Do not be alarmed. I will know when it is your time, and I will carry your soul away just as carefully as I sent this batch.

A reassurance

I am not the scary

brown or black-cloaked demon

with a scythe that kills for

Pleasure. It’s just my job. 

I have nowhere to live, mainly because I don’t live at all. I float in the between of life and death, the thing between happiness and anger, trickery and honesty.

 I don’t belong here, in this world. Not like those I carry away. I am envious, even of the smallest flea. It is well known that humans think of me as a murderer, or as war’s best friend, but this is not true. I find war like the kind of friend no one wants to have, they make you work and give you nothing in return, and when you complete one impossible task, they keep on pushing for you to take on an even bigger one.

I never wanted this kind of existence, but the world of being in between life and nothingness, is a difficult way to be. I sometimes wish that I were dead, for then I could belong somewhere. Even I do not know what it is like to live in my realm, but I know that it must be more pleasant than this awful existence. I try to stay on the bright side, I really do, but It’s difficult when all you have to entertain yourself, are the colors of the sky.

I often think about colors. It is strange how they work. For example, blue. To some people blue is the color of sadness and cold, but to many others it is perceived as trust, loyalty, sincerity, wisdom, and confidence. This is how I entertain myself, gobbling up useless facts to pass time. How else would I know that hippo sweat is red? Or that the next full moon on Halloween will be in 2020? I’ve spent my life with information floating around in my head. With no one to tell it to or to share it with. Of course, humans can’t notice me, otherwise how would I manage to do my job? People aren’t good listeners anyway, but I would live with the world's worst listener if it meant that I could be seen.

“I picked that quote because it really explains what the book is about,” I said during my book talk. “I hope that you decide to read “a Day in the Life of Death by Alexandra Romano” and with that, I walked back to my desk and took a seat.

 Theme Inspired by The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak

Travelogues

Ainslie: St. Paul, with Dan Feehan (MN-01)
Alex: Phoenix, with Krysten Synema (AZ-Sen)
Aoi: San Diego, with Katie Hill (CA-25)
Austin: Huntington, with Carol Miller (WV-03)
Ava B.: Atlanta, with Stacey Abrams (GA-Gov)
Ava O.: Louisville, with Amy McGrath (KY-06)
Ben: Hartford, with Ned Lamont (CT-Gov)
Catherine: Detroit, with Elissa Slotkin (MI-08)
Corbin: Des Moines with David Young (IA-03)
Cyrus: Fargo, with Heidi Heitkamp (ND-Sen)
Danni: Madison, with Scott Walker (WI-Gov)
Eva: Las Vegas with Jacky Rosen (NV-Sen)
Gabe: Taos, with Xochitl Torres Small (NM-02)
Harper: Indianapolis, with Joe Donnelly (IN-Sen)
Josh: Kansas City, with Josh Hawley (MO-Sen)
Jules: El Paso, with Beto O'Rourke (TX-Sen)
Kevin: Richmond, with Abigail Spanberger (VA-07)
Leo: Cleveland, with Richard Cordray (OH-Gov)
Liam: Jackson with Mike Espy (MS-Sen)
Logan: Charlotte, with Dan McCready (NC-09)
Maggie: Ocean City, with Ben Jealous (MD-Gov)
Owen: Houston, with Lizzie Pannill Fletcher (TX-07)
Paige: Scranton, with Scott Wallace (PA-01)
Rayhan: Albany, with Anthony Delgado (NY-19)
Sadie: Chicago, with Sean Casten (IL-06)
Sammy H.: Billings, with Jon Tester (MT-Sen)
Sammy S. Memphis, with Phil Bredesen (TN-Sen)
Sophia: St. Petersburg with Bill Nelson (FL-Sen)
Troy: Wichita with Sharice Davids (KS-03)
Wynter: Charleston, with Joe Cunningham (SC-01)
Yoon-Soo: Bangor, with Jared Golden (ME-02)
Zoe: Orlando, with Andrew Gillum (FL-Gov)

"Seconds," by Stuart W.

Seconds

by Stuart W.

They say that at the end of your life, you regret the things you didn’t do more than the things that you did do. I didn’t know about that. Less than a second ago, in real time, the Formula 1 car that I was in had been tagged in the rear, and now was several feet off the ground, upside down. I was staring directly up, or down, so I could see the driver below me. They were jammed up against the wall, sparks flying from the car that was being shredded. When you're watching the Indy 500, you don’t think of all the dangers, especially the wall. The wall is your worst enemy, hitting it could spell certain death. At this point in time, which seemed to move at a snail's speed, I began to think. About my life.  

For the few years leading up to this crash, my life had been spectacular. I had been hired be Team Penske, the nations, and quite possibly, the world's best racing team. I had signed a contract for 5 years, and when that expired, they had asked me to come back for another 5 years. The race I was in was the Indy 500, the race that I loved the most. Not only had I been lucky enough to participate in the Indy 500, but for the last 2 years, I had won the Indy 500. This crash had ruined my 3-year streak. I felt myself wondering I was mad for this, because it would only matter for a few more, hopefully painless seconds. 

Another exceptionally lucky thing that had happened to me is my job.I had a nearly $25M salary for the past eight years, and I had burned through almost all of it. When I had first started, I knew that I would be needing a garage for the cars that I was going to buy, so I bought a 2,000 sq. Ft. Garage, along with a small mansion on top of t. Nothing fancy. Only 12,000 sq. Ft. I would then go on to constantly upgrade my house and my car collection. After my third year, I had accumulated almost 70 cars, consisting of exotics, classics, custom and muscle cars. Every day, rain or shine, I would spend about an hour admiring and choosing wat car I was going to drive. One day, the Maclaren P1 GTR, another day, the Bugatti Chiron, another a Lamborghini Centenario. Gosh, I loved my cars. I think I had spent a total of 85% of my revenue on cars. 

Regret. I remember once, about last year when I had gotten a phone call from a homeless shelter and had quite promptly hung up the phone. I should have taken the time to give. It would have not hurt me and could’ve only benefited others.  

I regret making a schedule. And why I was thinking this also confused me. I know that I liked to have things planned out, but when on vacation, my kids would often see things that they wanted to do, for example, a museum, a playground, or a restaurant, but I would say, 

“Kids, we have to stick to the schedule.” 

I thought I was teaching time management, but I was really stripping away what would have been fun for them.  I regret not taking more risks, enjoying life, having experiences. 

Regret. At this time, I knew what was going to happen. They would red flag the race, and a few drivers would “Miraculously survive.” The safety systems in these cars worked amazing, but not when you were wedged against a wall upside down. Time was slowly speeding up, and I was getting closer to the ground. The driver below me would be ok. That was my last thought, before I collided with the pavement at 200 mph. Time fully sped up, and everything went dark. All in a second.