Revision #3

Stuffing balls, green bean casserole, pecan pie, turkey and ham, corn on the cob, sweet potato casseroles, real mashed potatoes and gravy, BBQ meatballs, deviled eggs, more stuffing balls, and a handful of other side dishes were what awaited us every year for Thanksgiving at Grandma Jeanette's house. It was my favorite holiday. It was the one time that that side of the family ever real came together. My cousins would play games in the living room; my Papa would tell jokes and teach everyone card tricks; the adults would spend most of the night standing in the doorway of the kitchen, sneaking food when they thought no one was looking. Nana would slave in the kitchen for days with me, the handy side kick, keeping her company. My job mainly consisted of doing the dishes and testing the food.

Of course, this was before her husband came down with a nasty case of Alzheimer's, and the flower shop closed, and her husband's children quit calling her family and showing up at her home for major holidays. Before she had to visit her dying husband in a nursing home every day, just like she'd had to do with her first husband. Before his disease had driven everyone but her away and she was left to take care of him, alone. Before he died and she moved to a sunny paradise in hopes of finding happiness again and improving her own health. Before Thanksgiving became a haphazardly planned congregation of random people, that I didn't even know.

A small turkey, canned corn, a store bought cheesecake, a few casseroles, and a bunch of foreign dishes brought by strangers. This is what our grand meal had been reduced to. It was no party. It was stuff and cold, and lacked familiarity. I felt like the pilgrims, sharing a meal with people who's customs were alien to me. It was no longer my favorite holiday, as no Thanksgiving was complete without my grandma.

This Thanksgiving dry-spell lasted three circulations of the earth, before my grandma began coming home for Thanksgiving and cooking with me again. Except this time, she put me in charge. She was now my side kick, tasting my food. Thanksgiving never returned to it's grandeur, but the warmth crept back into the holiday, and I realize the only thing I'd been missing was my Grandma.

I am so thankful for my Grandma, and the warmth she brings into my life. She makes me feel important and like I can do anything I set my mind to. She's been through a lot, but she still found her way back to me and our Thanksgiving tradition.

Revision #2

"I swear I have a coupon in here somewhere," Beth said as she dug around hurriedly through her giant, messy purse. She felt really bad, but her paycheck wouldn’t come through until Monday. She was living off nickels and dimes, and it was only Friday night.  The worst thing about being in college was not having any money, especially on a weekend. She was 19, and beautiful. She should've been having the time of her life, but, instead, she was struggling to find enough change to pay for her groceries. Beth, like your average college student, was broke. She hadn’t yet gotten the hang of managing her money and she liked going out with her friends too much to care. But now, it was catching up with her. She was shoulders deep in library fines, bills, and student loan debt, and had nowhere to run.

“Your total is $9.54, Miss.” The cashier was getting noticeably agitated as he gazed at the long line behind Beth. He’d probably had to deal with people like her all day, but that’s what he got for working so close to campus. 

“Ahhh ha!” She yanked out the stack of coupons she’d cut from the newspaper and sorted through them until she found the buy one-get one free she’d been looking for. She triumphantly handed over the paper, along with a handful of change. “Sorry for the inconvenience,” she said with a smile. The gathered her plastic bags in both arms and strode quickly out the automatic doors, trying not to think about how she would open her car door with full hands. She could barely see over the mountain she was holding.

Revision #1

The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there. When I look at my past self, I see a stranger, reeking with the purity and ignorance of youth. She worried little, and laughed often. Her heart was fragile and her ego was huge. She exists still, but only in memory. 



She is a girl of sixteen, with bronze hair and tender brown eyes. She watches movies with her little sister and goes on dates with tall brunette boys with red cheeks. She sings in her car on the way home, and laughs at herself when she forgets the words. She is oblivious to the catastrophe that is about to turn her whole life upside-down.


When it happened, families abandoned their cars in the streets and ran for safety, when they still thought that there was one.


This world ended and a new one began. A world, in which purity, stupidity, and weakness got you killed. Or worse. This once happy-go-lucky, clueless girl was forced to open her eyes, and see the world that had been left to her.


First came the wave. It wiped out the power, and destroyed cities. People were whisked away in the blink of an eye, along with all evidence that they had existed.

Then came the drought. For two years, not a drop of rain fell on the earth. People fought over the water that remained. Once that was gone, we started losing all of our other resources. Many plants and animals died off because of dehydration, and many more were taken by the wild fires.

Food shortages made rationing necessary for the countries that were structured enough to enforce it. And for those that couldn’t, civil war, anarchy, and chaos followed. Hundreds of millions died all over the world.
What was left of Canada and the United States created the North American Alliance in an attempt to gather together what little strength we had left. While much of the world died, the NAA survived.

Then came the epidemic. A plague unlike anything we’d ever seen. It came quick and silent, taking thousands in the first night alone. It would start with a fever that would last a few hours. Then your veins would turn black, and blood would run from most of your orifices. By that point, it would only be a few minutes before the body shut down and you stopped breathing. Boarders shut down, and quarantine and curfews were enforced. I came to understand that people don’t like to be caged, even for aims of safety. Violence ensued as more and more people got sick.

By this point, in America, most government leaders had abandoned their posts and sought solitary refuge in their private underground bunkers. The military came in and essentially took control. They told us that the President was giving orders from a remote location, but no one actually knew if that was true. All we knew was that the world as we’d known it was dead.

Now, all I could do was close my eyes and think back to how simple my life had been before the madness. How, in the morning, I would wake up and eat breakfast with my sister and our parents, then go to school. I missed school. I missed my friends. I missed my car and my puppy and even Mrs. Paulson. Who knew what happened to her?

I closed my eyes, head dropping, like a person drunk for so long she no longer knows she's drunk, and then, drunk, awoke to the world which lay before me.

Giving Thanks

Stuffing balls, green bean casserole, pecan pie, turkey and ham, corn on the cob, sweet potato casseroles, real mashed potatoes and gravy, BBQ meatballs, deviled eggs, more stuffing balls, and a handful of other side dishes were what awaited us every year for Thanksgiving at Grandma Jeanette's house. It was my favorite holiday. It was the one time that that side of the family ever real came together. Nana would slave in the kitchen for days with me, the handy side kick, keeping her company. My job mainly consisted of doing the dishes and testing the food.

Of course, this was before her husband came down with a nasty case of Alzheimer's, and the flower shop closed, and her husband's children quit calling her family and showing up at her home for major holidays. Before she had to visit her dying husband in a nursing home every day, just like she'd had to do with her first husband. Before his disease had driven everyone but her away and she was left to take care of him, alone. Before he died and she moved to a sunny paradise in hopes of finding happiness again and improving her own health. Before Thanksgiving became a haphazardly planned congregation of random people, that I didn't even know.

A small turkey, canned corn, a store bought cheesecake, a few casseroles, and a bunch of foreign dishes brought by strangers. This is what our grand meal had been reduced to. It was no party. It was stuff and cold, and lacked familiarity. I felt like the pilgrims, sharing a meal with people who's customs were alien to me. It was no longer my favorite holiday, as no Thanksgiving was complete without my grandma.

This Thanksgiving dry-spell lasted three circulations of the earth, before my grandma began coming home for Thanksgiving and cooking with me again. Except this time, she put me in charge. She was now my side kick, tasting my food. Thanksgiving never returned to it's grandeur, but the warmth crept back into the holiday, and I realize the only thing I'd been missing was my Grandma.

Lost in the Past

Benjamin Alfred Wallace was an esteemed, well respected politician in the city of Brighton, England. He was only in his early twenties, but already had the support of many and was on the road to becoming a member of parliament. He was an ambitious man, and often put his career above all else.

Orae Mae Engler was the daughter of a rich textile manufacturer. She came from a long line of businessmen, and her father would one day marry her off to a man worthy of his inheritance. He had only one son, a handicapped boy of ten who rarely saw the light of day. He was kept out of sight, and few even knew he existed. He would never be able to fill his father's shoes.

Brighton was well known for it's parties and love for pretty things. New Year's Eve, the most important people in Brighton enjoyed a night of celebratory vices and dancing at the home of a Lord.

Orae and her sister, Winifred, were aloud to accompany their parents to these festivities. Orae was renown for her beauty and more than one married man at the party was caught gazing as she walked past. Noticing this, her father decided to use it to his advantage and began talking her up to the eligible bachelors. Before she knew it, she was being bombarded by men seeking dances and even some seeking more. Fat men, old men, young men, skinny men, shy men, proud men, and every other type of man crowded her until her was backed into a corner.

That's when the balcony door opened from behind her, and she fell into the arms of Benjamin. Quickly, they fled for the hedges and escaped the brigade. Benjamin knew how silly it was to avoid the party, but for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to leave her side. She was a whirlwind of surprises he knew would endanger his plans, but in his heart he knew that she was more important than any career ever could be.

Orae was enamored with the way he spoke about his passions. They spent the remainder of the night strolling the gardens and talking about their lives. She told him about her brother; he, about his ambitions. Their conversations seemed to require no effort; and when their hands found each other, it seemed like the world had fallen into place.

After the party, they conversed mainly through letters. They occasionally met in secret, but acted as if there was nothing between them in public. Orae's father would never have given her to a politician, and Benjamin couldn't endanger his reputation by associating himself with factory man, as rich as he may be. However, the wrongness of their secret relationship only made their hunger for each other stronger.

In 1978, Angus James Wallace was born, in secret. He was barely a week old, when he was stolen from his mother's arms and whisked away to distant relatives in Southwick. He took their last name, and Benjamin Wallace's name was never mentioned again. His childhood was a happy one, and he was very close with his adoptive parents and siblings. Orae often visited Angus, until she was married off to another rich business man who would inherit her father's company and moved hundreds of miles away.

Angus never knew who his father was, but Benjamin knew who he was. He kept tabs on the boy, and always felt a need to know that he was safe and happy, even into his adulthood. When Benjamin died, an unmarried man, he left his fortune to Angus.

9/11, A Day I Can't Remember

September 11, 2001

I was only a toddler, asleep in my crib and utterly clueless to the events of that horrific morning.
My father had the morning off, and was still in his underwear when my mother called him. "Oh my god, turn on the television. We're under attack." That morning, as he watched the second tower fall, he was overwhelmed by shock, like much of the rest of the world. By the afternoon, he felt confused as to what had actually happened and frustrated at how little he knew. He felt hopeless and like he couldn't protect his family. By the evening, anger had taken place of all other feelings, and he had decided, along with three of his friends, that he would enlist and go kill whoever was responsible for this attack. At that time, he hadn't even known who that would be. Thankfully, those feelings slowly went away and he didn't enlist. My life would have been much different had he done that. 

By the time I could really understand what had happened, years had pasted and we had basically gone to war. I remember being five or six and asking my mom if we were in the middle of a war. I remember asking who we were at war with, why were at war, how long the war had been going on. Most of her answers were vague, or at least they seemed that way. I don't think anyone really had the answers then. I don't think anyone really has the answers now.

Now I'm a teenager, looking back on a day that I don't remember. I'm confused, frustrated, without hope. Terrorism seems more frequent now, at least to me. Last Friday, there was an attack on Paris. My generation doesn't trust anyone. We live in a world of doubt and fear. Our futures look dark, and we don't know when another attack will take place.t 

The Hunt for Photos

 Madison unleashes her profanity in the middle of her cooking class, while Jane stands by with an expression the shows how little she is surprised. It can be inferred that this isn't Madison's first outburst. #unguardedcomedy

 The one and only, Tamara Abramovitz stands alone against the ominous second block trigonometry class. She somehow manages to tame the beastly children, and actually teach them something most Math teachers before her have failed at. #becauseshecares

 The lovely Mrs. Fraser holds a bunny while encouraging and challenging the creative minds of her students. Most everyone wants to be like Mrs. Fraser. Her students carry an exuberant amount respect for her and deeply appreciate that she treats them like adults and human beings rather than cows to be herded. #idol

A book written in another language; a universal language one could say. People all over the world read it, speak it, and listen to it. This particular piece was written by a grouchy, old, deaf man. #classic

 This is a square that helps disabled and crippled people open doors. Without it, their lives would be a lot more difficult than they already are. If I were in their position, it would be a relief to see this square when wanting to enter a building. #innovationpositive

 A circular clock utilized by many and appreciated by few. One might wonder what genius came up with the idea of the circular clock, or even who came up with the concept of time and organized it the way that it is now. #wheresstevenhawkingwhenyouneedhim

 A panorama of the Kickapoo football field where the most important events take place. When the sun sets and the lights come on every Friday, many students rejoice. There's nothing like the feeling of getting lost in the excitement of a crowd. #FNL

"Come to Gardening Club- Monday after school in Mr. Moore's room- S104!" The indistinguishable handwriting of Mr. Moore, a science teacher and cancer survivor. He has love for all things that grow and cares deeply about all life. #maytheplantsbewithyou

 

Kickapoo's only patch of greenery lies in the courtyard in the history hallway. Watching the plants grow and change throughout the year bring comfort to the students that walk past it everyday. #savethecourtyards

 Many decorate their instrument cases in the music classrooms, but one of the most beloved belongs to a sophomore cellist. #cookiemonster?

 A dinosaur lives in the science wing. He got his head stuck in the wall and now he guards the stairs, eating anyone who gets too close. Freshman tend to disappear a lot in this area of the building. #youvebeenwarned

 This chair sits right outside the rehearsal room of the Kickapoo Orchestra. The butts of many people have sat in this chair, including those who have left us for bigger and better things like college, or retirement. #thechairremembers

 Many dreams are killed here, in the doorway of 239. That may seem harsh, or uncalled for, but it's also the truth. Algebra II is the death of joy and the creator of anxiety attacks. #evil

Globes are beautiful. Someone had to draw every line of one of these a long time ago. Every mountain range, shore line, and country boundary had to be map out. #isthatthesovietunion?

 In this picture, you can see the faint outline of last year's senior prank. While administration tried there very hardest to scrub the ejaculating penises from the sidewalks and outer walls, there were a few that refused to be hidden so easily. The remnants of the class of 2015 will forever be etched on these walls. #hidethespraypaint