Super Teachers

        There are several breeds of heroes that are said to dwell within our society. Some may think of these people as firefighters, or policemen. But there is a group of individuals that stand much braver and more heroic then the rest, and these people are teachers. Policemen may get into gun fights, but teachers get into verbal arguments! Firefighters run into burning buildings fuelled by the dead, but teachers walk into noisy classrooms! So what if policemen have to work shifts early into the morning, teachers have to get two months off at summer just to recuperate! And as for teachers wages? They should be making six figures for all the stress their job entitles. Between working from seven till four at the latest, some teachers even have to teach for three blocks of the day. It's a wonder how they can withstand such dismal work hours throughout the year, they're simply super heroes! For no mere mortal could handle getting so much time off. Teachers need to make a stand, they're simply not be rewarded enough for their workload. All teachers need to conform together and try something they've never even considered doing. Something they need to use as a final stand, for taking the high road only gets you so far. Effective immediately all teachers need to go on strike!

Broken

Normally, he goes clean-shaven into the world,

 but today he was

broken.

                   Financially ruined, the man had to sell his house.

     He said goodbye to the twice-cut yards and hundred-year old oaks.  

                                                                   

                             He now looked for a new place to call his own.

                      
   C r a c k e d  sidewalks with ridges of stiff grass, lined the gloomy neighborhood.

      The yards [were] all proscribed by stiff picket fences. 

                          

                                                                   The neighbors, seemingly

                                                                                                         criminals.                         Had their jackets                                                                                                                                [gleaming] with *studs..*


Onward-----> he drove on a Saturday liquid with sunshine, oh how it mocked him.


narrow lanes adrift with yellow leaves greeted him left and right.

His car eased up against the side of a dusty curb, hopelessly he observed a ten-foot wire fence, paper [clogged] the fence like dri f  t  e d snow; the fence [enclosed] a playground....

this was no place to raise his children.

Bravely the man did up the metal buttons on his jacket, he then stepped outside of his                 battered vehicle.

The blue glow of television sets [lit] up the windows of the houses he so..

regretfully inspected.

 Out of a house three men and a girl [advanced] on him [pistols] in hand.

                                                          He attempted to SCREAM, but it was too late.........

Shocked and sweaty the man awoke from his slumber. 

He had fallen asleep at the wheel of his...    car.

He is overtaken by sudden GUILT, he has left no message for his wife. 

So intent is he upon his return home, he dangerously ignores a sight of pure horror,

concealed in the shadows of a side street, something crept nose out and [followed] him home.

                                                   

                                  

Regret

       I grasped the blindingly white dixie cup with displeasure. Within its contents sat a liquid resembling something like that of kitten blood. Lazily the drink rested, as if it were a fat lady after a long power walk. I drew the cup nearer to my nostrils and bravely took a whiff. A pungent smell awaited me, it was: mouldy, old, dry and offensive. Oh boy. Making the mistake of my life I took a swig of the beverage. It tasted as if I were spending a Friday night with my grandmother doing sudoko and putting puzzles together. God I despise her. The beverages personality then coincidentally took shape. The punch was boring and lazy, never in its life had it picked up a football. Harnessing all of my senses I began to hear something off in the distance. It was my mother nagging at me to take out the garbage. Did this drink have an upside? Then it got worse. My skin began to crawl as if spiders were meandering on me freely. The drink defeated me, it was an ogre with a hammer. I collapsed the cup within my grasp swiftly, it crumpled like my dignity. Throwing the cup in the garbage I breathed out a sigh of relief, the agony was over.

I am Legend

       I am the pinnacle of awesomeness, the saviour of societies and the destroyer of evil. I once failed at something so I killed myself. Pokémon? I caught them all yesterday. Adolph Hitler’s last sight was my beaming smile. On occasion I take my dog out for dinner.

In Soviet Russia I drive the car, it doesn’t drive me. I won the Masters with a hockey stick, and went bar down five times, my new name is Golf-Cart. My cat uses the toilet and I use the litter box. When I was a janitor I solved impossibly complex mathematical equations after school hours. And yes that is Good Will Hunting, its based on yours truly. I steal things.

Oprah Winfrey is in my fan club. The sky was once purple, because I said it was. Whitney Houston died because she couldn’t handle my power. At chess. I speak eighty-four languages, including alien, but none of which are English. Chuck Norris is my goldfish. I’m the only guy who has had an affair with Tiger Woods.


I am a hero. Guess who saves Superman? The Hulk is green, but I am greener. My excess gas smells like roses. I do not like roses. Saving the universe is my day job, and people often refer to me as God. Crosswalks terrify me. I am older than time and wiser then all. I have accomplished everything fathomable, yet I have not been to University.

The Little Letter

Connor Schenkey
752 Maple Street
Okanagan Falls, British Columbia,
V0H 1R0

March 8, 2011

Mr. Kleats
Central High School
123 Main Street
Sportstown, British Columbia
V2A1W3

Dear Mr. Kleats:

My name is Connor Schenkey; I have a son named Jerome who plays on your soccer team. Me and several other parents have gotten together in regards to your coaching. We feel there are some aspects to your methods and behaviors that need to be tweaked. We have brainstormed some suggestions for you to go over.


Punctuality is a key component to any of life’s commitments. It has become quite obvious you have lacked the ability to show up on time. This is not to point fingers, as you may very well have prior commitments and or a job. But for the benefit of the team a solution needs to be found. I believe a simple solution would be to move practices to a later time. This way everyone including yourself; can accomplish whatever they need to do prior to practice.

Another key component to life is organization. I think everyone can agree that your practices have been a little disorganized. That’s not to say they haven’t been fun or effective. I understand you haven’t been coaching long and I’m certainly not one to offer advice on soccer tactics. But I would volunteer myself to help you set up drills and other various games at practice. All you need is a hand to help make these practices run more smoothly.

One of the most sought after aspects in life is success. Everyone enjoys winning, you clearly portrait one who loves it. There is nothing wrong with teaching our children to try their best and to play to win. But I think you need to tone down your desire to win just a tad. You see our children are only eight years old, and are playing house level soccer. Due to this there shouldn’t be as large as an emphasis on winning. Some members of the team aren’t even getting to play. At this age everyone should be getting equal playing time and simply having fun. All you need to do is change your attitude. Instead of shouting at what your players are doing wrong, try telling them what they’re doing right.

I hope this letter hasn’t come across as harsh. Everyone on the team enjoys you and respects you. All I’ve done is discussed how to make this year more of a success for everyone. I look forward to hearing back from you and appreciate your time.

Sincerely, Connor Schenkey

A Small Dilemma

Connor Schenkey
753 Maple Street
Okanagan Falls
V0H 1R0

February 14, 2011

To: John Smith
Mayor
City Hall 568 Main Street
Small Village, B.C.


Dear Mr. Smith:

The importance of this decision cannot be taken lightly. With that being said the past decisions made by Gunter cannot be justified. Though he has become quite the reputable individual within our community his true face needs to be revealed. Our peoples need to see the true side of this villain. For too long has he concealed himself within the shadows of our community. Immediate action is necessary, here’s my proposal as to why we need to rid ourselves of this monstrosity.

Gunter has assisted in the slaughter of more people that live in this very village. Under no circumstance can what he’s done be repaid. He has evaded the hammer of justice for far too long. Gunter rightfully deserves to be tried on the basis of his actions. In our village we believe in a system called justice. If we let this man's history simply fade away, we will be ignoring the foundation our village was built upon.

Another pending disaster is the possibility of Gunter re-offending. Who’s to say this man is not capable of being involved in future crimes? For the safety of our children we cannot let this man live on. Gunter is a dormant criminal and it’s only a matter of time until he kills again. A man so heartless and sinister has no place among us.

Can a man of such a dark past really be trusted? One wonders what else Gunter might have done? A being who keeps these horrors to himself is all but clearly not trust worthy. My mind endlessly ponders what else this man might have done. For the safety of our peoples and for the good of justice Gunter Grass's true side needs to be revealed.

-Sincerely, Connor Schenkey

The Paragraph As Good As Gold

George looked up from shoeing the horse to see the outline of Curley's wife in the doorway of the barn. They were alone. George felt the air on his face cold as ice. He searched for something to say but remained silent as a mouse. The two exchanged awkward glances then parted ways. George walked out of the barn faster then a speeding bullet. He thought about her eyes as blue as the ocean. Her skin as soft as silk. Even just the thought of her made George jump for joy. George wanted nothing more then to be her knight in shining armour. George walked on into the night. He walked into the cornfield, the stalks were as tall as trees. They swayed in the breeze as the wind howled like wolves. Then he heard a yell it sounded like a roar of a lion. George ran towards the direction of the noise. He galloped like a horse. Finding his way back to the barn. George saw Lennie who was laying motionless; flat as a board. Blood was streaming from Lennies throat it was red like a rose. George stood speechless in the night air. He turned to see Curley's wife standing back in the doorway. They were alone again, but this time she had a blood stained axe.

The Repeated Offender Of Grade 12

A rare breed of graduates are said to lurk the classrooms of Princess Margaret Secondary. These conniving beings take pride in their stealthy cunning. As daily classroom routines begin to eat away at the slow ticking clock of high school, their intentions become all too clear. While the class diligently listens to the onslaught of the teachers bantering. These evil students become susceptible to the teachers all seeing eyes. With their attention fixated on devices of unknown horror these students become oblivious to the glare fixated upon them. When caught these foul demons put on quite a show. They swiftly conceal their devices and look at their teacher as if nothing had happened. When the teacher gestures a hand for the device, they are met by forked tongues that lash out words of refusal. The first attempts to secure these devices by the teachers often come to no avail. As class goes on after the first class disrupting encounter these demons do something simply sinister. After being spoken to one, two, or even five times they find the urge to pull out their phones once more. They do so with a smirk that Satan himself could not match. Why these devilish creatures act in this manor remains unknown. It may be a myth to some but these creatures are out there, maybe even in your own classroom. As long as there are classes to attend these demons will not rest, will not stop and will not falter. Due to an addiction that is taking many graduates by storm an addiction that can only be satisfied by the infamous ecstasy of texting.

A Little About My Self

It was a calm night. The moon was silently creeping upon the horizon and all was still. The lake before Connor was dazzling; it sparkled in the moonlight. He swept the sweat off his furry brow and trudged onward. He drew his sword, bane of destruction. When a roar irrupted from the distance. Connor's hair stood on end, his path was nearing its end. Standing before him, eyes dark as night, a mouth full of razors, scales as tough as this very journey itself. The dragon unleashed a wave of fire upon Connor. He quickly sidestepped the attack and readied himself for his rebuttal. He charged the dragon sword raised ready to complete his destiny. When out of nowhere came a voice: "Connor get your ass off that game!" Defeated Connor eased his grasp on his Dorito stricken playstation controller. He turned off his playstation and sighed, his destiny would have to wait.

Homework Blues

As I shuffled into the classroom, I knew that Mr. Van Camp would never believe me. I looked at my scuffed shoes and mumbled, " My homework is not done, Sir. I do have a good excuse though."

Mr. Van Camp scowled as he looked up from the papers he was marking. "This is not the first time your homework has not been completed. Perhaps," he suggested, "it's time to speak with your parents."

"Please, you have no idea what will happen to me if you phone my home," I moaned.

"Well, let's hear your excuse. It better be good."

"I was walking to school like usual when I saw a UFO!" I exclaimed

Mr. Van Camp laughed, "Are you sure your mom didn't put something in your cornflakes?"

"She usually does but not today!"

"All right what happened next?" sighed Van Camp

"The UFO beamed me up!" I shouted "all of the sudden I was in a real life UFO spaceship!"

"Take a seat, I hope your embarassed"

I stood my ground, "Then all the sudden there was aliens everywhere!"

"Ok wonderful but I have a class to teach sit down." Mr Van Camp began writing on his chalk board "Todays lesson is..."

"They gave me candy and we toured the universe!" I shouted happily

Van Camp turned around and laughed, "get out of my class.."

Dead Poets Society

The movie "Dead Poets Society" is a film based upon the power of the arts. This movie was created in 1989, by Peter Weir. Throughout this film the protagonists gradually embrace the world and recede from the internals of their shells. This change brings a new perspective to their eyes, but this new perspective also brings several dilemmas. The students actions cause a massive ripple effect and ultimately result in the tragic death of a friend. Fingers are pointed and opinions are made, tears are shed and life will never be the same for those who attended Welton Academy. Three key themes are quietly revealed in this film. The powers of conformity, built upon the foundations of poetry, and chasing dreams in which you most desire.

Conformity is a powerful act, over thought by the students in Welton Academy. The students create a poetic group that is more so passed down by their English teacher John Keating. This group allows the students the ability to express their deepest emotions in the most poetic ways possible. The students use this as a scapegoat to run from their controlled lives. Unfortunately this act of conformity goes against school rules as the students leave the school grounds at sleeping hours. Initially this results in no problems what so ever, but eventually the truth is revealed and these meetings become a lot less secret. Ultimately this results in the schools enragement, the firing of Mr Keating and the drastic and harsh suicide of a student. Such a harmless act of coming together to express emotion, becomes the basis of the worst time period in those students lives.

Poetry is a vast river full of emotion, it allows one to dip their feet in its bountiful purity and feel the cool freedom flow between their toes. The students who form the Dead Poets Society realize this and use it to stand up for their passions in life. Mr Keating taught these students to think and feel for themselves, and taught them the true meanings of poetry. This completely opens his students eyes that now live for themselves and not for what their parents want them to be. Poetry allowed the students to be their own person and chase their own dreams and not the dreams of their parents. This did not obviously go well with the students in the group for their parents took them by the reigns. But the short span of time that they lived that freedom, those students finally tasted its sweetness. Before everything they believed in came down before them in a horrifically swift fashion. Those students did what their heart desired, but this came at all toll and blackened their existence.

Loneliness is quietly portraid throughout Peter Weirs film. Its the frosted bitterness that almost every character in the movie is engulfed in. Students find themselves longing for family, or loved ones but the sad reality is that they were confined behind the school walls. This emotion ultimately created the Dead Poets Society as the students accomplished some sense of belonging with it. Loneliness destroyed many of the students and even killed one off. But within this loneliness hope took a stand literally at the end of the movie and spat in its face.

"Dead Poets Society" symbolizes the coming together of weak individuals. All of the groups members bare the burden of some dilemma within their lives. Their group allowed them an escape to a world new to them. A world filled with happiness, freedom and love. This world was shortly lived but non the less caused a massive ripple effect in the boys lives.

This paragraph is as boring as watching paint dry

After Mrs. Mitty came out of the drugstore, they climbed into their automobile. Walter fastened his seat belt, watched his wife turn on the windscreen wipers and carefully watched her pull away from the curb. The car drove down the road as slowly as a snail. Walter Mitty sighed in the passenger seat as his wife babbled on like a baboon. He rolled his head off to one side it felt heavy like a rock, the day was miserable it was raining cats and dogs.
---
Suddenly there was a roar of an engine loud like a lion. Walter felt himself lift off the ground he was flying like a bird. His plane kicked like a horse but Walter grasped the reigns firmly. His squad flew precise like an arrow preparing to engage German fighters. The wind howled like wolves just outside Walters cabin, he knew this was suicide but he flew on. Suddenly he made out in the distance a German fighter. His heart started to pound like a drum. None of Walters training prepared him for a moment such as this. Gun fire lit up the stillness of the night like fireworks on the fourth of July. His men were dropping left and right like flies, leaving only Walter trembling in his seat. Only two fighters were left on each respected side, a battle to the end. Walter meandered swiftly and cunningly like a fox. Locking in the German fighter in his cross hairs. He flipped a few switches and engaged the enemy. A loud bang echoed through the air like booming thunder but not coming from where one might of thought.

Horrors Of The Holocaust

On November 7th 1938, Jewish minor Herschel Grünspan assasinated a Nazi German diplomat Ernst Vom Rath. The Nazis used this act to scale a full fledged attack against the Jewish peoples of Germany. That cold night the Nazis vandalized many Jewish shops and completely demolished almost every synagogue in sight. This diabolical night is referred to today as the "Night of Broken Glass". But unfortunately this was in no way comparable to the horrors to come. As swift as dawn breaks over thirty thousand Jews have all ready been sent to their ultimate demise in Nazi concentration camps. Death becomes more common then starry nights, and this is just the beginning.

You find yourself straying from an early morning dream, birds outside chirp happily and you become alert and awake. If only you'd known of the horrors that lingered just mere minutes away, of the pain and suffering to come; if only you knew. Standing from your long slumber you stretch and walk to the window to greet such a glorious day. Softly you place your hands upon the window sill, warm to the touch from the suns glow. The big tree in the front yard is in full bloom and sways peacefully.

 A shout interrupts your mornings peace. Sheela the Jewish neighbor is at the curb crying, a German soldier stands before her clutching a mauser pistol. Your heart stops in complete shock and horror, Sheela's children run from the house in tears. They run as fast as their little feet can possibly carry them, but this was to no avail. The German shouted and pulled the trigger. Your heart is wrenched from your chest, the world spins un controllably, anger consumes you, blinds you and devours you. You shout at the bastard German from your window, he returns your greeting with two quick shots from his pistol. They fly past your face in an instant and destroy the lamp that once lie resting atop your night stand.

Instantly you drop to the floor and begin crawling towards your closet. In the back of your mind you know the German will be kicking down the door at any moment. You think of your kids downstairs so helpless, their eyes so wide and filled with horror. But not on this day will they parish you swear this to the moon and stars. Quickly you stand and slam the closet doors open, feverishly you throw clothes aside to find what you need most in life. There it shines brightly, you feast your eyes upon it hungrily. You clutch its cool barrel tight and pop two slugs into its chamber. Everything freezes its way too quiet.

The door bursts from downstairs and you run to the stairs. You hear the shouts of your children, it drives a needle through your soul. The bastard raises and points his gun at your oldest son. He shouts a few words, which are interrupted with your own, "Hell yearns for you." Pulling your trigger the shotgun kicks back at you like a bull, bullets spray and the German is sent flying into the wall. He lie motionless, dead. You know he deserved a worse fait but at least it was done by your own hand. You clutch your three children tightly, soft crying fills the blood stained walls of the house. You know this wont be the last time a German enters the house and next time it wont just be one.