MOAR! :P

Chapter 3
Monday, August 18.
3:00 P.M.
On the balls of my feet, I pushed a buggy cart around the supermarket, purposefully scanning the aisles for all the items that my mother and I needed. I was on a mission. The only goals were to find what I needed as quickly as possible, and get out. I hate grocery shopping.
However, while searching for the bananas, I spotted Miss Liahla. Right there, near the veggies. Well, actually I bumped into her when I was mildly distracted by the candy bars so perfectly displayed where all could see. I really need to cut back on the sugar.
�UMPH!� I proclaimed. �I�m sorry�oh, Miss Liahla. Hi.� What is she doing here? I wondered. Oh, right, haha. Dance teachers have to buy food, too. Right. Right�.
�Hi, Kathryn. How are you feeling?�
How am I�feeling? Don�t people usually just ask �how are you?�
�Um�I�m okay�I had this weird vomiting fit early this morning, though. But, I checked my temperature and it was perfectly normal. It was so weird.�
�Is that so?� But she didn�t act like she was surprised. Just a dry tone. The kind people give women when they tell you they�re pregnant, and it turns out their toddler spread the word three weeks earlier. It almost had a hint of satisfaction, even. Almost. �Well,� she sighed, �I hope you can figure out the problem,� she replied with a quick, insignificant grin. �Excuse me if it is rude, but I�m late for an�appointment, so I must be going.�
�Alright, well I�ll see you on Wednesday,� I managed to reply in a normal tone. What is it with this lady and the way she puts things? It�s like everything is a secret, or has some sort of double-meaning. Then again, my dad never had a way with words. After a shrug, I grabbed the last few items off the list, paid for them, and rode my bike home.

4:55 P.M.
As I was peeling a banana, the scent of its sweet fruit rose into my nostrils, and the smell seemed a bit more sickening than I remembered it being. Inspecting it all around and breaking the tip off to investigate the center, I checked for any blackening areas. Realizing that it was very possibly the most perfect-looking banana I�d ever seen in my life, I stuffed the tip I�d broken off into my mouth and swallowed. The taste was nothing unusual. I proceeded until I�d eaten about a third of the banana, when I found myself leaning over the kitchen sink, the soft yellow mixed with the other digested blend of food and whatnot spewing out of my mouth. What in the world? I thought. My temperature was fine before I left for the store this morning! There was no scientific reason for this that I could think of. And yet, there I was, projecting a yummilicious soup of gunk into the sink. Once I�m finished, I�m checking my temperature. If it�s normal, I�m asking the doc what�s up. This is just plain weird.

5:05 P.M.
Grabbing a dishcloth off the counter, I wiped the puke remains off my face and headed for the refrigerator to get a water bottle. After gulping down all the water I could without restarting the vomit fest, I started the search for the thermometer. Surprisingly, I actually found it in about two minutes. Practicing some dance steps, I waited for the thermometer to make that annoying beeping sound. 98.6. �It�s perfect!� I shouted to no one, frustrated. �What is WRONG with me?!� I growled. Stomping off to the bathroom so I could finish cleaning myself off in the shower, I grabbed the sides of my head in irritation. As if to add to the vexation, I realized that, not only my forehead, but my entire body, was covered in sweat. So much, in fact, I was practically soaking in the salty wet substance. That migraine was resurfacing. How much longer is this going to last? I pondered for no short period of time.

I've written 8 pages, but I'm only going to post 4. So...here it is.

I just c/p'd it, so sorry for poopy format.

Title
Prologue
It had been only two days since Mrs. Trisha had left the dance school, but we already had a new teacher. Her name was Miss…Lara? Lori? Lauren? It was something like that. Too many names start with the letter “L.” Anyway, none of us students knew anything about her, including her name, apparently. From what I’d heard, she was from some foreign country. No one really knew quite where. To be quite honest, I don’t think anyone cared. We were all still busy drying leftover tears from our tired eyes. Mrs. Trisha had been one unique gal with one sweet personality, and we all missed her immensely.
But that’s beside the point. What is the point, you ask? Like I so subtly mentioned earlier, we had a new teacher. And she was nothing of the sweet sort, despite the initial popular opinion. I won’t even compare her to Mrs. Trisha. She was, however, unique. Yeah, unique…that’s one word to describe her.

Chapter 1
Saturday, August 9.
10:15 A.M.
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been teaching for the past five years, non-stop. Dance is my passion. I couldn’t live without it. It’s as important as air.”
“Well that’s good to hear. Because, as you know, Mrs. Trisha is loved by all of us. The whole city, even. She has such a sweet heart, and we all truly miss her.”
“Ah, yes. I’ve heard a lot about her. It’s going to be difficult to teach after her.” She laughed with a soft, melodic tone. Almost like humming, but more sweet. If you could taste it, which I could almost swear you could, you would find your taste buds tingling with something like lemon-sugar frosting. Yes, it had a slight tang mixed in with its sweetness.
My mother chuckled back with a loud snort in-between breaths. “Ah, but I’m sure you’ll do just fine.” With a sigh, my mother playfully spat my rear-end and said “Come on, Kit-Kat, we gotta get movin’ before your brother spasms out thinking we left him. Otherwise, the whole police department will be surrounding his school thinking there’s a murder-scene.” With another chortle, she and I left the dance studio’s Meet-the-Teacher gathering.
Delicately waving her small, strong hand, Miss Liahla (yes, I learned her name) gently sang out with her high, gentle voice, “I can’t wait ‘till class, Kathryn!” I replied with an awkward wave.

Chapter 2
Saturday, August 16.
7:07 P.M.
Class time. And I had just left the house. Good thing we only live about a mile away from the studio. Anyway, I got there. Throwing on a ballet shoe with one hand and holding my legwarmers in the other, I hopped and stumbled over to the center barre, attempting to form coherent apologies for being late.
With a gentle gesture of her hand, Miss Liahla reassured me that it was alright. “But,” she added, “don’t be late next time, okay?” She smiled. Whether it was of forgiveness or a threat, I couldn’t tell. Either way, the shiver that slipped down my spine put enough melancholy in me that I didn’t want to chance being late again. Odd how her casual kindness always has some sort of…tang? to it, I thought to myself. Before I knew it, the complex high and low notes of a recorded piano were drifting through the room, and the intense focus of the dancers stiffened the hot Texas air like murder. Odd choice of words, maybe. But that’s exactly what this feels like. Murder. And then my thoughts shifted into focus, and I danced. Too late to have learned the combination, I had to follow the dancer in front of me, but I danced. And I danced mightily. Who wouldn’t with an angel of confusion gliding through the room, watching your every step, sweetly criticizing your every move with the scurried flicker of her eyes? And yet…there was nothing creepy about it. And yet…everything about it sent warning signals throughout my bones, screaming “CAUTION!” But Miss Liahla was just the new teacher, and I was a paranoid teenager who over-thought everything. I was just over-exaggerating. My thoughts refocused again and I danced, ignoring the feeling that puke was flowing through my bloodstream.


Sunday, August 17.
2:55 A.M.
Oooooh, I thought to my nauseated self. “BLAGH!” Throwing up in the toilet, I shoved my long hair out of the way. Stupid virus. Why can’t you just stay in one place? MUST you be so sharing? After two hours of bonding with the sewer-destined water, my observant mother slumped into the bathroom, hitting her head on the doorway. “Ow!” she gasped, placing a palm on her forehead. “WHAT is that atrocious sound?!” she demanded. After another refreshing vomit, I wiped the corners of my mouth with a dishcloth and just looked at her. Holding a fist to her own now-verdant mouth, my mother gasped “Oh! Oh!” Gagging, she queried, “Do you need anything?” Rolling my eyes I said, “Yeah, go back to bed and don’t puke. I don’t even want to flush my own digestions, much less yours. Go to bed, mom.” With one last gasp, she said “Okay” and scurried back to her bedroom at three in the morning.

Sunday, August 17.
1:02 P.M.
What time is it? I wondered. Slapping the nothingness beside me (for what reason, I’m not sure), I glanced over at my clock. 1:02, the blinding red lights shared. Gasping, I jumped out of bed, only to collapse on the floor with a migraine about one second later. “MOM!” No response. “MOM, what day is it?!” I shouted, crawling on the floor to check my calendar. Standing up, I remembered she was at work. Divorced mothers have to do that. Right. It was Sunday. Praise God! May’ve missed church, but praise…God. Mr. Ultmen would never forgive me if I was late for math class.
I tried to remember how long I’d stayed up. After a few moments of mind-boggledness, I remembered seeing 4:49. Oh my goodness! Is it possible to dry heave so long and not be hospitalized? Well, I guess it is, considering I did. Haha. My next thought was that was I starving. Cheerios, here I come!

A Simple Prayer of Thanks to God

What words could express
How thankful I am;
How much I love You?
How many heartbeats would it take
To equal the times You’ve helped me through the trials and temptations of this life?
What colors could show You
The varied emotions that define how I feel towards You?
What art form could I pursue to bring You glory?
How bright could I shine to reflect the praise You are so much more than worthy to receive?
How loud would my voice rise to bring you worship?
How carefully would my body move to dance to the rhythm of Your love?
What heights could my soul reach to touch Your face?
How many children would I care for to serve You enough?
How many people would I love?
How many weak would I serve?
How many hurt would I mend?
How many broken would I help?
How many weary would I offer rest?
How many souls would I witness to?
How many burdens would I carry?
How many days would I live before I could scratch the surface of ways to thank you enough for being You?

Attending Himself to Fame: An Excerpt

This is the introduction paragraph and conclusion paragraph to my 12 paragraph research paper on William Shakespeare. If for whatever reason someone wants to read the whole thing, let me know and I'll e-mail it to you (although I don't think I would want to read it all :P).

Introduction:

“All the world's a stage/ And all the men and women merely players/ They have their exits and their entrances/ And one man in his time plays many parts/ His acts being seven ages,” Jaques proclaimed in Shakespeare’s As You Like It (II. vii. 139-43). Through life’s twists and turns, William Shakespeare collected a mass of experiences: the loss of siblings during childhood and children in adulthood, the sentiment of growing into manhood, and the shift from husband and father to writer and actor, to name a few. Gaining knowledge year after year, Shakespeare climbed the ladder of success, although sometimes he tripped on a step or two. Nonetheless, each fall simply left behind a bruise to remind him not to repeat the mistake, and eventually everything in his life worked out for the greater good. Beginning with his childhood education, Shakespeare apprehended the basic nuggets of knowledge that sustain one through the trials and temptations of life—how to count and to read, to wake yourself up on time, and not to steal classmates’ sweets or draw funny pictures of your teacher while you’re supposed to be taking hefty notes. After his schooling was completed, he married and disciplined his own family in the ways of life and love, bestowing upon them boons of wisdom and personal experience. When the time was ripe, he packed up and headed for London where his talents and abilities flourished as he created dramas and trouped with Lord Chamberlain’s Men. Toiling day after day in heat of the sun, he worked alongside Lord Chamberlain’s men to create his future home—The Globe Theater. Vitality granted him eminence.

Conclusion:

Surely, the prolonged hours of studying when William Shakespeare was a child was the starting point of his later beloved fame. The lessons, the disciplines, and the focus he maintained led to the inestimable outcome of Shakespeare. When his own teachings were perfected, he himself became a husband and a father, conducting his own household. However, one day he decided to journey to London—the focal point of his fame. Wherever acting companies accepted him, he wrote dramas and even played a few minor parts. Continuing this process for some time, he eventually found himself supporting solely Lord Chamberlain’s Men—the acting troupe that, after some time, climaxed his career. Accepting the opportunities that came his way, Shakespeare fought the battles of hunger, aspersion, and disapproval until he ascended the stairs of fortune—and the Globe Theater—where his name forever remains renowned. Even in death, Shakespeare tied his words together with strings of black humor. On his gravestone was scribed:
GOOD FREND FOR JESUS SAKE FORBEARE,
TO DIGG THE DUST ENCLOASED HEARE.
BLESTE BE Ye MAN Yt SPARES THES STONES,
AND CURST BE HE Yt MOVES MY BONES (Palomar).
Forever shall Shakespeare be remembered as the man who pursued knowledge, endured trials, and boldly attended himself to fame.