Some visuals I use with grade 9 and 10 students. I get them to do a FLABS analysis (foreground, lighting, angles, background, symbols) analysis. I also talk extensively on how to read “theme” from photographs... One of the photos is tough to handle. Please indicate that to students before you show them. I like to display this on my white board and have students write directly on the picture. Kind of a cool effect!

Visual Response

Examine the picture given. Reflect upon the ideas and impressions suggested by the picture. The Assignment What ideas and impressions does the picture suggest to you? Consider the context, and develop your response by referring to the picture In your writing, you may responds personally, critically and/or creatively. You must Select a prose form that is appropriate to the ideas you wish to express and that will enable to effectively communicate to the reader Consider how you can create a strong unifying effect

ESSAY TOPIC (NARRATIVE ESSAY) LANGUAGE ARTS 9For this assignment, I would like you to use the premise (idea) from “Draw My Life” as well as narrative writing skills to create a personal memoir…  This is your life story!You will create an essay- your memoir, as well as use pictures (drawn or found) that represent the words you are writing on the page.  You can film your “DRAW MY LIFE” OR use this template.  Either is fine.You will be assessed using the NARRATIVE ESSAY marking guide.  This is out of /35 I will be the only one to read this, so feel free to go out of your comfort zone!  Go beyond what is obvious.  Don’t just tell me

your life story- CONNECT IT TO THE ESSAY TOPIC PROVIDED.  Make the connections all the way through.  I will also try and find some exemplars for you to look at to give you an idea of what NARRATIVE essay writing looks like and sounds like.  Use what you have learned so far.  Use the skills have you have already accessed in your other portfolio assignments.  Remember to use imagery (the senses are great, as well as simile and metaphor), first person perspective (remember it is your story!), appropriate tone, and a sense of paradigm and paradigm shift.  Try to connect to a paradox as well.  There should also be a running theme in your work.  Please identify your theme at the top of the essay.  Your theme should connect to the essay topic provided.  You can use one of the themes on your paradox/themes handout.  ONLY USE ONE THEME!(Choose ONE essay topic…two have been provided)Essay Topic: Discuss a DEFINING MOMENT for you in your life and how it has IMPACTED WHO YOU HAVE BECOME…

                                OR                  Reflect on who/what has INFLUENCED you the most in your life and why…

THEME OF THE ESSAY IS ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Remember that you are writing an essay!  You have a topic and need to identify a theme in your essay…however; there is some flexibility in the writing style. This is CREATIVE writing.  

-

Look at this picture.  Think about what this man stands for?  What the tanks represent?  This is a pure example of a paradox…Now…In a well-constructed paragraph… answer the following questions. This assignment will be included in your writing portfolio.You can use the questions as your guidance.  

Try to move towards the following literary devices (motif- purposeful repetition, imagery, tone, and perspective)What does the man see?What does the man hear?What does the man think?What does the man feel?What does the man stand for?What does the man understand/doesn’t understand about war- For a challenge, you could pick another part of the photo, and use the perspective from that object…You will be graded on the following…/5x2 for content/5x2 for organization/5 for sentence structure/5 for vocabulary/5 for conventions /35

- Look at this picture.  Think about what this woman stands for?  What do her eyes represent?  This is a pure example of a paradox…Now…In a well-constructed paragraph… answer the following questions.  This assignment will be included in your writing portfolio...  

You can use the questions as your guidance.  You can use the questions as your guidance.  

Try to move towards the following literary devices (motif- purposeful repetition, imagery, tone, and perspective)- What she sees- What she hears- What she thinks- What she tastes- What she feels- What she touches- what she grieves for and what she finds joy in- for a challenge, you could pick another part of the photo, and use the perspective from that object…You will be graded on the following…/5x2 for content/5x2 for organization/5 for sentence structure/5 for vocabulary/5 for conventions /35

Here is an article about the “Afghan” girl. Very interesting!!!

Her eyes have captivated the world since she appeared on our cover in 1985. Now we can tell her story.By Cathy NewmanPhotograph by Steve McCurryShe remembers the moment. The photographer took her picture. She remembers her anger. The man was a stranger. She had never been photographed before. Until they met again 17 years later, she had not been photographed since.The photographer remembers the moment too. The light was soft. The refugee camp in Pakistan was a sea of tents. Inside the school

tent he noticed her first. Sensing her shyness, he approached her last. She told him he could take her picture. “I didn’t think the photograph of the girl would be different from anything else I shot that day,” he recalls of that morning in 1984 spent documenting the ordeal of Afghanistan’s refugees.The portrait by Steve McCurry turned out to be one of those images that sears the heart, and in June 1985 it ran on the cover of this magazine. Her eyes are sea green. They are haunted and haunting, and in them you can read the tragedy of a land drained by war. She became known around National Geographic as the “Afghan girl,” and for 17 years no one knew her name.In January a team from National Geographic Television & Film’s EXPLORER brought McCurry to Pakistan to search for the girl with green eyes. They showed her picture around Nasir Bagh, the still standing refugee camp near Peshawar where the photograph had been made. A teacher from the school claimed to know her name. A young woman named Alam Bibi was located in a village nearby, but McCurry decided it wasn’t her.No, said a man who got wind of the search. He knew the girl in the picture. They had lived at the camp together as children. She

had returned to Afghanistan years ago, he said, and now lived in the mountains near Tora Bora. He would go get her.It took three days for her to arrive. Her village is a six-hour drive and three-hour hike across a border that swallows lives. When McCurry saw her walk into the room, he thought to himself: This is her.Names have power, so let us speak of hers. Her name is Sharbat Gula, and she is Pashtun, that most warlike of Afghan tribes. It is said of the Pashtun that they are only at peace when they are at war, and her eyes—then and now—burn with ferocity. She is 28, perhaps 29, or even 30. No one, not even she, knows for sure. Stories shift like sand in a place where no records exist.Time and hardship have erased her youth. Her skin looks like leather. The geometry of her jaw has softened. The eyes still glare; that has not softened. “She’s had a hard life,” said McCurry. “So many here share her story.” Consider the numbers. Twenty-three years of war, 1.5 million killed, 3.5 million refugees: This is the story of Afghanistan in the past quarter century.Now, consider this photograph of a young girl with sea green eyes. Her eyes challenge ours. Most of all, they disturb. We cannot turn away.

“There is not one family that has not eaten the bitterness of war,” a young Afghan merchant said in the 1985 National Geographic story that appeared with Sharbat’s photograph on the cover. She was a child when her country was caught in the jaws of the Soviet invasion. A carpet of destruction smothered countless villages like hers. She was perhaps six when Soviet bombing killed her parents. By day the sky bled terror. At night the dead were buried. And always, the sound of planes, stabbing her with dread.“We left Afghanistan because of the fighting,” said her brother, Kashar Khan, filling in the narrative of her life. He is a straight line of a man with a raptor face and piercing eyes. “The Russians were everywhere. They were killing people. We had no choice.”Shepherded by their grandmother, he and his four sisters walked to Pakistan. For a week they moved through mountains covered in snow, begging for blankets to keep warm.“You never knew when the planes would come,” he recalled. “We hid in caves.”The journey that began with the loss of their parents and a trek across mountains by foot ended in a refugee camp tent living with strangers.

“Rural people like Sharbat find it difficult to live in the cramped surroundings of a refugee camp,” explained Rahimullah Yusufzai, a respected Pakistani journalist who acted as interpreter for McCurry and the television crew. “There is no privacy. You live at the mercy of other people.” More than that, you live at the mercy of the politics of other countries. “The Russian invasion destroyed our lives,” her brother said.It is the ongoing tragedy of Afghanistan. Invasion. Resistance. Invasion. Will it ever end? “Each change of government brings hope,” said Yusufzai. “Each time, the Afghan people have found themselves betrayed by their leaders and by outsiders professing to be their friends and saviors.”In the mid-1990s, during a lull in the fighting, Sharbat Gula went home to her village in the foothills of mountains veiled by snow. To live in this earthen-colored village at the end of a thread of path means to scratch out an existence, nothing more. There are terraces planted with corn, wheat, and rice, some walnut trees, a stream that spills down the mountain (except in times of drought), but no school, clinic, roads, or running water.Here is the bare outline of her day. She rises before sunrise and prays. She fetches water from the stream. She cooks, cleans, does

laundry. She cares for her children; they are the center of her life. Robina is 13. Zahida is three. Alia, the baby, is one. A fourth daughter died in infancy. Sharbat has never known a happy day, her brother says, except perhaps the day of her marriage.Her husband, Rahmat Gul, is slight in build, with a smile like the gleam of a lantern at dusk. She remembers being married at 13. No, he says, she was 16. The match was arranged.He lives in Peshawar (there are few jobs in Afghanistan) and works in a bakery. He bears the burden of medical bills; the dollar a day he earns vanishes like smoke. Her asthma, which cannot tolerate the heat and pollution of Peshawar in summer, limits her time in the city and with her husband to the winter. The rest of the year she lives in the mountains.At the age of 13, Yusufzai, the journalist, explained, she would have gone into purdah, the secluded existence followed by many Islamic women once they reach puberty.“Women vanish from the public eye,” he said. In the street she wears a plum-colored burka, which walls her off from the world and from the eyes of any man other than her husband. “It is a beautiful thing to wear, not a curse,” she says.

Faced by questions, she retreats into the black shawl wrapped around her face, as if by doing so she might will herself to evaporate. The eyes flash anger. It is not her custom to subject herself to the questions of strangers.Had she ever felt safe?”No. But life under the Taliban was better. At least there was peace and order.”Had she ever seen the photograph of herself as a girl?“No.”She can write her name, but cannot read. She harbors the hope of education for her children. “I want my daughters to have skills,” she said. “I wanted to finish school but could not. I was sorry when I had to leave.”Education, it is said, is the light in the eye. There is no such light for her. It is possibly too late for her 13-year-old daughter as well, Sharbat Gula said. The two younger daughters still have a chance.The reunion between the woman with green eyes and the photographer was quiet. On the subject of married women, cultural tradition is strict. She must not look—and certainly must not smile—at a man who is not her husband. She did not smile at McCurry. Her expression, he said, was flat. She cannot understand how her picture has touched so

many. She does not know the power of those eyes.Such knife-thin odds. That she would be alive. That she could be found. That she could endure such loss. Surely, in the face of such bitterness the spirit could atrophy. How, she was asked, had she survived?The answer came wrapped in unshakable certitude.“It was,” said Sharbat Gula, “the will of God.”I like to hand out the theme sheet in order to have students “understand” how to read a picture. It is about getting to the message. It is about “moving beyond the obvious”. 1. You could practice by handing out pictures (down the row the students are in). 2. Hand out stickie notes. 3. Have them write what the theme of the picture on the sticky note and place it on the back of the picture. 4. Once the row has all had a chance to see the picture and place a sticky on it, then you would take the picture to the board, post it up, and take off the stickies and put it underneath the photo5. Then...have the students decide if the notes are “ideas” or “almost” and “not an idea”6. Place them in categories so the students can see and hear the distinction.7. They love the stickies ! and I think they start to see how to read a picture, and how it needs to be more than just “guy looking in a mirror”.

In writing I discuss imagery and tone (A LOT!!). To understand imagery, I have a bunch of pictures I print off. I ask them to work in pairs. They MUST be BACK TO BACK. One person is “the drawer” the other is the “describer”. The first time around...I ask the describer of the photo to give very little detail to the drawer. They switch and same rules apply.

I talk about and they add in, how hard it was to get an accurate picture when there is not much detail given. Someone says (often), I was able to get it right... Which might be true. I give them a picture of an alien (to begin with). The reason they can come close is because you can use the stereotype of an alien and get pretty close... Discuss that!

Now, give them a picture that has more details. Have them describe to their drawer as much as possible!!! Have them give every detail they see.

End of fun activity...they love it. They learn that imagery is a great and simple thing to do.

I also talk about the five senses with them as part of imagery.

Tone/Attitude Words

1. accusatory-charging of wrong doing2. apathetic-indifferent due to lack of energy or concern3. awe-solemn wonder4. bitter-exhibiting strong animosity as a result of pain or grief5. cynical-questions the basic sincerity and goodness of people6. condescension; condescending-a feeling of superiority7. callous-unfeeling, insensitive to feelings of others8. contemplative-studying, thinking, reflecting on an issue9. critical-finding fault10. choleric-hot-tempered, easily angered11. contemptuous-showing or feeling that something is worthless or lacks respect12. caustic-intense use of sarcasm; stinging, biting13. conventional-lacking spontaneity, originality, and individuality14. disdainful-scornful15. didactic-author attempts to educate or instruct the reader16. derisive-ridiculing, mocking17. earnest-intense, a sincere state of mind18. erudite-learned, polished, scholarly19. fanciful-using the imagination20. forthright-directly frank without hesitation21. gloomy-darkness, sadness, rejection22. haughty-proud and vain to the point of arrogance23. indignant-marked by anger aroused by injustice24. intimate-very familiar25. judgmental-authoritative and often having critical opinions26. jovial-happy27. lyrical-expressing a poet’s inner feelings; emotional; full of images; song-like28. matter-of-fact--accepting of conditions; not fanciful or emotional29. mocking-treating with contempt or ridicule30. morose-gloomy, sullen, surly, despondent31. malicious-purposely hurtful32. objective-an unbiased view-able to leave personal judgments aside33. optimistic-hopeful, cheerful34. obsequious-polite and obedient in order to gain something

35. patronizing-air of condescension36. pessimistic-seeing the worst side of things; no hope37. quizzical-odd, eccentric, amusing38. ribald-offensive in speech or gesture39. reverent-treating a subject with honor and respect40. ridiculing-slightly contemptuous banter; making fun of41. reflective-illustrating innermost thoughts and emotions42. sarcastic-sneering, caustic43. sardonic-scornfully and bitterly sarcastic44. satiric-ridiculing to show weakness in order to make a point, teach45. sincere-without deceit or pretense; genuine46. solemn-deeply earnest, tending toward sad reflection47. sanguineous -optimistic, cheerful48. whimsical-odd, strange, fantastic; fun

In terms of tone...I want them to know and understand what tone means. That way, in their personal response essay they can use it! Have them act out moments with the tone given. Kind of fun and they can discuss the SUBTLE differences...

Of course...we want them to know THEME! You can get them to write a response and have them share it with a partner. The partner needs to accurately guess the theme for a candy treat.

What Is a Theme? By Rachel Mork at http://www.life123.com/parenting/education/children-reading/12-most-common-themes-in-literature.shtml

The theme of the book differs from the plot, although many people think plot and theme are one and the same. You can explain the difference to your students by saying that plot is what the characters do, but the theme is the lesson or moral underlying the plot. The theme of a book is a message that describes an opinion about life, human nature or elements of society.

The 12 Most Common Themes in Literature 1. Man Struggles Against Nature: Man is always at battle with human nature, whether the drives described are sexual, material or against the aging process itself.2. Man Struggles Against Societal Pressure: Mankind is always struggling to determine if societal pressure is best for living. Check out books like Revolutionary Road or Mrs. Dalloway for examples of characters who know how society says they should live, but feel society’s dictation is contrary to what makes them happy.3. Man Struggles to Understand Divinity: Mankind tries to understand and make peace with God, but satisfaction is elusive and difficult.

4. Crime Does Not Pay: A popular theme played out in books throughout time is the concept that honesty is honored and criminals will eventually be caught. Crime and Punishment and "The Telltale Heart” are two stories written on this theme.5. Overcoming Adversity: Many books laud characters who accept a tough situation and turn it into triumph. Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With the Wind exemplifies a shrewd person who finds a way to come out on top despite failed relationships and an economic depression after the Civil War.6. Friendship is Dependant on Sacrifice: This is the idea that you can’t have friends if you don’t act like a friend.7. The Importance of Family: Sacrifices for family are honored and explored, as are the family bonds that survive adversity.8. Yin and Yang: Just when you think life is finally going to be easy, something bad happens to balance it all out. 9. Love is the Worthiest of Pursuits: Many writers assert the idea that love conquers all, appealing to the romantic side of us.10. Death is Part of the Life Cycle: Literary works with this theme show how death and life and intricately connected.11. Sacrifices Bring Reward: Sacrifices and hard work pay off in the end, despite the challenges along the way.12. Human Beings All Have the Same Needs: From Montagues to Capulets in Romeo and Juliet or the characters in S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, book after book asserts that rich or poor, educated or dumb, all human beings need love and other basic needs met.

Here are some short stories I like to use for my grade 9 language arts

The Sniper was a really popular choice and one I would definitely do again!!

The Sniper: Liam O’Flaherty

The long June twilight faded into night. Dublin lay enveloped in darkness but for the dim light of the moon that shone through fleecy clouds, casting a pale light as of approaching dawn over the streets and the dark waters of the Liffey. Around the beleaguered Four Courts the heavy guns roared. Here and there through the city, machine guns and rifles broke the silence of the night, spasmodically, like dogs barking on lone farms. Republicans and Free Staters were waging civil war.

On a rooftop near O'Connell Bridge, a Republican sniper lay watching. Beside him lay his rifle and over his shoulders was slung a pair of field glasses. His face was the face of a student, thin and ascetic, but his eyes had the cold gleam of the fanatic. They were deep and thoughtful, the eyes of a man who is used to looking at death.

He was eating a sandwich hungrily. He had eaten nothing since morning. He had been too excited to eat. He finished the sandwich, and, taking a flask from his pocket, he took a short drought. Then he returned the flask to his pocket. He paused for a moment, considering whether he should risk a smoke. It was dangerous. The flash might be seen in the darkness, and there were enemies watching. He decided to take the risk.

Placing a cigarette between his lips, he struck a match, inhaled the smoke hurriedly and put out the light. Almost immediately, a bullet flattened itself against the parapet of the roof. The sniper took another whiff and put out the cigarette. Then he swore softly and crawled away to the left.

Cautiously he raised himself and peered over the parapet. There was a flash and a bullet whizzed over his head. He dropped immediately. He had seen the flash. It came from the opposite side of the street.

He rolled over the roof to a chimney stack in the rear, and slowly drew himself up behind it, until his eyes were level with the top of the parapet. There was nothing to be seen--just the dim outline of the opposite housetop against the blue sky. His enemy was under cover.

Just then an armored car came across the bridge and advanced slowly up the street. It stopped on the opposite side of the street, fifty yards ahead. The sniper could hear the dull panting of the motor. His heart beat faster. It was an enemy car. He wanted to fire, but he knew it was useless. His bullets would never pierce the steel that covered the gray monster.

Then round the corner of a side street came an old woman, her head covered by a tattered shawl. She began to talk to the man in the turret of the car. She was pointing to the roof where the sniper lay. An informer.

The turret opened. A man's head and shoulders appeared, looking toward the sniper. The sniper raised his rifle and fired. The head fell heavily on the turret wall. The woman darted toward the side street. The sniper fired again. The woman whirled round and fell with a shriek into the gutter.

Suddenly from the opposite roof a shot rang out and the sniper dropped his rifle with a curse. The rifle clattered to the roof. The sniper thought the noise would wake the dead. He stooped to pick the rifle up. He couldn't lift it. His forearm was dead. "I'm hit," he muttered.

Dropping flat onto the roof, he crawled back to the parapet. With his left hand he felt the injured right forearm. The blood was oozing through the sleeve of his coat. There was no pain--just a deadened sensation, as if the arm had been cut off.

Quickly he drew his knife from his pocket, opened it on the breastwork of the parapet, and ripped open the sleeve. There was a small hole where the bullet had entered. On the other side there was no hole. The bullet had lodged in the bone. It must have fractured it. He bent the arm below the wound. the arm bent back easily. He ground his teeth to overcome the pain.

Then taking out his field dressing, he ripped open the packet with his knife. He broke the neck of the iodine bottle and let the bitter fluid drip into the wound. A paroxysm of pain swept through him. He placed the cotton wadding over the wound and wrapped the dressing over it. He tied the ends with his teeth.

Then he lay still against the parapet, and, closing his eyes, he made an effort of will to overcome the pain.

In the street beneath all was still. The armored car had retired speedily over the bridge, with the machine gunner's head hanging lifeless over the turret. The woman's corpse lay still in the gutter.

The sniper lay still for a long time nursing his wounded arm and planning escape. Morning must not find him wounded on the roof. The enemy on the opposite roof covered his escape. He must kill that enemy and he could not use his rifle. He had only a revolver to do it. Then he thought of a plan.

Taking off his cap, he placed it over the muzzle of his rifle. Then he pushed the rifle slowly upward over the parapet, until the cap was visible from the opposite side of the street. Almost immediately there was a report, and a bullet pierced the center of the cap. The sniper slanted the rifle forward. The cap clipped down into the street. Then catching the rifle in the middle, the sniper dropped his left hand over the roof and let it hang, lifelessly. After a few moments he let the rifle drop to the street. Then he sank to the roof, dragging his hand with him.

Crawling quickly to his feet, he peered up at the corner of the roof. His ruse had succeeded. The other sniper, seeing the cap and rifle fall, thought that he had killed his man. He was now standing before a row of chimney pots, looking across, with his head clearly silhouetted against the western sky.

The Republican sniper smiled and lifted his revolver above the edge of the parapet. The distance was about fifty yards--a hard shot in the dim light, and his right arm was paining him like a thousand devils. He took a steady aim. His hand trembled with eagerness. Pressing his lips together, he took a deep breath through his nostrils and fired. He was almost deafened with the report and his arm shook with the recoil.

Then when the smoke cleared, he peered across and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit. He was reeling over the parapet in his death agony. He struggled to keep his feet, but he was slowly falling forward as if in a dream. The rifle fell from his grasp, hit the parapet, fell over, bounded off the pole of a barber's shop beneath and then clattered on the pavement.

Then the dying man on the roof crumpled up and fell forward. The body turned over and over in space and hit the ground with a dull thud. Then it lay still.

The sniper looked at his enemy falling and he shuddered. The lust of battle died in him. He became bitten by remorse. The sweat stood out in beads on his forehead. Weakened by his wound and the long summer day of fasting and watching on the roof, he revolted from the

sight of the shattered mass of his dead enemy. His teeth chattered, he began to gibber to himself, cursing the war, cursing himself, cursing everybody.

He looked at the smoking revolver in his hand, and with an oath he hurled it to the roof at his feet. The revolver went off with a concussion and the bullet whizzed past the sniper's head. He was frightened back to his senses by the shock. His nerves steadied. The cloud of fear scattered from his mind and he laughed.

Taking the flask from his pocket, he emptied it a drought. He felt reckless under the influence of the spirit. He decided to leave the roof now and look for his company commander, to report. Everywhere around was quiet. There was not much danger in going through the streets. He picked up his revolver and put it in his pocket. Then he crawled down through the skylight to the house underneath.

When the sniper reached the laneway on the street level, he felt a sudden curiosity as to the identity of the enemy sniper whom he had killed. He decided that he was a good shot, whoever he was. He wondered did he know him. Perhaps he had been in his own company before the split in the army. He decided to risk going over to have a look at him. He peered around the corner into O'Connell Street. In the upper part of the street there was heavy firing, but around here all was quiet.

The sniper darted across the street. A machine gun tore up the ground around him with a hail of bullets, but he escaped. He threw himself face downward beside the corpse. The machine gun stopped.Then the sniper turned over the dead body and looked into his brother's face.  

ON THE SIDEWALK BLEEDING by Evan Hunter

The boy lay on the sidewalk bleeding in the rain. He was sixteen years old, and he wore a bright purple jacket and the lettering across the back of the jacket read THE ROYALS. The boy's name was Andy and the name was delicately scripted in black thread on the front of the jacket, just over the heart. ANDY. He had been stabbed ten minutes ago. The knife entered just below his rib cage and had been drawn across his body violently, tearing a wide gap in his flesh. He lay on the sidewalk with the March rain drilling his jacket and drilling his body and washing away the blood that poured from his open wound. He had known excruciating pain when the knife had torn across his body, and then sudden comparative relief when the blade was pulled away. He had heard the voice saying, 'That's for you Royal!" and then the sound of footsteps hurrying into

the rain, and then he had fallen to the sidewalk, clutching his stomach, trying to stop the flow of blood. He tried to yell for help, but he had no voice. He did not know why his voice had deserted him, or why there was an open hole in his body from which his life ran readily, steadily, or why the rain had become so suddenly fierce. It was 11:13 p.m. but he did not know the time. There was another thing he did not know. He did not know he was dying. He lay on the sidewalk, bleeding, and he thought only: That was a fierce rumble. They got me good that time, but he did not know he was dying. He would have been frightened had he known. In his ignorance he lay bleeding and wishing he could cry out for help, but there was no voice in his throat. There was only the bubbling of blood from between his lips whenever he opened his mouth to speak. He lay in his pain, waiting, waiting for someone to find him. He could hear the sound of automobile tires hushed on the rain swept streets, far away at the other end of the long alley. He lay with his face pressed to the sidewalk, and he could see the splash of neon far away at the other end of the alley, tinting the pavement red and green, slickly brilliant in the rain. He wondered if Laura would be angry. He had left the jump to get a package of cigarettes. He had told her he would be back in a few minutes, and then he had gone downstairs and found the candy store closed. He knew that Alfredo's on the next block would be open. He had started through the alley, and that was when he had been ambushed. He could hear the faint sound of music now, coming from a long, long way off. He wondered if Laura was dancing, wondered if she had missed him yet. Maybe she thought he wasn't coming back. Maybe she thought he'd cut out for good. Maybe she had already left the jump and gone home. He thought of her face, the brown eyes and the jet-black hair, and thinking of her he forgot his pain a little, forgot that blood was rushing from his body. Someday he would marry Laura. Someday he would marry her, and they would have a lot of kids, and then they would get out of the neighborhood. They would move to a clean project in the Staten Island. When they were married, when they had kids.

He heard footsteps at the other end of the alley, and he lifted his cheek from the sidewalk and looked into the darkness and tried to cry out, but again there was only a soft hissing bubble of blood on his mouth. The man came down the alley. He had not seen Andy yet. He walked, and then stopped to lean against the brick of the building, and then walked again. He saw Andy then and came toward him, and he stood over him for a long time, the minutes ticking, ticking, watching him and not speaking. Then he said, "What's the matter, buddy'?" Andy could not speak, and he could barely move. He lifted his face slightly and looked up at the man, and in the rain swept alley he smelled the sickening odor of alcohol. The man was drunk. The man was smiling. "Did you fall down, buddy?" he asked. "You must be as drunk as I am." He squatted alongside Andy. 'You gonna catch cold there," he said. "What's the matter? You like layin' in the wet?" Andy could not answer. The rain spattered around them. You like a drink?" Andy shook his head. "I gotta bottle. Here," the man said. He pulled a pint bottle from his inside jacket pocket. Andy tried to move, but pain wrenched him back flat against the sidewalk. Take it," the man said. He kept watching Andy. "Take it." When Andy did not move, he said, "Nev' mind, I'll have one m'self." He tilted the bottle to his lips, and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "You too young to be drinkin' anyway. Should be 'shamed of yourself, drunk and layin 'in a alley, all wet. Shame on you. I gotta good mind to call a cop." Andy nodded. Yes, he tried to say. Yes, call a cop. Please call one. "Oh, you don' like that, huh?" the drunk said. "You don' wanna cop to fin' you all drunk an' wet in an alley, huh: Okay, buddy. This time you get off easy." He got to his feet. "This time you get off easy," he said again. He waved broadly at Andy, and then almost lost his footing. "S'long, buddy," he said. Wait, Andy thought. Wait, please, I'm bleeding. "S'long," the drunk said again, "I see you around," and the he staggered off up the alley. Andy lay and thought: Laura, Laura. Are you dancing:? The couple came into the alley suddenly. They ran into the alley together, running from the rain, the boy holding the girl's elbow, the girl spreading a newspaper over her head to protect her hair. Andy watched them run into the alley laughing, and then duck into the doorway not ten feet from him. "Man, what rain!" the boy said. 'You could drown out there." "I have to get home," the girl said. "It's late, Freddie. I have to get home." "We got time," Freddie said. 'Your people won't raise a fuss if you're a little late. Not with

this with kind of weather." "It's dark," the girl said, and she giggled. 'Yeah," the boy answered, his voice very low. "Freddie . . . . ? "Um?" "You're ... standing very close to me." "Um." There was a long silence. Then the girl said, "Oh," only that single word, and Andy knew she had been kissed , and he suddenly hungered for Laura's mouth. It was then that he wondered if he would ever kiss Laura again. It was then that he wondered if he was dying. No, he thought, I can't be dying, not from a little street rumble, not from just being cut. Guys get cut all the time in rumbles. I can't be dying. No, that's stupid. That don't make any sense at all. "You shouldn't," the girl said. "Why not?" "Do you like it?

"Yes." "So?" "I don't know." "I love you, Angela," the boy said. "I love you, too, Freddie," the girl said, and Andy listened and thought: I love you, Laura. Laura, I think maybe I'm dying. Laura, this is stupid but I think maybe I'm dying. Laura, I think I'm dying He tried to speak. He tried to move. He tried to crawl toward the doorway. He tried to make a noise, a sound, and a grunt came, a low animal grunt of pain. "What was that?" the girl said, suddenly alarmed, breaking away from the boy. "I don't know," he answered. "Go look, Freddie." "No. Wait." Andy moved his lips again. Again the sound came from him. Freddie!" "What?" "I'm scared." "I'll go see," the boy said. He stepped into the alley. He walked over to where Andy lay on the ground. He stood over him, watching him. "You all right?" he asked. "What is it?" Angela said from the doorway. "Somebody's hurt," Freddie said. "Let's get out of here," Angela said. "No. Wait a minute." He knelt down beside Andy. "You cut?" he asked. Andy nodded. The boy kept looking at him. He saw the lettering on the jacket then. THE ROYALS. He turned to Angela. "He's a Royal," he said. "Let's what. . . .what . . . do you want to do, Freddie?" "I don't know. I don't know. I don't want to get mixed up in this. He's a Royal. We help him, and the Guardians'll be down on our necks. I don't want to get mixed up in this, Angela." "Is he . . . is he hurt bad?"

"Yeah, it looks that way." "What shall we do?" "I don't know." "We can't leave him here in the rain," Angela hesitated. "Can we?" "If we get a cop, the Guardians'll find out who," Freddie said. "I don't know, Angela. I don't know." Angela hesitated a long time before answering. Then she said, "I want to go home, Freddie. My people will begin to worry." "Yeah," Freddie said. He looked at Andy again. "You all right?" he asked. Andy lifted his face from the sidewalk, and his eyes said: Please, please help me, and maybe Freddie read what his eyes were saying, and maybe he didn't. Behind him, Angela said, "Freddie, let's get out of here! Please!" Freddie stood up. He looked at Andy again, and then mumbled, "I'm sorry." He took Angela's arm and together they ran towards the neon splash at the other end of the alley. Why, they're afraid of the Guardians, Andy thought in amazement. By why should they be? I wasn't afraid of the Guardians. I never turkeyed out of a rumble with the Guardians. I got heart. But I'm bleeding. The rain was soothing somehow. It was a cold rain, but his body was hot all over, and the rain helped cool him. He had always liked rain. He could remember sitting in Laura's house one time, the rain running down the windows, and just looking out over the street, watching the people running from the rain. That was when he'd first joined the Royals. He could remember how happy he was when the Royals had taken him. The Royals and the Guardians, two of the biggest. He was a Royal. There had been meaning to the title. Now, in the alley, with the cold rain washing his hot body, he wondered about the meaning. If he died, he was Andy. He was not a Royal. He was simply Andy, and he was dead. And he wondered suddenly if the Guardians who had ambushed him and knifed him had ever once realized he was Andy? Had they known that he was Andy or had they simply known that he was Royal wearing a purple silk jacket? Had they stabbed him, Andy, or had they only stabbed the jacket and the title and what good was the title if you were dying? I'm Andy, he screamed wordlessly, I'm Andy. An old lady stopped at the other end of the alley. The garbage cans were stacked there, beating noisily in the rain. The old lady carried an umbrella with broken ribs, carried it like a queen. She stepped into the mouth of the alley, shopping bag over one arm. She lifted the lids of the garbage cans. She did not hear Andy grunt because she was a little deaf and because the rain was beating on the cans. She collected her string and her newspapers, and an old hat with a feather on it from one of the garbage cans, and a broken footstool from another of the cans. And then she replaced the lids and lifted her umbrella high and walked out of the alley mouth. She had worked quickly and soundlessly, and now she was gone. The alley looked very long now. He could see people passing at the other end of it, and he wondered who the people were, and he wondered if he would ever get to know them, wondered who it was of the Guardians who had stabbed him, who had plunged the knife into his body. "That's for you, Royal!" the voice had said. "That's for you, Royal!" Even in his pain, there had been some sort of pride in knowing he was a Royal. Now there was no pride at all. With the rain beginning to chill him, with the blood pouring steadily between his fingers, he knew

only a sort of dizziness. He could only think: I want to be Andy. It was not very much to ask of the world. He watched the world passing at the other end of the alley. The world didn't know he was Andy. The world didn't know he was alive. He wanted to say, "Hey, I'm alive! Hey, look at me! I'm alive! Don't you know I'm alive? Don't you know I exist?" He felt weak and very tired. He felt alone, and wet and feverish and chilled. He knew he was going to die now. That made him suddenly sad. He was filled with sadness that his life would be over at sixteen. He felt all at once as if he had never done anything, never seen anything, never been anywhere. There were so many things to do. He wondered why he'd never thought of them before, wondered why the rumbles and the jumps and the purple jackets had always seemed so important to him before. Now they seemed like such small things in a world he was missing, a world that was rushing past at the other end of the alley. I don't want to die, he thought. I haven't lived yet. It seemed very important to him that he take off the purple jacket. He was very close to dying, and when they found him, he did not want them to say, "Oh, it's a Royal." With great effort, he rolled over onto his back. He felt the pain tearing at his stomach when he moved. If he never did another thing, he wanted to take off the jacket. The jacket had only one meaning now, and that was a very simple meaning. If he had not been wearing the jacket, he wouldn't have been stabbed. The knife had not been plunged in hatred of Andy. The knife hated only the purple jacket. The jacket was as stupid meaningless thing that was robbing him of his life. He lay struggling with the shiny wet jacket. His arms were heavy. Pain ripped fire across his stomach when he moved. If he never did another thing, he wanted to take off the jacket. The jacket had only one meaning now, and that was a very simple meaning.But he squirmed and fought and twisted until one arm was free and then the other. He rolled away from the jacket and lay quite still, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of his breathing and the sounds of the rain and thinking: Rain is sweet, I'm Andy. She found him in the doorway a minute past midnight. She left the dance to look for him, and when she found him, she knelt beside him and said, "Andy, it's me, Laura." He did not answer her. She backed away from him, tears springing into her eyes, and then she ran from the alley. She did not stop running until she found a cop. And now, standing with the cop, she looked down at him. The cop rose and said, "He's dead." All the crying was out of her now. She stood in the rain and said nothing, looking at the purple jacket that rested a foot away from his body. The cop picked up the jacket and turned it over in his hands. "A Royal, huh?" he said. She looked at the cop and, very quietly, she said, "His name is Andy." The cop slung the jacket over his arm. He took out his black pad, and he flipped it open to a blank page. "A Royal." he said. Then he began writing. The End

Thank You M’am: Langston Hughes

Thank You, Ma'am by Langston HughesShe was a large woman with a large purse that had everything in it but hammer and nails. It had a long strap, and she carried it slung across her shoulder. It was about eleven o’clock at night, and she was walking alone, when a boy ran up behind her and tried to snatch her purse. The strap broke with the single tug the boy gave it from behind. But the boy’s weight and the weight of the purse combined caused him to lose his balance so, instead of taking off full blast as he had hoped, the boy fell on his back on the sidewalk, and his legs flew up. The large woman simply turned around and kicked him right square in his blue-jeaned sitter. Then she reached down, picked the boy up by his shirt front, and shook him until his teeth rattled.

After that the woman said, “Pick up my pocketbook, boy, and give it here.” She still held him. But she bent down enough to permit him to stoop and pick up her purse. Then she said, “Now ain’t you ashamed of yourself?” Firmly gripped by his shirt front, the boy said, “Yes’m.” The woman said, “What did you want to do it for?” The boy said, “I didn’t aim to.” She said, “You a lie!” By that time two or three people passed, stopped, turned to look, and some stood watching.

“If I turn you loose, will you run?” asked the woman. “Yes’m,” said the boy. “Then I won’t turn you loose,” said the woman. She did not release him. “I’m very sorry, lady, I’m sorry,” whispered the boy. “Um-hum! And your face is dirty. I got a great mind to wash your face for you. Ain’t you got nobody home to tell you to wash your face?” “No’m,” said the boy. “Then it will get washed this evening,” said the large woman starting up the street, dragging the frightened boy behind her. He looked as if he were fourteen or fifteen, frail and willow-wild, in tennis shoes and blue jeans. The woman said, “You ought to be my son. I would teach you right from wrong. Least I can do right now is to wash your face. Are you hungry?” “No’m,” said the being dragged boy. “I just want you to turn me loose.” “Was I bothering you when I turned that corner?” asked the woman. “No’m.” “But you put yourself in contact with me,” said the woman. “If you think that that contact is not going to last awhile, you got another thought coming. When I get through with you, sir, you are going to remember Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones.” Sweat popped out on the boy’s face and he began to struggle. Mrs. Jones stopped, jerked him around in front of her, put a half-nelson about his neck, and continued to drag him up

the street.When she got to her door, she dragged the boy inside, down a hall, and into a large kitchenette furnished room at the rear of the house. She switched on the light and left the door open. The boy could hear other roomers laughing and talking in the large house. Some of their doors were open, too, so he knew he and the woman were not alone. The woman still had him by the neck in the middle of her room. She said, “What is your name?” “Roger,” answered the boy. “Then, Roger, you go to that sink and wash your face,” said the woman, whereupon she turned him loose-at last. Roger looked at the door-looked at the woman-looked at the door-and went to the sink. “Let the water run until it gets warm,” she said. “Here’s a clean towel.” “You gonna take me to jail?” asked the boy, bending over the sink. “Not with that face, I would not take you nowhere,” said the woman. “Here I am trying to get home to cook me a bite to eat and you snatch my pocketbook! Maybe, you ain’t been to your supper either, late as it be. Have you?” “There’s nobody home at my house,” said the boy. “Then we’ll eat,” said the woman, “I believe you’re hungry-or been hungry-to try to snatch my pockekbook.” “I wanted a pair of blue suede shoes,” said the boy. “Well, you didn’t have to snatch my pocketbook to get some suede shoes,” said Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones. “You could of asked me.” “M’am?” The water dripping from his face, the boy looked at her. There was a long pause. A very long pause. After he had dried his face and not knowing what else to do dried it again, the boy turned around, wondering what next. The door was open. He could make a dash for it down the hall.He could run, run, run, run, run!

The woman was sitting on the day-bed. After a while she said, “I were young once and I wanted things I could not get.” There was another long pause. The boy’s mouth opened. Then he frowned, but not knowing he frowned.

The woman said, “Um-hum! You thought I was going to say but, didn’t you? You thought I was going to say, but I didn’t snatch people’s pocketbooks. Well, I wasn’t going to say that.”

Pause. Silence.

“I have done things, too, which I would not tell you, son-neither tell God, if he didn’t already know. So you set down while I fix us something to eat. 055 You might run that comb through your hair so you will look presentable.”

In another corner of the room behind a screen was a gas plate and an icebox. Mrs. Jones got up and went behind the screen. The woman did not watch the boy to see if he was going to run now, nor did she watch her purse which she left behind her on the day-bed. But the boy took care to sit on the far side of the room where he thought she could easily see him out of the corner of her eye, if she wanted to. He did not trust the woman not to trust him. And he did not want to be mistrusted now. “Do you need somebody to go to the store,” asked the boy, “maybe to get some milk or something?”

“Don’t believe I do,” said the woman, “unless you just want sweet milk yourself. I was going to make cocoa out of this canned milk I got here.” “That will be fine,” said the boy.

She heated some lima beans and ham she had in the icebox, made the cocoa, and set the table.The woman did not ask the boy anything about where he lived, or his folks, or anything else that would embarrass him. Instead, as they ate, she told him about her job in a hotel beauty-shop that stayed open late, what the work was like, and how all kinds of women came in and out, blondes, red-heads, and Spanish. Then she cut him a half of her ten-cent cake. “Eat some more, son,” she said. When they were finished eating she got up and said, “Now, here, take this ten dollars and buy yourself some blue suede shoes. And next time, do not make the mistake of latching onto my pocketbook nor nobody else’s-because shoes come by devilish like that will burn your feet. I got to get my rest now. But I wish you would behave yourself, son, from here on in.”

She led him down the hall to the front door and opened it. “Good-night! Behave yourself, boy!” she said, looking out into the street. The boy wanted to say something else other than “Thank you, m’am” to Mrs. Luella Bates Washington Jones, but he couldn’t do so as he turned at the barren stoop and looked back at the large woman in the door. He barely managed to say “Thank you” before she shut the door. And he never saw her again.

THE TELL-TALE HEARTby Edgar Allan Poe 1843

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my

head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly --very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers --of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back --but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself --"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney --it is only a mouse crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel --although he neither saw nor heard --to feel the presence of my head within the room.When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my

bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man's hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became

more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.No doubt I now grew very pale; --but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased --and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound --much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

-THE END-

Close Reading elements..

Here are the following things you NEED to identify in the story.  Also EACH PARAGRAPH SHOULD HAVE AT LEAST ONE COMMENT!!!

Make sure that EVERYTHING listed is IDENTIFIED with a comment.

- Setting: anything that establishes time, place, location, era, date

- Character: what they look like, characteristics of the character, protagonist-antagonist (identify them), are they rich,poor,middle class, age, nationality, beliefs (religion)...if applicable, mannerism (are they nervous, creepy, happy, evil etc)?,

- Theme: what is the theme of the story?  Identify a sentence or two that exemplifies the theme

- Literary Elements: identify motif (purposeful repetition), perspective (must tell me whether it is in first person, or third (omniscient, objective, or limited),

- Figurative language: Personification, hyperbole, alliteration, onomatopoeia, etc.  Also any INTENSE IMAGERY.  What does it do?  How does it help the reader?

- Words/Language you do not know: ANYTHING that you are unsure of.  Please provide definition.  Even if you know every word, look up at least three.

Really great poem to do for all levels.You can add a more complex TPCASTT analysis for grade 9 pre-AP students or 10-1, 20-1, or AP

The Road Not TakenRobert Frost Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,And sorry I could not travel bothAnd be one traveler, long I stoodAnd looked down one as far as I couldTo where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,And having perhaps the better claimBecause it was grassy and wanted wear,Though as for that the passing thereHad worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally layIn leaves no step had trodden black.Oh, I marked the first for another day!Yet knowing how way leads on to wayI doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sighSomewhere ages and ages hence:Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,I took the one less traveled by,And that has made all the difference. TP-CASTT (Poetry Analysis)Title-The title of Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken”, seems to refer to a path in life he did not take. Most people write about the choices in life they did make. Maybe the author is suggesting that he wishes he would have taken this other “road”? Paraphrase- The author is explaining about a time where he was faced with choosing between two roads. He was alone and considered both options carefully, looking as far down one as he could “to where it bent in the undergrowth” (line 5). He chooses the other path, which is one that seems less worn, yet comparable to the first. While the author would like a chance to travel the first path, he doubts he “should ever come back” (line 15). The author concludes with the idea that later in life he will look back and remember that when faced with the two roads, he picked the path fewer people traveled, “And that has made all the difference” (line 20). Connotation- Frost begins the poem at the divergence of two paths in a “yellow wood” (line 1). The use of the color yellow implies that this is taking place during the change of seasons from summer to fall. Fall is often used in literature to symbolize the later years of a person’s life. Fall is also a symbol for a time of change. Consequently, perhaps this choice comes during a time of change in the latter half of the author’s life. It is clear to the reader that the “road” referred to is the road of life, rather than an actual road, andthat the two roads represent two paths he may choose in life. Frost ponders the details of both roads in the hope that the “better claim” shows itself (line 7). He realizes that while each path is different, they “equally lay/In leaves no step had trodden black” (line 11-12). Furthermore, he understands that choosing one or the other is a final choice, as “[He]

doubted if [he] should ever come back” (line15). Lastly, Frost chooses the path “less traveled by,/And that has made all the difference” (line 19-20). The connotation ofthe word “difference” is elusive; is the difference bad or good? Was his life better or worse based on the road he chose? Why is the path fewer people chose the “better” path? (line 7). Without offering the reader a definitive answer to these questions, it is clear that Frost would like us to decide for ourselves – much like he did. Attitude- The tone at the beginning of the poem is nostalgic and reflective. It is clear to the reader that this is a flashback, as the author uses past tense verbs. Frost is pensive and patient as he considers choosing one path over the other. He decides that the path that is “grassy and wanted wear” perhaps is better, implying that perhaps it is more attractive (line 8). Toward the end of the poem, Frost claims he will retell of this decision “with a sigh” (line 16). The connotation of this is unclear; is it a sigh or relief orof regret? Like the ambiguity with the use of the word “difference” on line twenty, Frost would like us to decide for ourselves the outcome of the decision. Shifts- A major shift in tone occurs in line thirteen of the poem. Line twelve begins, “In leaves no step had trodden black./Oh, I kept the first for another day!” (line 12-13). Line twelve ends with dark imagery, the tone of which shifts with the optimism of line thirteen, which ends with an exclamation point. The use of the exclamation point heightens the mood and quickens the pace of the poem. Lastly, a double hyphen is used at the end of line eighteen: “Two roads diverged in a wood, and I --/I took the one lesstraveled by…” (line 18-19). Frost use of the double hyphen and repetition of “I” emphasizes that his decision was his and his alone, and that he prides himself on his choice. Title- The title “The Road Not Taken” would initially lead the reader to think that Frost is going to reflect on a path he should have chosen. While his tone is nostalgic in reflecting on his decision, he ultimately seems satisfied with his choice. Theme- “The Road Not Taken” by Robert Frost celebrates the choices we have in life, while cautioning us to think and consider carefully before we make our own major decisions, because often there is no turning back. Frost encourages us to make the decision for ourselves, rather than others, and implies, with some ambiguity, that the best choice can often be the one chosen less often by others.

SHORT FILM MATERIALS:

S I G N S*You can find this short film on Youtube. Type in signs short film and it comes up. There is one moment

where the girl he is talking to draws a pair of breasts. You might warn a class about that, but also talk about the progression of a relationship and what you might reveal about yourself and your personality. I

also like to do screen shots of short films to aid in visual response.Directed by: Patrick HughesRomantic Comedy Jason, the main character in Signs is experiencing the reality of his life. His sad, bleak expressions tell a story of a man who is an outcast. They laugh; he doesn’t. He is not truly living life. He is letting life pass him by. In one shot, Jason is positioned in the centre of the frame with a look of total unhappiness on his face, which cuts to a panning shot of people at work in confined cubicles. It is this cut that expresses explicitly the isolation Jason feels at work. Everything about Jason shows his unhappiness: through the dragging of his feet across the ground, to the sigh and

frown that spans his whole demeanor when he sits down at his desk. It becomes painfully clear how miserable he was. Until…a beautiful woman changes everything.

Where do you find love? If we knew, we would all know where to look. Sometimes all you need is a SIGN.

Now that you have finished watching the short film Signs, I would like you to tap into your creative juices. This assignment will be visual and creative. You are going to have a lot of freedom, but there will be some MUST HAVES…

A) You are going to answer this question: What message would you like the world to know? B) You are going to have to choose ONE theme. Each of these themes relates to the movie. It can be from the list provided, or your own. Please make sure that it is apparent what theme you are using. THEMES: alienation from the world around us, monotony of ones life, the effects of isolation on a person’s spirit, confinement in life and love, the need for companionship, the desire for love and fulfillment, taking a leap of faith, It's a crime not to follow your heart's desires… C) You need to include One element from the film (this could be anything), but it should be clear and important. This will help you with personal response and making sure that you CONNECT to the texts that you are provided.D) You need to use SIGNS. Everyone will be given 20 sheets of paper. Everyone will be given a clip to hold them together. You (with a partner) need to decide what you are going to say…how much or how little. You need to have a clear message and you are conveying this message through signs- just like the characters in the short filmE) You will be given today and tomorrow (due Thursday Oct.11th). Hand in ALL the signs attached to the clip.F) Be creative. Be interesting. Move away from the familiar or what is safe. Think outside the box. You will be evaluated on the following: 1) Thought and understanding: Did you convey your message well? Was your theme clear? Did you use creative elements well? Was the overall project effective? Was there a connection to the film /10

Here is another short film I like to do. Any level...I used this for my grade 9 students as an intro to film and short film.

English 10-1: Short FilmGo to Youtube.com

Type in “Consequence short film”.Should be first one on YOUTUBE. Schweppes short film festival.

We are going to be watching a few different short films as part of our short film unit. Please pay careful attention to the following films and answer the questions below.Here is the link to the website where you can view the films: http://schhh.eu/shortfilms/ or youtube.com (type in consequence-short film) and it should be the first/second one.The first film is called, Consequence. It is directed by Noah Marshall. It is in Spanish with English subtitles. Renaldo is a successful man. He has made a comfortable life for himself operating outside of the law. He now lives a life of leisure. He has a beautiful wife and a fantastic house. Yet the sight of a gang of young boys on his street leads him into having a panic attack. A memory from his childhood resurfaces, a memory he would rather live without. *please note: there is some nudity in the film. If you are uncomfortable, please let me know. I will guide you along by giving you some important details to look for. Then…the rest is up to you. Pay careful attention to the film. Watch it over and over. Each time you watch it, notice something you had not noticed before. Opening scene:Blurred shot coming into focus of a beautiful houseMartini glass with cigarette butt floating in itTable full of glasses (last night’s party)Blinds (which has title of film across it). This image is a motif. The title is quite dramatic in itself. As the viewer, how might it be a hint to the theme of the movie? _______________________________Upside down reflection of the house…why repeat this image? Why upside down? Significance? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Blinds again. Beautiful woman wakes up. Blurred image of view from house. Significance of including her? What does she represent? _________________________________________________________Man sleeps, but it doesn’t exactly look restful. Is this a hint as to what is next for him? ___________________________________________________________________________________Moves into a close up of his face. Does he look happy? Satisfied with his life? Consider the idea that“eyes are the window to our soul” _________________________________________________________Water can represent re-birth, or rejuvenation. What do you think the significance of seeing her in the shower is? ___________________________________________________________________________Nice car, nice house, nice wife. Is this the American dream? What do you think the director’s motive was in showing us all of this? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Poop on his shoe. Does this moment act as a symbol? What would it represent? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Flash of kids. Music changes. Becomes more menacing. Ring leader points finger gun at man. Kid throws up coin as well. We can guess that this moment will lead to something else. It seems to come out of nowhere. The panic on his face tells a story.Gate closes and has the same lines running down it. Vertical lines, vertical shades. Is this significant? Why or why not? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Panic. Heavy breathing. This is just a group of young boys. Why would he retreat to his house, lock the door and peek through the window to see if they are coming? Are children typically feared by adults? Does this seem ironic? Why or why not? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Shot is of the drink he pours and the bottle cap rattling on the counter. Why have this shot? What does it represent? Why cut him off? All you can hear is his breathing and the sounds of ice and liquid filling the glass. Why might the director choose this? Is this moment strong, even though we are just watching a glass fill up and hearing various sounds? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Blinds again. Everything around him is very stark. Peeking through blinds again. Music changes again. The plunking sounds of a piano is an interesting music choice. Why do you think the director chose this kind of music? What feeling does it evoke in the viewer? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Pours another drink (this time alcohol). Shot moves back into his face. The anguish on his face and in his eyes. Then it moves to a close up of just his eyes. Why a repetition of his eyes? Does it make it clearer to the viewer that we will go back to a horrible moment for him- seeing it through his eyes? ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Moves to woman crying on the floor. If you didn’t see her, you might think it was laughter. Why? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Man says “shut up! You’re going to get us all killed”. There is definitely terror on his face as well. The angle of the shot is interesting. Why do you think the director would choose this angle? Does it draw the viewer in more? Why or why not? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Screen goes to black… Moves into blurred shot. Then it comes back in focus. It is another place. Looks like somewhere in Europe (Spain) possibly.Shot then moves to young boy holding a piggy bank.Shot moves back to setting. We can tell that it is a poor country (sheets hanging off of houses, dirty etc). Then we get to inspect the boy a little closer (what he is wearing, how he moves etc). What can we tell about him? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Moves back to environment, but keeps careful eye on the boy.Military presence. Interesting image. Why include this? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Group of boys. They look intimidating. He must walk through the middle of the group. Strength in numbers. “Look at this kid”, “He is going to cry”, “Piggy boy”, Repetition of “piggy boy”. They are touching his head. One has a bat (similar to the moment from present where one of the kids had a bat)Grandma yells “kids…cut it out”. The kids don’t seem to notice, but boy walks through.Music is used again. Boy looks around. He has completed that one obstacle. What lies ahead for him? He seems to lack direction. He looks one way and then the other.

Moves to couple in a window. They are holding hands. They seem deep in conversation. Does this couple represent what the boy hopes to have (happiness, unity, relationship?). ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________The counting of money in a bank. Kid waits in line (and we see others doing the same). He is tapped on his back (seems startled) and a man gives him a coin to put in his piggy bank. Nice gesture. Seems ironic for what is about to happen next…“This is a hold up. Fill the pig with money.” He points the gun at the teller. She responds by putting her hand to her mouth. He tells everyone to “get to the floor”.Lots of flash shots. Cutting to the boy and back to the people in the bank. One man rises. He is the man who gave the boy a coin. We don’t see what happens next. Why do you think the director would choose to skip to the boy running? ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________Flashes of man in present and boy in past. The gun on the ground. Sounds. Music building. The boy still running through the streets.The blood from the man and the gun shot. The man’s face a moment before he is shot.TV program in the background stating “The human brain doesn’t fully form until the age of 21. The last part of the brain to form is…the sense of consequence”Flash to piggy bank on the shelf. Flash to young boy panting and holding piggy bank.Why include one of the only speaking moments as that dialogue? ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Personal Response to Texts Assignment (THESE TOPICS WERE CONSTRUCTED BY Jennifer Prestash and Sheri Paquette for grade 10)Suggested time: approximately 45 to 60 minutes

Carefully read and consider the texts on pages 1 to 3, and then complete the assignment that follows.

from To the Watchers While Walking Home

Something is going on in the gestalt of my life, but I can’t tell just what it is. Perhaps it is too early to tell. Perhaps it is simply a disturbance in the galactic outer reaches, hazed with cloud, echoing somebody else’s process of the moment, never to be experienced by me at all. Do my glasses need changing? Are we due for a blizzard? Will a fat cheque arrive day after tomorrow? Will I drop down dead at the corner of Sherbrooke and Guy? My psyche is certainly up for something curious; it is secret and elusive, wanting to sneak off alone.

There is a certainty abroad in it and, knowing this, I withdraw the suggestion about the heart attack and cancel the thought of the traffic calamity I almost mentioned. The certainty?—It is happy. It is trying, I think, to tell me why. Now, this is really something. Happiness, in the first place, is at once precious as rubies and common as grass. Why should the why of it matter? Don’t look into it, won’t question or debate it. I’ll accept it. That will be right. That will be all. It has practically nothing to do with me anyway, this happiness. I mean it did not come from me. Yet since I find myself changed by it, it has a great deal to do with me. It is like a face regarding me, veiled in mist, in shadow, in cloud, in thick snow cloud, or in radiance. Who knows what veils it? Who knows what face it is? It is a face regarding. It would have to be the face of love. It would have to be a face of love. Whose? I don’t know. Wishful thinking. A projection of my own desire. A fantasy fulfilment. Then why hasn’t it happened before? Why now? It may have nothing to do with love at all. Strike out the last sentence. Everything has in some way to do with love. Or with its absence. Or with its opposite. Which is saying the same thing in different ways. I believe this. Then…Oh, my God!

Elizabeth Spencer

Personal Response to Texts AssignmentSuggested time: approximately 45 to 60 minutes

The Road Ahead

Horses

It was from a window I first saw the horses.

It was winter in Berlin: a lightwith no light, a sky without sky.

The air white as a loaf of wet bread.

And there, by the window, bitten offby the teeth of the winter, a deserted arena.

Then, all of a sudden, ten horses

led by a man, moved into the snow.

Their passing left hardly a ripple, like fire,but they filled a whole universe

void to my eyes, until then. Ablazewith perfection, until they moved like ten gods, colossaland grand in the hoof, with dreamy and elegant manes.

Their rumps were like planets or oranges.

Their color was honey and amber and fire.

Their necks were like pillarsCarved in the stone of their arrogance,

and out of vehement eyes of their energyglared from within like a prisoner.

There in the silence of middayin the soiled and slovenly winterthe horses’ intensity was rhythm

the blood, the importunate[1] treasure of being.

I looked—looked till my whole force reawakened.This was the innocent fountain, the dance in the gold,

the sky, the fire still alive in the beautiful.

I’ve forgotten the wintry gloom of Berlin.

I will never forget the light of the horses.

Personal Response to Texts AssignmentSuggested time: approximately 45 to 60 minutes You have been provided with three texts on pages 1 to 4. In an excerpt from the short story “To the Watchers While Walking Home,” the narrator questions their life and experience. One interpretation of the picture titled “The Road Ahead” is that is captures the moment between the emotion and the response. In the poem “Horses,” the speaker indicates how small moments can make a difference in our lives.

The Assignment

What do these texts suggest to you about the impact of a significant experience? Support your idea(s) with reference to one or more of the texts presented and to your previous knowledge and/or experience.

In your writing, you must

● use a prose form

● connect one or more of the texts provided in this examination to your own ideas and impression

Critical/ Analytical Response to Literary Texts AssignmentSuggested time: approximately 1 ½ to 2 hours For this assignment, you must focus your discussion on a literary text or texts other than the texts provided in this examination booklet.

The Assignment Consider how the impact of a significant experience has been reflected and developed in the literary text you have studied in English Language Arts 10-1. Discuss the idea(s) developed by the text creator in your chosen text about the role a significant experience plays in ones life. In your planning and writing, consider the following instructions.

● When considering the works you know well, select a literary text meaningful to you and relevant to this assignment. Choose from texts you have studied in your English 10-1 class.

● Carefully consider your controlling idea or how you will create a strong unifying effect in your

response.

● As you develop your ideas, support them with appropriate, relevant, and meaningful examples from your choice of literary text(s).

Personal Response To Texts AssignmentSuggested time: approximately 45 to 60 minutes Carefully read and consider the two passages on page 1 and 2, and then complete the assignment that follows.

from On the Sidewalk Bleeding

The boy lay on the sidewalk bleeding in the rain. He was sixteen years old, and he wore a bright purple jacket, and the lettering across the back of the jacket read THE ROYALS. The boy’s name was Andy and the name was delicately scripted in black thread on the front of the jacket, just over the heart. ANDY… He had been stabbed ten minutes ago. The knife entered just below his rib cage and had been drawn across his body violently, tearing a wide gap in his flesh. He lay on the sidewalk with the March rain drilling his jacket and drilling his body and washing away the blood that poured from his open wound. He had known excruciating pain when the knife had torn across his body, and then sudden comparative relief when the blade was pulled away. He had heard the voice saying, ‘That’s for you Royal! “ and then the sound of footsteps hurrying into the rain, and then he had fallen to the sidewalk, clutching his stomach, trying to stop the flow of blood. He tried to yell for help, but he had no voice. He did not know why his voice had deserted him, or why there was an open hole in his body from which his life ran readily, steadily, or why the rain had become so suddenly fierce. It was 11:13 p.m. but he did not know the time.There was another thing he did not know.He did not know he was dying. He lay on the sidewalk, bleeding, and he thought only: That was a fierce rumble. They got me good that time, but he did not know he was dying. He would have been frightened had he known. In his ignorance he lay bleeding and wishing he could cry out for help, but there was no voice in his throat. There was only the bubbling of blood from between his lips whenever he opened his mouth to speak. He lay in his pain, waiting, waiting for someone to find him…. He wondered if he would ever kiss Laura again. It was then that he wondered if he was dying.No, he thought, I can’t be dying, not from a little street rumble, not from just being cut. Guys get cut all the time in rumbles. I can’t be dying. No, that’s stupid. That don’t make any sense at all.The rain was soothing somehow. It was a cold rain, but his body was hot all over, and the rain helped cool him. He had always liked rain. He could remember sitting in Laura’s house one time, the rain running down the windows, and just looking out over the street, watching the people running from the rain. That was when he’d first joined the Royals.He could remember how happy he was when the Royals had taken him. The Royals and the Guardians, two of the biggest. He was a Royal. There had been meaning to the title.

ContinuedNow, in the alley, with the cold rain washing his hot body, he wondered about the meaning. If he died, he was Andy. He was not a Royal. He was simply Andy, and he was dead. And he wondered suddenly if the Guardians who had ambushed him and knifed him had ever once realized he was Andy? Had they known that he was Andy or had they simply known that he was Royal wearing a purple silk jacket? Had they stabbed him, Andy, or had they only stabbed the jacket and the title and what good was the title if you were dying?I’m Andy, he screamed wordlessly, I’m Andy.It was not very much to ask of the world.I don’t want to die, he thought. I haven’t lived yet. It seemed very important to him that he take off the purple jacket. He was very close to dying, and when they found him, he did not want them to say, “Oh, it’s a Royal.” With great effort, he rolled over onto his back. He felt the pain tearing at his stomach when he moved. If he never did another thing, he wanted to take off the jacket. The jacket had only one meaning now, and that was a very simple meaning.

If he had not been wearing the jacket, he wouldn’t have been stabbed. The knife had not been plunged in hatred of Andy. The knife hated only the purple jacket. The jacket was as stupid meaningless thing that was robbing him of his life.He lay struggling with the shiny wet jacket. His arms were heavy. Pain ripped fire across his body whenever he moved. But he squirmed and fought and twisted until one arm was free and then the other. He rolled away from the jacket and lay quite still, breathing heavily, listening to the sound of his breathing and the sounds of the rain and thinking: Rain is sweet, I’m Andy.She found him in the doorway a minute past midnight. She left the dance to look for him, and when she found him, she knelt beside him and said, “Andy, it’s me, Angela.”He did not answer her. She backed away from him, tears springing into her eyes, and then she ran from the alley. She did not stop running until she found a cop.And now, standing with the cop, she looked down at him. The cop rose and said, “He’s dead.” All the crying was out of her now. She stood in the rain and said nothing, looking at the purple jacket that rested a foot away from his body.The cop picked up the jacket and turned it over in his hands.“A Royal, huh?” he said.She looked at the cop and, very quietly, she said, “His name is Andy.”The cop slung the jacket over his arm. He took out his black pad, and he flipped it open to a blank page.“A Royal, “ he said. Then he began writing.

Evan Hunter

Personal Response To Texts AssignmentSuggested time: approximately 45 to 60 minutes

A Fork in the Road

Martin Ruegner

She Was Too Kind, Wooed too Persistently

She was too kind, wooed too persistently,Wrote moving letters to me day by day;

The more she wrote, the more unmoved was I,The more she gave, the less could I repay.Therefore I grieve, not that I was not loved,But that, being loved, I could not love again.

I liked, but like and love are far removed;

Hard though I tried to love I tried in vain.For she was plain and lame and fat and short,

Forty and over-kind. Hence it befellThat though I loved her in a certain sort,

Yet did I love too wisely but not well.Ah! had she been more beauteous or less kind

She might have found me of another mind.And now, though twenty years are come and gone,

That little lame lady's face is with me still;Never a day but what, on every one,

She dwells with me, as dwell she ever will.She said she wished I knew not wrong from right;It was not that; I knew, and would have chosen

Wrong if I could, but, in my own despite,Power to choose wrong in my chilled veins was frozen.

'Tis said that if a woman woo, no manShould leave her till she have prevailed; and, true,

A man will yield for pity, if he can,But if the flesh rebels what can he do?

I could not. Hence I grieve my whole life longThe wrong I did, in that I did no wrong.

Had I been some young sailor, continentPerforce three weeks and then well plied with wine,

I might in time have tried to yield consentAnd almost (though I doubt it) made her mine.

Or had it been but once and never again,Come what come might, she should have had her way;

But yielding once were yielding twice, and thenI had been hers for ever and a day.

Or had she only been content to craveA marriage of true minds, her wish was granted;

My mind was hers, I was her willing slaveIn all things else except the one she wanted:

And here, alas! at any rate to meShe was an all too, too impossible she.

Samuel Butler

Personal Response To Texts AssignmentSuggested time: approximately 45 to 60 minutes You have been provided with three texts on pages 1 to 4. In an excerpt from the short story “On the Sidewalk Bleeding,” the central character perseveres in order to achieve his goal. One interpretation of Martin Ruegner’s photograph is that it captures the beauty of determination. In the poem “She Was Too Kind, Wooed Too Persistently,” the speaker reflects on unwavering persistence and pursuit of an ultimate goal.

The Assignment

What do these texts suggest to you about the effect determination has on our approach and pursuit of a goal? Support your idea(s) with reference to one or more of the texts presented and to your previous knowledge and/or experience. In your writing, you must

● use a prose form

● connect one or more of the texts provided in this examination to your own ideas and impressions

Critical/ Analytical Response to Literary Texts AssignmentSuggested time: approximately 1 ½ to 2 hours For this assignment, you must focus your discussion on a literary text or texts other than the texts provided in this examination booklet.

The Assignment Consider how the effect of determination on our approach and pursuit of a goal has been reflected and developed in the literary text you have studied in English Language Arts 10-1. Discuss the idea(s) developed by the text creator in your chosen text about the role a significant experience plays in ones life. In your planning and writing, consider the following instructions.

● When considering the works you know well, select a literary text meaningful to you and relevant to this assignment. Choose from texts you have studied in your English 10-1 class.

● Carefully consider your controlling idea or how you will create a strong unifying effect in your

response. As you develop your ideas, support them with appropriate, relevant, and meaningful examples from your choice of literary text(s).

Personal Response EssaySuggested time: 40-60 minutes Many text creators explore the choices people make in different circumstances. In “On the Sidewalk Bleeding” Andy struggles to remain himself- Andy, not a Royal. In “The Last Spin” the characters make choices that greatly affect their future. “Rules of the Game” explores the traditional values Waverly’s mother has and tries to instill on her daughter. Lastly, in “The Carved Table” Karen remains separate from everyone else in the family and reflects on her former life.

The Assignment What does the text suggest to you idea regarding an individual’s response to his or her circumstances? Support your idea(s) with reference to one or more of the texts presented and to your previous knowledge and/or experiences.

In your writing you should · Select a prose form that is appropriate to the ideas you wish to express and that will enable you to effectively communicate to the reader · Discuss ideas and/or impressions that are meaningful to you · You will be given class time to finish this assignment (Friday and Monday). Please make sure that you make arrangements with me if you are not in class on those days.

PERSONAL RESPONSE TO TEXTS ASSIGNMENT English 10-1Suggested time: approximately 45 to 60 minutes The Assignment

What does the author develop regarding the significance of characters’ responses to the varied behaviors and/or beliefs of others? Support your ideas with reference to the text (“The Carved Table”) In your writing, you must

● Select a prose form that is appropriate to the ideas you wish to express and that will enable you to effectively communicate to the reader

● Discuss ideas and/or impressions that are relevant to the assignment

PE R SP E CT IVE

In literature, the author uses perspective or point of view in order to convey what a character or characters are thinking, feeling, or experiencing.Here are some of the most common perspectives we will be dealing with in this course:First person: First person point of view is a point of view in which an "I" or "we" serves as the narrator of a piece of fiction. The narrator may be a minor character, observing the action, or the main protagonist of the story. In addition, a first-person narrator may be reliable or unreliable.Second person: In second person point of view, the narrator tells the story to another character using "you"; the story is being told through the addressee's point of view. Second person is the least commonly used POV in fiction. We will not likely experience second person in this course, but it is good to know the definition JThird person (omniscient): Third person omniscient is a method of storytelling in which the narrator knows the thoughts and feelings of all of the characters in the story. Through third person omniscient, a writer may bring to life an entire world of characters.Third person (limited): Third person limited point of view is a method of storytelling in which the narrator knows only the thoughts and feelings of a single character, while other characters are presented only externally. Third person limited grants a writer more freedom than first person, but less than third person omniscient.Third person (objective): The third-person objective employs a narrator who tells a story without describing any character's thoughts, opinions, or feelings; instead it gives an objective, unbiased point of view. Often the narrator is self-dehumanized in order to make the narrative more neutral. This point of view can be described as a "fly on the wall" or "camera lens" approach that can only record the observable actions, but does not interpret these actions or relay what thoughts are going through the minds of the characters.

We are now going to read a story entitled “Africa Road”. It is written in the first person point of view and the interesting part is that it is written from the road’s perspective.

We are also going to read “The Scarlet Ibis” by James Hurst. Consider the differences between these two stories. Do you prefer one over the other? Why?

Next we will read “The Carved Table”. Consider the omniscient point of view. Why are relationships hard to present in an omniscient perspective?

Lastly, we are going to be reading “Content’s of the Dead Man’s Pocket” by Jack Finney. This story is written in limited omniscient point of view. Do we get to know the character better? Which part of the story allows us to get into his head?

Point of View Writing Topic: Walk a Mile in Their Shoes

The following writing assignment relates to this overarching question: How do my experiences and point of view influence my perspective?

Choose from one of the stories listed.

Create a one-two paragraph response using a clear point of view. Choose a character from ONE of the stories. You may use a human character (one that we have not already heard from), or an inanimate object such as the yellow post-it note from “Dead Man’s Pockets”Explore outside of your comfort zone. Choose a perspective you may not be as familiar with. Choose something within the story that others may not choose. Consider all of their thoughts, feelings, and reactions. Explore this in depth, but get to the point.

You may also decide to go outside the box and choose an “inanimate” object. The chair, the window, a mirror etc... Use details from the story. Allow the information the author presented to guide you in this new perspective. Remember that a paragraph is 8-10 sentences in length. You will be given some class time, but if you are not finished, you must complete this for homework. Please write the perspective you used and who you used on the backside of your page (so it challenges me to guess what perspective and thing you used), BUT…it should be obvious.

Rubric:

You will be marked on the following: Thought and understanding: Is your perspective clear and defined? As a writer, are you clear on what the perspective entails? Do you understand your new character’s motivations? /5 Presentation: Have your language choices contributed to a skilled composition? Is your assignment free of spelling, punctuation or grammatical errors? /5 Total: /10

The inanimate object assignment (pick anything and flip the perspective…got really good results!!! It is something I started to use a lot with narrative or personal response writing. I also used the 5 senses a lot when asking students to complete narrative or personal writing.