This is a MANDATORY entry:
- To get credit for this week’s blog entries, you must complete this entry
- The vocab story also receives a ‘quiz’ grade for the quality of the story
Rules:
- Use all 10 of the following words
- Include the part of speech and definition
- Write 3+ paragraphs
- Each paragraph must be 5+ sentences
Words:
- ambivalence – contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes
- appease – to soothe; to relieve
- caustic – burning; sarcastically biting
- choleric – bad-tempered
- iconoclastic – attacking cherished traditions
- indigence – poverty
- officious – excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice
- precursor – forerunner
- solicitous – worried, concerned
- virtuoso – someone with masterful ability in the arts
Image 1: http://tinyurl.com/d92leq
Image 2: http://tinyurl.com/czyc55
Image 3: http://tinyurl.com/dkfpzq
rabbits and cheshire cats 
The hawk majestically settled upon the branch of old oak, gazing into the setting sun with a glint in its eye. The other bird quickly flew away, leaving the single, solitary bird to its quiet reflections. The bird gazed about itself, glaring at the tall buildings of glass and steel because they obstructed its view of its domain: the city. The hawk ruled the skies above the tiny, insignificant world of humans beneath it. It was the air traffic controller, the police force, and the judicial system of the skies. The hawk was a virtuoso (n) at controlling the lesser birds in the sky, mainly hinging on the fact that the hawk could easily swoop dawn and end any of the other birds that happened to get in its way.
Done surveying the skies, the hawk turned its attention to the bustle of life beneath it. The humans were scuttling back and forth, obviously with intent. The hawk wondered what could possibly be so important to the humans that they never even looked up and noticed the freedom of the skies. The hawk had always been curious about that, maybe if they looked up occasionally, they would finally fly. They all looked so incredibly busy and choleric (adj), probably because of whatever they were busy with, that maybe; it would be a travesty if they learned how to fly. Look at that one, thought the hawk; he is accosting random humans in order to sell them whatever thing he thought he could sell to them. Such an officious (adj) person would be unwanted in the air. Then, there is that female human over there. She is literally pushing people out of her way in order to be the precursor (adj) at everything, even something as insignificant as getting to work first. Even those over there, thought the hawk, would not be welcome in the domain of the great bird. They scrounge the streets, looking for something, anything to get them out of their indigence (n). The hawk did not want to have to rule over such testy subjects.
No, birds were much simpler, thought the hawk. No concerns, no one will ever find a solicitous (adj) bird because there is not one. Flying through the air clears all thoughts from your head, eliminating trivial matters that suffocate humanity. If only the humans would look up, then they would discover the air above them and be able to fly. Even though they would not be very courteous flyers, the hawk was sure that humans would be completely iconoclastic (n), destroying all of the rules and etiquette of the sky that the hawk worked so hard to maintain. However, the hawk had ambivalence (n) to humanity; the hawk was not quite sure how to think of them. On one claw, the hawk would love to be able to achieve the dexterity of the humans. The nests that the hawk would be able to construct would be massive and impressive, rivaling the giant mirror-nests of the humans. The hawk also wished to gain control over more subjects, and if the humans took to the skies, the hawk would ensure that humanity was subservient to him. However, on the other claw, humans would probably destroy all that the hawk had ever achieved. With their concerns and issues, humanity would take the simple pleasure of soaring through the skies away and would try to impose rules and regulations on flight, just as they did for walking. In addition, nothing appeases (v) humans once they are angry. No amount of twigs or mice would ever turn them away from their problems, causing distraught for all of bird-dom. Their caustic (adj) remarks would put any lesser bird into tears; birds do not do well with criticism, thought the hawk.
No, the skies are probably better without the humans, reflected the hawk. All they would do is complicate the hawk’s perfect order of things, and there is no need for that.
Play to Death
October 15, 1856
It was by the third day I saw the ravens outside my window that I knew I was going to die. It was not a comfortable thing to awaken to sounds of a murder of blackbirds filling the window, blocking my small house from the sunlight. I tired to appease (v) or to soothe, myself by continually repeating it was autumn and these birds were a common sight in this town. But this was to no avail; I knew death had been after me since three weeks before when the fire that consumed the playhouse, killing all the audience and cast in the performance. I was the writer of the accursed show. I was supposed to be attending its opening performance but was delayed when a beggar living in indigence (n) or poverty (there were many along the dimly lit London streets during this time of year) had stolen my pocket book. He was drunk and officious (adj) or excessively pushy in offering one’s advice, claiming he would help me through life. I was solicitous (adj) or worried, about the money I had tucked into it so I chased the man. However, he almost seemed to disappear down a descending alleyway. When I found my way back through the side streets the very building I was headed to no longer existed.
The fire-wagon did not even arrive until only ashes remained. There were no witnesses of the destruction, only that the fire must have consumed the building in almost no time, not even smoke remained. The only thing left amongst the rubble was a tattered copy of the script, haunting in my memory and caustic (adj) or sarcastically biting at the scene played out before my eyes.
I knew then that the old man had allowed me to evade death, but I knew I could not survive much longer. It was as my play had occurred, all deaths marked by the appearance of a hoard of Blackbirds. I knew I would die soon, I am convinced of it. The only question was to how and when.
Even now I passed people on the street and no one turned their heads. Where before I was honored as a virtuoso (n) or someone with masterful ability in the arts, for I brought great fame to my small town, they now walked by me and seemed to see through me. I am not amongst the living, I am as accursed as the play was the day I started writing it after a night of nightmares.
I have ambivalence (n) or contradictory emotional attitudes, when comes to knowing my days are numbered and death is approaching quickly. A part of me is relieved to know that soon this terror filled month will be over, yet and I do believe this part is becoming stronger, that refuses to believe my life is ending and will fight death at all costs. As I stare outside now in my choleric (adj) or bad-tempered mood, willing the ravens to disappear and for the last few weeks of my life to reverse, the sky grows darker both on my small yard and on my life.
I realize now that my conscience is probably fading and insanity replacing itself in my mind. I needed to talk to someone and release the dreaded iconoclastic (adj) or attacking cherished traditions, ideas of my play. But I couldn’t leave now in the setting sun. I know (and cannot explain why) that death would come for me at night. I felt safer in my house surrounded by the constant cawing of birds and flutter of wings that marked my house for death.
I stare into the fire wondering if I should allow death to find me or if I should complete its task for it, and end my life before he can take me away. The blackbirds are leaving the trees! Is this a precursor (n) or forerunner, that I am saved? Can it be that death has yet passed over me again? That I am allowed to live for at least one more night? But, wait, the crunching of gravel on my drive I run to the window to see a hooded figure approaching loudly towards my door. His face is hidden and seems to possess no features! It is death I am sure of it! But I will not allow him to take me!
Williams, the playwright tore through his house barricading his doors and locking his windows. However, the figure still approached. The footsteps became heavier and the man was but a few strides from the door. The playwright rushed to his desk and pulled a pistol from its topmost drawer. He knew that a weapon would do no good against the angel of death, but still he pointed the gun towards the door.
There was a knocking, and a bang. Williams lay dead against the floor, his pistol still smoking pointed at his head.
The messenger on the outside stood shocked the letter addressed to the dead man inside was an invitation to the grand opening of the new play house centered in the heart of London. Also it contained a sincere apology that the dates on the tickets to his play’s start had been printed a month too early. However, the messenger ran leaving the unread note on the man’s doorstep.
I wake up to the steady hum of cars as the speed over my head, each one containing different individuals with different perspectives and different lives all converging on the same road to reach their varying goals. I’ve made my home under the bridge because I feel it is the heart of the city and I want to be as close to its center as possible. I used to have a “real” home, but it steadily became clear that my parents didn’t want me for the kid I am, but for what their extraordinary little twelve year old could do.
I can vividly remember the day I discovered my ability; it was my eighth birthday party. I had always been an extremely intelligent child, always looking and observing my surroundings. I was already reading the literary requirements for high school seniors, my private tutors were baffled with my ability to read into the deeper motivations and feelings of characters of all sorts, and my parents couldn’t be happier with their “mini-Freud”. I had just received an invitation to join a study abroad program that toured Europe, and in celebration my parents decided to throw an elaborate birthday party for me. My parents invited all of their friends and all of my tutors to attend the spectacular event hosted at our three story estate. It was exactly like every other major event in my life; my mother and father held my close by their sides and bragged of my accomplishments to their friends, and my tutors all talked of my extraordinary mind and capabilities. But the interesting point of the evening came when the cake was cut.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” began my father, “My wife and I have invited you all here to share in the pride and joy we have placed in our son Gabriel. When he was first born, his small and frail shape caused a solicitous (adj, worried) reaction from the doctors; they feared he may not make it through the night. But he strived against all odds and emerged a healthy baby, with a wonderful and shining mind! He has left all of us in awe with his potential, and may his recent invitation to Europe be a mere precursor (n, forerunner) to the opportunities he will have in the future!”
Gabriel is going to make us millions. It’s a good thing too, since the fortune we’re spending on his education isn’t any more than a loan to be paid back… with interest.
My father smiled.
I was completely bewildered; I had heard my father’s voice yet he had finished moving his mouth. I frantically looked around the dining room to see if anyone else had heard him, but suddenly the room was a mass of mixed voices and words. Everyone was speaking to me at once, and weight of the sound was beating into my head like a drum; I stumbled out of the door, ran into my room, stumbled into the closet and slammed the door in an attempt to appease (v, satisfy) the plethora of voices. I collapsed, unable to comprehend what had just happened. I woke up some hours later in a hospital bed with a needle in my arm and a scream on my lips.
Over the next few months, my life became an iconoclastic (adj, attacking cherished traditions) flood of inner turmoil. I came to realize that I was able to hear the thoughts of everyone around me. I grew to tame and control this power and switch it on and off as I pleased with steady practice, and since there were never more than a few people around me at any given time of a normal day this proved quite easy. Of course I kept this development a secret from my parents because if they knew of my ability, they would no doubt exploit it like the opportunistic snakes that they were. The true intentions of my parents were made clear: they wanted to fix me up with the best education possible until I had absorbed all I was able to absorb, and then they would cash me in on talk shows and at universities, practically turning me into a freak show. As their constant inquiries of my wants and needs became tedious and officious (adj, excessively pushy), my attitude began to reflect my feelings of ambivalence (adj, contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) toward what my life would become. I owed my parents because they gave me life and made sure I had the best of everything, and although their intentions were entirely selfish, who was I to deny them the virtuoso (adj, someone with masterful ability in the arts) prodigy they sacrificed so much to create? As the years went on, their encouragement and support was too misplaced for me to handle anymore. I become overtly caustic (adj, burning; sarcastically biting) and choleric (adj, bad-tempered) in my everyday demeanor. My parents grew worried and insisted I take a field trip to the museum with my history professor in order to cheer me up. I saw this as my opportunity to escape the life my parents were constructing for me and retreat into a city where everyone was their own person, living for themselves and aiming to please no one. I packed a backpack with everything I deemed necessary for my “excursion”, and when my professor wasn’t looking I promptly sprinted in his opposite direction.
My life under the bridge, while it may be ridden with indigence (adj, poverty), is heaven compared to the cramped and repressed walls of the old mansion. No doubt my parents continue to look for me, for I can hardly imagine a man like my father giving up such a huge investment just like that. I don’t think I’ll ever return because I love the city too much to give it up now. I’ve grown to know my city inside and out; the noise became my teachers and the alleys became my playground. I make a living selling recyclables and whatever I can’t buy, I have to steal. It’s amazing how little attention people pay to the small, shaggy twelve year old.
Gold knew that they weren’t supposed to meet. He’d always known that there were many others like him, but it had never occurred to him to actually meet with one of them. There was no law or instinct; it was just unspoken. They were not supposed to meet. But as soon as he’d met with the other he’d known that that was not true. Their kind HAD to meet. THAT was how it was supposed to be.
Gold was a Spirit Bird, a guardian for a human soul. Humans were the only creatures of the earth whose souls were strong and rash enough to need guidance, and beings like himself existed to fly along beside them, shadows in the trees. They were nameless, voiceless, almost completely unknown to the humans they guided. They were virtuosos (noun, masters of an art), masters of hidden guidance. Their lives were continuous, a kind of immortal, for they passed from human to human as centuries took the lives of those creatures with limited years. The Spirit Birds passed unconsciously, remembering no details of previous lives, of the precursors (noun, forerunners, predecessors) to those they currently guided. They moved like silent shadows, silent even to themselves.
They were nameless, and yet he had given himself a name. Gold. It was the color he felt in his dark brown feathers when the sun glowed through them; it was the color he sometimes saw in the air of the current human he guided when joy blazed in its eyes. No other Spirit Bird knew his name, or even that he’d given himself a name. For the longest time, he hadn’t known that his kind were even capable of conversing with one another. They were silent…but deep within them they did not have to be.
It was early morning; the sun had not yet risen. Gold alighted on a branch next to the other Spirit Bird, the guardian of an adolescent girl. This younger Bird had been nameless, voiceless, just like he’d been himself, until he’d called to her. He’d called to her, and she’d turned and looked at him, and she’d realized just like he had that their kind were meant to meet. She did not yet have any kind of name, but she had achieved a voice.
The young Spirit Bird appeared solicitous (adj, worried, concerned), her silvery eyes worried and her dark gray feathers ruffled in ambivalence (noun, uncertainty, conflicting feelings). To her, Gold was the wisest being on the earth, and though he was not at all officious (adj, intrusive, pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) advice), he was always glad to give her guidance when she asked.
“I don’t know what to do, Gold,” she whispered to him. “My human is changing. When I let her catch a brief glimpse of me, she doesn’t smile with wonder as she used to, suspecting that some kind of angel is protecting her. Now she has always a choleric (adj, bad-tempered) glower on her face, and she speaks with caustic (adj, sarcastic, scathing) tones. Now when she glimpses me she reaches for a stone and hurls it at me. Twice this had happened. I know that she cannot hit me, Gold, but still I am worried for her. She’s become iconoclastic (adj, attacking established beliefs), turning against her jovial, carefree spirit. She is angry. Angry at the other humans, or at herself…or perhaps both.”
Gold groomed the other Spirit Bird’s wing, in an effort to appease (verb, soothe) her. “My human has gone through much the same thing,” he murmured to her. “It happened as well when he was a youth. It is a Changing Time. It seems that only humans have Changing Times; instead of a gradual blend from fledgling to adult, there is an abrupt period that delivers them. They can become angry and want to challenge everything, or they can become sad and wish they had never even arrived on this earth. It is a powerful, passionate time in the life of a human. The one I guide now is fully matured and his years nearly spent, but I remember the time when he Changed. He was both sad and angry, and for a long time I was afraid for him just as you are for yours. But he came out of the Change, that period of indigence (noun, need, poverty), and he came out very strong. He was not necessarily a different person than he was before, just stronger. Wiser.”
“You think that may be what this is?” the Spirit Bird asked. “My human is suffering a Changing Time?”
“Yes,” Gold answered. “That is what I think. Your human is learning a great many things within her mind. It hurts to learn them, and that is why she is angry.”
The Spirit Bird looked at him then, relief shining in her expression. “Thank you, Gold,” she whispered. “I…I was so worried. I am glad that she will be alright. I am glad that you called to me that day in our past. I am glad you broke that silence so heavy on Spirit Birds. I hope that soon other Birds will learn, too, to find their voices. Our humans have voices, and I think we can better guide them if we have voices as well.”
The sun had begun to rise, filling the sky with a glowing wash of warmth. The light shone through Gold’s feathers and made them gold, and it shone through the other Bird’s feathers and made them a silvery white. They had a quality like that of a gemstone, with little flashes of teal. Her eyes shimmering with a kind of pearly hope, she turned again to Gold.
“I have a name now, Gold,” she said to him. “Opal. Opal is my name.”
As I looked at the run down street corner again, it disturbed me somewhat to see the place of my attack but it also appeased (v) (soothed) me by reminding me how good people can be under the surface. Five years ago I was in this area of town, a place that most people were solicitious (adj) (worried) due to the dangerous people who wandered around there. However, the crime in the area was due to less than optimum police control. This was because the area had experienced great indigence (n) (poverty) in the last ten years or so. Poverty or not I still loved the area because of this attitude of being controlled less. This inspired people creatively. In fact, on just about every street corner you could find a virtuoso (n) (master of the arts) painting or playing music better than any famous artist or musician ever could. I would spend a lot of my time in this area because of this. I had to be careful though because most people walking around that neighborhood were somewhat choleric (adj) (bad tempered).
I knew that in situations with these kinds of people showing weakness only made it worse, so I would always be a little caustic(adj)(sarcastic) towards these kinds of people by cracking jokes about them. They usually thought I was pretty funny and went on their way. However, one day I went too far. I saw a couple of guys spray painting the side of a small rundown church. This iconoclastic (adj) (attacking cherished traditions) act ticked me off a little so I decided to say something. I started being very officious (adj) (pushy in offering unwanted advice) in advising them that they shouldn’t be doing that or God might send them back to prison. However they didn’t enjoy my advice as much as I did, they took it very seriously. One of them ran over to me and punched me in the stomach, and then another knocked me down. When I looked up one of them was holding a gun pointing towards me and the other ones were telling him to teach me some manners.
I thought I was dead but he seemed to show ambivalence (n) (contradicting emotions) because he just stood there for a few minutes staring at me. The minutes felt like hours for me. He then blinked, put the gun away, and told his friends that they should get out of there. They ran away. I was amazed. He could have blown me away whenever he wanted to but he couldn’t. I didn’t matter how gruff his exterior seemed, he was still a decent person on the inside. I’ve watched this area since that day and even though things haven’t gotten better financially, crime has started to let up as young adults are starting to help other people instead of hurting them. I can’t help but think it even though it can’t be true. I can’t shake the feeling that one guy with good judgment was the precursor (n) (forerunner) for the good things happening in that part of now.
Not an hour before now I had been dreading getting out of bed and taking my daily run around my neighborhood. I was still tired, a bit choleric (adj) from sleep deprivation, but I wasn’t turning back now. My (bad-tempered) mood would slowly fade away as I kept running. I could see the beginnings of a sunrise and there was enough light shining so that I could see where I was going. I had been running every morning for the past three years and I still was afraid that a car would not see me. There were barely any cars in the street at this time anyway. People usually left their houses at 7:30 so that they could make it to their 8:00 jobs. 6:45 was too early for some people to wake up, let alone leave their houses.
I passed the same bright orange fire hydrant and (poverty)-stricken hobo that I saw every morning. When I passed him I felt really uncomfortable sprinted past him, continuing at that pace for the next quarter mile. Indigence (noun) didn’t scare me. There was just something about that certain person that really freaked me out. I slowed down because I knew that I wouldn’t make it back home if I kept sprinting. *thump thump thump thump* I could hear my steps become louder and more awkward as I got slower. Man, this was boring. Why do I keep running everyday?
I hate running. The act of doing so makes me feel clumsy and the motion is quite tedious. Every morning I wake up early so I can face careless drivers and scary people who like to creepily hang around the sidewalk at six in the morning. Yes, I feel very accomplished after make my way back home but I get nothing else out of this routinely dreaded act. I snapped out of my iconoclastic (adj) fit in an instant. I can’t (attack this cherished tradition) simply because I’m in a bad mood. Running was my outlet. I may feel uncoordinated and strange while doing it but this minimal amount of athletic activity keeps grounded. When I’m running I don’t focus on the other aspects of my life that I’m not so happy about. It doesn’t exactly appease (verb) my frustrations but it enables me to focus on something else, like how much my legs hurt when I’m sprinting. Nothing can completely (relieve) me of the annoyances of my life but running comes pretty close. Not to mention I was (pretty good at doing it). I would consider myself a virtuoso (noun) of sorts when it comes to running. This ambivalence (noun) was confusing me. I was probably using two (conflicting attitudes) to convince myself that this stupid routine was a good idea.
I should have been done running by now…I missed my turn. I was a bit solicitous (adj) about my missed turn but it was not anything (to worry) about. I woke up early enough that I would get to work on time anyway. But then I remembered that I had to get to work early that day and started running faster. I you can’t (offer an excessive amount of help) to someone who is too lazy to do their share of the work. I started running faster.
I had never ran this far before and my legs were starting to (burn) because of the strain on my muscles. I fought the caustic (adj) sensation so I could get home on time. I thought about how sore my legs would be as I ran into my garage. With heaving breaths I came to an abrupt stop in front of my door. My heart was pounding so hard that I could feel it in my head. I hated this feeling, I hated running and I definitely hated sprinting. However much I detested my morning runs I knew that today’s was only a precursor (noun). It (came before many that would follow).
This day was history.
Today was the day where the scientists were undergoing a very important experiment. It was one of so much importance as the election of the new president. The details of the experiment were unknown because the capitol had not informed the citizens and because the experiment was top-secret. The state instead of donating the tax dollars to those in indigence(poverty)(adj), gave that money for scientific research. But still, this experiment was “supposed” to help all. This move was iconoclastic(attacking cherished traditions)(adj), because usually part of the money was given to the poor.
The state’s scientists, who were choleric(bad tempered)(adj) and were officious(excessively pushy for one’s unwanted services)(adj), had been given money to work for their experiment. In the past, there was no scientist group and life was acceptable with that. However, when these group of scientists came, all the citizens of the state thought they were unimportant. The citizens could not do anything, so then from forth, some of tax money was given to the useless scientists. All citizens were caustic(sarcastically biting)(adj) towards the scientist. This very important experiment however had somewhat interested the citizens’ minds.
On the day of the experiment, the news had told all and me that the scientists had successfully undertook the experiment. After a few minutes later, I heard a huge explosion from the direction of the scientists laboratory. The explosion was deafening, making me fall on my knees. I was very solicitious(worried)(adj); what was happening outside? The news crew on T.V. was the precursor(forerunner)(n); it had just announced that there would be a second explosion, 100 times more powerful than the first. I ran outside to my car to go leave. As I opened my front door, everyone and everything was in chaos and fear had taken them. People were running on the street, screaming at the top of their lungs. Other insane people were driving without watching the road at all, killing some people. Children were gripping their parents’ hands, crying. No one could be appeased(to relieve)(v). I began to drive and during that, I tried to think of a place where there could be possible shelter while dodging other speeding cars. Constantly, I saw people just running somewhere with their necessary goods and their children. It was such a sad sight. I then saw a place(which I thought was far away enough); it was the bridge across to the other state. I drove there as fast as I could. When I finally reached there, I was the only one. I looked towards the site of the first explosion, watching the smoke clib into the air. I had just noticed that the sky was red. It was terrible as it was a sign for Armageddon. The sky, I had to admit, was as though virtuouso( someone mastered in art)(adj) person had painted it.
I continued watching the smoke, listening to bomb beeping. It could happen in any minute, I thought. The instance I thought about it, a huge semicircle of red and orange surrounded the smoke. Then, in a split second, the entire city was blown up. That second was the worst one of my life; a gale had ripped through me, trying to take me down. After it was over, I looked up and saw a huge cloud of smoke, from the lab, looking like a mushroom cloud. I was in a state of ambivalence(contradictory emotional attitudes)(n); I was sort of happy that the experiment succeeded, but still mad and sad that the experiment would kill millions of people. We made history in science, by killing millions of people with science.
It was his time. The old crow had been around for years. He had lived for several winters and it was his time. There were several of the members in his old flock who were now gone. They had all passed away.
He remembered the several times when he and his old flock hunted hawks. He remembered every single time when they had sneaked up on the hawks and with a fury of beaks had taken them down. He remembered that sometimes the hawk was so old, that it didn’t even put up a fight. It was a cherished tradition, to not want to be part of hawk-baiting was iconoclastic(adj)(attacking cherished traditions). Not only was a part of it he was the most enthusiastic hunter. It was so long ago, yet it seemed like it all happened yesterday. Now it seems that he had ambivalent(adj)(contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) feelings towards hunting. He didn’t know why.
Lately, the old crow felt that something was wrong. He didn’t feel right with the newer member’s of the flock. He knew that they were good flock members, they didn’t treat him any differently for being older and weren’t officious(adj)(excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) towards him. They considered him to be an old virtuoso(n)(someone with masterful ability in the arts) at hunting and gave him respect. None of them would ever act like they knew more than him. They would go around instigating fights with owls and hawks and come back to brag about it. It wasn’t so long ago when he would do the same. They did remind him of when he was younger and he was their precursor(n) (forerunner), but it still didn’t feel right for him to be alongside them. He always felt an emptiness inside of him. Other times it was a caustic(adj)(burning), burning feeling of humiliation and defeat. There was no way he could appease(v)(to soothe, to relieve) those painful feelings. He was constantly choleric(adj)(bad-tempered); one moment he was easily irritable and another he was deep into his sorrows. He knew that he wasn’t the same crow he was years ago. He no longer had the same abilities he had when he was a youth. Fighting was his whole life and he didn’t have any reason to live. Now that he wasn’t fighting, he wasn’t living. At this point he wasn’t solicitous(adj)(worried, concerned) whether he was alive or dead; he just wanted to live just one more time.
So he decided to have his last battle. He flapped his wings and flew off. He flew far away from his home. He heard the scream of a hawk echo across the sky. He went up to the hawk and slammed his beak straight into the hawk. That make the hawk angry and they started to fight. He and the hawk were sparring and the hawk’s claws didn’t seem to hurt him and the cold look in it’s eye’s didn’t seem to faze him. He felt overcome with a sense of invincibility. All of a sudden his wing broke with a jab of the hawk’s beak. He didn’t feel any pain, but he knew that this was his last flight. He knew he could have called the flock and save his own life, but something kept him from doing so. As he fluttered down from the sky he noticed the place underneath him looked similar, but he didn’t know why. He finally perched on the highest branch on a nearby tree. As he looked down he saw the remains of an old nest. It all came back: This was the place that he was born, this was where he first learned to fly, this is where he eventually left his mother. He thought that it was fitting that if he were to die, it should be here. The hawk came to the spot where he was. The old crow looked the hawk straight in the eye and he knew that it was his time.
Note: This is an incomplete answer in terms of the minimum # of sentences (in each paragraph) required of ALL entries. Only partial credit will be given for the actual entry and for the ‘quiz’ grade that it additionally receives.
As the birds chirped in the sunset, I thought about all that had happened. It appeased (soothed verb) me greatly that everything had gone well; my mother was no longer living in indigence ( noun poverty) and my brother had found an apartment. Sadly for him, there was a virtuoso ( someone with masterful ability in arts adjective) pianist next door, so he never could get enough sleep. Luckily for everyone, he was not choleric ( bad tempered adjective). However, he was very officious ( always giving advice, often unwanted adjective), telling all of us what we should do with our rooms etc.
Also, he was very iconclastic (attacking cherished traditions) and always had trash talked the government. He had a great ambivalence (conflicting attitudes) towards many things that never made sense. My mother, was much different however. She was very solicitous (worried adj.). She would get worried about a small cut on a thumb. A precursor( forerunner noun) to this, she would somehow always cut her thumb. Luckily none of the wounds had gotten infected or had a caustic (burning adj.) feeling to them
Standing flatfooted in the middle of the street, my attention is captured by the wall. The AMBIVALENCE (adj. contradictory or conflicting) of the walls contrasting textures of the wall has me SOLICITOUS (adj. worried, concerned.). What could be on the other side? Could it be a CHOLERIC (adj. bad-tempered) troll? Or what if the troll was a VIRTUOSO (n. someone masterfully skilled at the arts) with a paintbrush and canvas? No matter what is behind it, my curiosity has been CAUSTIC (adj. burning).
I have walked by and stood here everyday for 57 years. The building with this wall, ICONOCLASTICALLY (adv. attacking cherished traditions) has no doors. My incessant curiosity will never be APPEASED (v. soothed) until these old eyes see what is behind this old, grey wall. the next day I called the city of commerce to see who owned the “empty” building. They got a little OFFICIOUS (adj. excessively pushy of ones advice). they told me never to ask about that building, for my own good, of course.
I couldn’t. The particular part of town was laced with INDIGENCE (n. poverty). No one would notice a 93 year old man snooping around an old building. As a PRECURSOR (n. forerunner) to my plan I did a little experiment on the back wall of my house. I figured out how to blow up a reasonable sized hole in it. I put the explosive in my neighbor’s tin trash can. When the time was right I placed in the right spot. Right around the the corner from where I had stood flatfooted staring at the wall, just days ago. I walked back around the corner and took one last look at the wall that had occupied my mind for so long. I heard a dull whoosh. Then a quiet crumbling sound. I was in.
I stepped in the hole in the wall. I looked around. All eyes were on me. I felt a blunt sting in my right shoulder. Then I fell. Before the lights went dark, I had time to take one final look at the wall that stole all that time. This time from the other-side.
The hawk warily lands on a tree branch supporting her nest, today’s hunt proved unsuccessful. Even for a creature like her, a virtuoso (n.)(someone with masterful ability in the arts) in the art of hunting prey, sooner or later she was going to turn up empty handed. But what caused the hawk to be more solicitous (adj.)(worried, concerned) than usual was the realization that she was coming back home more frequently without food. Perhaps she was starting to lose her touch, the youthful stamina she once had now deteriorating from the caustic (adj.)(burning; sarcastically biting) price of old age. She was finally starting to feel weak from the lack of nutrition and if she can’t find a good source of prey soon, let alone be able to catch one, it will be the end for her.
Few more days pass by and the hawk is still unable to acquire any significant amount of food to nourish her body. She has now decided to take the only route available to her, although to carry out such an act was deemed to be iconoclastic (adj.)(attacking cherished traditions) in her flock. She will have to plunder from the urban dwellings of man. Yet even as that realization came to her mind, she couldn’t believe that a majestic being like herself has been reduced to go as low as to steal from mankind’s indigence (n.)(poverty), people who barely had anything to support themselves to begin with. Then the memories of her own officious (adj.)(excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) mother teaching her how to hunt came back to her. Learning how to swoop down at just the right moment to catch the victim off guard, where to grab with her talons to provide the most strength, but the memories disappeared as quickly as they had come, replaced by a choleric (adj.)(bad-tempered) rage that could only be felt by a hawk on the brink of existence.
She let out a loud screech, a screech of hunger, to let everything around her know that she was a creature with her mind set on one thing and one thing only. Food. Then her primal instincts replaced her sanity and she shot off into the sky, driven by the adrenaline that was now pumping in her veins. After riding countless updrafts the hawk was appeased (v.)(to soothe; to relieve) by the sight of a cluster of cities in the distance and sped on with a renewed strength and determination. Upon reaching her destination, she immediately began to scout out the area for any source of prey that was within her grasp, but the things she observed that the humans were consuming weren’t animals. This caused the hawk to feel a range of emotions from anger at the humans for not possessing the kind of food she desired, to confusion as to why she had come here in the first place, nothing short of ambivalence (n.)(contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes). Then she saw something out of the corner of her eye. It wasn’t in the city, but was among the hills that were on the outside. The hawk hesitantly flew to the grey speck that she saw and as she got closer she recognized it as a rabbit. Prey. Yet she was reluctant to make an attempt at catching the creature, but she knew that ever since she was born, she had become the future precursor (n.)(forerunner) to her flock’s legacy. So with a magnificent thrust of her wings, the hawk flew up to the sky, like the countless other times she has done. She flew higher and higher still, until the rabbit was only just visible as a spec amongst the green grass of the foothills. Then the hawk stopped climbing, steadied herself to make the perfect aim, tucked her wings into herself, and dove.
I became solicitous (adj, worried) when I looked up and realized the sky had turned blood red. I knew that the whispers had to have been a precursor (n, forerunner) to this kind of an ending. They will attempt to appease (v, satisfy) their leaders of fate by destroying those who try to destroy the earth. The mere thought of the iconoclastic (adj, attacking cherished traditions) idea that everything happened for a reason threw off Steven. All these years he thought the universe was a random sequence of events. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. The whispers were sent to officiously (adj, excessively pushy) deliver the next beginning.
Steven and his son share ambivalent (adj, contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes)points of view on how the universe is directed. When I look up and see this ray of scarlet beauty to be followed by death, I believe in a virtuoso (adj, someone with masterful ability in the arts), that I revere as my God. In our final hours we remain in a caustic (adj, burning; sarcastically biting) state and try to be cheery. The angels have ascended into Heaven with the children. I can’t remember when I’ve seen such choleric (adj, bad-tempered) parents.
I watch this ending which seems almost as majestic as the beginning. Watching this gorgeous sunset is the last one I’ll ever see, and by far my favorite of all time. I feel a great indigence (adj, poverty) after taking advantage of this phenomenon for so many years. Since the day I was born, I’ve known it would come to an end, but I never imagined it to be like this. I look over at Steven who is still weeping over the loss of James, his son. I keep telling him to remember that James is a new breath in the human race, but it doesn’t seem to help. Then suddenly, as quick as it began, it’s over.
The world, a destructive place indeed, people just running around building things then destroying them. People are just self centered beings who think the world is there just to server them. Here is a news flash, it isn’t, this might be ambivalence (adj, contradictory) to popular belief and I know this might come as a shock to a few of you reading this but it is the truth. This might make some of you choleric (adj, bad-tempered) people out there think that I am just a total idiot, I really don’t care. However if you are a person who might be solicitous (adj, worried) about this issue keep reading, if you are the previous type of person just move to the next post.
We as a human race are officious (adj, pushy in offering one’s services) toward the planet. Our lives just seem to revolve around money and how we can take as many shortcuts as possible to get more. Often we leave the environment out, just pushing what little concerns most people have for it to the side leaving those who really do care to clean up the mess. If we just would stop and think before we acted this would be the precursor (noun, forerunner) to a clean, natural environment in the future. The world is not all about your wealth, others live in indigence (adj, poverty) just because others are to good to help them or to good to care about the environment in there native area. We find it easier to use bulldozers then to find a different place that is a little harder to build in but saves habitat for both animals and humans. If we used a virtuoso (noun, someone with a masterful ability in the arts) in the field of environmental protection and not just there to get rich we might not only have half the world partly developed.
I know that this is iconoclastic (adj, attacking cherished traditions) toward the good chunk of the people that have a chance at reading this. So I will try to appease (verb, soothe) your minds the best I can. We as humans would rather just knock down a building to use its land as a parking lot for a much bigger and “better” building when the previous buildings were just fine if they had a little maintenance.The idea behind this is, more people come for new buildings the renovated so again it’s how much money can I get. With this money people often just go on spending sprees and never give back to the environment. However, if you are smart you should give something back to the earth because look at what the world gave you. No, I have not been caustic (adj, sarcastic) in this whole entry.
The world today is very solicitous (adj, concerned) about the environment in which we live. Whether it’s the air in which we breathe, or the water in which we drink its all becoming an everyday concern. Measures are being taken including cars with higher gas mileage, water conservation, and recycling. Even people stricken by indigence (noun, poverty) can help save our world for the generations to come. Small steps can help a bigger cause and help the world we love last longer.
The ambivalence (noun, contradicting outlook) of people cause each individual to conserve our Earth by their own means. Some take smaller steps but each step helps appease (verb, to soothe) the Earth’s needs. Some steps individuals can take include parking the first parking spot they see, carpooling, recycling, and buying recycled material. Although sometimes helping the environment can be very caustic (adj, sarcastically biting), the world needs our help. Don’t be choleric (adj, bad tempered) and dismiss our world instead be a virtuoso (noun, someone with masterful ability in the arts) and help!
I’m not trying to be officious (adj, excessively pushy in offering one’s services) but we all need to give our helping hands and do what we can. Even turning off one light when you leave can help. I think we should all be precursors (noun, forerunners). Don’t be an iconoclast (noun, someone who ruins traditions) and ignore people’s call. Everyone really should help, so our children can grow up in a world as awesome as ours.
Pictures of Hope
South Compton is inundated with forgotten survivors. Crime runs rampant, prejudice abounds among all groups, and gangs roam freely. On any given day school-aged children wander aimlessly through these mean streets, their truant behavior overlooked by their parents with complete ambivalence (uncertainty caused by the inability to make a choice, n). This is somewhat understandable as parents weigh whether attending school or running the streets is safer. Having grown up in South Compton, I can attest that indigence (poverty, n) is an accepted norm. It’s not that people don’t try to succeed. They have, however, abandoned their hope of a better life and been stripped of their aspirations. The American Dream has eluded the residents here. This is not a caustic (sarcastic or critical, adj) assessment of my hometown – it is reality.
A handful of us remain in South Compton, hoping to serve as a precursors (forerunners ,n) for change. Similarly, we serve as iconoclasts, (people who attack cherished beliefs , n) determined to prove that our neighborhood is worthy and more than just a ghetto filled with gangsters and thugs. Those of us who yearn to make our neighborhood a place where people are proud to live realize that change will not come swiftly or easily. That realization does not deter us. We are tireless virtuosos (those with artistic excellence, n), creating colorful sceneries and images of inspiration. Our palettes are the stark and barren wood frame structures that line nearly every street. Paint buckets and brushes are unnecessary; we prefer spray paint to create our masterpieces of optimism. Week after week, we watch from afar and see the smiles we help create when people stop to critique and appreciate our work. Something beautiful and colorful to admire is our gift.
Our anonymity is mandatory. The LAPD label us as common vandals, refusing to recognize us as respectable graffiti artists. We are solicitous (anxious, adj) when the police cruisers drive past our artistic displays. We are fully aware they will soon have the Graffiti Abatement team on the scene, only to destroy what we have so masterfully created. Low risk convicts, fulfilling their community service requirements, whitewash our murals. Our mission is undaunted by their predictable acts of destruction and their officious (excessively pushy in offering unwelcomed services or advice, adj) interference. Although we never lose sight of our goal, we fight the urge to become choleric (extremely irritable, adj) as our work is demolished. Once again, we are forced to scout out a new palette to appease (soothe, v) the shadows cast by the clouds of despair which hover over South Compton. One day those clouds will give way to blue skies, just as we have depicted on our wall art.
Paragraphs??? — Mr. Long
As the red filled the sky for the third time that month (and the 11th time that year), Jackson wondered why he was even solicitous (adj, worried) anymore. He figured by now he would be used to it. Every week, once a week, the bright red would consume the city. Jackson figured it was because of the new machines in the factories. Everyone said it was just harmless smoke, just like the gray stuff that used to be produced. Jackson thought that people just said that to appease (verb, to soothe) him, because they knew he was prone to panic attacks. At age 13, Jackson knew that there were problems in the world that led him to have these attacks. Actually he had been having them as long as he could remember. He didn’t really remember how they started, they just did. Any problem, big or small, was prone to have a major reaction. His shoelaces being untied could set him off one minute, and the next it would be because of the indigence (noun, poverty) in Africa. So when the red smoke showed up for the first time, it put him in an extremely choleric (adj, bad-tempered) mood. It may have looked pretty but it seemed dangerous. The color of blood all around made him antsy. He was what you could call a virtuoso (noun, someone with masterful ability in the arts) in the art of worrying. He could out worry his mother and grandmother combined. Even now as he crossed the great blue bridge, just like he did everyday, he was terrified that it would collapse underneath him. Just like everyday he saw the shoe salesman who was a bit officious (adj, excessively pushy in offering services or advice) and stepped closer to the edge of the bridge to avoid him. Fear of salesmen beat fear of heights any time. Jackson wondered again how he even survived the day. The ambivalence (noun, contradictory emotional attitudes) between himself and the rest of the world seemed so great that it would swallow him up. But still, day after day, he woke up in fear. Jackson assumed his extreme emotions were a precursor (noun, forerunner) to some sort of mental condition. It seemed like more and more people had them these days. The last time he checked, the records said that 1 in 10 people have a mental disease that required hospitalization. How could that not worry a rational person? 10% of the population. But times were changing. Maybe this could be fixed soon. Jackson quickly glanced up as someone brushed past. The face he saw wasn’t what he was expecting. In fact, all the faces around him were surprising. He saw what he was most afraid of him. It was a caustic (adj, biting) feeling that went through him at that moment. Because he realized the thing he was most afraid of was himself. He had known this for a while now, but never really grasped it. It was an iconoclastic (adj, attacking cherished traditions) idea. Everyone was supposed to be his or her own support system. The only person you could really trust was yourself. Yet, this was Jackson’s greatest worry, the only concern that really mattered.
Red Sky Over New York
A red sky hangs over the city. Like looking up at a scarlet sea, ambivalence (contradictory attitudes)(n.) permeates the atmosphere. The Brooklyn Bridge is dyed a surreal blue. The false colors mock the indigence (poverty)(n.) everywhere. A lost city looks up without wonder or despair.
Like an officious (offering unwanted services)(adj.) iconoclast (one who attacks tradition)(n.) the artist whose hand painted the vividness of that red sky, long forgotten lives on. The virtuoso (one skilled or with great taste in the arts)(n.) who first desired that the red sea should hang above the great city lives not. No one recalls the precursor (forerunner)(n.) to the change, it matters not why it is, but simply that it is. Like a caustic (burning)(adj.) force, the people’s choleric (bad-tempered) acid weakened the blue. The solicitous (worried)(adj.) leaders called for a the heavens to be dyed crimson red. Appease (to sooth)(v.), protect, save, called the city.
The Scarlet Sky hangs above a Turquoise city. The pale color flows by like thin blood. Divided in the sky: the ruby red of strength, the clear pink of peace, are different but the same. Food is happiness, safety is freedom, health is life. A lost people look up at a red sky without wonder or despair.
It was a long hot day as the sun begins to set. To (appease–to relive- v) the crows they decide to rest on a branch. Their journey has been long and their (ambivalence– conflicting emotional attitudes-adj) remarks were starting to take a toll on them. The mother crow is (solicitous–worried adj) about leaving her baby for such a long period of time. The (iconoclastic – attacking cherished traditions v) acts of the hawks have forced the two crows from being in the area of which they live.
The (caustic – burning; sarcastically biting adj) rage building up in the father crow makes him want to lash out at the hawks, but he knows he cannot win the fight. The (choleric – bad-tempered v) attitude from the hawks have forced the crows to leave their baby with a friend while they go in search of a new home. They are also afraid of the humans know their (virtuoso – someone with masterful ability in the arts) with weapons of their choice. They do not want their baby to live in (indigence – poverty n) so they must hurry and find a safe place to live.
They (officious – excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice adj) hawks wanted to help them find their home, but they knew they would follow them. So they simply said no. The persistant hawks wanted to tag along so they kept their distance from the crows. The hawks acted as a (precursor – forerunner n) to the crows. Soon enough the crows were able to spot the hawks and sneak away into the night. They found a nice place to live in a shady forest. They went home to pack up their belongings and set off to their new begining in the peaceful forest.
A lot of people doesn’t like raven, because they think they are black and dirty. Also a lot of people think raven represent the darkness and bad luck. But I have different opinion, raven is my favorite bird. Maybe they always live in the indigence (poverty), eat anything that nobody wants to eat, but they never give up, they still live on this world, the things they need was not royalty was the freedom on the sky.
Raven was not a virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts) for sure, because they don’t need to be pretty, they don’t need to be like eagles or the peacocks. Because ravens always officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) say something not necessary, so a lot of people doesn’t like them. In Japan raven represent god’s messenger, they bring the messenger to gods to gods. Another people said when a person died, raven will take their spirit to the death world, to appease (to soothe) dead person’s worried and feelings. A lot of different ideas make me ambivalence (contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) because that makes me not sure raven was good or bad. But for sure that raven was the precursor (forerunner) of freedom. The freedom is the sky, who owns the sky that gets the freedom.
Raven was a choleric (bad-tempered) animal, when they angry it is a very bad image to see, they will attack caustic (burning; sarcastically biting) anyone that they see, because they think you are trying to steal their freedom. I always came out some ideas to make those iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions) person to change their options of the raven. Raven’s freedom nobody can stop, in their lives they don’t have any solicitous (worried, concerned) things, and they just keep flying and flying. In their lives in the sky is their happiest time, because they can enjoy the freedom.
This art work is now exhibited in the art museum. We don’t know who draw this, but we know he is a precursor (noun) of the modern art work. It is a good contrast of light. My family is going to see the best work from the world. I feel so exciting about it and can’t appease (verb) the excitement.
It is a nice museum; they get many virtuosos’ (noun) work in it. They also get all of the information about the painter. The painter is born in a family below the indigence (noun) life. He has to solicitous (adjective) about his dinner everyday. But he doesn’t want people to officious (adjective) about his family. He works hard and tries to get as money as he can. All he care is the money, and he gets choleric (adjective) easily because the pressure. Pressure is stuff with caustic (adjective) and you will lose your mind in it. The ambivalence (noun) makes him think more about his life.
He spends more time with the natural and learns much more than before. The drawing is a symbol of his life. He also wants to tell people to protect the natural, because we get everything from it. People are being more and more iconoclastic (adjective) just like him. We need to live our life, don’t make the fate control our mind.
Jimmy had always wondered when the city would fix the wall that he passed every day from school. It had been like that for a few years now and he was starting to get solicitous (worried-adj). It had always been like that after the war was over. The war destroyed everything on the west side of the city. The enemy even took out the temple that had been there for over a thousand years. It was like the enemy was iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions-verb). They had taken out all the city’s temples and churches. Most priests now lived in indigence (poverty-adj).
Every since the bombings and invasion the city has never recovered. There never enough money to rebuild those temples and churches. The city didn’t even have the money to fix the walls. It was either that they hardly have any money or they just don’t care anymore. I would surely be appeased (soothed-verb) if the government would help out in all this. They wouldn’t even have to hire a person with virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts-noun). Just some bloke off the street with a paint can and brush would do.
I bet most people are choleric (bad tempered- adj) after the bombings and probably more angry at the city for not doing anything about it. I wish the city would ask the government for some help. Even if the government is officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice-adj) and won’t do anything, it will show us citizens that the city is taking action against the cause. This would be the precursor (forerunner-noun) step in rebuilding this city. Hopefully the city won’t read this caustic (burning; sarcastically biting-adj) journal against the people in charge. They might have an ambivalence (conflicting emotional attitudes- adj).
I sat out on my porch and watched those birds fight in the tree in front of my house. I had just had a horrible day and the birds definently appeased (v. to soothe) me. Even though the birds were helping nothing could completely relax me, I had this caustic (adj. burning) feeling in my stomach that wouldn’t go away. Out on our ranch my father had tons of heavy equipment and machinery. Me and my brother had worked the ranch our whole life, pretty much without any problems, until today.
When me and my brother were young we lived in a house in the country that was the precursor (n. forerunner) to what would turn out to be the massive ranch that we now live on. for the most part all of us on the ranch got along, all the ranch hands and me and my family. We always had a great time. we have one worker on our farm, Ray Anderson, who is very choleric (adj. bad tempered). He’s the only one that never seems to be happy, he pretty much keeps to himself until you have to start workin for him on the farm. He’s been ranching for a long time, but’s getting old and seems to forget the things that he’s learned and sometime’s just doesn’t kame much sense. He’s very officious (adj. repeatedly offering ones services) about the ranch work and what he wants to do usually doesn’t make much sense, but we just usually get my dad to straighten him out. My dad’s never very solicitous (adj. worried) about what’s going on on the farm, he trust everyone. Our mother is a virtuoso (adj. expert in the arts) of painting, she pretty much stays inside and it pretty much seems like the perfect life. Until today and it all fell apart.
As if it hasn’t been bad that the ranch is going into indigence (n. poverty) tempers have just been flaring lately on the ranch and it’s really starting to get bad. Ray’s being very iconoclastic (adj. attacking cherished traditions) and trying to overtake my dad on important decisions. They’re really starting to butt heads and it’s starting to scare evryone. Right now my dad and Ray basically have complete ambivolence (n. contradictory attitudes). We figure Ray would get tired of arguing with my dad, but he just gets worste everyday. Then today Ray told my brother to try and go break a new group oo wild horses brought to the ranch, my dad specifically told Ray not to tell my brother tat and that my dad would do it later. My brother was under the influence that the horses weren’t too wild. When got into the pen he wasn’t very cautious and tried to hop right on. The horse bucked, my brother fell on his head, and is in the ICU. The las we saw o f Ray he came out of our house yellin and cursin my dad as he drove off in his pick up. I just hope this isn’t the beginning of the end.
I haven’t had many friends over the years. In fact, there is really only one that sticks out in my mind. The first time I saw Jenny Walker was during the summer after 9th grade. She was jogging down Chestnut Street obnoxiously screaming something into a cell phone. She was so distracted that she almost tripped over that hideous yellow fire hydrant. As far as first impressions go, I was not impressed. As I turned onto my street, I could still hear Jenny’s shrill voice behind me. Turns out she had lived right on my street for the last 4 years and I had no idea. The day when you finally notice someone that was always there is quite interesting.
Now I wouldn’t call myself a virtuoso (noun- someone with masterful ability in the arts) or anything, but I have always been pretty good at reading people. Some may consider me officious (adjective- excessively pushy in offering ones service or advice) but 90% of the time I’m right. However, as I slowly go to know Jenny I could not for the life of me figure her out. It’s funny that after seeing her on my walk home that day, she was suddenly everywhere. After 2 weeks of this, I finally decided to introduce myself. It was right after 4th period when I walked up to her locker and said “Hi! I’m Candance. I just realized that we’ve lived on the same street for years!” I flashed my most genuine smile. “So…what’s your point?” was her response. Then she promptly turned and walked away. I was most definitely stung. At that moment Jenny Walker was in my mind a choleric (adjective-bad-tempered) scoundrel. She was a precursor (noun- forerunner) on my hypothetical hit list. However, as days went by I was overcome with a very different feeling. It drove me crazy and I couldn’t explain it, but for some reason I had to get Jenny to like me.
I planned my second attempt to appease (verb- to soothe; to relieve) her outside of school. Jenny was outside on her lawn reading magazine when I conveniently passed by her while jogging. Now wanting to be rude, I said “Hey Jenny what’s up?” Barely looking up from her magazine she replied, “Is there a particular reason that you keep talking to me?” Producing a caustic (burning; sarcastically biting) remark of my own, I replied “Is there a particular reason that you keep acting like a jerk?” With that Jenny looked up at me and smile spread across her face. “Do you want to sit down?” she said. I was full of ambivalence (noun- contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes). I had never thought that of someone as both horrible and great at the same time. “So I’m a little confused. Whenever I tried to be nice you totally ignored me; but when I call you a jerk everything’s great?” I said. “I’m sorry if it seems like I was toying with you. I’m all about being iconoclastic (adjective- attacking cherished traditions). I want people to be my friend because they want to. Not because they think they are gaining karma points by pretending to be solicitous (verb- worried, concerned) about the random girl that’s in all of their classes. Unfortunately as you can see, I am drowning in indigence (noun- poverty) on the friend front.” From that moment on, Jenny and I were inseparable. When I thought I had found an enemy, I had really found a best friend.
The sunset always emitted ambivalence (conflicting emotional attitudes n). To me it signified an end and a new beginning. It was the end of the day which could be good or bad. If I had had a bad day I appreciated the sunset ending my dad. If I had a good day I didn’t want that day to end yet I was excited what was ahead for a new day. Either way seeing the sunset always appeased (v to soothe or relieve) me.
I was not routinely a choleric (bad tempered adj) child but when something major happened I could be. My family did not live in indigence (poverty adj) but we were not the richest either. So since all my friends got what they wanted I frequently felt jealous. And one day there was a precursor (an omen or a sign n) of what I needed to do to get money. I was not a virtuoso (someone with good ability in art n) but my vision had told me to learn and become good so I could sell my work. The vision had showed me that I was iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions v) when it came to creating my art….not following the rules at all, and apparently that’s what the people loved.
I toiled for months and months perfecting my skills. My mother was solicitous (worried adj) that I was working too much and too hard on my art. But I had told her when I was done I would not be officious (excessively pushy in offernings adj) when I sold my stuff because it would be amazing. But I was not satisfied. I would have to restart projects many times until I got them perfect. Frequently caustic (burning v) the pieces I thought unworthy. Finally the day had come when I was finally satisfied with everything. I took my work to a museum and they bought most of the pieces. Feeling accomplished as I watched the sunset that night I was sad to see a good day go but excited to see what the future held in store for all my work in the museum.
Where are the actual vocabulary words for this entry? While a lovely story concept, credit can only be given to the entry (and the ‘quiz’ portion) if this week’s vocab words are used. Is there another version? — Mr. Long
As I kept running, my heart’s pain over-rid the pain of my stinging feet and my soar legs. I came to a halting stop, looking around me, feeling so lost. I wiped away the tears and spotted my red mini-cooper. Digging through my purse, I found my keys and hopped in. The engine roared and I was off. A part of me knew driving like this wasn’t safe. The un-stoppable tears were making my vision blurry, not to mention I hadn’t had sleep for days. But this danger sort of provoked me to keep going. I didn’t know where I was now, nor where I was going, I just needed to go.
By now, I was under the impression that I was in the city of Madison, Wisconsin and was making my way across to Minnesota. I was thinking that this was a mistake. It had just given me time to think about him, and that’s exactly what I was trying to avoid. I kept picturing him, his blazing blue eyes and his beautiful bronze hair. His last words seemed to be shouting in my ear- “It’s what is best…. I need to leave…. I need to be away from you.” The last part stinging the most each and every time. I couldn’t understand why this had happened to me, it was so un-expected.
There were no more tears left in me. Of course, in the inside I was still crying but no tears would come out. As I kept driving along, I looked up and saw the pinkish-red clouds shining above the beautiful bridge I was on. There were no cars around so I pulled over and parked on the side of the road. This setting seemed to clear my mind so much, that I just lay down on the concrete and stared for hours. When all had seemed to be well (well as in, not completely and utterly miserable) I stood up and peered over the 50 foot drop. It was then that I thought of the most brilliant thing I had ever thought up in my entire life, the perfect cure for my heart ache – bungee jumping.
Everything is the same. Perfect. There is never a flinch, a change, or a trip. There is no ambivalence (noun- contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) for there is nothing to contradict.
This was my life. Until that strange day in December. I was walking home and got separated from my supervised group. I made a wrong turn and ended up in a part of the city I had never seen before. It was filled with indigence (noun-poverty). The desolation of the slum scared me. Yet I was also curious. Not everything was perfect here. In fact, one of the walls paint was pealing. The paint almost seemed to be melting away. As I stared something seemed to flicker. There seemed to be something that interrupted the normality. It shined like a star, but when I blinked it was gone.
I just sat there staring at the pealing paint waiting for the flicker to come again. I probably stood there for an hour before a strange man came and stood next to me.
“It won’t come back, no matter how long you stare. I’ve stared at this wall for hours and the flicker still refuses to reappear. “
I turned to fully take in the man standing next to me. He was old, that much I could tell. He seemed past the age of retirement when the elderly left the city. His beard was long and scraggily. He stood hunched over and his regulation pants and slacks were filled with holes. Yet he intrigued me. He saw the flash to. Maybe I wasn’t the precursor (noun- forerunner) on the way to the instability center.
“You mean you saw it too?” I asked trying to appease (verb-pacify) my scattered mind.
“Yes little girl, I saw it too. You are not crazy if that’s what you were thinking, and no matter how crazy I seem, I too am still fully sane. What is your name child and what brought you to the slums?”
“They say I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”
“They are not you. Be an individual, break the rules.” He said caustically (adj – burning; sarcastically biting)
I didn’t understand. What was an individual? I had never heard that word before. Breaking the rules? That was just unheard of. People who broke the rules disappeared and didn’t come back. I should know they took my big brother. The man seemed to see the questions in my eyes, and sighed before he spoke again.
“You have no idea what an individual is do you?” I shook my head.
“An individual is someone or something different. They are their own being. With their own ideas and opinions. My father told me to never forget that definition. He told me that I must cling to it, to have any hope for freedom. He also told me to always come back to this wall, for it held the answers. Now are you going to tell me your name little one?”
“They call me Mary.” I said, wanting to know more from the strange old man.
“Well Mary, would you like to try and figure out the secret of this wall with me?”
I didn’t know what to do. When an elder asks something of you, you must obey. Yet he was asking something that was iconoclastic (verb- attacking cherished traditions). We are not supposed to tamper with things, and discovering a secret sounded like tampering to me. My curiosity eventually won out. I wanted to know why this wall was different and what this strange man’s father had meant. I nodded and watched as a very crooked smile appeared on the man’s face.
“I’ll be right back little Mary. I need to go get brushes for us to uncover what is under this paint.”
I watched him as he left. He passed a fire hydrant and I gasped as I saw a flash again. It was different this time, but it flashed just like before. I continued to stare at the hydrant until the man came back with the brushes.
Once he returned we got to work on the wall. I scrubbed for hours, eager to see what was under the fading paint. As we worked the flashes came back. The whole wall was covered in them. Once all the paint was removed the old man gasped. I stepped back and saw what we had uncovered. The whole wall was filled with flashes and bold words spread across the space. The man read them out loud.
“The path to freedom lies in the individual. Let your difference shine and free the revolutionized world once more.”
As he finished reading the wall split down the middle, uncovering a large hallway that stretched into darkness. The strange hallway had me solicitous (adj- worried, concerned). I didn’t want to find out what was hidden in its depths. The man thought differently.
“Let’s go see what this leads to shall we.”
Worried that he might become choleric (adj- bad-tempered) if I refused, I followed the man into the tunnel. As we walked farther and farther light seemed to seep into the tunnel. With the new light I realized that the walls were covered in books. The shelves seemed to go on forever.
I leaned in to see what titles the shelves held and gasped at the names. Every title I read was on the forbidden list or had been eradicated. It was all the old histories, getting older and older as we walked farther into the tunnel.
The man noticed that I was lagging farther and farther behind and called out.
“Little Mary what is taking you so long?”
“The books Sir. The hallway is filled with books.” I was surprised that he hadn’t noticed them already.
“Really?” He asked as he leaned in towards a shelf. He too read the titles and gasped.
“The Histories.” He said. I nodded.
“My father once told me to look to the past to find the answers.”
“What answers?”
“Now that is a good question.”
For years that old man and I scavenged the tunnel for the answers it held. What we found was knowledge. We learned that those flashes were called color and that our city was once home of virtuosos (noun – someone with masterful ability in the arts) and had a thriving culture. We then learned of the war and the revolution. We uncovered secrets long buried and realized what the government was truly
doing to us.
After we had learned all we could form the histories, the old man passed on. He was such an influence and yet I never even learned his name. I will miss his officious (adj- excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) ways and I will never forget his final words.
“Lead them Mary.”
And I have. That day I walked out of the hall and showed the world what I had learned. We are free again.
Looks like a virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts; n) learned how to use Photoshop. Once again, another great picture enhanced by Photoshop to make a jaw dropping piece of work. Personally I love Photoshop, I usually don’t use it like that though. I try to keep things looking kind of normal still. Even though it is still fun, to take the normal and create something insane with it. I have to admit though, I do have a bit of an ambivalence (contradictory emotional attitudes; n) towards the use of Photoshop. I love the “could possibly still be rea”l pieces, and I also like “definitely photoshopped” work. They’re all really fun to do.
In a sense Photosop is appeasing (soothing; v) t0 the artist. Whenever you have a picture you’re not quite sure what to do with, you simply photoshop it. You can change just about anything you want in it. Some artists though, feel that Photoshop is iconoclastic ( attacking cherished traditions; adj) to art. They feel that it ruins a piece of work. I’m not to solicitious (worried; adj) about it though, I love Photoshop, not only can you enhance a photo, but you can create something out of nothing but a blank computer screen. Alot of precursors (forerunners; n) in the art world are very inclined in Photoshop. It really puts you on a different level if you are able to work with Photoshp.
Where as some people are very choleric (bad tempered; adj) about the use of Photoshop, others are very officious (excessively pushy in offering ones advice; adj) about using it. I think it is a great tool if you’re ever stuck with a dull picture and want to change it up a bit. You could use it many ways. With Photoshop, you can create something new, change a picture completley, or even add a caustic (sarcastic; adj) remark to it by adding something funny. The only down side to Photoshop is that to buy the software itself can be pretty expensive. So if you are suffering in indigence (poverty; n) it might not be the medium for you. It costs alot, but it is well worth it, especially for photographers.
(Vocab story on the Picture 3)
Twenty Nine Eighty Four
Finally, I am able to send the picture of the completed bridge back to earth. Although it appears to be iconoclastic, (adj. attacking cherished traditions) the design is actually reminiscent of many accomplishments of humans. I consider this bridge to be the precursor (n., forerunner) of many more such structures in Mars that serve the needs of our future as well as remind us of our earth heritage. If you look closely, you can see the Gothic archways, the classic Roman columns, and the homage to both Brooklyn and Golden Gate bridges with the steel cables. The blue hue is an ode to the Blue Bloods, those humans presently living in Mars. The red sky is left to appease (v. to soothe, to relieve) our Martian natives who might resent our dominance in Mars. I might also add that although I designed the bridge, I was assisted by Churchill, who is a virtuoso (n., someone with masterful ability in arts) in the area of bridge-building, so to speak.
We humans had about fifty thousand years of experience in conquest. There is an ambivalent (adj., contradictory or conflicting emotional attitude) feeling among most humans about our history of conquest. In one hand, we had to explore and build, to meet our own needs and drive. Somehow, we feel it is our duty and right to survive. On the other hand, we feel a certain guilt over those who stand in our way of progress, particularly the natives and their cultures. Generally, we humans did miserable job of accomplishing our conquest and progress. Each move, from out of Africa to the most recent move of European humans to the Americas, was painful and bewildering, especially to the natives. To this day, the natives cannot escape a life of indigence (n., poverty), ignorance, and disdain for the most part. No amount of solicitous (adj., worried, concerned) assistance from the goodwill of conquerors seem to wash away the wrongs done in the past by our ancestors. The worst part of our shameful history is that even with the conquests and dominance of the entire earth, we have run out of room and energy resources. We, the natives and the conquerors, were chronically short of food, energy, and space by 1984, and as a result, we were constantly at war with each other. Thankfully, our scientists have made a move to Mars possible at this time. More importantly, Churchill was elected as the Supreme Commander. Churchill agreed to a move to Mars immediately after suspending all Big Brother decrees.
In our move to Mars, Churchill was resolved to do things differently so that we will not live the next fifty thousand years in misery and guilt. This time, contacts and dealings with Martians would be strictly regulated by the Churchill and the Supreme Council itself. Council adopted the principle of our ancient teachers, such as Jesus or Buddha, and resolved to follow the old but wise rule, “Love thy neighbor” in all matters of Mars. First, humans must recognize and respect the proprietary nature of Martians’ own land, air space, and culture. Second, we will not be able to use violence, or threats of violence, in all dealings with Martians. Third, humans will not be able to offer any deals in an officious, (adj., excessively pushy in offering one’s service or advice) manner. Finally, Council made itself a fiduciary of the Martians and answerable to any grievances of Martians in future. This move automatically brought about caustic (adj. burning, sarcastically biting) remarks from some quarters, but our wise Council paid no heed. The earth population generally sided with Churchill and Council and voted for the Council’s Mars Implementation Rules.
It has been twenty years since our first contact with the Martians. At first, they appeared to be a choleric (adj., bad-tempered) lot, but gradually we discovered them to be sympathetic and kind. We explained our plight to their Supreme Commander, and we were surprised that they were already aware of our situation. The Martian technology was as advanced as ours was, and their wisdom often surpassed our vision. It appeared as though they have been visiting earth and exploring humans for two hundred years, but they resisted the desire for conquest for a thousand years. So, now with our leader Churchill, we have started slow and careful settlement in Mars. For once, we have looked back and looked forward in our everlasting history of conquest.
What is this?
“This started out like every other time, I felt this was going to be a bad day. There wasn’t anything solicitous (adj concerned), nothing to worry about. Besides the constant nerve racking mind set that I had for about 30 minutes trying to walk to my office, everything was fine. I was in the room doing the usual rounds at the lab. Checking readouts and chemical levels, oh the joy. I wished there was like some kind precursor ( noun forerunner) that would have hinted at my future. But there’s no sense in crying about the past now.
Anyway it was about 1400 hours when it happened. Some kind of after shock hit the city, needless to say I was on the ground trying to recover what had just happened to me. Whatever it was that knocked me to the floor did not appease ( v. to soothe) nor did it help any of my sense, my head was throbbing and my sight was blurry for about a minute. I usually wasn’t a choleric (adj bad-tempered) person, but as soon as I got up, I was pissed. I thought it was the engineering department again, building some kind of malfunctioning N2 mine.
The minute I started for the door the emergency siren was activated. I was freaking out, I looked out the window to see a giant yellow glowing orb. It was like those toy plasma globes that you get at the Dollar General. For a second I was thinking it was some kind of entity, but that was a bit iconoclastic ( adj, attacking cherished beliefs) to scientology and such. I ran for my life out the entrance, all the cars were empty, the sky was blood red, and it seemed I was the only one alive at the moment.
First thing I had to do was establish some means of communication, I rummaged through everything, find nothing but phone that were out of batteries. Everything looked like this city was in some kind of indigence (noun poverty), like a third world country in poverty. The buildings were smears of black ,white, and gray. The weird part was, everything was caustic (adj, flammable) wasn’t on fire, and the things that weren’t were. My world beliefs in trying to explain everything were being fought against my ambivalence ( adj, contradicting).
At this point in time, my virtuoso ( master of an ability) or masterful ability to explain things did not help me here. Whatever happened, it messed the city, maybe even the world. Anyway I was running into a bus trying to find some kind of transportation when these men in white hazard suits from what I could tell, were being very officious ( adj excessively pushy in offering one’s services or advice). I didn’t need his help, just an explanation. Next thing I know I get whacked with the butt of his gun and dragged to some facility underground.
And then, I wake up.
“Doctor what’s wrong with me?”
These crow birds are neither solicitous (adj, worried), nor choleric (adj, bad-tempered). They just peacefully sit on a branch and watch the quiet sunset. They have no worries now, just appeasing (verb, to soothe) themselves in the clam wind and watching a day past. This setting has no caustic (adj, burning) feelings or desires, it just contains tranquility. The sun makes these birds feel at peace, after another day of struggle for food, the sun set acts as a peaceful ending transition to their days.
This image was actually taken by a photographer named [name edited out — Mr. Long]; a famous photographer who specializes in wild life and natural ecosystems. Weston is virtuoso (adj, someone with masterful ability in the arts) of nature. Being able to capture any natural setting in forests, mountains, river, or oceans. Weston, who has experienced indigence (noun, poverty) has learned much from it and used it to become a better photographer. He is also a precursor (adj, forerunner) who follows animals and creatures around the whole world.
Although this picture has a sense of ambivalence (noun, contradictory) to the actual lifestyle of crows, it is a relaxing beautiful picture. Crows are actually scavengers, who eat the leftovers of already dead organisms. This idea is iconoclastic (noun, attacking traditions) of most beliefs. Most people think it is proper to have a proper burial for the animals. The crow’s method could be referred to as officious (adj, excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services) considering these animals did not actually retrieve their own food. Behind all of these facts, this beautiful picture could be a relaxing photo in any home, offering peace and tranquility to all.
As I looked out my window I saw a crow swoop down to land on the tree outside my window. To most people I suppose they would seem like a precursor (v. forerunner) to a terrible event. Not to me though. They always seemed quite appeasing (adj. to soothe; to relieve). “Snap out of it” I thought to myself. “This is your first day, so you should probably get out of bed and ready shouldn’t you?” I talked to myself a lot. It helped keep me focused.
Today was the first day at Julliard. I have absolutely no idea how I got into such an awesome music school. My family keeps calling me a virtuoso (n. someone with masterful ability in the arts) but I don’t think that I’m all that good. I certainly don’t look that great. I’m kind of tall and gangly with stick legs and a mop of jet black hair. Maybe that’s why I love crows so much. Cause I look like one.
My mom had gotten my violin ready. She was so solicitous (v. worried, concerned) that I had to make sure that I checked everything twice. It gets to be annoying after a while but its helpful considering I have a bad memory. I left and soon arrived at Julliard. My first class was at 8:45 and I entered at 8:40. I chose a seat near the front of the room, so that I could get a better view of the professor. He seemed an ambivalent (adj. contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) sort of fellow. Almost as if he couldn’t decide whether to teach the class or run away in fear. When he started talking he sounded like an officious (adj. excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) Arab merchant attempting to sell rugs. I got through the class and went to lunch afterwords (it was 3 hours long). At lunch the lunch woman was a choleric (adj. bad-tempered) old woman from East Germany. She gave me some caustic (v. burning; sarcastically biting) remark when I asked her how her day was and slapped the 3-day old meatloaf onto my plate with extra vigor, splashing meat sauce onto my clean white shirt. not wanting anything else on me I hurried over to a deserted table. I ate lunch and got through the rest of the day with no trouble. I actually even made friends with a interesting person by the gate, (it wasn’t until later that I learned that he was some iconoclastic (adj. attacking cherished traditions) punk who wanted to burn down Julliard just because he couldn’t get in) I then went home to find that my mother had decided that I should leave home since I was now a “big boy” and was in college. I was now an indigence (v. poverty) college student who does nothing but play a musical instrument. This was going to be fun.
I’m sitting in front of a piece of paper with some lines on it, waiting for inspiration to smack me in the face.
The sun is sinking beneath the hills. Birds are dipping and soaring. Some of them land on the tree that sits next to our house. I wish I could stare at them all day, but I don’t have much time. I need something by tomorrow. I rub my head with my hands. The presence of my wife and daughter definitely doesn’t appease (v) me; they’re bickering about some nonsense.
“But Mama, WHY?” whines Belinda. “Martha Olson already has FIVE Plushkinz, and I don’t have any! Terese has three, Catie has two, and Michelle…Michelle has SEVEN!”
My wife tries to come up with an excuse, but the truth is, we’re living almost in indigence (n). Being a musician is my dream, but now I see it taking its toll on my family. I see my sons, Avery and Gabe, being forced to take turns playing a sport at school because we can only afford to pay for one of them each school year. I see my wife, solititous (adj), anxious, as she goes over the taxes. Her hair is grayer than it was last year. I see my daughters, Belinda, Opal, Holly, and Minerva, struggling to do without the things they love: barrettes and hair ties and ribbons and lip gloss.
All sacrificed for me.
Can you say ‘ambivalence’ (n)? I hate doing this to my family. I hate seeing their pain and knowing it’s all for me. It makes me frighteningly choleric (adj).
But on the other hand, I feel that it is worthwhile. Music is something that I can’t even begin to explain. I love it so much. Its history, its changes, its varieties…CD’s are the only things I buy for myself. I’d rather buy a CD than a new tie, or some fancy cologne, or…ugh…a baseball cap. I’ve got maybe a thousand. I never buy anything off iTunes, partially because I feel like it’s iconoclastic (adj) (I mean, where’s the satisfaction in buying some digital music? You don’t get to smell the plastic, and cut your finger opening it, and admire the CD artwork, and open the booklet, and throw the case around in your car…) and also because…I don’t have an iPod. But anyways. Music is a sort of universal language. It can be different wherever you are. I like some Swedish bands, some Sri Lankan rap…I mean, it’s fascinating. And ever since the Beatles, I’ve wanted to be a virtuoso (n); I wanted to make music myself.
I’m doing my best. I’ve been playing guitar since I was 13 and I’ve written my share of songs. I’ve recorded a bunch of them, too, since my friend George has some recording equipment. I think I’ve done pretty well…I mean, I haven’t been officious (adj) about getting my stuff to record companies, but maybe that’s because I’m just a quiet, shy guy in general. I don’t want to get pushy. But maybe I should. If I want to sell my stuff…my music…MY music. Isn’t that the greatest thing? It’s something made by me. But it’s not something you can see or touch. It’s sort of something you just feel. I’m sort of a forerunner (n), I guess. I mean, I’m not claiming that I’m as revolutionary as Pink Floyd or Jimi Hendrix or anything, but I mean…no one’s ever made MY music. It’s all brand new!
My wife could’ve been caustic (adj). She could’ve doubted me, or gotten exasperrated and left me. But when I asked her WHY she didn’t do either of these things, she said it was because she knows how beautiful a dream feels, and that I should chase that feeling, and do my best to get there. Plus she believed in me. I think she still does.
Having a dream that puts so much pressure on my family is a strain, don’t get me wrong. But the joy that comes out of making music is so wonderful. And I share it with them. I share my music with my family. My little girls sing, and the boys tap pots and pans with spoons. We all make music together.
Because making music is a gift.
The grand and magnificent bridge stood erect as I mad my way to the ministery. It had stood for so many years as a precursor(forerunner)noun, to the days of the party. Every day I walked under its transient magnificence I was in aw. As I arrived at work that day I couldnt help but feel solicitous(worried, concerned)adj, about how everyone was watching me. That day it was our offices two minutes of hate. I wasnt quite inthused.
Big Brother seemed to me to grow less and less appealing each day I lived in his socialistic society. Although I disliked Big Brother he was a virtuoso(someone with masterful abilitys in the arts)adj, of grand proportions. Everyone was in a frenzy jumping up and down shouting at Goldstein, I was quiet. My superior later that day was extremly caustic(burning,sarcastically biting)adj, about my behavior at our daily session or lack there of. I blew it off and at the end of the day was exhausted.
I was appeased(pleased)adj, with the fact that my daily ordeal was over. Many of my “comrades” had been overly officious(giving advice when not needed)adj, and not helpful. The words “Big Brother is watching raced through my mind”, my headache grew. With that came a choleric(bad tempered)adj, atitude. I hated this society where everyone was subject and their was no classes, no indegence(poverty)adj. The party was iconoclastic(attacking cherished traditions)adj, in themselves. They had torn down all of their opposition until no ambivalence(contradictory or conflicting attitudes)adj, remained. I would never make it home that day, I had thought to much.
I had just left the doctors office and was told that I either had to take pills or take a break from my job to appease (v. relieve) me of my stress. He was being officious (v. excessively pushy) that I took the pills. but I wasn’t sure I wanted to. I had always been so solicitous (adj. worried) about work, that the quality time my family and I spent together was becoming distant. My wife had started becoming choleric (adj. bad-tempered) with me because I wasn’t spending enough time with the kids, but she understood what I had been going through. Thinking about all this I decided not to take the pills, and to spend time with the family and kids for a few weeks. As I got home I told my wife that I was taking a break from work for a few weeks and that we should go camping. As excited as she was, she got up and went to tell the boys.
The following morning we packed our bags and tents in the car and left for the woods. My sons and I always loves camping but my wife’s ambivalence (v. conflicting emotional attitude) towards it always bothered the boys. She had to make sure they wore all the right clothing, to have insect repelent on, ect. As we reached the camp sight, we started to unload the equipment, and started to set up the tents. Sam, who was 17, was the oldest of the two always loved to start the camp fire. My other son Mike, who was 14, would always gather up the right wood for him. For some reason Mike was iconoclasting (v.attacking cherished traditions), and refused to get the wood, so I decided to get it.
The sounds of birds filled the woods. As I walked through to find good wood, there was this caustic (adj. burning) smell that filled the air. I then saw a homeless man precursor (v. forerunner) to me and asked if I needed to find some wood, I was having trouble finding some so I replied yes. He took me back to his tent and realized he lives in indigence (adj. poverty) but what cought my eye was the carvings of wood he had. Seeing this I knew he was a virtuoso (n. someone with masterful ability in the arts), I asked if he would sell me one of his works, and so he did. After that he went and showed me where to get the wood. The sun was beginning to set, looking up I saw two birds, sitting camly on the highest point of the tree. The spot was beautiful, it had a clear view of the trees and animals below. As I returned, Mike had a smile on his face, knowing he wanted me to see the spot for myself.
I always loved Art with a passion ever since I was young. Colors were so magnificent and they brought a beautiful sense along with them. I was never fortunate enough to be given something so spectacular. My family lived in indigence(adj. poverty) as long as I could remember. I remember being three years old, sitting in my tiny living room listening to my parents argue. I could never understand why, but over the years I realized. My father was a virtuoso(n. someone w/ masterful abilities in the arts) who taught karate two blocks from our house while my mother was a gardener. She thought her way of gardening was the best and people called her very officious (adj. excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) while being iconoclastic(adj. attacking cherished traditions) about obsolete techniques in gardening. I never had any toys and the only thing I had was an old Ticonderoga No. 2 pencil that I would use to sketch life. I was considered a choleric(adj. bad-tempered) child and my parents were happy I had found such a thing because it appeased(v. to soothe) me and took my mind off of life.
My birthday was tomorrow. The only thing I wanted was a simple box of colors and nothing else. My parents couldn’t afford anything else. My parents were very solicitous(adj. worried) that they would not be able to buy me anything because we were running low on food. They had never told me this but I had been listening through the wall at the time. The very next day was finally my birthday but I wasn’t very happy. I opened my eyes to my parents standing in front of my bed. I wiped my eyes and saw them with a gift in their hands. My mother handed it to me and I looked at it for a second. I decided to open it which I then did. It was a shiny, brand new thirty-two set of colors. My parents had asked me why I was so sad. The was a large amount of ambivalence(adj. conflicting emotional attitudes) in the room. I had told them I felt bad for asking them to buy something they couldn’t necessarily afford on their budget. They told me not to worry and that everything would be okay.
The next day I had finally opened the cartridge of crayons and looked at them. They were the most glorious site I had seen in a long time. I immediately decided to get the paper I had stowed away and started drawing. I drew pictures of moments in my life at school and at home. One picture I had drawn was a picture of me falling on the ground where I received a caustic(adj. burning) mark on my leg. Another was of me walking in the park with my parents. I decided to become a precursor to the situation and I told my parents that coloring on paper just wasn’t good enough. I wanted to go down the street to a wall, plain and white, where a fire hydrant sat next to it. It had looked very miserable so I wanted to add onto it. I draw gray clouds on it and added on a little pinch of rain drops. I thought that it had looked great, but I knew that I wasn’t going to stop there either. I moved on to another wall, and to another, and to another. I slowly became better and better.
As I pass through the Brooklyn bridge in my red car, I see many people living a life of indigence (adj. poverty). There are small tables with cheep items, and boxes for shelters. Its almost like a small poor city. I always wonder what happened, and why are they in this situation. I get kind of solicitous (adj. concerned) about this, and wonder what our president is doing about it. Well either way I always have to use the bridge to get to work, then to get to my home.
One day while I was on my way home, this person ran into the middle of the street. He had a violin in his hand. I stopped my car before it hit him. I got out, and made sure he was ok. He was and asked for some money. I gave him a few dollars, but then I asked him to play the violin for me. So he played. When I listened to him, I was amazed. He played beautifully. The music appeased(v. soothed) my head and my mind. After he was done, I complimented him by saying he was a virtuoso (adj. someone with masterful ability in the arts), and gave him a few extra dollars. Then I drove on home, and did some work. My job is a columnist for the New York Newspaper. I was having trouble what to write, but then I decided to write about the person I met on the bridge.
The next day my boss really liked what I wrote, and wanted me to write more. So I went over to the bridge and found the guy. I talked to him and learned more about him. His name was Jimmy and he was a very talented guy. He was studying at music at the University of New York and he was very talented. However so many people were jealous and they made caustic (adj. sarcastically biting) remarks. Jimmy started to have ambivalence (n. contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes), and he became choleric (adj. bad tempered). His professors were officious (adj. excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice), and he couldn’t take it. He then dropped out. I was shocked at what happened because competition destroyed this person and made his life miserable. I went back home wrote about this, and then went to a music store and bought a new violin for him. The article was very iconoclastic(adj. attacking cherished traditions). When he played the new violin, it attracted many people. People got out of their cars to hear him.
After 2 months, Jimmy was offered a job to play the violin for a very prestigious orchestra group. He was very happy. All the things in his past were a precursor (n. forerunner) to the great success he has achieved. I would follow his orchestra group and always be there for him. For I was the only thing he had close to family, and he thanked me for all the things I did for him.
The virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts; n) photographer was portraying a sense of indigence (poverty; n) in the black and white photo. The torn apart brick in the background looks like the lungs of a smoker, black and blotchy. You can feel the caustic (burning; adj) holes inside your heart as you gaze upon this scene. At first sight you would imagine this place to be in more of a poor side of town, because of the emotion this place gives off. The wall is broken down and decaying from the many years that it has been standing.
The orange fire hydrant is there to appease (to soothe; v) the choleric (bad-tempered; adj) brick building behind it. The ambivalence (contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes; n) is there because you don’t want a wave of anguish just overwhelm you and put you into a state of depression. The sunlight color helps brighten the mood set. The precursor (forerunner; n) of life sits in that small yellow-orange shape, water just waiting to burst from it’s container like the way it pops from the page. The hydrant places a spark of happiness deep within you.
The solicitous (worried; adj) affect the holes in the paint on the wall is merely an illusion of the photo. The fence was put up to cover most of the aged building. Iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions; n) actions prove they are trying to get rid of the old and replace it with the new. The officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s services or advice; adj) feeling of boundries is strong because of the wood planks set up. If it weren’t for the color in this photo is would be a very troubled picture.
All my life I have lived by a bridge built by the precursor (n. forerunner) a mythological race that was virtuoso (adj. someone with masterful ability in the art) in technology. They used bright colors to appease (v. to soothe;to relieve)there life. They were peaceful race but in every peaceful race there are the opposites. The man who brought there race to there downfall was choleric (adj. bad-tempered). He lived in indigence (adj. poverty)but was very intelligent and just had bad luck.
He was a very officious (adj. excessively pushy in offering one’s services or advice)guy which pushed his associates to the edge with ambivalence (adj. contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes). One day he pushed someone so far that they told him that he was annoying and fired which sent him into a life of poverty. After a while he became an iconoclast (adj. attacking cherished traditions). He would go into the streets and provoke anarchy against the world. Almost immediately the citizens of the world became solicitous (adj. worried or concerned) about a possible rebellion which hasn’t happened in a couple hundred years.
The goverment and all its wisdom decided to silence this outcast. They sent assassins to his home to catch him by surprise. But instead of surprising him he surprised them with a message and a bomb. On the message it said, ” Today this world comes to an end were the government rules the people. When it ends a new world will begin were the people rule the government. Right when the message stopped the bomb went off beginning the new world.
Out of all the gifts he could have given her this was definitely the most bizarre. She recalled telling him on their first date that she enjoyed art, but that’s just because she is a very solicitous (adj; worried, concerned) person when it comes to first dates. She was only trying to make a decent first impression by appearing to be interested in intelligent fields, like art. By no means was she a virtuoso (n; someone with masterful ability in the arts) nor did she have any real knowledge about the arts. Though it had been with the best of intentions that she made these comments, now he was going to give her some awkward modern art piece for her birthday. The thought was there at least, but no matter how hard she attempted to convince herself that that’s what mattered she couldn’t. It was not the actual gift that troubled her, but the rude expression she knew would flash across her face the moment she unwrapped it. She could feel her heart sinking lower and lower and tried to appease (v; to soothe; to relieve) her growing anxiety.
She truly felt like she had some sort of disease because no matter how hard she tried she could not control her expression when opening gifts. There was a great deal of ambivalence (n; contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) involved in the situation. Even if she felt thankful that someone remembered her birthday the feeling of dislike for his or her gift overcame the thankfulness and always crushed on looking gift givers. She had suggested year after year that there should not be a birthday party for her due to her disease. This was viewed as an iconoclastic (adj; attacking cherished traditions) suggestion when she asked her family. In an effort to find the bright side of the situation she reminded herself that at least she had become aware of his gift prior to her party. It had not been difficult to uncover the present considering that he had placed the fire hydrant painting on his side of the closet. She could just see his hurt expression when she opened the gift and the look of disgust came across her face. He had always promised to get her a gift he knew she wanted from her officious (adj; excessively pushy in offering ones usually unwanted services or advice) hinting throughout the year. Though he had become annoyed with her hinting lately and disappointed in her lack of faith in him. Despite these feelings he knew she was not a choleric (adj; bad tempered) individual and his gift was out of sincere love. No matter the amount of love she had for him the expression of hate would be awaiting him when the gift was revealed. She wanted to have some sort of precursor (n; forerunner) or warning label read before all her parties so people would not leave offended.
Her party was to begin in just a few hours and she still had not found a way to conquer her caustic (adj; burning; sarcastically biting) unavoidable habit. She really just wanted to not open her gifts, but again her family treated her like she was twelve rather then twenty- five and would not allow a break in tradition. The only thing she could do at this point was to think of things that could be worse than this situation. Maybe if they lived in indigence (n; poverty) or if her family didn’t care enough to throw her a party, that would be worse. As she arrived at the party and walked through the doors neither of those thoughts made the current one seem any better. Finally after two hours of mingling it was time to open gifts. Her sisters were all there but the first gift she was given was from him. Her heart began to race and she prayed that some how her rude expression wouldn’t flash across her face. The wrapping fell off and as she looked down to see the awkward hydrant, it wasn’t there. All that was there was a large piece of cardboard and a card that read, “ That’s what you get for being so nosy, Happy Birthday. P.S. I bet you are smiling.” She was in fact smiling while at the same time feeling frustration towards her love. This feeling continued to grow until she saw the small blue box attached to the back of the cardboard. She may not have gotten the yellow fire hydrant she expected but she did get a diamond bracelet from Tiffany’s.
During the past few Bob was trying to appease (to soothe, verb) his brother. Because last night his wife had nocked the babies off the tree last night. Bob had explained his solicitous (worried, adj) thoughts to his brother, he said that he was acting very weird and he was worried. And his brother simply replied;
“Bob seriously you need to stop giving me you officious (excessively pushy, Adj.) advise. I just want to deal with this on my own.”
“But, please I don’t want you to deal with this on your own, you are an indigence (needy, Adj.) person, who could use your brother right now.”
“Bob turn your interest back to your virtuoso (masterful ability in the arts, noun), and away from psychology.”
This was the precursor (forerunner, noun) to the next conversation they had with Bob’s wife. They talked about how they should execute their plan to fix this problem.
But as they conferenced of their plan to fix the problem, Bob’s brother’s wife showed up to Bob’s tree. Bob worried that his brother’s choleric (bad tempered, adj.) wife would ruin the progress they have made. So he had a caustic (burning, adj.) sensation to kick her off the tree. Not only would her bad temper be a problem but her ambivalent (conflicting emotion, adj.) attitude would also tear him apart.
Bob’s brother’s wife has always been iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions, verb) of their family, and Bob finally couldn’t take it and he pushed her off the tree.
Walking for five minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer so I started running. Running away from a situation that I had no idea how handle; but I couldn’t do nothing, so I turned away. I’m gone from him forever. Rather, he’s away from me forever. I won’t ever allow myself to see him again after that. I had never seen the precursor (n, forerunner) of his actions, although when I think of it now, it’s quite obvious he would do this. It turned out I was too weak to run, and I suddenly collapsed by under an overpass.
———————————————
“Hello?” A solicitous (adj, worried, concerned) voice awakened my achy body.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” I looked at her with confusion and hatred all at the same time with ambivalence. (n, conflicting emotional attitudes)
“I saw you on my way to work and I had a few minutes to spare so I stopped to bring you back some food.”
I looked around, and a dark-colored X3 BMW caught my eye. It was hers. I turned back to her with even more disgust and grabbed the bag out of her outstretched hand. I had never been well-off before; working the lawn mower with my dad at age 10 on the lawns of her kind, then getting jobs where ever I could for my age. I finally got work at a gas station at 18, until him. I gave up everything, even family, for him and then I had to run away from him for my own good. I was so stupid for trusting him like that. Why would he have liked a young girl like me anyways…? I had forgotten about the lady standing right in front of me.
“Thanks. How about you go away in your hot mama Lexis or something? I don’t need your pity. It’s my fault, anyways.” I unwrapped the bagel sandwich and munched down. The meal appeased (adj, to relieve) my caustic (adj, burning) stomach.
“Okay, well, run along in your fancy car now. Are you expecting me to pay you or something?”
“Well, have a nice day, then.”
She walked slowly off with a puzzled and crooked face like a curious, little puppy dog. She wasn’t even officious. (adj, excessively pushy in offering one’s services) I knew I was rude and appeared choleric (adj, bad tempered). I had no idea how to relate to people anymore. Years had passed since…him… but I still couldn’t talk to people…
I am colorblind. I guess it doesn’t matter but I always thought I was somehow different, not a real human. All I see is black and white. Maybe that’s how I viewed life, too. I can also see lighter shades of black and darker shades of white; and I think I’m the lighter shade of black. I feel almost dead, like this is all life’s about. Having fun, getting what we deserve, and some of us walk our sorry selves into the state of indigence. (n, poverty) Others, like Miss BMW get lucky, and live in the darker shades of white, with money, homes and materials…and life. I don’t really care though…
I decided to walk around for a while, as long as I wanted really. I keep thinking about Miss BMW, and what makes us so different from each other. If I am a lighter black, and she is a darker white, wouldn’t we eventually become the same shade, just from the opposite ends of the spectrum? Won’t we eventually end up in the same place? Where was that? After-life? The same office? The same grocery line? The funeral home? Intelligence. I’m not smart, so she’ll have to come down to my level because I don’t think I will be able to get smarter. With this thought, I knew I needed a better life for me. I didn’t like this, so I decided to make me some money…
Standing on the side of the road, I begged for money. $5 dollars. With that, I went into the convenient store. The only thing I could buy that would be of any use was a pack of sketching paper and shaded pens. Pencils would be no good after they were dull. I had no idea how this would work, considering my black and white vision, but these were the only utensils I could think of that would be a chance of bringing in money for me. So I started sketching. Days passed and I had wasted 5 sheets of paper. I would get so frustrated that I would scribble out all of my work, and afterwards I would realize how stupid that was, I had wasted ink…
I was walking, trying to find a place to sketch, when I saw something bright and unfamiliar. I knew what it was, but it was neither a shade of black or a shade of white, but a bright, blinding color. At that moment, I sat down, and started sketching exactly what I saw. I marked on my skin with each of my pens to find the color that matched that fire hydrant. “just a shade, just a shade, not that shade…” and then a pure, smooth color poured out onto my poor skin. That color was called ‘yellow.’ With that yellow, I colored the fire hydrant and then sketched the rest; a fence and blobs on the bricks, which were supposed to be clouds. I turned my head after my sketch was complete, and to my right I saw Miss BMW. She was already walking towards me.
“Hi there.”
“Uh, hi,” I said. As I moved my ‘Yellow Hydrant’ picture close to me, she saw a glimpse and disrupted my beautiful epiphanic moment, just as a rush of iconoclastic (adj, attacking cherished traditions) ants marching in on a family picnic.
“What’s this?” I reluctantly showed her. “Some virtuoso (n, someone with masterful ability in the arts) you are! I like how you focus on the hydrant, and make everything else shaded. Nice touch.”
“Thanks,” for some reason she highly offended me by this, but oddly enough I didn’t react to her.
“May I buy that from you?” My eyes grew wide. That was my goal; get money and support myself. Suddenly I felt so attached to that drawing that I started to tear up when she asked me.
“I, I don’t,” I looked up at her, “I don’t think so. I don’t think this means as much to you as it does to me, ma’am.” With that, I smiled for the first time in years, stood up from the side walk and started walking away towards that huge, beautiful, setting yellow circle…
We were driving through a less appealing part of the town. It seemed that it was struck by indigence (n, poverty) because every building looked as if it was about the crash down on us.
We entered a street that overall didn’t look that bad, but there was one house wall that looked like it was bombarded. There were spots all over the wall that seemed like holes. Maybe some choleric (n, bad-tempered) went crazy with a baseball bat to appease (v, to relieve) the anger in him.
I started to get a little bit solicitous (adj, worried) because i didn’t know what kinds of people lived in this part of town.
But then I started looking at the situation differently and thought that maybe it was just an artist and his paintings on the wall just seemed like holes to me. Maybe the artist was a precursor (n, forerunner) in his field and he practiced abstract art. It could be possible that some people even thought of him or her as a virtuoso (n, someone with masterful ability in the arts) because they loved what he did. On the other hand, some people, for exapmle the house owner, might view the artist as an iconoclast (n, attacking cherished traditions), because of his or her new approach to art.
If it was a painting done by an artist, it could be possible that the artist saw that the neighborhood was old and he or her was officious (adj, excessively pushy in offering one’s help) because they wanted to bring a little bit of life back to this street.
But on the end of the wall i saw graffitti sprayed over parts of the painting which appeared caustic (adj, sarcastically biting). I thought that this was a bad way to express ones ambivalence (n, contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) toward someone else’s art.
Ever since he could remember, Mike had loved taking pictures. He waddled around the house in his duck pajamas clutching his toy camera, snapping imaginary pictures of Mama doing the dishes and Pops reading the paper. He would dramatically pause and order Charlie to shift a little to the left, raise his chin, now move your hair over your eye– and then he would take the picture with his filmless camera. As he grew up, Mike took real pictures with real cameras. He set up his first dark room in the garage at the age of twelve, displacing Charlie’s bicycles. Charlie thought it was iconoclastic (adj; attacking cherished traditions) that he had to move his bikes from the comfortable garage– after all, bikes were meant to be in the garage while photographers were safely locked away in an asylum. Mike would disappear for hours, trading the indigence (v; poverty) of humanity for the affluence of nature. One time, he didn’t come home by dinner and Mama got all solicitous (adj; worried) and made Pops and Charlie go look for him. They found him under a tree he had fallen out of, with a broken leg. He was still taking pictures of the shadow of his protruding femur in the setting sun. Needless to say, Mama didn’t let him go out alone for a while after that.
By the time he was in high school, he was sending his shots away to magazines and dealers– some got published and others were unceremoniously shoved in the back of a gallery. As Mike got ready to head off to college, he was one of the upcoming photographer’s on everyone’s “2006 MEN TO WATCH” list. “He’s better than Graham Watson,” Charlie, the self-proclaimed future Lance Armstrong, bragged to his friends. He was labeled a photo-snapping prodigy, a once-in-a-lifetime talent, the first virtuoso (n; someone with masterful ability in the arts) since Beethoven…
Mike sat up in his chair, the sharp rips of the cushion digging into his sleep. All his dreams seemed caustic (adj; sarcastically biting) now, mocking his potential, laughing at his present failure. His talent had run out like the stream behind his parent’s house- it was that simple. Mike lost his inspiration, his muse, his–whatever the hell you wanted to call it, it had ditched him for some other choleric (adj; bad-tempered) asshole. He had once been a candidate for the Pulitzer Prize in photography, now he was the precursor (n; forerunner) for the Least Improved Player award.
One time, Mike went to movies to see some movie, Mr. Magorium’s Magical Emporium, or some stupid name like that. It was a Saturday Night Special and it was the only show he could afford- $4.99. Anyway, Natalie Portman had been some hotshot composer who was too good for Julliard. Then, she lost her mojo and worked in some damn toy store with a loony codger for a boss. Mike didn’t stay to see if she ever got her talent back- the sight of her fingers playing imaginary piano keys reminded him so much of his empty film cartridges he had to take five Ambiens to appease (v; to soothe) his troubled psyche. Damn kids’ movies, they always affected the adults more than the kids who drag them along to see it. Damn them and their officious (adj; excessively pushy in offering one’s advice) animated characters who make you lose sleep at night, get stomach ulcers, and become the world’s greatest failure…
Mike got out of his chair and walked through his piles of laundry- was it clean or dirty? He smelled a Kansas City Chief’s t-shirt, yup definitely dirty. He walked to the sink to get a drink but realized he didn’t have any clean glasses- damn, would have to go to the 7-11 down the street; he needed new toothpaste anyway. He grabbed his camera- some habits are to painful to break. If he left his camera at home, he would officially be submitting his resignation, quitting life forever.
One time, he read a book, The Smoke Jumper, or some other title that sounded like a circus act. The main character, Connor something, was a firefighter in Montana during the summer. Then he became some hotshot photographer and went to photograph the African civil wars and got his works published in Time magazine. Mike had an ambivalent (adj; contradictory or conflicting emotional attitude) attitude towards Connor Ford. While he hated the asshole- how realistic is it that some idiot jumps out of a plane and fights fires like he’s some holier-than-thou Jesus Christ coming to save the bunnies and chipmunks of the world? First, he jumped out of planes in Montana, then the next thing he knows, he’s signing autographs and is the next Anthony Suau. But Mike envied Connor Ford. To turn your head and BAM! Burning elk– snap. And then, WHOA! There’s a woman hanging from a tree at dawn- that’s a snapshot that’ll bring in a few Benjamins. Real life didn’t work that work; it was all too easy for Connor Ford, and for that, Mike envied him. In the end of the book, the asshole even got the beautiful girl, while all Mike had was…pocket lint.
It was dawn now, the sun peaking over the tops of the apartments. Mike hated this time of day more than any other. When he felt the sun on his neck, saw its beautiful rays, he felt, just for a minute, that he still had it, he could take a picture, just one, and the dam holding back his talent would break. But it never happened; all Mike got was dew on his camera lens and a growling stomach.
The sound of birds pierced Mike’s thoughts. He hated ravens, crows, whatever the hell they were called. Mama had once tried to tell him, in an effort to reconcile Mike with birds, that his childhood hero Sam Houston, was nicknamed “The Raven.” Needless to say, Mike only thought that Houston must’ve been a goon to compare himself to those robotic things in Alfred Hitchcock’s movie.
The bird still wouldn’t shut up, its loud shriek shattering the pleasant morning. Mike turned to throw a pistachio at it but he stopped short…
In downtown Kansas City, on a dusty morning and in the ugly, reincarnated form of a dead man, Michael Spencer found his mojo.
When the clouds turned red, I was instantly solicitous (adj. concerned). Was this a trick? I looked around for the “Punk’d” crew, and Ashton Kutcher, or some virtuoso person(n.someone with masterful ability in the arts) because there was no way, that the sky could turn that color. I started to back-track and ran down the bridge.
When I reached the side-walk, I noticed alot of people on the side of the buildings, obviously deep in indigence (adj. poverty). And everyone had a type of cat, staring up at me. I was well beyond comfort at this point, and not to mention my choleric (adj. bad-tempered) spirit. I felt a strong ambivalence (n.uncertainty or conflicting emotions), so I started to run more. I actually ended up running head first into some strange man’s stomach. He had a long trench coat on, black, with a strange hat on that covered his whole face, except his eyes. But even those were hidded; he was wearing sunglasses.
“Oh, um, sorry uh sir?”, I couldn’t tell if he was looking at me, he was extremly tall, unnaturally.
“Best to look where you’re going young Lava Park”
Whoaaaaaa. How in the world did this creepy guy know my first, AND last name? Oh thats it, I’ve got to get out of here!
” You’re parents are no longer here Lava, they have been chosen to help stand in battle.” said creepy guy.
“Battle? What do you mean battle? Like red coats against blue coats kind of battle,” I answered him causticly (adj. sarcasticly). “And what do you mean my parrents aren’t here anymore!? What have you done with them you crep,” I told you I had a bad temper. Well what would you have done if some strangely dressed tall guy came up cto you and told you that you’re parents were ‘no longer here’?
“Listen to me Lava, this is incredibly important, only people with the gift can see what trouble the world is in right now, and by the way you were running, you have it.”
“The only gift I have is the ability to kick major butt. So you better get out of my way dude.”
“Lava, his name is Chaulve. Hes president of a group of iconoclastics (n. a person who attacks cherished beliefs, traditional institutions). He’s taken over many different planets, but his latest intrest is in earth, and thier life-forms. He has the ability to hide his powers from the “regulars”, the other humans, but to people like us with the gift, theres still hope that we can stop him.
This guy was doing everything opposite to appease (v. to soothe, to relieve) me. Was he serious? He wanted me to help him save the world? The way this ”take over the world” guy sounded, I’d rather stand out in the middle of the street and beg to be on his side.
“Yes Lava I am serious. You have unbelievable talents, like your eye vision can be adjusted to see in any kind of weather perfectly, and you may or may not have noticed, but your speed is well beyond average human speed. Same goes for your strength.”
Ok, so this guy is a mind reader too? Great. Now he’ll know how officious (adj.excessively pushy) I thought he was being.
“Yes you are correct, but we don’t have too much time. We have to get you in training with the others. Chaulve is currently precursoring (n. forerunner) our plans, and we have lots to do. Please say you’ll stand along side your parents and help us fight this?”
Oh, you know I love a good fight as much as the next guy.
“Oh, fine, why not. I plan on living here a good more decades. Lets go train to kick some Chaulve butt! Race ya.” And I took off.
As I was standing, watching the sunset, solicitous (adj, worried) about the million things running through my head, I noticed some birds on a nearby branch and my mind began to wander. I began to wander what it would be like to be a bird, if I would be a choleric (adj, bad-tempered) one, or even the precursor (n, forerunner) of all birds, sort of a “top dog” status, or in this case, “top bird.” I looked at one bird, looking off into the sunset, as I was, as the other bird landed on the same branch. It made my imagination run so wild. I began to stereotype birds with personalities and such. But strangely, this appeased (v, to soothe) me more than I ever thought it would be able to.
I continued to picture myself as a bird, oddly, and imagined myself as the bird on the right. I pictured the landing bird as an officious (adj, excessively pushy) and annoying type of bird, one who “overstayed his welcome,” persay. Then I started to get even more into it and imagine the bird that was landing getting his feelings hurt and all of these awkward thoughts, almost having ambivalence (n, contradictory or conflicting emotional attitutes) in who I found at fault, as the “bad bird.” Then I wanted to be able to cherish this moment for a while seeing as it helped me escape all of the bad that was happening in my life. I really wanted to sketch this picture but unfortuanetely am not a virtuoso (n, someone with masterful ability in the arts) and realized that was in fact a bad plan. So I instead took my camera out, but felt like an iconoclastic (n, one who is attacking cherished traditions) by not sketching this very simple layout of the two birds. But I still took the picture.
I began to think of how much money I could get from taking beautiful pictures of these really cool landscapes. I realized that was a bad idea too, however. But I started to picture what would happen if it were raining, and lightening hit that branch, seeing as it was caustic (adj, capable of being burned). It was also another random thought, one that ultimately wasted more of my time. By the time I was finished thinking through all of these ideas, the sun was already down. My mind returned to reality, only to remember that I would soon be in indigence (n, poverty) if I didn’t do something to find a job, and fast. So I hopped in my car, and went home to get a good night’s sleep in order to be able to resume my search for a decent job in the morning.
The sun was setting. Dark red, like plump blood orange sliced open, branding the horizon. The beauty of the deep orange and pink sky with its burning orb couldn’t have appeased (to soothe, to relieve, V) my temper. I angrily kicked away an empty Fanta that had rolled toward my toes. The orange of the can mirrored that of the sky, but I didn’t notice. The deep burning orange did have some affect on me. Every emotion had a color; red goes with love, black with hate or sorrow, green with envy, and blue with tranquility. But what color was orange? Warmth? Warmth isn’t a feeling, but anger was. A deep spicy orange was the color for anger. The color of that Fanta can when it gets too hot and spews open when dared to be touched. I was that caustic (burning, sarcastically biting, Adj) hot soda that had been put out into the sun for too long. The sun, the sun that had caused me to boil over, was that no-good idiot that dared to get so close to me.
The orange turned to gray, as I started walking by a wall. The paint was dingy with time and it was peeling off the dark gray bricks, giving almost the impression of a spangled dog’s fur. The gray wall, protecting me from the influential rays of orange, threw a cooling shadow over my head. I felt calmer and my pace slowed down. The ambivalence (contradictory or confliction emotional attitudes, n),of the angry orange and the cooling gray, gave me a clear head to think through my choleric (bad-tempered, adj) mind. I sat down on the cool pavement to think. It must have been an awkward sight; this random, punkish chick of nineteen, sitting meditatively in the dead center of the sidewalk. I thought that his precursor (forerunner, n) was a mess but this loser… I took a piece of chipped wall paint from the floor and threw it across the street. It landed silently close to the curb. So my mother was going to marry the one rich person she could find, awesome. I brooded sarcastically over the rest of my darned future. Ronald or ‘dad’ as I am to call him soon, was such an annoying character. He was officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice, adj) in every sense of the word. He definitely was the virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts, N) when it came to making people see things his way. I hated admitting it, whilst sitting moodily on the cold concrete. I am solicitous (worried, concerned, adj). Everything would change once mother and Ronald got married. Pro is we’d be out of indigence (poverty, n) but what about the traditions and familiar customs mom and I had, just between us? He would be the iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions, adj) villain that destroys my life before my eyes.
When I looked up, the orange had been replaced with the deepest shade of sapphire. I was calm and serene. The lights in the windows around me, gave a yellowish light, unwillingly causing me to smile. Something about the twinkling of the stars and the yellow lights against the black background, told me it would all turn out fine. They were small little lights of hope, glittering in the darkness.
Good story overall, but elements are missing that are needed to get full credit. Parts of speech? Definitions? — Mr. Long
As you can see from the picture I took, our world seems to be the opposite of yours. Everything is different, the sky, the government, even traditions. Our world is quite ambivalent of yours in every way, it appears. This bridge is one of our greatest accomplishments as a country. It took 5 years and 1,000 people to build but we did it. We created it to appease our leader. You see, he’s a little bit choleric and needs to be pleased quite often, usually in odd larger than life ways.
When we elected our Prime Minister, we didn’t know that he was going to go power hungry and make himself a dictator. At first he was perfect and helped out by solving almost every issue that our country had. Some did become solicitous about some of his behavior. Then, however, he began to become a little bit officious, which was easy given that he was a virtuoso. He soon became very powerful by holding his previous good deeds over our heads. This was all just a precursor to what was to be his dictatorship.
We do live in indigence and he does tend to be a bit caustic when you ask him for anything, so we have just stopped. We live how he tells us to and that’s that. We no longer celebrate any national holidays, because we have none. This happened when he decided to become iconoclastic. We don’t even celebrate birthdays anymore; all there is now is a sort of gathering for 18 year olds to get their assigned jobs. As you can see our lives are quite awful. There is nothing you can do for us but consider this a warning for your world so you don’t live the same fate.
I could feel that today was the start of a long rainy season. It was cold and rainy outside and all I could see was this mural outside across the street. This appeased (to soothe; to releive, v.) my mind from becoming solicitous (worried, concerned, n.) about the recurring storms. I got my umbrella, rain boots, and my rain coat and went outside to get a closer look. What appears to be is a little boy with his yellow rain jacket just staring at the wall. All I could think of is where are his parents? He is going to get a horrible cold standing out here in the rain this long.
I was being a little bit officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s usually unwanted services or advice, adj.) trying to get the boy out of the rain, but he just wouldn’t move. I started having a choleric (bad-tempered, adj.) attitude and pushing and shoving him to move. Then I felt this caustic (burning, sarcastically biting, adj.) feeling in my hands. I couldn’t feel them to begin with because it was raining and so cold outside, but I looked down and my hands were bleeding. I had no idea what was going on, from pushing a little boy how would my hands be bleeding?
I looked around the streets in indigence (poverty, n.) and wondered where all the cars were. Then it hit me, an ambivalence (contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes, n.) had consumed my soul. My iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions, adj.) morals and standards sunk into my head and I realized that all this was a dream. It was a precursor (forerunner, n.) for what was to come in the near future. I looked outside and everything was just as it was in my dream except the little boy with the yellow jacket was a yellow fire hydrant. The wall that the ‘little boy’ was looking at was a painted by a virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts, n.) that really knew how to interpret the surroundings of the mural into the ‘big picture’.
Six months ago we lived in an apartment on the corner of Green and Tenth Street. The Oak Villa’s it was called. The apartments were nothing like the name suggested though. There were no grand oak trees or even any landscaping to place trees. The building was surrounded by concrete and a rugged wooden fence. The paint had rotted off the sides of the building, causing insect issues in the apartments. My family and I, as well as others that lived in The Oak Villa’s, lived in extreme indigence (poverty, n.). My mother did her best to support my brother and me, but it wasn’t enough. My brother was forced to drop out of school at 15 and get a job to help my mother pay the rent. My father had been gone ever since I could remember; he and my mother had ambivalence (conflicting emotional attitudes, n.) towards each other. My mother was kind hearted and hard working, while my father was choleric (bad-tempered, adj.) and lazy, or so I’ve been told. We had lived at The Oak Villa’s my whole life; it was the only life I knew.
My brother worked at a restaurant bussing tables, but his true passion was art. In both my and my mother’s eyes, he was a virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts, n.) with great potential talent. Whenever he could find time my brother practiced painting. We couldn’t afford much, so he made do with what he could get his hands on. He was never solicitous (concerned, adj.) or thinking about the negative things in life, always focused on the positive. In his art, he was never iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions, adj.); he painted our family and our culture. My mother always believed in us and everything we set our hearts to. She appeased (to soothe, v) our worries and told us anything was possible. One day, she would say, you both will achieve your dreams and make a better life for yourselves. I could only hope she was right.
When my brother had finished his painting, he decided to enter it into the city wide competition. There it would be judged and if it won, you would receive a check for $500. Sometimes, art sponsors would come and offer an individual amazing opportunities. They could make art for a living. My brother was excited and couldn’t wait for the competition. My attitude was a bit caustic (sarcastically biting, adj.) because I never thought he could win. He would be going up against kids who took art lessons and had endless supplies to work with. But that didn’t dampen his spirits.
The day of the contest, my brother was more confident than ever. When we arrived, there were tons of people. All of them were carrying paintings that looked beautiful. We made our way to my brothers station and set up his painting. It was a portrait of out building. It showed the foul exterior of our apartment and the dingy wooden fence. The center of the painting was the orange fire hydrant that stood outside our kitchen window. It depicted the real world, his world. He was #37 out of fifty contestants. His precursor (forerunner, n) had a large painting of a pond with water lilies in it. It was good, but it didn’t hold the passion that my brother’s painting did. The judges announced over a speaker that family and friends must leave as the judging would begin shortly. My mother kissed my brother on the cheek and we left. We watched as an officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s or advice, adj.) and stingy old man walked around and critiqued the paintings. When it was over he discussed with the other judges. About 20 minutes later they made the announcement. Contestant number 19 had won. I quickly looked at my brother. He still held his head high as he shook the winner’s hand. I took a deep sigh and we began walking over to my brother. But just as we arrived to him, an older woman with a navy suit and small glasses headed our way. She greeted my brother and expressed how much she enjoyed his artwork. Then something amazing happened. She gave him a business card and offered to sponsor him and his work. My brother just gazed at the card and thanked her thoroughly. The moment we got home he ran to the corner of Tenth and called her on a payphone. He would be painting in a real studio. Our lives would change forever.
Now, we live in a large apartment flat on the corner of Kent and Pierce. My brother works full time at the Livington Art Studio. My mother still works, but she is happy now knowing that her son is living his dreams. I am lucky because I am fortunate enough to stay in school and get a good education. I love my life, and my family. My brother and I live by y mother’s wise words. We now knew that we could do anything we set our minds to.
Nothing better to do all day but destroy other’s property. Every day during the summer Jacob Bratsniff and his friends would throw baseball at the indigent(Adj; poverty stricken) people’s houses, chipping off the cheap paint and destroying their homes. Jacob was a rude and choleric(Adj; bad-tempered) boy who ruled the social group called the Punishers. They were the bullies of the school and during the summer reiked havock on all. Every little boy in elementary school wanted to be in Jacob’s club.
Only the cool kids were allowed into the club. Anyone not in Jacob’s crew was beaten on a regular basis, that is why the limited positions were so coveted. Jacob did not like many kids in school, that is why the number of positions in the Punishers was so limited. Once, and only once Jacob actually liked someone who was a precursor(N; forerunner) to get in the crew. His name was Adam Lang and from meeting him, Jacob had an immediate liking of the young kid, but he did not know why. Adam was nine and Jacob was eleven. Usually, children at that young an age was not welcomed into the crew, but Adam was an exception. Jacob was confused over his liking of Adam becasue unlike the others in the crew, including Jacob himself, Adam was a genuinely nice kid. He was charsmatic and kind. Adam was basically in the crew, but he broke a major rule; do not befriend a loser. At the beginning of his elementary career, Adam had an ambivalence(N; contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) sort of mindset. He did not know what kind of person he wanted to be. Did he want to take the easy way out and be a jerk? Or did he want to be the kind of person he would be proud of? He eventually went with the second choice. Well in evaluation period of those who would be admitted into the Punishers, a new boy started at their school. The boy was shy and very solicitous (Adj; worried) about starting at a new school mid semster. Jacob pounced at the chance to be an iconoclastic(N; one who attacks cherished beliefs) person and make fun of the new boy Jasper. One day in the hallway the current Punishers were beating Jasper when Adam stepped in. He appeased(V;releived) the little crying boy and denounced Jacob. This was a big blow to Jacob’s ego. The one who he actually wanted in his crew wanted nothing to do with him. Of corse from then on Jacob’s goal was to bring Adam down. If he wasn’t going to be in his group, he couldn’t be in any group. It turns out Jasper came from that indigentent neighborhood that the Punishers destroyed everyday in the summer. Adam, being a virtuoso(N; someone with masterful ability in the arts) in the arts, brought Jasper and two gallons of paint to Jasper’s neighborhood. Jasper was beyond greatful to his kind new friend. The two boys began painting the damaged wall. Jasper’s officious(Adj; excessively pushy in offering one’s services or advice) sister continued to give advice on painting strategy that continued to drive the boys crazy. It was a fun day repairing the damaged wall, but little did the boys know that the Punishers were waiting around the corner with anger, and a plan of their own. One of the members of the Punisher’s father was a chemist and somehow the boys got their hands on a very caustic(Adj; burning) to skin chemical.
Jacob gave the signal and the Punishers charged the two boys, pouring the burning chemical all over them. The Punishers fleed the scene when the two boys began having a weird reaction to the chemical and eventually ceased all movement. Two good boys lay in the street with paint on their cloths and remaining good will in their hearts. Jasper’s older sister came outside to see her little brother and his good-willed friend lying in the middle of the street. She screamed and ran to her little brother to notice his charred skin. There was nothing she or anyone else could do. The boys were layed to rest together and on their tombstone thecommon words “only the good die young.” No one ever knew what happened to the two boys and the Punishers never confessed. And the wall remained unpainted.
I stood staring, wondering why anyone would build such bridge. It just seems like such a waste of time to build something so jumbled with wires and cords. And then it hit me. I just drove 600 miles to look at a silly red bridge right in the heart of indigence(adj poverty). I haaaad to listen to my math teacher, always talking of this wonderful bridge filled with math. Why did she have to be so officious(adj pushy)? Like I really wanted to drive two days to see a bridge. But no, I did it. And I’m mad about it. But my choleric(adj temper) is starting to lower my morale. I need Whataburger. Thats about the only thing that could appease(v soothe) my anger.
I made my way in my 86 De’ville to Whataburger. Which I found on my Iphone. When I reached heaven on earth I ordered my usual number one with cheese and a DP. But the man taking my order asked me a strange question. He asked, “are you from around here, because if your not, it’s a tradition at this particular establishment that you must order the triple or you’ll die in SEVEN DAYS. I’m just kidding but if you don’t eat the triple you will be iconoclastic(v attacking cherished traditions). I replied, “and why do you have this tradition.” John Jacob(thats his name) said ” because bro, this Whataburger was a precursor( v forerunner) to all other Whataburger’s. We only served triples in the beginning. So first timers have to eat the triple. What do you say, you wanna try it?” I replied, “heck to the yes, I’m already having a bad day, I think the triple can help me out.
I sat down and began my challenge. Instantly, John Jacob told me I was a virtuoso(skilled in the arts), a master of conquering the triple. And then it happened. I had an epiphany. I new what I was going to do with my life. I wasn’t going to be a math man, or a lawyer, I am going to be a competitive eater. I was so pumped. I would never be solicitous(v worried) again about what I was going to do. I had to hurry home so I could tell my mom. I literally drove 600 miles straight home only stopping for gas and food. When at last I got home, I ran inside ready to tell my mom. I said, “mom, I am going to be a pro eater.” She smiled and said, “are you on drugs.” I was broken. My mom’s ambivalence ( v contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) was heartbreaking. I was becoming more and more caustic(v bitter). I had to leave. And so I left and never looked back. Until I realized I was seventeen and had no money.
She was once a precursor (n; forerunner) in her art community. Although she never thought she was a virtuoso (n; someone with masterful ability in the arts), she knew she was talented, despite her insecurities. She always won the art shows at her school, and art was the one class she really enjoyed. Even though her family, like the majority of the families in her neighborhood, were on the edge indigence (n; poverty), she planned to get a scholarship to art school. Her whole life surrounded art school and she was unsure what she would do if things didn’t go as she had planned. She simply chose to not be solicitous (adj; worried, concerned) with these thoughts and focus on getting her family out and into somewhere safe.
There was an ally, perfectly nestled in the middle of the community, where she went to draw. Here she had an assortment of subjects. She could paint the officious (adj; excessively pushy) shop keeper trying to convince a costumer the shop next to hers was corrupt with bad fruit, the mother taking care of her child, or some chirping birds desperate to be involved in all of the commotion. She could never finish anything here, though. She would be inspired and have a great start until she glanced at the wall to her left. It was a gloomy wall that was once covered with a beautiful mural. Sadly, when the new choleric (adj; bad-tempered) mayor was elected, he had anything iconoclastic (adj; attacking cherished traditions) with his personal beliefs covered.
She always wondered what once brought color to this wall. Her mother told her she never saw it, but the artists in the community were furious with its removal. However, they were reluctantly appeased (v; to soothe) when the mayor placed some small funds aside for the art center. She, however, would not be silenced. She decided to cover the wall with a gorgeous mural that would portray her ambivalence (n; contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) towards her art community. She respected them, but was appalled how easily they gave into the harsh mayor. She gathered her supplies and placed a ladder by the wall. As she began to paint, one of the main contributors to the mayor’s campaign approached her. When he asked her what she was doing, she gave him a caustic (adj; sarcastically biting) remark and continued. She knew that this mural would probably be painted over as well, but that until they got around to removing it, it would provide a little bit of light to her community.
The sun was coming up. A raven flitted onto a branch within clear view of Rayna’s window. It was a precursor (n) and forerunner of death. She could feel it in her bones.
Rayna stared longingly behind metal bars as the bird alighted effortlessly, its disappearing shape fading into the golden horizon. It would be so nice to just run… fly… away. She could appease (v) and soothe, even forget, these terrible pains. Bitterly, she looked away from the iron bars that held her in this prison. She had promised herself to remain uncaring, but lately it had been more difficult, especially when the ravens gathered around her window. Ravens. Birds of death. Why had she not died yet, then? The longing for freedom and the apathy she confined herself with created an ambivalence (n), or conflicting emotional attitude, that stung like an old wound.
Rayna looked down at the chains that wound around her ankle. The hard, cold edges burned her skin and smelled of bitter, icy metal. Maybe one day she could be free. But for now, she was a prisoner in indigence (n) and poverty.
No one cared about her; she herself was not even solicitous (v) or concerned for her condition. She had no friends or family, no ties to the outside world. Rayna wasn’t a person that anyone would remember if she disappeared; she wasn’t special, a prodigy, a virtuoso (n), or someone with masterful ability in the arts. She was a nobody.
A nobody who, despite the odds, was the sole survivor to the massacre that had occurred years before. It had been an iconoclastic (adj) rebellion that attacked the cherished traditions of the tyrant king’s government. Rayna hadn’t taken part… it had been her parents. Nevertheless, everyone had been slaughtered, including relatives of those who had rebelled. Only those within the government had truly been spared. The sick-minded pawns of the tyrant had offered themselves up to kill and help purge the land, officiously, (adv) or excessively pushy in offering their services, groveling at the feet of their tyrant for permission to slaughter innocent people.
A tap on the door caught Rayna’s attention, causing her to look up. A bulky man with a barbed stick stepped inside, poised to use his weapon if she tried to escape. Because that’s what I’ll most definitely do, she thought as her mouth twitched to release this caustic (adj) and sarcastic remark. She could barely even move in her weakened state.
He approached her, his choleric (adj), or bad-tempered, persona revealed through the rough lines etched in his face. Rayna stared up at him grimly, almost apathetically, as he approached.
And her last bruises had only just disappeared.
Though I had always been know as a virtuoso(n. someone with masterful ability in the arts ) I never would have thought of having the skill which I had commanded in my most recent work. I had spent many days within my studio at home to produce the piece of art. A picture of an abstract angle of a bridge colored in blue and red. The painting itself held an underlying theme of the real importance of the protection of our natural resources but I knew none but the MOST intelligent people would understand this fact which was most obvious to me. I felt solicitous(adj. worried, concerned) that this piece may be far too controversial and cause too much ambivalence(n. contradictory or conflicting emotional attitude) to ever be truly appreciated. I knew though that I must submit it at the upcoming art show in my city.
I had entered the art show before, in fact I was one of the precursors(n. forerunner) in the show when it was jsut being started. I had submitted many pieces, all of which I was very proud of but none of which had ever won. Over the last few years as my art had begun to take on a new twist in it’s meaning and become increasingly edgy the show had started to reject my entries for fear of someone being offended. I must admit I had been a bit officious(adj. excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) at times in trying to get my work shown in an attempt to spread my ideas. This year it had taken excessive persuasion to gain admitance to the show but I had to work hard to appease(v. sooth, relieve) the choleric(adj. bad tempered) Persident of the show and assure him that in no way was I being iconoclastic(adj. attacking cherished traditions). He was sure that my art would end up being in some or many ways caustic(adj. sarcastically biting) to those attending the event but in the end I was successful in entering, a huge feat in itself. I never felt so ready to enter a show as I did with my piece that year.
The night of the artshow came and I found myself preparing an acceptance speech for my victory which I felt was all but inevitable. I arrived early and set up my area to maximize the exposure of my piece to ensure that not one person would be able to avoid seeing it’s beauty for once one saw this painting none could deny it’s dominance over all others. The night went along splendidly, with people stopping by to gaze at my piece, sometimes for many minutes at a time. I felt ecstatic and completely sure of my victory this year. When the time came to present the winner with the trophy and prize money I began running through the list of people I would have to remember to thank for my success as the President came out onto the stage. A hush passed over the crowd as he said a number of words which fell uselessly on my pounding ears, then he pulled out a small green envelope. As he opened it to read the winner i began to head toward the stage to accept my award. In a loud voice the President said “And this years winner, by complete, unanimous decision is the creator of ‘Red bridge, Green World’. This piece was thought to be the best we have ever seen and I can personally guaruntee the artists eventual place as the premiere name in all the world. Ladies and gentlemen, I am honored to present Mr. Jefferson Houghes!” Applause battered my eardrums and the crowd stood one-by-one in an ovation worthy of the best artist of all time. I had never felt as good, and smiled candidly as I stepped to the podium to begin my speech. But then, just as I was about to speak the crystal chandelier above me came unscrewed and crushed my body in an explosion of glass and electricity and I was pronounced dead at the scene, where the sparks from the explosion set a fire to the hall and burned the only copy of my painting in the world.
Picture One
Life on Earth is becoming destructive and harmful. No one cares about our environment and no one cares how our society looks. Tons of people walk around each day not willing to do anything and just hope something will eventually change. The people of today are iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions) (verb) and are taking selfish actions. No one is solicitous (worried,concerned) about how our world will be if it keeps heading in the direction its heading.
Day by day goes by and our world becomes messier each day. Why are people littering, why are people painting on properties that aren’t theirs? Our actions are showing and you can tell people are looking at this mess with ambivalence (contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) (noun). No one is willing to step up to the plate and do the job. We need this to change and we need the kind of people who will be willing to change peoples minds. We need people who are calm and willing appease (to soothe; to relieve) the anger out of others. If these people aren’t successful our world will end up caustic (burning) (verb) one piece after another.
We can do it! All we need are the choleric (bad-tempered) (adj.) attitudes to disappear and we can go on with our lives. Take the evil out of the good and we will be successful! Look on the bright side and don’t be a precursor (forerunner) (noun)! Keep looking up and all will fall in place. Just have a good heart and step up to the challenge and be a virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts) (noun).Teach and show others the good in you. If we all come together we can achieve anything we set our minds to. That includes taking all the bad stuff out of our earth including; littering, destroying property, stealing, and indigence. (poverty) (noun) We don’t want you to be officious (excessively pushy) (verb) we just want you to get out there and try and change our world one step at a time!
I walk my dog every day after school. Its kind of like a tradition i have done it since i was a little girl. My mom always had an ambivalence (adj.) or mixed feelings about me going alone because of all the scary stories on tv, but i enjoyed it every time. My dog was like my real best friend. I know people always say that a best friend who can respond to you, but to me its one who can just sometimes listen to me. My dog was always very well behaved and was never choleric (adj.). He is loved by everyone in my family.
His name is Binky. He is 4 years old and a amazingly beautiful. He is a mutt and we have yet to find out exactly what he is. I have always solicitous (v.) that someday when he’s gone no one will be able to find another dog that can replace him. I am a senior in college and love that i have a dog to call my own. Binky and i go everywhere together. The precursor (n.) or ancestor of my dogs family is unknown, but i know if i did know it would be nothing but greatness because thats all my dog is. As all the indigence (adj.) dogs in the world are so hard to encounter for me. I once met a person who was an iconoclastic (n.) and believed that destroying what someone believes is the way to win. He said all this about my dog and that they arent mans best friend only mans way of having an excuse to have a dirty house or environment. It was so stupid i just learned to blank it out.
Today was unlike any day though because as me and Binky were out for a walk we came upon a caustic (adj.), burning, building. It was awful as the house went up in flames there was nothing i could do. As we continued to walking Binky started acting funny and broke off his leash. I screamed for him to come and before i could stop him he ran into the building. I stood by a small fire hydrant yelling at the top of my lungs for him. He was in there and there was nothing i could do. I began to cry in the thought that i might loose my dog. My dog was always a virtuoso (n.) or professional at everything he did but this was way out of his league. He was always officious (adj.) and assertive that he got done what he was told. I had convinced myself so many times that my dog is not a normal dog and defiantly knows what he wanted out of his life, almost as if he was human. As the firefighters started yelling “We found an animal” i fell to the ground in tears. All of a sudden out of the smoke covered sky came Binky covered in black carrying an infant child in its mouth. He came all the way to the fire hydrant and laid him down. I grabbed my dog and the child was rushed to the emergency room. I have never been more appeased (v.) or relived in my life. I love my dog more than anyone or anything in the world. He not only saved a life today but he made me have the up most respect for what he can give to the world.
The young and able hawk flew and sat on the tall tree next to his companion. His lady companion and he ruled this part of land. He was a viruoso (n) at spreading his rein over all the other hawks in his territory. He commanded them with great authority, but lately his lady hawk was solicitous (adj) about his rule over the other hawks. He seemed choleric (adj) at spontaneous times and they lady hawk just could not put her finger on why. Around her he was at peace, tired, but very tranquill. When he started his daily routines he just seemed to have this anger balled up inside of him.
As the days and nights traded positions, the lady hawk still could not figure out what was the matter with her compaion. On the day of harvest the head hawk spoke iconoclatic (adj) words about the tradition. After that the lady hawk knew she had to appease (v) her companion and talk to him about his troubles. The lady hawk had to show her officious (adj) to her compaion so they could have some alone time and talk. The lady hawk brought her thoughts to the head hawk’s attention. The head hawk had ambivalence (n) towards the lady hawk at first, but soon admitted that he had been stresse lately. He said that he had lived in indigence (n) as a child and he had to work extra hard to achieve the position he was in today. He stressed himself out though because he knows he has to work even harder than anyone else. The lady hawk knew and understood his feeling and had a great idea.
The precursor (n) hawk had just returned to tell the lady hawk of the good news. The weather down south was excellent. The lady hawk wanted to take her companion down to south so he could relieve some stress. There were only the opposite of caustic (adj) remarks from the head hawk. He thought it was a great idea. The hawks then flew into the sun towards what seems like a happy ending.
Life is evil.
I was once a true artist; a painter that rivaled every single person of my generation. People called me “The Virtuoso (n.; someone with a masterful ability in the arts) of the Century.” Most of the time, painters had to live their life in indigence (n.; poverty), and only gained fame after they’ve passed away. But it seems that’s not the case for me; my paintings have sold for half-a-million, and I’m still alive. I was happy when people really praised my art; I felt that my visions were accepted in the world, and I was grateful for that.
However, the events of that one afternoon sparked the precursor (n.; forerunner) of the transformation from my optimistic outlook of life into one of loathing.
I was walking through the forest trying to gain inspiration for my next work of art. I was mesmerized by the sound of leaves blowing in the wind and the birds chirping away happily as if there was no worry in life. I leaned against the trunk of a tree, appeased (v.; to soothe) by this beautiful scene of nature, until the peace was shattered by a scream. At first, I looked around dazed, as if I imagined this horrible noise. Then, two more screams followed, and I knew that it was a child crying for help. I ran in the direction of the sound, solicitous (adj.; worried, concerned) of the child’s safety. I hoped that the child only fell and scraped his knee.
But I knew something was wrong. The forest was silent; there was no crying.
As I reached the child, I froze in sheer terror. A knife was stabbed cleanly through the child’s stomach. I bent down and held the child in my arms and started crying. I have never seen anything so appalling and horrifying in my life. I felt a jabbing pain at my heart as if a caustic (adj.; burning) substance was melting it away. I mercifully pulled the knife out and closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
“You better be!!!”
I turned around and saw a policeman pointing at me with a gun.
“You are under arrest for murder.”
From this point on, life has been miserable. At the court, there was no evidence to prove I was innocent. The decision came quickly; I was to be executed at noon, one week later. I was thrown into a prison cell, surrounded by convicts of all different shapes and sizes. My personality changed; I became a choleric (adj.; bad-tempered) fiend who hated happiness and shunned laughter. Life was once a gem; now it was coal.
The week passed by slow and quick at the same time. I was stuck with a feeling of ambivalence (n.; contradicting or conflicting emotional attitudes); I wanted to end this wretched life of mine, yet I hoped that somehow, someone would find proof that I wasn’t the one who killed the child. It was so frustrating to know the hundred-percent truth but have no proof behind it.
But then again, life is evil.
It was now 11:45 on the seventh day since my execution was announced. I was led outside to a sidewalk in front of a wall stained with sun-dried blood and peppered with bullet holes. A firing squad marched in line about ten meters away from me. They loaded their guns and stood in a ready position.
The senior officer walked up toward me and asked, “Any last requests?”
“No, none at all. Just end this quickly.”
“Well, that’s certainly iconoclastic (adj.; attacking cherished traditions). Most people at least take a smoke before the end. But whatever you want.”
‘What an officious (adj.; excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services) ape,’ I thought.
The senior officer walked back to the squad and shouted his orders. The soldiers raised their guns and aimed. A sudden gush of wind swept through the sidewalk and I took a step forward. I felt the bullets pounding into my chest, knocking me down. I heard a shout. Then, my vision faded and I fell into darkness.
I woke up in the hospital. A lady saw me with my eyes open and smiled.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’re alive. We found the real killer. It turns out you were innocent after all.”
I couldn’t figure it out. Why was I alive?
Then I remembered. It was an act of pure luck. That sudden rush of wind right before they fired forced me to take a step off the sidewalk, throwing their aim off.
Perhaps life isn’t evil after all.
“I’m leaving forever.” Those were the last words Dolly ever said to Joe Benson. Since that terrible August morning Joe had been rather choleric(bad-tempered)(adjective) at work. He was no longer solicitous(worried, concerned)(adjective) about what anyone thought about him. Joe hated the caustic(burning)(adjective) feeling that he got every time he saw his boss, who Dolly had cheated on Joe with for around 12 years. Bill Mustard was his name and every word he spoke to Joe seemed to attempt to appease(to soothe)(verb) him so that he would not snap and kill him.
Joe and Bill’s views on life goals were ambivalent. Joe’s original plan was to become a virtuoso(someone with masterful ability in the arts)(noun) of some sort and indigence(poverty)(adjective) was not a fear in his mind. Bill on the other hand was not skilled but could talk for hours on end and it was usually to Joe ironically, with his wife and all. Joe couldn’t help but notice how officious(excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice)(adjective) Bill was. Bill would talk about how he spends time with his family and goes to church every sunday. Secretly Joe wanted to yell in Bill’s face that he was an iconoclastic(attacking cherished traditions)(adjective) bastard.
It was April now and the spring had brought new life to the greens around and about Joe’s home. Joe decided to buy a machete and chop down the excess leaves and branches to get a grip on his backyard once again. He went home immediately to test out his newest tool. While unpackaging the machete he sliced his finger on the extremely sharp blade. Blood ran down his arm and he couldn’t help but imagine the blood of his most hated enemies running down their faces. The purchase of the machete was only a precursor(forerunner)(noun) to what would become of Joe Benson the most notorious machete murderer in the history of the world.
I shuffled around the fire hydrant to get a better look at the road. I peered close into the windshield of a black Toyota… nope. Not him.
Confused? Well, a couple weeks ago I had committed suicide. It wasn’t a traditional ‘take the pills, poisoning, shoot yourself’ kind of suicide, it was an impulse thing. I was driving down the road and decided I wasn’t happy with my life so I swerved to slam myself into something. That something was a black Toyota, and the person inside was convinced that he had killed me. Why? Yeah I don’t know either. But the angel-guy said I had to appease (v. to soothe; to relieve) his conscious if I wanted anything good to happen to me, so here I am.
You’re probably wondering why I committed suicide. Looking back on it, I feel kind of pathetic. People who kill themselves are usually very tortured souls, but I was just overwhelmingly unhappy with my indigence, (n. poverty) my job as an officious (adj. excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) telemarketer, and my meaningless routine that now I know I just could have tried to change.
Then I saw him. If I didn’t know that he was the guy solely from recognition, I’d be able to pick him out from the solicitous (adj. worried, concerned) look on his face. I had learned a little about this man in order to connect with him. He was a virtuoso. (n. someone with masterful ability in the arts) He could play several instruments and he could paint like Renoir. He was a choleric (adj. bad-tempered) man, who, when asked about the ambivalence (n. contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) or the iconoclastic nature (adj. attacking cherished traditions) in his paintings, went into a rage about the lack of appreciation of the arts instead of crying like he wanted to that no one could understand him. I couldn’t help but think he was screwed up before I got to him, but even so I pushed him over the edge.
His car slowed down in the middle of the road, and I figured that was my time to get in and talk to him. I walked quickly to the car and opened the passenger door. The man was looking at me intensely, like he knew exactly who I was. Then, in a spitting, caustic (adj. burning; sarcastically biting) tone he said, “This is for you, *^$))))!!#.” The car suddenly accelerated and rocketed through the guardrails off the ledge. I ran to the edge and watched as he and the car smash in on themselves and finally settle on the ground below, nothing but a twisted piece of metal. I should have guessed this would happen. My suicide was the obvious precursor (n. forerunner) to his suicide.
I fell to my knees and looked up at the burning sky, screaming out loud. My eyes were about to explode with tears, it was like they couldn’t get out fast enough. I hadn’t taken this seriously. I thought it was a simple task to save my soul, and nothing could go wrong. But as the world melted around me, I knew. This was not redemption. This was hell.
Note: This is an incomplete entry. To receive full or partial credit, please follow all directions re: the length of responses. — Mr. Long
image 1
The closing hours of ominous light before the (choleric, adj) storm that envelops us produces little panic, but a calm (solicitous, adj) feeling. A feeling felt by everyone, by those in (indigence, n) or riches because everyone has a reason to fear the rain. Felt by all butone. The very peculiar (virtuoso, n) whose life is his feeling.
Presented with a (precursor, n) of inspiration, the artist’s hand is contorted under a (officious, adj) consciousness. Shedding color upon the world. A craving that comes from deep within and can only be (appeased, v) by the smear of paint. A force that is (caustic, adj) to the mind when not satisfied.
The swift strokes and twitches of the hand, the display of (ambivalence, n) presented by color and shape. The brush strokes, (iconoclastic, adj) of how emotion is seen. only by violent passion of the virtuoso.
Jake was solicitous (adj. worried, concerned) as he flew through the sky. He felt sorry about what he had said. He was usually pretty choleric (adj. bad-tempered), and this is what had caused Theresa to fly off in the first place, but right now he was just worried about his friend. Every empty tree he flew by caustically (adv. burning; sarcastically biting) reminded him that he was not in the right place. He kept flying through the ominous sky, hoping for any signs of her.
In the distance he saw another raven flying, with the same searching motions that he was doing. Frantically her rushed to it, but was disappointed in realizing it was not her. The raven landed on the nearest tree, and he landed on the same. “I’m searching for someone,” he said, “you didn’t happen to see-” “No.” the other raven replied without letting him finish. “I’ve been busing looking for my wife. I don’t care about anyone else.” He said as he abruptly flew off. Jake was glad he was gone. He felt ambivalence (n. contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) between them. He realized he couldn’t help him anyways. He hadn’t him expected him to be officious (adj. excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice). Jake took off again, scanning the horizon for Theresa. He desperately hoped for any kind of precursor (n. forerunner) that could give him a clue as to where she was.
Jake began to fly over a nearby human city. He knew there were dangers in human cities, but Jake was a virtuoso (n. someone with masterful ability in the arts) at not getting into dangerous situations. He flew over and observed the indigence (n. poverty) below him. He sure hoped Theresa was not down there. He knew is kind could appear as iconoclastic (adj. attacking cherished traditions) to humans, and even considered them as bad omens. He was glad to get out of there as soon as he could prove that she was not there. He flew and he was soon appeased (v. to soothe; to relieve) as he saw her resting on a tree just outside the city.
picture #3
As I lay under the tree I studied the crows that were sitting on a dying tree. I couldn’t help but feel ambivalence (v. contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes). The sunset was meant to be appeasing (adj. to soothe; to relieve) towards stress. However the choleric (adj. bad-tempered) crows were inflicting a caustic (sarcastically biting) upon this peaceful tradition of nature. The crows continued on as they were ignorant to their iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions) actions.
I went back into my house looking for my camera. Having found it I walked back outside looking for the birds. Surprisingly they were still there. I wondered if they were even real. I cautiously approached them for fear of them attacking me.
As I tried to approach them they started to fly down and attack me. Angered I recalled some of my neighbors who had recently struck upon a great indigence (n. poverty). I pulled out my handgun, while I was a little bit solicitous (adj. worried) about breaking the law in some way I pulled the trigger and being virtuoso (n. someone with masterful ability in the arts) in the art of sharpshooting I killed both of the birds in one shot. I recalled my days in the military from which I was expelled due to my officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice) manner in which I wanted to kill something so as to serve my nation.
Many years had passed since I had been at the wall. The painted polish had worn to pockmarked ugliness. The sense was one of indigence (poverty, adj), with only the lone fire hydrant to provide hope. I looked at it with ambivalent (contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes, adj) emotions. I was solicitous (worried, concerned, v) for the people who lived in this dreary state, yet I felt powerless to bring about change or if help was wanted.
The last time I had been here, it had been a gathering place for the neighborhood kids. Often my choleric (bad-tempered, adj) parents would not let me join the kids who gathered there, saying that they had caustic (burning; sarcastically biting, adj) attitudes and rebellious tendencies that would one day get them in trouble. Our iconoclastic (attacking cherished traditions, adj) drawings on the wall disturbed their sense of order. I on the other hand believed that our drawings were the precursors (forerunner, adj) of the art and thinking of a new age. Of course the whole town seemed to side with my parents and the authorities told us to clean it up. We grudgingly did under the supervision of the local police, but some of the kids became angry and started throwing rocks. At first they were just tossing the rocks in the direction of the police, but soon the throws became more directed and forceful. The police warned them to stop, but the youth had been driven into a froth of anger. The adult persecution that we felt and the sense of hopelessness of ever leaving this place had been too much for them to bear. Finally the police started firing rubber bullets at us. Stray pellets would hit the wall and left holes in the grayish paint. The officers soon had everything back under control and sent us all home, many with a stop at the police station. Discouraged and beaten down, we never went back to that wall.
I decided to try to help whether it was wanted or not. This generation deserved something more than just a fire hydrant and a peeling wall as a memorial to earlier dreams. I didn’t know what to do though. I knew that there were plenty of officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s usually unwanted services or advice, adj) people in the posh neighborhood across the highway who would be glad to give their advice. As I walked through my old neighborhood of worn down buildings and broken glass, an idea formed. I decided I would give them a visual reminder of hope. I knew a virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts, adj) who could paint just about anything. I went to the city to propose my idea and to appease (to soothe; to relieve, v) any concerns about what was to be painted. Then with their approval, I and my painter friend completed the mural that was a visual representation of hope that my friends and I had started so many years ago.
Definitions? — Mr. Long
I looked up, and there were no birds in the sky, no planes, but there were big clouds that looked like they would come crashing down to the ground, and suck you up. They looked, oh what’s the word, choleric (adj)? Yeah that works, the clouds looked bad-tempered. Of course, they’ve always looked like that, big, ominous, and always caustic (adj) in the sky. Well at least I think they’ve always looked like they were burning in the sky, but I’m just 16, I was born after the Infection. Every time the Infection is mentioned people get solicitous (v). They’re always worried that just by saying it, another epidemic will start.
Truly, I think that the world looks more peaceful now. There’s no more pollution, no more crime, and no more indigence (n). Well for the most part there’s no more poverty, but only the people that choose to not take advantage of all the money that’s lying around. Some may call me ambivalent (adj), but that’s just my view on things. So what if my emotional attitude contradicts others, they can bite me. Earth, well now called Evac-1, is now in its final stage of apocalypse. Everything is dying, but the dying things will appease (v) Evac-1 and give it nutrients. These nutrients will please Evac-1 and give it life again. We have started to chronicle what’s happening here. Our virtuoso (n) is skillfully writing everything down. He is a master at the art of taking notes.
The remaining people of Evac-1, a population of about 1,000, have really started to take religion seriously. Of course that means that it’s all out war on other religions. People are so iconoclastic (adj) these days, attacking other peoples religions, it’s pathetic. We have just lost about, from what I’ve been told, 6 point something billion people, and all we care about is whose religion is the correct one. The precursor (adj) religion is the Christian faith, and will probably be the dominant one if things continue as they have. The forerunner religion’s priests are being really officious (adj). Always pushing their ideals on other people, it’s kind of funny to watch. Religions days are numbered, however. People are starting to question the priests on things that the priests can’t answer, for they themselves do not have the answer. The world is going to be fine, but the human race, is dying.
I was about ten or so years old when my family had just arrived in the land that I have heard stories about being so great…America. Despite that we had come here, I was not sure if it was going to appease (v; relieve) our problems. Having spent all our money to come here, it seems like we are now going to have to live in indigence (n; poverty) again for the third time and to continue to work our tails off. The first time my family was in poverty was when my parents first got married. Even though my precursors (n; forerunner) had money, they gave my parents nothing. They had nothing to start out with but eventually made their way up. Then, the communist came and took all our money and belongings away. Next, we fled to a few islands until we were able to settle on one. We then made a living there with the help of a couple of virtuosos (n; a person who has special knowledge or skill in a field) in our family until we had enough money to travel to the United States.
Once we got off the boat, however; any solicitous (adj; concerned) thoughts I had were gone. Anyone who was choleric (adj; bad-tempered) was suddenly awed by the cleanness and the sight of advance technology. We would point at buildings, cars, roads, bridges, clothes, and other fantastic and weird sightings. I especially remember having fun running up and down the escalator with a couple of my siblings while waiting for the rest of family to finish whatever they were doing and see a magnificeant bridge with many wires. Shortly after coming here, some people, who did not seem too officious (adj; excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice), gave us clothes and some other things which I later learned was from charity. When we eventually got into our motel room, we were all fascinated on how clean and how much room we got. Looking back from today though, I now see it as not especially clean and roomy. It just seemed that way after living in third world countries.
Soon, my parents put me and my siblings in school. Not wanting English to be a too much of a problem at school, my parents put us in school a grade lower than what we were supposed to be in by changing our birthdates so we would be a year younger. Alongside school, my sisters siblings and I had to help our family work at a job right after school and during the weekends. At night, my sisters and I had to work on sewing things until late at night 1:00am. My youngest sister, however; only had to work until 10:00pm. My two brothers did not have to sew which I sometimes believe it is because my mother favors them. Because I sometimes believed that my mother favored them and that she gives harsh punishments, I was had ambivalence (adj; contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes) feelings towards her and ultimately not very close to my mother.
My main concern was not students from the school but having the time to do my homework. If there was ever a problem with bullies, iconoclasts (n; attacking cherished traditions), or people who make caustic (adj; sarcastic) remarks that I could not handle, I would get my big brother. Having to work until one, I found myself doing my homework whenever I got the chance. This includes in the car or bus, at lunch, and late at night at home. Since I tend to have to stay up until about three in the morning to do my homework, I would sometimes dream that I already got up and went to school. With my family of ten all working together, it was worth it in the end. In just a few years, my family became wealthy again and were able to buy a house.
Image 1:
The city, after years of neglect, was once a town full of life. Now, indigence (poverty) overruled the majestic city. Each street corner was marked with the signs of the town’s downfall. Whether it be a lonely man digging through the trash with a solicitous(worried, concerned) look about his face, not knowing what tomorrow would bring or a choleric(bad-tempered) stray mutt fighting for food like a group of sharks fight over a kill. This was once a city in the precursor (forerunner) of the day now was a city molded into street blocks identical to the next. Looking down at the row of blocks down to the horizon, every one disappearing into the next.
My job in the city is to sit on a corner, like everybody else, mind my own business, and stay out of trouble. The block I sat at was an area I called home. There was a half smoothed wood paneling which I rested my back upon that was on the building. The building’s paint was worn and coming off. To the left of where I sat was a mustard colored fire hydrant. To be at home wasn’t as appeasing (to soothe, relieve) as you would think it to be. There were roaches that would walk in a line as though they were under a sort of military march. The building’s wood paneling that I used as my protector would occasionally rot leaving sharp pieces that would caustic (sarcastically bite) me in the back. The place in which I called Home, wasn’t welcoming, or grand. It was a place I used as shelter and in return it let me survive.
The person that shared the block with me was very virtuoso (someone with masterful ability in the arts). His corner was brightly painted using whatever he could find as the painting implements. He was a kind man, though officious (excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services) with his arts. His paintings were colorful and full of life. When seen, most people would mistake it for a work of iconoclastic (attacking the cherished traditions). As an onlooker would pass they would see a bright and cheery street corner full of life and walk a few dozens more steps and come across peeled white paint scenery with a rotted wood canvas. Our styles had the ability of ambivalence (contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes). With this said, my life would be lived on the street corner of a rotted wood backing next to a colorful scenery of what I hoped life would eventually be like.
Parts of speech? Definitions? — Mr. Long
I sit and stare at a wall. But this is no ordinary wall, on this wall there is a sky with clouds and a fence. And all of the paintings on the wall appear to be real. As I sit and stare from across I began to think, what was this virtuoso thinking when he created this painting? What was his mood when he decided to paint it with such choleric colors? Or could it have not been choleric at all but more appeasing? These were all questions I began to ask myself as I sat and stared.
I sit at the same bus stop day after day and never before have had I noticed this wall that seems to be staring at me as a precursor. But today I see it but can’t understand it. Why would one put up such a painting in such an indigence ridden neghborhood? This painting could be caustic; the author could be sarcastically biting at the attitudes of the people of this neighborhood. But these accusations would be false because I live in a very ambivalent neighborhood. I wonder what I would say if I met this author?
If I and this great painter ever met I believe I would be officious in offering to help pick colors. I’d be solicitous that the painting would tear people down instead of building them up. The colors can be perceived as Iconoclastic so I would use lighter colors such as blue for the sky, and white for the sky. And I would paint the fence brown and… Just at that moment the bus appeared and I could see the wall no more.
Duncan watched his sister land on the branch. She seemed to float with such grace, a virtuoso(n,someone with masterful ability in the arts) of flying. He was envious of her long, feathery wings, embarrassed immensely by the bare nature of his own. He would never fly with the swift power that Kina had. He always wondered how to fix his issue, trying many different techniques of flying. Kina always felt she could help, being officious(adj, excessively pushy in offering one’s (usually unwanted) services or advice), obnoxiously so. She even had the audacity to offer him some of her feathers, professing that they were the best feathers in the world, and that flying with them ensured grace and power. He took great offence to this, but he tried it anyway to appease(v, soothe) Kina’s wounded pride.
Nothing he did worked, and as time wore on and his wings stayed thin, he became choleric(adj, bad-tempered), and even Kina couldn’t stand to be around him. The other birds always were polite and sympathetic when it came to the problem of his flight, but they didn’t know the remarks he heard behind his back, caustic(adj, sarcastically biting) and hurtful. Kina was solicitous(adj, concerned) about his problem, as he became reclusive and unhappy. Duncan vasilated between hating himself and hating the other birds, an epitome of ambivalence(n, contradictory or conflicting emotional attitudes). Kina finally came up to him, submissive and unsettlingly morose.
Kina told him that she was to become the head of the flock, the precursor(n, forerunner) to a long line of heads of the flock. Therefore, she could break the rules and do something iconoclastic(adj, attacking cherished traditions). She told Duncan of the animals of the land and water. She told him of the gazelles and the water buffalo and the ducks. She told him of other birds who couldn’t fly, where he would be accepted among the others, not as an oddity, but as one of their own. He would have to live without the flock, with an indigence(n, poverty) that he had never known before. He would have to leave his family, but he could make himself a new family. Duncan pondered for a moment, hopped off of the branch, and forever left the land of those of flight, going towards a future of those more like him.
To get full credit, follow directions re: # of paragraphs and # of sentences. Thanks — Mr. Long
These iconoclastic (adj; attacking cherished traditions) birds always tampered with our ceremonies. The pack had just completed the day’s hunt, and everyone was joyful because it had appeased (v; to soothe) our solicitous (adj; worried) thoughts about the recent famine. But they couldn’t leave us alone, they just had to taunt us about Scar coming back to our part of the jungle. There was certainly some ambivalence (n; contflicting emotional attitudes) between the pack and those birds. Their caustic (adj; sarcastically biting) attitudes were always attacking our morale, especially in this time of indigence (n; poverty). They were not the precursor (n; forerunner) as far as our problems went though. That was Scar, my evil uncle. He often threatened us with his officious (adj; excessively pushy) deals in attempts to gain power, but we always turned him down. He was a virtuoso (n; someone with masterful abilities) of negociations, but he was extremely choleric (adj; bad-tempered) so it was easy to turn him down. He will never take over the pack if I can help it.