Sunday, April 27, 2008
Mistake
Monday, April 21, 2008
WA8 Second Draft
Do you remember the days when you and the boys sat carefree next to the stream catching trout? Recall the soothing sounds of that babbling brook. Perhaps you prefer the memories of Ma’s warm chocolate chip cookies melting in your mouth while you relax at a family picnic. Bare in mind those care-free good old days when children spent their time playing outside or helping mother and father with simple yard work. Unfortunately, the youth of the next generation may be deprived of life simplest joys due to environmental tragedies. Deforestation of pristine rain forest, global warming, desertification, and fossil fuel consumption are just a few of the currently insurmountable issues that our children will face.
Who is to blame for such issues? No, it is not the idle nature of youth or new and complicated technologies. Every single one of us is at fault. However, the impenetrable shield surround such problems may be broken with further aid. As the eldest, most experienced and influential individuals of our society, you are in a key position to aid. Do something with your days. Idleness is the enemy of productivity and activity will ensure longer life. So please, write to your senators and representatives about increasing funding to local non-profit companies such as ours. Please, if you are capable, further inform yourself and speak at local schools. And please, think twice before casually tossing your morning coffee cup in the trash. Yes, even you can recycle.
Much like a heart medication and its clot reducing properties, recycling relieves the Earth's streams of unwanted debris, freeing it to flow without obstruction. Much like FDR, recycling strives to help the common man and his home, saving you and your community money. Finally, like a delicate body, our Earth requires tender care for a healthy survival.
When I first walked in this room and saw all these bright, lively, and smiling faces, I knew from the start that this would be an exceptional group of individuals who have, and will, accomplish exceptional things. It only takes a little time a day and for those who try to help; our company will donate one dozen flowers, of your choice, for every pound you recycle. I will not keep you much longer for it is getting close to supper, but I would like to leave you with one last piece of information. We will be sponsoring a trip to the National Arboretum and several parks next week for all members of this retirement facility. The hope is that we may inspire you to help our cause, with donations and recycling, or simply to give you a nice day among nature’s finest.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
WA 7 Final
The world famous food detectives, Mr. and Mrs. Condolez, had just finished their daily rounds at the local all-can-eat Asian buffet when they were stunned to see a lone man at their office door’s window.
“Mr. and Mrs. Condolez!” the voice repeatedly shouted.
Mr. Condolez motioned for the man to enter and I took note of the approximate time of the encounter, 9:37 PM.
“I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour sir, but it is urgent,” exclaimed the man.
His punctual moustache and confused French accent was a dead give away. This was the five star chef, Monsieur Martel. Once again, I scrawled my notes, in all caps, on off-yellow construction paper.
“It is outrageous! I no longer am getting the business I once did. Even my most trusted customers fail to show,” cried the clearly distressed man.
That’s when I knew Mr. and Mrs. Condolez would take the case. As aficionados of sea food cuisine, I knew they couldn’t resist the opportunity of a free sushi meal. In unison the Condolez couple stated:
“We all gotcha covered.”
“You have my most sincere appreciation.”
It was nearly nine the next morning when we hopped in the Condolez couples 1994 Ford F-250. The truck bed was loaded with the usual. Ph strips, microscopes, several coolers of varied import beers, basics tool kits, nothing out of the ordinary. I took my seat between Mr. and Mrs. as I did every weekday morning and slept the entire ride.
Around half past nine I awoke to the sour smell of fast food coffee and greasy biscuits. The familiar stench somewhat revolted me but there was little I could do.
“What’s the hold up boy?” the Mr. exclaimed while exiting his precarious perched vehicle.
I climbed down the side and took extra caution not to step off the ledge that Mr. Condolez unthinkingly parked next to. Looking over my shoulder I could see that we were at the Frenchman’s fish fillet restaurant, La Poubelle. Indeed, his store’s parking lot was completely empty. The usual morning crowd was no where to be found.
“I am so relieved you have come to my humble restaurant. Sit, sit, s’il vous plait,” Monsieur Martel stated as he motioned for us to take our seats.
“Hon, I think the easiest place to start would be with a sample of every course,” said Mrs. Condolez
“Every course?! Oh-la-la this will take quite some time to prepare for you. Almost all of my employees have left me,” shockingly but quietly Monsieur murmured.
“Please just do as my wife says. We are experts you know.”
Ten minutes passed by before our first course of meals came. Mr. and Mrs. Condolez stuffed themselves quite quickly. Sweat perspired from their skin as they ate at a feverish pace. To cool himself Mr. Condolez lifted his cap and patted his brow with a brown recyclable napkin. I only ordered a Spiderman ice cream pop.
“I can’t find anything wrong. Should we check somewhere else?” Mr. Condolez inquired.
“Let’s check in the back,” whispered Mrs. Condolez to Mr. in order to stay out of earshot of Monsieur Martel. safe. I pointed this out to Mr. Condolez and he walk off to talk to Monsieur Martel in privacy while I continued browsing. The clock slowly ticked by only disturbed by Mr. Condolez’s friendly, yet loud, southern voice. Finally, after nearly an hour of waiting and casually looking I stumbled upon several strange vials in the freezer. These were unmarked, small, clear, and most certainly suspicious. I quickly extracted a small sample with my pipette eye-dropper and photographed the scene. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that we arrived back at the office. At this point I displayed the vials to Mr. and Mrs. Condolez.
“Nice work! I trust that you can do a full inspection with the proper documentation on this vial without my aid,” Mr. Condolez said as he patted my head.
The work was hard and required long hours. From morning till bed time I tested for DNA, examined chemical structure, and studied the vials properties. In a weeks time I made my first breakthrough. The vial and its contents were designed to obscure the real contents, a rare strain of bacteria, through complex chemical measures. I later identified that this salmonella like strain of bacteria had over a month long incubation period. What I had feared most matched the stores records. From the beginning of December, almost exactly a month ago, the number of customers eating at La Poubelle has sharply declined. Monsieur Martel had been intentionally poisoning his customers and had now infected the top food detectives in the
After a thorough survey of the kitchen, freezer, and office, Mr. Condolez’s trained eye spotted a security flaw. There were absolutely no cameras within the store, not even by the cash register and
WA 6
The Journey Act: The hallway
The Goal Act: Surviving power facility
My street-to-subterranean elevator had just opened. I stepped in, planning on going through my daily routine; wake up, take the elevator to work, work, go home, and sleep. The elevators glass doors opened with a pleasant and inviting *bing* and asked me to come in.
“What floor do you desire comrade?” inquired the elevator.
“The usual,” I replied.
“Might I mention that the ‘Power to the People’ project is open to the public as of today? It is an excused absence from work and those selected will enjoy glorious lives serving for the military.”
“Very intriguing, what do I have to lose?”
I pressed the specially labeled and obnoxiously large red button that was waiting just in front of me. Thus, my ascent to obtain my own power began.
The elevator traveled with a feverish pace; however, it was relieving to see my floor for “Weapon design and implementation” pass me. Yet, this feeling of relief shortly passed. At exactly floor one-hundred, the walls to my front and sides disappeared; presenting a factory like room that seemed to spread miles and was streaked with tiny black lines.
Reluctantly I exited the elevator to discover that these mile-long lines were in fact people, all of whom desire to partake in our government’s latest war effort. I was given very little time to ponder any more on the topic. Within a matter of seconds an armed official grabbed me by my arm, shoved a queue number in my shirt pocket, and sent me through a revolving door. This door was labeled with the sign, “you may not exit the facility past this point.” Needless to say, I was slightly unnerved.
Then the wait began. The line was long, slow, and excruciatingly boring. There were walls on either side of me, like a long, endless hallway, preventing me from seeing anything except the people to my front, my back, and a red light at the end. No one talked. There was complete silence besides the mechanical hum of the “conveyer” belt we were on.
When what I assumed was three hours had passed I began seeing propaganda posters on the sides of the wall.
“Communism Blaze wants you to spread the fire of the
“Atomic Stalin, the protector of peace, the defeater of capitalism.”
“Obtain your power, and join your brothers in a fight for glory.”
“My daddy got his super power, did yours?”
While these posters seemed to have uplifting effects on others, they had none on me. I was further unnerved by the process, yet, I just kept telling myself my government would never harm a loyal citizen like myself. I spoke to soon.
Towards the last quarter of my “moving-side-walk ride” I began to hear feint screams in the distance. Some people were shuffling backwards, some people attempting to run the opposite direction. These individuals were quickly stopped by the countless armed officials that I saw lining ledges on either side of our hallway’s walls. I did the only thing I could think of, meditate. I entered a state of partial consciousness and escaped from the misery around me. The methodical humming of our conveyer belt made this all the more easy.
“Get up, your time has come,” growled a laser bearing man.
I did so for it was soon to be my turn. Once I stood up and could see above the heads in front of me, I once again met the glance of the red piercing light. After every minute-or-so, it would turn off, the officials would laugh, and then turn back on. Once, it turned green, the officials gasped, and murmured to each other.
“Hmm, got a pass eh? First of the day,” one official said to the other.
“Heh, yeah, but I rather see em fail,” the second official replied.
Finally, it was my turn for what I guessed would be my last few minutes on earth. I was traumatized beyond description. I was more fearful for my life then ever before. Two metal and slab like doors opened in front of me and a rolling fog came out, surrounding my feet.
“Good luck,” whispered a voice from behind.
I stepped in after being nudged with the side of a bayonet.
“Greetings. I’m pleased to see you’ve chosen to help your country honorable comrade,” a voice in the door said to me. “Please answer these questions truthfully and everything will be fine. If you pass the test you will gain a super power we have carefully selected for you.”
I answered the questions very methodically considering my paralyzed state. The questions seemed to last for an eternity. Small things such as “where did you go to primary school,” I quietly pressed my answer on the touch screen, the only thing besides me in the small chamber. Gradually, the questions became more knowledge based. The difficulty increased more and more. I knew I would be disposed of if I made even one small mistake. The pressure was almost unbearable. A heat seemed to descend upon me. Eyes were watching everywhere. The computer was smirking, waiting for me to make the wrong move. I was trembling uncontrollably.
“Congratulations, you have passed. You’re admission shot will be given shortly. Welcome to the military, your life term will begin shortly.”
Life term? NO! I punched at the door. I was trapped forever.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Picture writing assignment first draft
The world famous food detectives, Mr. and Mrs. Condolez, had just finished their daily rounds at the local all-can-eat Asian buffet when they were stunned to see a lone man at their office door’s window.
“Mr. and Mrs. Condolez!” the voice repeatedly shouted.
Mr. Condolez motioned for the man to enter and I took note of the approximate time of the encounter, 9:37 PM.
“I’m sorry to bother you at such an hour sir but it is urgent,” exclaimed the man.
His punctual moustache and confused French accent was a dead give away. This was the five star sushi chief Monsieur Hernandez Cortina Fuun Showe the second. Once again, I scrawled my notes, in all caps, on off-yellow construction paper.
“My fish! It is no good! My new fillet sandwich restaurant, La Poubelle, reeks like rot,” cried the clearly distressed man.
That’s when I knew Mr. and Mrs. Condolez would take the case. As aficionados of sea food cuisine I knew they couldn’t resist the ugly opportunity of a free sushi meal. In unison the Condolez couple stated:
“We all gotcha covered.”
“You have my most sincere appreciation.”
It was nearly nine the next morning when we hopped in the Condolez couples 1994 Ford F-250. The truck bed was loaded with the usual. Ph strips, microscopes, several coolers of varied import beers, basics tool kits, nothing out of the ordinary. I took my seat between Mr. and Mrs. as I did every weekday morning. I slept the entire ride.
Around half past nine I awoke to the sour smell of fast food coffee and greasy biscuits. The familiar stench somewhat revolted me but there was little I could do.
“What’s the hold up boy?” the Mr. exclaimed while exiting his precarious perched vehicle.
I climbed down the side and took extra caution not to step off the ledge Mr. Condolez unthinkingly parked next to. Looking over my shoulder I could see that we were at the Frenchman’s fish fillet restaurant, La Poubelle. Indeed, his store did have a fairly pungent aroma that became increasingly abhorrent as I drew closer. Without thinking I made cringed faces to the smell. I only hope Monsieur didn’t notice, for he was arriving at the door to great us.
“I am so relieved you have come to my humble restaurant. Sit, sit, s’il vous plait,” Monsieur stated as he motioned for us to take our seats.
“Hon, I think the easiest place to start would be with a sample of every course,” said Mrs. Condolez
“Every course?! Oh-la-la this will take quite some time to prepare for you. Almost all of my employees have left me,” shockingly but quietly Monsieur murmured.
“Please just do as my wife says. We are experts you know.”
Ten minutes passed by before our first course of meals came. Mr. and Mrs. Condolez stuffed themselves quite quickly. Sweat perspired from their skin as they ate at a feverish pace. To cool himself Mr. Condolez lifted his cap and patted his brow with a brown recyclable napkin. Still perturbed by the smell, I only ordered a Spiderman ice cream pop.
“Would you lookee here Patricia, this bun’s sesame seed to pickle ratio is atrocious. Yet that deals nothing with the smell. I still can’t figure out why it’s here,” Mr. Condolez inquired.
“Let’s check in the back, perhaps there is something wrong with his production line or storage,” whispered Mrs. Condolez to Mr. in order to stay out of earshot of Monsieur.
Our little search dumbfounded me. No one thought of plugging the refrigerator in.
Monday, February 4, 2008
WA-5 Final
Upon arrival of the mail, Michal Szybalski immediately reported his complaints to local quality control authorities.
“It just truly amazed me. The snails have seemingly surpassed the complexity and limits of our man made information and parcel transportation system. Had I known of this earlier I would have requested a delivery by these mollusks well in advance,” Szybalski sarcastically remarked in a newly released press report.
As a response to the massive influx of criticism, Szybalski’s regular mail service, Schnelle Aktion (Fast Action, German) promptly refunded Szybalski’s shipping costs. Yet this gracious gesture was clearly not enough to appease Schnelle Aktion’s customers. In just this past week, nearly 23% of their clientele have either dropped their services or have switched to other mail providers.
In a public apology for the general lack of quality and promptness of deliveries, CEO of Schnelle Aktion, Ludwick Vindalchte attempted to reconcile with promises of a better future. “Despite what you or I think of this company [Schnelle Aktion], it is has been made statistically clear, that Schnelle Aktion’s level of quality has dropped in recent years. With this issue now out our top coordinators attention I can assure each and everyone one of will receive prompt service if you utilize our recourses for your shipping needs.”
To this short and to-the-point address, onlookers, lobbyists, and protesters were general dissatisfied.
“He promises the world but is a chazter when it comes to money. I can’t blame everyone for making such a big kvetch over the issue,” stated local father of 4 and economic analyst, Moysheh Spenskilevski. “Nevertheless, the sudden decrease in demand for Schnelle Aktion’s services has had grave implications for their employees.”
When later asked about layoffs, Ludwick Vindalchte estimated a 30% cut, when taking into account current trends. This approximates to 3,000 jobs.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Writing Assignment 5
Upon arrival of the mail, Michal Szybalski immediately reported his findings to local authorities and mathematical think tanks.
“It just truly amazed me. The snails have seemingly surpassed the complexity and limits of our man made information and parcel transportation system. Had I known of this earlier I would have requested a delivery by these mollusks well in advance,” Szybalski sarcastically remarked in a newly released press report.
As a response to the massive influx of criticism, Szybalski’s regular mail service, Schnelle Aktion (Fast Action, German) promptly refunded Szybalski’s shipping costs. Yet this gracious gesture was clearly not enough to appease Schnelle Aktion’s customers. In just this past week, nearly 23% of their clientele have either dropped their services or have switch to other mail providers.
“I always assumed all mail took 2-3 weeks for delivery. Oy vey, what a fercockteh old mashugga, I’ve become. Would have never realized [the slow mail] had everyone not made such a big kvetch over it,” stated local father of 4, Moysheh Spenskilevski. “We need more mentshes like that good boy Michal out there, doing mitzvahs for the people. Not chazter shmucks holding off my mail until shoyn fargessen (I already forgot it).
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