This is my second blog (Do not fear. This one is much shorter than my first.) it is a project from my homeschool curriculum Writing Strands Level # 7. I highly encourage comments and critiques and hope that any who read will do so. I want to be an author some day and as a result the more critiques I get the more I can learn. Just because your not a professional does not mean you might see something that I missed.
Not all of my posts are just like this one. There will be several creative posts as well as essay form posts. Subscribe and you might be surprised. :) The point of this lesson was to learn that people vary in the ways they move their bodies. Such as younger children may be less likely to control fidgeting than more mature children or even adults. My brother and I were directed to improv and record, on a tape, a situation where-in this might come into play. Then we were to convert it to written form. Finally we were to convert it into a live action play and perform for members of our family or friends. We never actually got around to the last part.
Writing Strands: book 7, lesson 1
Isaiah T. Silkwood 1/24/11
Skit: The Camp Decision
Martin stood in the entryway to the living room. Ahead his father was sitting on a white and brown speckled couch, perpendicular to his position, reading a newspaper. He had come to ask his father’s advice about attending the upcoming 4-H camp. He, however,
was nervous and unsure about how to go about asking the question. So, there he stood, shuffling his feet and debating within himself as to whether he should ask his question or turn around and walk back into the dining room.
Mr. Luther, glancing up from the newspaper, noticed that his son was staring at the floor and seemed to be in deep thought. Just as Martin turned to leave Mr. Luther spoke, “What’s the matter son?”
Martin turned quickly back around and stammered, “Um, well, I had a question,” His eyes met his father’s but then quickly shied away.
Mr. Luther took a deep breath and straightened his back. Then, folding his newspaper, he looked to the right at his son and said, “Sit down son.” Mr. Luth
er indicated the couch cushion on his left by patting it.
“O.K.” said Martin, He walked into the living room and passed on his left a small table, jutting up against the side of the couch, and his father’s outstretched legs. He sat down beside Mr. Luther and blinked a couple times. Mr. Luther placed his newspaper on his lap and then turned his attention on his son. Martin glanced around the room while trying to think of something to say. He blinked again and noticed that there was some sleepy in his eye. He began to pick it out with his fingernail when he spotted his father looking at him and waiting patiently. Then he realized that he hadn’t asked the question yet. Martin stopped picking at his eye for a moment, and said, “I had a question about camp.”
“Camp?” replied Mr. Luther.
“Yah,” Martin began to pick at the sleepy in his eye again. When he finally got it out he squished it in-between his fingernail and forefinger.
Mr. Luther could tell that his son was troubled. He raised his right hand through an arc, palm upward, in a comforting gesture, “Isn’t your sister going?”
“Well yah but,” Martin faltered slightly, “I, I, kinda don’t want to go this year.”
“Well, why not,” Mr. Luther’s eyebrows furrowed questioningly.
Lacking some thing to distract his hands Martin glanced down at his hands. He noticed a scab on his left knuckle and it suddenly felt itchy. He scratched at it and continued, “Well, you know what happened last year with,” he was obviously nervous about what came next, “w… with Ronny.”
“Oh, that bully.” Mr. Luther could now see what was going on. He dropped his voice, “That ah, gave you a swirly?”
“Yah,” said Martin, who had accidentally made the scab bleed.
Martin’s father looked thoughtful for a moment and then said pointedly, “You’ll be in different cabins won’t ya.”
“Oh, yah, but, “ Martin’s hands strayed too close to a piece of Mrs. Luther’s crocheted blanket, which was lying on the couch, as he tried to think of a response, “I don’t know, He’ll still be there, in camp.” He began to stick his fingers through the gaps between each crochet in the blanket.
Mr. Luther continued to try and find ways to encourage his son, “Well, your sister will be there, won’t she. She can look after you.” Mr. Luther’s jaw tightened as martin’s partly bleeding scab came close to brushing against the blanket.
“Yah but,” Martin spoke as if he were imparting a secret known only to little brothers, “Sisters don’t always like to hang out with little brothers.” Martin kicked his dangling feet awkwardly.
Mr. Luther nodded slightly, “Well,” he said slowly, giving himself some time to think, “If you want I could call the camp council and have them, you know, look out for you. Make sure you don’t get picked on.” He smiled at his son reassuringly.
“Oh, um,” Martin pondered for a moment, “That would be okay.” He began to pick at his scab again yet somehow managed to avoid the side that had been bleeding.
“That work?” Mr. Luther searched his son’s face for any signs of indecision or worry. He didn’t find any. Smiling he continued, “Ya know, cause, some times you can’t worry about those things.” Mr. Luther’s eyes grew somewhat distant. As if remembering the first time he had taken similar advice from his own father. “You just have to go and have fun.”
“Well, okay,” Martin said at last.
“And I’m sure you’ll be fine,” said Mr. Luther with an air of reassuring confidence.
Martin looked up and met his father’s gaze for a moment. Then he looked back down at the blanket. Putting his hands on his thighs Martin pushed his arms out straight and said, “Thanks Dad.”
Mr. Luther smiled again, “Your welcome son.”
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