A Market for Bees

1/26/12

Isaiah T. Silkwood

Writing Strands Level # 7, Lesson # 6, Situation # 3

What Makes It What It Is:

A Market for Bees

(Excerpt from the journal of Richard Canterhaven)

            It is Tuesday morning, July 7^th 1770. People are beginning their congregation on

N. Kings Way

. These people are not the swarm of bees that will come thickly through to snatch up nectar later on today. These people are the stems of the flowers that support this meadow that is King’s Way Street Market. They are carefully arranging the petals of their flowers. That is, the appearance of their booth that they purchased earlier this year. They are hoping that their decorations and colors will appeal to any passing bees and draw them in to sample the nectar that is their hard wrought merchandise.

            I too am a stem. Though I am a smaller offshoot of the main stem my master Marice Vaughn. I am his apprentice. I have been growing under his shadow for 2 years now. If I might say modestly I have become a very good shoemaker. It is good that I am telling this to my journal. For if my mother was to find me upholding my own work like this, she would give me a stern scolding. “Do the best that you can and let others praise your work,” she would say. I am sure there is a great deal of wisdom in her words. She was the best embroiderer in all of Philadelphia, or so some have said. I am 19 now. Though I could say a great deal of good about my father, the freshness of his passing is still too great. Mother insists that we will see him again, in heaven…

The Makings of a Patriot

1/20/12

Isaiah T. Silkwood

Writing Strands: Level # 7, Lesson # 6, Situation # 2

What Makes It What It Is:

The Makings of a Patriot

Hans Antonio stood breathless in the narrow alleyway between a two-story apartment building and one of the Boston port, authority offices. It was one of the few authorities left in Boston not under the command of the British Regulars. Since the Boston tea party the local populace, and their dealings, had felt more pressure from the British Regular’s presence that ever before. Nevertheless Bosto ’s inhabitants trudged doggedly onward, unwilling to give up their lives or occupations. However some thought that they were in an unpreventable and deserved British occupation. Hans did not think that way.

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            Hans was not content to live under British rule. After all a country more that 3000 miles away had no right to control the lives and well-beings of the colonies’ people. Hans was against taxation without representation and expressed it in many ways. One of those ways could be clarified by the expensive painting that he had tucked away under his long coat. It wasn’t a large painting, being 21”x 16” inches plus a border, but it still wasn’t completely concealed by his large coat. He had taken it from the commander of the British garrison’s quarters and intended to sell it to an English merchant. This was by far the most brazen thing that he had done since participating in the Boston Tea Party.

             Just ahead, in the road beyond the alley, proceeded one of the largest street markets in the colonies. Hans’ partner, Willis Harding, had promised to meet him at a fur vendor’s stall at the end of the street market; however, he had failed to mention which part of the market was the end.

The Gift

1/30/12

Isaiah T. Silkwood

Writing Strands Lesson # 6

WHAT MAKES IT WHAT IT IS

THE GIFT

            Mary stood in front of her dingy little mirror. She had just folded the last of her hair into a bun and slid her hairpin in place. Nabbing her bonnet she placed it on her head and tied a quick knot under her chin. She glanced down at her dress and turned her body, admiring the way that the dress swirled and bounced. Her husband, Eli Canterhaven, had brought the light olive green dress home to her as a gift after his last voyage on the vessel of his merchant employer. It was simple yet elegant. It had green sleeves and body, with a shining milky white strip that came flowing up the center. She was sure that she had the best husband in the world. She would always think the best of him, whether he brought home elaborate gifts, small gifts, or no gifts at all. The best gift that he ever brought home was himself. The last six months of his absence had seemed like an eternity, but at last she expected to see his vessel within the next few weeks.

            She glanced back into their small apartment at all of her embroidery work that was strewn about at various points of completion. Seeing that she had forgotten nothing she stepped gaily outside.

            Today was the day of the Philadelphia street market, and she lived only a block away. The Sunday prior marked the completion of one of her largest projects. A fully embroidered dress. The following Tuesday she had been able to deliver the dress, with the needlework done in a pearly silk, to her client. The client had provided the material and, at last, the payment for the work. She walked briskly along the sidewalk joyously humming her favorite tune. She had been blessed with such a fine client that month that she couldn’t wait to pass that blessing along to her husband. Though deep down she knew the best gift that either of them could receive was each other’s company.

My Second Very Delayed Blog: Skit the Camp Decision

Dear reader,
         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.”

My First Blog: Point of View

Dear reader,
         This is my first blog 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. Not all of my posts will be just like this one. There will be several creative as well as essay form post. Subscribe and you might be surprised. :) (but this is a little early for that isn't it.) The point of this lesson was to learn how to distinguish between the many types of narrative voice.

Writing Strands Lesson # 5

Point of View

EXPOSITORY ESSAY

On

POINT OF VIEW

            Hello, have you ever read a book or article that you really enjoyed? Did you come away from that piece thinking, “I really enjoyed the way that narrative voice told me everything.”? Of course not. You may, however, have thought that the author writing the piece portrayed his or her thoughts well.

            Why would I bring up such a silly thought? Well, when an author writes a story or article he or she does not tell you his or her thoughts directly; but indirectly, by the way of a narrative voice. This voice assumes specific angles and traits that help give a story depth and its own unique ring.

            With a little practice the many options that an author has, in positioning his narrative voice, can become recognizable and easily distinguishable from one another.

            Would you like me to show you? To create their narrative voice authors use these elements: Person, Number, Tense, Attitude, Involvement, Knowledge, and Perspective.