Category Archives: Writing

Humanities: Roman Emperors (DV)

Imagine having so much power that your word is law. Such was the power of emperors in the Roman Empire. Roman emperors had command of 26 legions, as well as the authority to veto the actions of the magistrates and control the imperial patronage. They even influenced the religion of the empire. The emperor could rebuild decaying temples and resurrect old religious ceremonies. In short, he could do just about anything. This resulted in both good and bad changes in Rome. While some great rulers benefited the Roman people, others did nothing but harm. Specifically, Commodus left the empire worse for wear, while Hadrian and Trajan had positive impacts on Rome.

Regrettably, the years Commodus spent in power were not good ones for the empire. Although his accession to the throne was initially greeted with general approval, it was met eventually with hostility as Commodus began to engage in self-indulgent and ego-maniacal behaviors. He was especially fond of gladiator fights. He enjoyed them so much, in fact, that he participated in them himself. However, Commodus was known to cheat by blunting his opponents’ swords. In addition, Commodus devalued Rome’s currency significantly by reducing the weight of the denarius and the purity of silver. It was the biggest reduction since Nero’s, and a huge blow to the empire. Not only that, but he lacked concern for political matters altogether. That, combined with a thirst for leisure, brought about what some consider a reign of terror. In fact, Commodus’ rule is regarded as the start of the fall of the Roman Empire. In the famous words of noted historian Dio Cassius, his lack of interest in political affairs was the starting point for the decline of the empire, leaving Commodus responsible for initiating Rome’s plunge “from a kingdom of gold to one of iron and rust.”

On the other hand, Trajan was one of the best emperors Rome ever saw. He was a good soldier and a man of talent, tolerance, and courtesy. During his nineteen years of rule, Trajan improved the empire’s roads and harbors as well as provided support for the children of Rome’s poor. Furthermore, he conquered the area of Mesopotamia and started a healthcare-like system for the Plebeians. Although the Senate had little power, Trajan treated them with respect, consulted them, and maintained the Senate’s good will. Some historians say that by doing this, he brought back the “old spirit” of Rome. So, with all of these good deeds under his belt, it’s no wonder that Trajan was the second of Rome’s 5 Good Emperors.

Similarly, Hadrian was considered one of Rome’s Good Emperors as well. Like Trajan, he was a soldier and a strong man. His goal was to give Rome a good start for the future. Hadrian oversaw many building projects and built Hadrian’s Wall, which strengthened the Roman frontier and still exists today. Another one of his building projects was repairing the Pantheon, which had been destroyed in a fire. It, too, still stands. Hadrian also traveled across the empire and stabilized local governments, as well as added to the beautification of Rome. He established cities in Egypt, Asia Minor, and Greece, too. Even better, Hadrian penalized those who mistreated their slaves. Finally, he kept the army in peak condition through constant training and surprise inspections. However, though Hadrian was a brilliant emperor, some may point out that he ordered a public burning of the Torah, and was therefore closed-minded. However, while other emperors persecuted Christians, Hadrian respected their beliefs. So, in that way, he was one of the more open-minded emperors. In the end, Hadrian was a remarkable emperor who made a lasting good impact on Rome as a whole.

Ultimately, while Commodus’s rule led to the decline of Rome, Trajan and Hadrian changed the empire for the better. During his reign, Commodus was brutal and lazy. Eventually, he led a reign of terror that initiated the fall of Rome. Meanwhile, Trajan brought back some of the old ways of Rome through his treatment of the Senate. He contributed to the beautification of the empire and to the welfare of the commoners. Hadrian was much the same. He led numerous successful building projects, and strengthened the empire through his training of the army and cities he established. But while emperors like Hadrian and Trajan had positive influences, the overall system of the empire was not a good one, as it eventually collapsed. Hopefully, though, we can learn from the mistakes of the Romans and use them to make better choices for our future.

All Summer in a Day from the perspective of Margot

In class we read the story All Summer in a Day by Ray Bradbury.  Our assignment was to continue the story from the perspective of one the characters.  I chose Margot.  Here’s the my story.

In the closet, it was utterly black. Trying to see through the gloom was as hopeless as trying to peer through a brick wall. Not even the tiniest ray of light slipped under the door. By the second, the walls seemed to close in around me, and my throat constricted. I needed to escape the grip of the darkness, and quickly.

No matter how vigorously I pounded, though, the door stoutly refused to open. I kicked. I pummeled. I pleaded with it, crying and howling as as vehemently as I could. The stubborn door refused to budge.

I was going to miss the sun.

There was no getting around it. Already, the constant pitter-patter of rain on the rooftop was lessening. The sun would show its face soon enough, and I wouldn’t be there to greet it.

I felt a hatred for my classmates swelling in my chest. They would prance about in the glorious bloom of the sun, not even giving me a second thought. But I would still be here, caged in the stifling darkness, even as the sun drew on a robe of clouds and the sky began to weep.

Finally, after what felt like several small eternities, I was liberated. I squinted into the blinding, light, barely able to make out the ashamed faces of my peers. They twisted their toes into the concrete floor, unable to meet my eyes. No one apologized.

That night when I got home, I made a beeline for my bedroom. I flopped onto my stiff mattress, letting myself get tangled in the mountain of woolen blankets on top. Meanwhile, the rain continued to play its incessant ra ta tat on the roof above. The fat raindrops outside the window seemed to mock me.

So, I turned to where I always turned when things got gray: poetry.

For  me, words seemed to have personalities of their own. They were my companions. So, when things went wrong, I turned to poetry.  

I had piles and piles of crumpled verses stashed beneath my bed, and even more tucked in my closet. Most of them were about the sun. The sun that had shone while I was trapped in  suffocating darkness.

Brimming with anguish, I snatched a gnawed pencil from my bedstand and a sheet of lined paper from under my bed.

I wrote.

Before I knew it, my pencil had scribbled out 7 poems, and the thrumming of the rain had faded into the background. I was just beginning to sag into sleep when my mother crept into my room. “Margot?” she whispered.

I jolted awake. “I’m here,” I groaned.

Mother heaved a sigh and settled onto the end of my bed.

“What’s this?” she asked with concern, holding one of my poems aloft.

“A poem.”

Mother arched her neatly plucked eyebrows and squinted down at the paper, reading my piece, Sun Rays, aloud.

“‘I remember how you were

                                     reaching out,

grasping me in your rays

for I was desperate for a searching light

to glisten in my darkness*’”

She was silent for a moment. Then: “Are all of these about the sun?” she asked incredulously, noticing the poems that littered my bed.

I nodded, nibbling nervously on my lip. “I really miss Earth,” I admitted, tears welling in my eyes. A lump the size of a grape swelled painfully in my throat. “I miss the sun.”

A small puff of air escaped her. “Margot,” she breathed. “I didn’t realize how important the sun is to you. How important it is to us. I didn’t recognize it until I read your poem, but…  I miss the sun as much as you do.”


“Of course. Your happiness, our happiness, is more important than any job. Even if it means a handsome salary.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Was mother really saying what I thought she was saying?

“If you really miss the sun that much…” she took a deep, shaky breath. “We should go back home.”

I could hardly believe it. After all of these years of writing and sobbing and dreaming, my fondest wish was finally coming true!

“So?” my mother prompted.

“Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” I crowed, lit up like a Christmas tree.

As I wrapped my pale arms around my mother’s waist, I realized that all I’d had to do was ask. I’d been so upset about the sun, I never thought to tell my parents about my feelings. The second I did, though, my problem had been solved. Maybe it would help to open up  once in awhile.

The next days seemed to blur together and become a mass of packing and folding and planning. As the the hours dragged on, I became more and more impatient, but I also became more excited. The prospect of seeing the sun left me energized and hopeful- a contrast to my usual moodiness. Even my poems were beginning to take on a brighter tone. Hopefully, it was a permanent change.

Finally, four days post-sun, we hopped on the rocket back to Earth, my true home, and the place where I belonged.

As we sped away from the drenched prison that was Venus, I peered through the window and watched as it shrunk to the size of a soccer ball, then a golf ball… and then it was gone.

Alternative Ending to The Fault in Our Stars

Every marking period in Language Arts, we are required to do an Independent Reading Mini-Project. One of the options was to do an alternate ending for a book you read, so I chose The Fault in Our Stars. Before you read this please know that I’m not trying to correct what I thought was an amazing book. All I changed was the perspective of the novel from Hazel’s to Gus’s. I thought it would be interesting.

Just as one more note before you read. The ending is intentional, but you may not get it if you didn’t read the book.



“Beautiful, huh?”

I motioned down at the shadows of a tree’s curling branches playing across the concrete ground.

“Yeah,” Hazel Grace said.

She and I were on a trip to Amsterdam, standing in front of a cafe. .I looked up at her, noticing the way the sunlight filtered through her hair and made it glow golden. Beautiful.

Hazel Grace was the love of my life, and I was hers. Not trying to sound full of it- but I know it’s true. Everything about her was perfect to me: her face, her laugh, and especially her mind. I love love loved her. I don’t know exactly what she sees in me but… there’s something! What she didn’t know was that our love was a bit star-crossed…

The universe seems to have it out for Hazel and I. It pushed us together, then pulled us apart. Together, apart. Together, apart. Just like those branches I was looking at, in fact. The wind pushed them up against each other, but then yanked them right back again…

“What a good metaphor…”

I didn’t even realize I’d spoken aloud until Hazel Grace responded, “Is it now?”

“The negative image of things blown together and then apart,” I explained. I strategically left out the relation to us, though.

You see, Hazel doesn’t exactly know that our relationship was about to be in the “apart” stage. The universe had, in fact, given us another hurdle to jump over to complete the obstacle course of our relationship. The universe had given me a recurrence.

I know, I’m terrible. I fooled Hazel Grace into thinking that the man she was falling in love with was healthy. In reality, she got a cancer-ridden boy with a single leg. But as soon as she finds out that my disease is back, it’s over. She’d see that our relationship can never be normal. She’d see me as the mess I am and realize that I will unavoidably break her heart. And then she’d want to leave. So no, I hadn’t told her. Like I said, I’m terrible.

But I still couldn’t bring myself to tell her. She deserved to know, but i just couldn’t do it. To distract myself from the guilt, I looked back at the tree branches. They were puppets, and the wind was their puppeteer. And what a master he was! The branches spun and twirled to the unheard beat of nature’s music. I stared, mesmerised. But the longer I looked, the more my metaphor began to catch up to me. In front of my eyes, the branches turned from wood to flesh. They were Hazel Grace and me, and the wind was the universe, pushing and pulling and controlling us. Eventually, I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I could look at this all day, but we should go to the hotel.”

“Do we have time?” Hazel asked.

I struggled to smile. “If only.”

“What wrong?” she asked me, and the panic was tangible in her voice.

I couldn’t speak. All I did was motion towards the hotel.

I walked quickly and ahead of Hazel Grace, not wanting to meet her eyes. Even without looking at her, I could feel her anxiety. I knew if she saw my face, I would break down. I could only hope that I didn’t loose it while I confessed.

When we reached the room, I sat down in an dusty paisley chair. How old was it? 60 years? 70? All I knew was that it was older than I’d ever be. Oh, wow… that was depressing. But I had to keep it together. For Hazel Grace’s sake.

As she entered the room behind me, I drew out a cigarette and popped it between my lips. Just as sure as I wasn’t going to light it, I decided, I wasn’t going to let this cancer control me. Still, I could only hope that Hazel Grace wouldn’t react badly. Sighing, I leaned back and began to speak.

“Just before you went into the ICU, I started to feel this ache in my hip,” I started.

“No,” Hazel said.

I nodded. “So I went for a PET scan,” I explained, then paused. I was really about to do this. I couldn’t believe I could be about to lose Hazel Grace. But I had to do this. I clenched my jaw, trying not to cry. I would not become a sadness in Hazel’s life.

I tried for smile. “I lit up like a Christmas tree, Hazel Grace. The lining of my chest, my left hip, my liver, everywhere.”

Everywhere. Everywhere meant bad things. Everywhere meant death. But still, Hazel Grace got up, dragging herself across the carpet and resting her head on my knee.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, and I realized that no matter what, she would stay with me, because that’s what love is.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” I apologized. “Your mom must know. The way she looked at me. My mom must have told her or something. I should’ve told you. It was stupid. Selfish.”

But she didn’t seem angry. Only sad, and of course that made upset too.

“It’s not fair,” she said. “It’s just so freaking unfair.”

I knew that. But… “The world is not a wish granting factory.”

And in that moment, even if for just a second, I lost control. A sob, sharp and full of pain, escaped from my mouth. I was going to die, And when that happened, so much else wouldn’t. I would never again drink champagne. I would never not smoke. I wouldn’t get to enjoy any of the numerous little things that life had to give me. But most important, I would lose the love of my life. And I would not, could not, let that happen, I pulled her close,

“I’ll fight it. I’ll fight it for you. Don’t you worry about me, Hazel Grace. I’ll find a way to hang around and annoy you for a long time.”

She was crying. Her body trembled against mine as I held her tight, tight, tight.

“I’m sorry. You’ll be okay. It’ll be okay. I promise.” I told her, and smiled, hoping it was true.

I kissed her on the forehead, then held her still closer. Then, all at once, I remembered a conversation I’d had long ago, back when I’d first met Hazel. She’d told me about hamartias, or fatal flaws. Back then, she had thought mine was smoking, until I informed her that my cigarettes were only metaphors. But now, I realized, I had a real fatal flaw: my cancer.

“I guess I had a hamartia after all.”

A few days later, we were home from Amsterdam. For a while, things were okay. I mean, I didn’t feel perfect, but I could still hang out with friends (mainly Hazel), and be at home. But my condition started to deteriorate. I knew the end was near- I was on constant meds, in a wheelchair, and so tired. I could do so little on my own, and it was frustrating as heck. But before I went, I needed to, I could do one last thing. I needed to give Hazel Grace a eulogy.

First, a bit of background. You see, the reason we were in Amsterdam was for a continuation of Hazel’s favorite book, An Imperial Affliction. It had ended abruptly- in the middle of a sentence, in fact. But Hazel and I, we wanted answers. So emails were sent and arrangements were made, and we were set to go visit Peter Van Houten, the author of the novel, in Amsterdam. Unfortunately, things hadn’t gone exactly as planned. Van Houten had turned out to be quite the alcoholic jerk. But he was still an amazing writer, and I needed his help.

After what felt like forever, I was able to draft a letter to Peter Van Houten. I prayed he would help me, despite his personality, because this was important. It was vital that Hazel Grace knew just how vital she was to me. So, here’s what I wrote him:

Van Houten,

I’m a good person but a crappy writer. You’re a crappy person but a good writer. We’d make a good team. I don’t want to ask you any favors, but if you have time – and from what I saw, you have plenty – I was wondering if you could write a eulogy for Hazel. I’ve got notes and everything, but if you could just make it into a coherent whole or whatever? Or even just tell me what I should say differently.

Here’s the thing about Hazel: Almost everyone is obsessed with leaving a mark upon the world. Bequeathing a legacy. Outlasting death. We all want to be remembered. I do, too. That’s what bothers me most, is being another unremembered casualty in the ancient and inglorious war against disease.

I want to leave a mark.

But Van Houten: The marks humans leave are too often scars. You build a hideous minimall or start a coup or try to become a rock star and you think, “They’ll remember me now,” but (a) they don’t remember you, and (b) all you leave behind are more scars. Your coup becomes a dictatorship. Your minimall becomes a lesion.

(Okay, maybe I’m not such a crappy writer. But I can’t pull my ideas together, Van Houten. My thoughts are stars I can’t fathom into constellations.)

We are like a bunch of dogs squirting on fire hydrants. We poison the groundwater with our toxic pee, marking everything MINE in a ridiculous attempt to survive our deaths. I can’t stop peeing on fire hydrants. I know it’s silly and useless – epically useless in my current state – but I am an animal like any other.

Hazel is different. She walks lightly, old man. She walks lightly upon the earth. Hazel knows the truth: We’re as likely to hurt the universe as we are to help it, and we’re not likely to do either.

People will say it’s sad that she leaves a lesser scar, that fewer remember her, that she was loved deeply but not widely. But it’s not sad, Van Houten. It’s triumphant. It’s heroic. Isn’t that the real heroism? Like the doctors say: First, do no harm.

The real heroes anyway aren’t the people doing things; the real heroes are the people NOTICING things, paying attention. The guy who invented the smallpox vaccine didn’t actually invented anything. He just noticed that people with cowpox didn’t get smallpox.

After my PET scan lit up, I snuck into the ICU and saw her while she was unconscious. I just walked in behind a nurse with a badge and I got to sit next to her for like ten minutes before I got caught. I really thought she was going to die, too. It was brutal: the incessant mechanized haranguing of intensive care. She had this dark cancer water dripping out of her chest. Eyes closed. Intubated. But her hand was still her hand, still warm and the nails painted this almost black dark blue and I just held her hand and tried to imagine the world without us and for about one second I was a good enough person to hope she died so she would never know that I was going, too. But then I wanted more time so we could fall in love. I got my wish, I suppose. I left my scar.

A nurse guy came in and told me I had to leave, that visitors weren’t allowed, and I asked if she was doing okay, and the guy said, “She’s still taking on water.” A desert blessing, an ocean curse.

What else? She is so beautiful. You don’t get tired of looking at her. You never worry if she is smarter than you: You know she is. She is funny without ever being mean. I love her. I am so lucky to love her, Van Houten. You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world, old man, but you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices. I hope she likes hers.

So that’s what I sent him. It had been a week, and he had yet to respond. But what had I expected? He’s Peter Van Houten- if he replied at all, it would not be quickly. If only I had time for that. I was sure that when Van Houten responded with Hazel’s edited eulogy, she’d already be behind a lectern, reading my own. So all I could do was hope that the letter would reach her, one day.

At some point, around the 2 month mark home from Amsterdam, I had a realization. I would never attend my funeral. Every other person I knew, all my friends, my family, Hazel… They would all get to go. But not me. And I realized that I wanted to see what they would say, know what they thought. And so I arranged a prefuneral. Granted, only two people would attend: Hazel Grace and my blind friend, Isaac. But they were all I needed.

So I called Hazel, at around 5 o’clock, and Isaac shortly after. I invited them to met me at the Literal Heart of Jesus at 8 o’clock. Oh, and I asked them each to prepare a eulogy. I’m sure they both thought I was crazy, but I would explain everything once we got to the Literal Heart of Jesus.

By the way, that place isn’t exactly what it sounds: it’s actually the church basement where Hazel and Isaac meet for Support Group. It is, however, located in a cross-shaped church, and the basement just so happens to be in the exact center of that cross, where Jesus’ heart would be. And thus, the nickname. But it was special to me not for religious reasons, but because that is where I first met Hazel Grace. I guess I wanted her to say good-bye in the place where we had first waved hello.

I made my way to the church at around 7:30. When I found the doors locked, I used a few slightly immoral tricks to get in, but they were worth it. After all, how often do you get to attend your own funeral in the Literal Heart of Jesus?

Isaac arrived first. We chatted a bit, waiting for Hazel, but it was pretty empty talk. As soon as I explained that he was here attending my prefuneral, he walked behind a little wooden lectern, preparing to speak. Just then, Hazel arrived. Perfect.

“Hazel Grace,” I said, “you look ravishing.” And she did, even in the pajama pants, flip-flops, and t-shirt she was wearing.

“I know, right?” she said, and I could tell she thought I was being sarcastic. Then she noticed Isaac. “Are you going to sit down?” she asked him.

“No, I’m about to eulogize. You’re late,” Isaac explained,

“You’re… I’m… what?”

I motioned for her to sit. “I want to attend my funeral,” I told her. “By the way, will you speak at my funeral?”

I know that was probably an important question to ask before inviting her to a prefuneral, but I had been pretty certain that she would say yes.

“Um, of course, yeah.”

As I predicted. She knelt down to hug me, but although her intentions were good, that hurt tremendously. I winced, and she let go.

“I’m hopeful I’ll get to attend my funeral as a ghost,” I told them, “but just to be sure, I thought I’d- well, not to put you on the spot, but I just this afternoon thought I could arrange a prefuneral, and I figured since I’m in reasonably good spirits, there’s no time like the present.”

“How’d you even get in here?” Hazel grace questioned.

“Would you believe they leave the doors open all night?” I asked.

“Um, no,” she said. Hazel Grace wasn’t stupid.

“As well as you shouldn’t,” I told her. “Anyway, I know it’s a bit self-aggrandizing.”

“Hey!” Isaac exclaimed. “You’re stealing my eulogy! My first bit is about how you are a self-aggrandizing jerk.”

Hazel laughed.

“Okay, okay,” I said. “At your leisure.”

Isaac cleared his throat. “Augustus Waters is a self-aggrandizing jerk. But we forgive him. We forgive him not because he had a heart as figuratively good as his literal one sucked, or because he knew more about how to hold a cigarette than any nonsmoker in history, or because he got eighteen years when he should’ve gotten more.”

“Seventeen,” I corrected him. I was seventeen, and never would be eighteen.

“I’m assuming you have more time, you interrupting jerk,” Isaac told me, then continued.

“I’m telling you Augustus Waters talked so much about him that he’d interrupt you at his own funeral. And he was pretentious: Oh my goodness,, that kid never took a pee without pondering the abundant metaphorical resonances of human waste production. and he was vain: I do not believe I have ever met a more physically attractive person who was more acutely aware of his own physical attractiveness. But I will say this: When the scientists from the future show up at my house with robot eyes and tell me to try them on, I will tell them to screw off because I do not want to see a world without him. And then, having made my rhetorical point, I will put on my robot eyes on , because I mean, with robot eyes you can probably see some pretty interesting things. Augustus, my friend, Godspeed.”

Hazel was full out crying, and I was welling up. I pursed my lips, trying to keep from crying, then flashed my buddy thumbs up.

“I would cut the bit about seeing interesting things though,” I told him.

“Wow, Augustus, editing your own eulogy.” Isaac said, but through shaking sobs. “Hazel, can i get a hand here?” Hazel helped Isaac away from the podium, and then she began.

My name is Hazel. Augustus Waters was the great star-crossed love of of my life. Ours was an epic love story, and I won’t be able to get more than a sentence into it without disappearing into a puddle of tears. Gus knew. Gus knows. I will not tell you our love story, because like all real love stories, it will die with us. As it should. I’d hoped that he’d be eulogizing me, because there is no one I’d rather have. I can’t talk about our love story, so I will talk about math. I am not a mathematician, but I know this. There is an infinite between 0 and 1. There’s .1 and .12 and .112 and an infinite collection of others. Of course there is a bigger infinite set of numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and a million. Some infinities are bigger than other infinities. A writer we used to like taught us that. There are days, many days of them, when I resent the size of my unbounded set. I want more numbers than I’m likely to get, and God, I want more numbers for Augustus Waters than he got. But, Gus, my love, I cannot tell you how thankful I am for our little infinity. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. You have me a forever within the numbered days, and I’m grateful.”

The next day, I went to the hospital. I knew I was about to die, to cease to exist, to end. The panic came first, and then the regrets. I would miss so much, loose so much. I would never make my mark. But I would make my mark on Hazel Grace, and the more I thought about it, that would be enough. Everyone wishes to be extraordinary. Including me. But maybe being extraordinary isn’t what makes life worthwhile. If you are special to even one person, that is enough. Hazel Grace loved me, and we both loved our little


Alternative ending to The Book Thief (DV)

What if the book thief’s story ended differently?

Picture yourself walking down Himmel Street in the dark. Your hair is getting wet and the air pressure is on the verge of drastic change.

The sky is stained a tomato soup red, boiling and stirring. Burnt crumbs and pepper streak the heavens. Ash rains down onto baked pavement. Himmel Street is burning.

The sirens began to howl.

“Too late now,” I thought, “for that little exercise.” For everyone had been fooled, and fooled again.


The book thief’s world was about to end.

The sky had unfolded its infernal reds and charcoal blacks above Himmel Street, and the radio began to release its cuckoo shrieks.

Hans Hubermann lay, cocooned in rough woolen sheets. Charred cigarettes slouched, disfigured, on his ashtray.  Next to him, Rosa lay snoring, cardboard face creased, arms splayed out across the bed. Hearing the wails, they stirred.

Liesel Meminger wrote.

She was perched on a rusty paint can, The Book Theif  open in one palm, a pencil clutched in the other.


I have hated the words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.


Satisfied that she had said all she wanted to say, the book thief snapped the little black book closed.

That’s when she heard the sirens.

The deafening noise pounded in her ears, a panicky chorus. Through a flurry of hysteria, Liesel noticed Mama and Papa descending into the basement, worried looks etched onto their faces.

“Liesel.” Hans Hubermann set leathery, paint dyed hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “We missed our chance. The bombs are here.”

The book thief’s breath caught in her throat. The world went quiet, as if someone had stuffed cotton in her ears. Liesel forced herself to nod, and let herself drown in the accepting embrace of her parents.

When I arrived, I found them huddled in the center of the cold basement.

Hans’ soul sat up to meet me, like the best souls always did. This one was sent out by the breath of an accordion, the odd taste of champagne in the summer, and the art of promise-keeping. He lay in my arms and rested.

Rosa let out a final shuddering breath as I scooped up her soul. If she had seen me, I’m sure she would have called me a Saurkerl, though I would not have taken it badly.


I picked up one more soul that night.

As I gathered Liesel’s soul in my arms, she looked up at the others that I had collected.  She looked sadly at Ilsa Hermann, at Rudy, and at her Mama and Papa.

“I love you,” she said softly, and I whisked her away.


It kills me sometimes, how people die.


Trouble In Paradise

This school assignment required us to watch a short video and then describe the story.

Trouble in Paradise

The sun smiles down on a lonesome palm in the middle of the South Pacific. It’s rays playfully lick each leaf and dapple the small, sandy island in sunlight. Really, it’s nothing short of paradise, and that’s the way Chester, the crab, likes it. Now, you can see him kicking up the sand in a vain effort to expand his shaded home beneath the tree. Meanwhile, a coconut thumps to the ground behind him. Oblivious, Chester pokes his scarlet head out of the ground, grumbling. He hasn’t been having the best of days, but he hopes a stroll across the sunbaked beach will improve his mood.

However, it is not meant to be. Pivoting around on pointed feet, Chester notices an unwelcome visitor to his private oasis. He’s not quite sure what it is, but whatever it may be, it can’t be good. “This won’t do!” he exclaims in his throaty voice. The trespasser is a brown, round, and strangely hairy. Suspicious, Chester scuttles behind a sand dune and regards it from a distance. His mind races, devising a plan to get rid of this intruder.

Eventually, Chester decides that he needs to take this matter into his own claws. He carefully approaches the foreign object and extends his claw. Tap, tap. “Hmm,” he observes, “it sounds hollow.” He taps again, and this time the intruder rolls over, exposing three holes. Chester jumps in alarm. “It has to go!”

Dune after dune, Chester heaves the long, heavy object to shore. It’s a long and arduous process to be sure, but Chester keeps at it, determined to have the island all to himself. At long last, the intruder is lost to the waves. Satisfied with his handiwork, Chester looks on as the object floats into the horizon. Ready to start his long-due walk, Chester scampers to the heart of the island. There, an unwelcome sight awaits him.

There’s a new intruder, and this one doesn’t look like it’s going to move anytime soon.

Once Upon a Time: A Guide to Creative Writing

While I was in school, I did an ILP, or Independent Learning Project. We had to write a guided report and create a visual presentation on a topic we were interested in. I chose creative writing.

This is my essay:


The Question

Words march across the page like shiny black ants, their numbers growing by the second. As you type more and more letters, the colony swells until it fills 3…4…5 pages!  You continue to hack away at the keys like a mad pianist. The black symbols swarm in front of you, threatening to engulf you in nouns, adjectives, and verbs. But the story just has to get done! If you see yourself among these sentences, you are a writer, without the shadow of a doubt. Writing has always had a special place in my life. Even when I was still toddling about on stubby legs, I was being read the classics – Goodnight Moon and The Purple Crayon are just some. I even memorized a few and began to tell them to others. This love of storytelling has grown with me. Currently, I am in the process of writing and (hopefully) publishing an ebook with my twin sister. I also have a blog called DNA Wordshop, where I share my love of words (and my creative stories) with the world. In my book, any story is one worth reading.

Much of my love of stories comes from a podcast called Storynory. From an early age, I was listening to the adventures of Bertie the Frog Prince, Katie the Good Witch, and many more original characters. I listened more and more, until I was spending practically every minute of every day engaged in one story or another.

Through this, I unconsciously learned the elements of a good story. If I wanted to have any hope of creating a masterpiece of words, I realized, there were several things I needed. First: characters. Any good story (or any story, for a matter of fact) needs characters. My characters could be anything from an ant to an elephant, so long as they had personality traits. These are also very broad. No one ever said characters had to be likable. In fact, the villain of the story is called the antagonist, while the protagonist is the main character. Second: problems and solutions. I was quick to realize that each and every story I had listened to had an issue, which got resolved by the end of story. I knew that a story couldn’t be called a story without a problem and solution.  Third: dialogue. Every Storynory tale I’ve ever listened to included dialogue, and for a good reason. Dialogue moves a creative story along and gives the reader insight into what a character is like.  Lastly: voice. This is probably the most important lesson of all.  Natasha (the woman who read the stories) had a different voice for each story. She sometimes used serious tones of voice if the story was a solemn one, or talked energetically during more upbeat stories.  How does she know what to do? I wondered. The answer? Voice, ironically.  The voice of a story is how the main character views the world. Depending on the kind of story being written, the voice will be different. Over time, I have developed a voice of my own.

Writing is very important to me, so I know quite a bit about it. However, there is always room to grow. I’ve learned about writing strictly through personal experience and school assignments. In my pre-searching, though, I have found multiple websites that provide useful hints to hone my writing skills. You bet that these tips will be making appearance in some of my stories. I’m eager to start sharpening my pencil and refining my creative work. Through this ILP, I hope to become the best writer I can possibly be. My goal is to implement all of the things I learn during research in my everyday writing. In essence, I want to grasp these things: What are some things you can do to become a better creative writer? How do creative writers develop a good plot? What are some common creative writing mistakes? I’m interested to see whether I already practice any tips I’ll learn. I also can’t wait to know how to develop a plot, because this is not my strong suit. Mostly, though, I hope I’m not making any mistakes in my writing! Even if I am, though, the whole point of the ILP is to learn.

What I Learned

 So, what are some tips I can use to become a better writer? For the most part, all you have to do is write. I know it seems obvious, but so many people just don’t write! They assume that they can snap their fingers and they will become a writer, just like that. Not so. Creating a story takes effort. You can’t just slap together some words and call it art. It is important to write something every day, and establish a schedule that works for you. Maybe you can write for 30 minutes every day before you go to bed, or just after you read. It makes a difference! As Matt Blackstone, author of Sorry You’re Lost put it: “Write a lot, but it helps if you can train yourself to write at around the same time every day.” And, if you truly want to be a writer, stop procrastinating. Put away your phone and sit down at the computer to write. You’ll be surprised at what you can create with a little discipline.

I know you won’t want to, but revising is also an important part of writing. If you don’t revise, you may as well not write at all. Taking advice is always hard, whether it be from yourself or someone else. But if your creative side is nagging you to fix something, do it. “Be brave,” said Matt Blackstone. “Ignore the voice inside of you that says you can’t.” Blackstone also pointed out that in order to really bring your piece to life, you need to have fun with it. Write about what you care about, not anyone else. Keeping writing personal can propel you to the next level. While revising, also try to look for grammar and spelling mistakes that you make a lot. Scan through the piece and replace any weak words (especially verbs) with some fresh vocabulary. It can make all the difference!

My next tip? Read, read, read! You might be doing it already, but if you’re not, it’s time to get started. Reading is the key to success when it comes to writing. Reading can help you expand your vocabulary. You should read anything and everything! Reading a variety of books shows you what works the best for your own story. It exposes you to different writing styles and shows you what else is out there, according to Matt Blackstone. Mostly, it helps you build up a love of words. You can’t say you’re a writer unless you’re a reader first! In the words of Kate DiCamillo (author of Because of Winn Dixie and Tales of Despereaux) “Read, read, read, read, read.”

Through my research, I’ve realized that I am practicing many, but not all, of these suggestions. While I was researching, I found myself clicking link after link at the bottoms of pages. The more articles I read, the more I realized how much I could do to make my writing better. I found that there was one website in particular that had a lot of good information, Writing Forward. I read and reread her posts, learning more each time. I also emailed multiple authors, two of which responded. One of the responses was rather rushed, but the other gave long, detailed answers. As it turns out, typing a question into the search bar isn’t all that goes into research. I have also made it my goal to write more consistently than I currently do. Perhaps I will write for 20 minutes after I read each night, since my creative juices will already be flowing. I will also make a point to write about what I really care about. Sometimes I’ll find myself writing pages and pages of fluff — which is to say, empty words. The interview with Matt Blackstone really hit home for me on this topic, and I know now that fluff is not okay. As far as reading goes, I would also like to expand my horizons. I am stuck in the “Fiction Trap”, and refuse to read anything else. It’s about time I end all that. I have read one or two autobiographies, and have found them to be quite good.  I’ll try to start reading more of those. I hope to begin implementing these strategies into my daily life, and that my writing will be the better for it.

Now for my second question: How does a creative writer develop a good plot? When it comes to the plot of your story, a story arcs is a must. There are three main points that need to be addressed if you hope to keep your readers turning pages. First of all, there is the exposition. You might also know it as the introduction, but exposition is the proper term. This is the lowest point on your story mountain. In it, the setting, characters, and conflict are introduced, says Glen C. Strathy on his website, How to Write a Book Now. You’ll want to make your main character likable, so readers will root for them through the entire story. However, not only should your protagonist be likable, they should be lifelike. Get to know your character. Matt Blackstone recommends answering these questions: What does he/she like? How does he/she speak? What is he/she scared of? If you know your main character, you will also know how they will react to whatever predicament you put them in. This character must have a goal as well. This is what Strathy has to say: “The Story Goal is, generally speaking, what your protagonist wants to achieve or the problem he/she wants to resolve.” You should establish the things your character needs to accomplish before they reach this goal. To keep readers hooked, tell them the consequences if your main character doesn’t accomplish their goal.  

Although it seems a little backward, you need to decide on your conclusion before you go any further. Knowing where you want to go with the piece helps you on your journey to creating an engaging composition. According to Strathy, there are four different types of stories: comedy, tragedy, comi-tragedy, and tragi-comedy. (The last two are unofficial names.) This translates into four different types of resolutions. Comedies, despite popular belief, are not always humorous. A comedy, put simply, is a story with a happily ever after ending. The main character accomplishes his or her goal, and is satisfied with the results. As you may have guessed, a tragedy is the opposite of a comedy. A tragedy is basically a happy ending gone wrong. The protagonist (tragically) never sees his dreams come to life. A comi-tragedy is the ending when your character achieves their goal, but it is not all they hoped for. A tragi-comedy is the exact opposite. The main character fails to reach his or her goal, but realizes that things were better this way. Having one of these endings in mind makes your writing more organized and purposeful.

Before the resolution, there is the climax, which is the turning point in the story. This is the highest point on your story arc. This is how Strathy explains it: In the climax, the main character makes a decision about himself or his goal that changes the rest of the story. It’s the point of the story where there is the most tension. Your climax changes depending on what kind of resolution you’d like. If your aim is to write a comedy or a comi-tragedy, your character should either stick with a good trait, let go of a bad one, or take on a good one. If you want a tragedy or a tragi-comedy, then your protagonist should do the opposite. If you put all of this together, you’ll have yourself a solid plot outline.

Multiple times while researching this topic, I found myself thinking: Wow. I don’t do this. As bad as that sounds, I believe that’s a good thing. It means there is room to improve. Because of my extensive research, I now know how. I discovered a website, How to Write a Book Now, that gave step-by- step instructions on how to develop a plot. It sure was helpful! I also had good advice from experts. A detailed yet comprehensive response from Matt Blackstone allowed me to learn how the masters create plots of their own. From this point forward, I plan on making sure my setting, characters, and conflict are introduced in my exposition. I will also be more thorough when it comes to creating my characters, and answer the key questions Matt Blackstone recommends. In my stories, I’ll keep my ending in mind, so my writing is actual writing, not just aimless wandering. I hope to put these plans into action as soon as I possibly can. Hopefully, using these tips will help me make great strides on my road to writing a book with an intriguing plot.

We have finally come to my last question: What are some common writing mistakes? Many people think that writing a tale is as easy as pie. Surely, it’s impossible to mess up creative writing, right? Wrong. I hate to burst your bubble, but like with anything, mistakes in writing are inevitable. However, you can learn to tame your fears. It all starts with thinking positive. Sure, you’ll make some slip-ups in the process of writing, but you can’t let it get to you. View your blunders as opportunities in disguise, at least for the first draft. If you use too many adjectives, so what? You can do it better the next time. If you lose your document, what’s the big deal? You brush yourself off and get back on your seat. Now you know to save your work. Writing a draft is fun, so keep it that way. Matt Blackstone recommends naming revision files “recreation”, “playtime”, or other positive names. “Mistakes? No such thing.” he wrote. I couldn’t have said it better myself.

Having said that, there are still a few common writing mistakes  opportunities to watch out for, especially during revisions. You can afford to become a little bit more picky the second time around. I can’t tell you how much I dislike a lifeless beginning. Readers don’t want to trudge through a stale exposition. No matter how much better the story gets, there’ll always be those readers who put down a book within the first humdrum chapter, or who will abandon a short story after one tedious paragraph. I’d have to say that a lot of the time, a creative story has a beginning that just falls flat. Melissa Donovan explains why on her website, Writing Forward. It’s because as we write, we get to know our characters and get into the swing of things. The best thing to do is write a shaky introduction to start, and revise it later, when you know what you want.

On a different note, you should also try to avoid verbiage. By definition, verbiage is an “overabundance or superfluity of words, as in writing or speech; wordiness” says Donovan. Using too many words is a problem many writers face, including myself. Sometimes, writers feel the need to use paragraph upon paragraph where a single sentence would do. On Writing Forward it lists some reasons why: perhaps you are trying to fulfill the requirements for a school paper, or maybe you just want to sound smart. Whatever the reason, verbiage is not something you should make a habit of.

As I did my research, I couldn’t help but think that I have made every single one of these mistakes. However, I am determined to put a stop to it. An email response from an experts yielded the best results yet. From it, I learned that failure is a part of writing, and that I should take it in stride and learn from it. After reading another really good article from Writing Forward, I was on my way to understanding mistakes real writers make. Putting myself down will become a thing of the past, and I’ll make sure my beginnings are always full of action. I’ll also try to limit redundant words, since those make up most of my pieces. Although it will be difficult, I know doing these things will develop my writing skills. Now that I know which problems to address, improving my stories will be a breeze.

How I Have Grown as a Researcher

I have to say, this project has really shaped me as a researcher. With each and every question I researched, I learned more and more. Now I know to read and re-read articles. The first time through, you are bound to miss some important details. As I learned, reading an article again insures I’m able to milk the source for all it’s worth. I also realized that note-taking is just as important to research as finding the sites to begin with. Taking notes deepens my understanding and helps me get my thoughts out on paper. Throughout the writing of this essay, I spent more time referring to my note sheets than I did actually writing! The last thing I realized was that it is good to have several go-to websites. When I find one, I should make sure to read any posts it has that regard my questions. It helps to click on any website links that may come up while reading; you might find an additional key source.

I felt that all of these areas were great successes, since learning is the best reward of all. However, I think I also did well in finding sources. I found several solid websites that provided practical information. These sites had many, many, posts that succeeded in answering all my questions and more. All of these things point to the fact that I was successful at the most important thing of all: choosing a topic. At first I had my doubts that there would be websites devoted to writing. As you have seen, though, that should have been the least of my worries. In the long run, choosing creative writing as a topic was a good full movie

Despite these successes, I had my share of failures as well. Next time I need to research a topic, there are a few things I’ll make sure to do. For instance, I will try to email more experts. Although I contacted five authors, only two responded. Out of those two, one expert gave little to no advice. I know now that extensive research on experts is a must. I should try to contact those people who will most likely respond, and email as many people as possible. Although five is a fair amount, I could have done better. The more people I reach out to, the more people will respond! I also failed to check my sources for reliability. In terms of the craft of creative writing, information can only be so inaccurate. However, in other cases, checking for reliability is extremely important. Outdated data can be your downfall if you are researching science or history. Luckily, I checked my sources when I realized I had not done so. However, that was after I had written an entire essay based on my sources. Image what a disaster it would be if you found your whole paper was based off of false information! Ultimately, the process of writing this paper was one I will never forget.


Works Cited

Blackstone, Matt. Interview: 2 May 2016

DiCamillo, Kate. “Writing Tips.” Kate DiCamillo. N.p., n.d. Web. 1 May 2016. <>.

Donovan, Melissa. “8 Common Creative Writing Mistakes.” Writing Forward. N.p., 25 Mar. 2013. Web. 21 Apr. 2016. <>.

– – -. “The 22 Best Writing Tips Ever.” Writing Forward. N.p., 8 May 2014. Web. 21 Apr. 2016. <>.

Gutman, Dan.  Interview: 5 May 2016

Strathy, Glen C. “How to Create a Plot Outline in 8 Easy Steps.” How to Write a Book Now. N.p., n.d. Web. 1 May 2016. <>.

– – -. “Plot Development: Climax, Resolution, and Your Main Character.” How to Write a Book Now. N.p., n.d. Web. 1 May 2016. <>.



Hatshepsut: The Queen Who Was King

Without a doubt, Hatshepsut lived up to her title of King of Egypt. Despite popular belief, she made advances in trade, built the country peacefully, and did things her own way. In fact, Hatshepsut led a very successful trading expedition, which was perhaps her most famous accomplishment. Although she was shamed for having “stolen” the throne from her stepson, Thutmose III, Hatshepsut did it for the greater good. This strong leader never let cultural expectations dictate her actions. She proved that women could be good leaders through her actions as pharaoh. Hatshepsut was one of the most caring and successful pharaohs Egypt ever saw.

Hatshepsut was anything but a bad leader. Actually, she helped Egypt in too many ways to count. First of all, she led a trading expedition to the Land of Punt, Egypt’s southern neighbor. Hatshepsut sent caravans full of scribes, soldiers, artists, and attendants to the Red Sea. There, they loaded 5 wooden cargo ships with surplus goods from Egypt. These included papyrus, golden jewelry, and bronze weapons. Two years later, the ships returned laden with “ivory, ebony, gold, leopard skins, and incense.” (according to  the History article) They also carried back government officials from Punt. Hatshepsut also tried to engage soldiers in non-violent activities by sending them on trade expeditions. This bettered Egypt greatly, and it was all thanks to Hatshepsut.

However, trade wasn’t the only thing Hatshepsut was known for. Staying true to her pacifist nature, Hatshepsut built the country through non-military means. She instead focused her energy on trade and agriculture. Although much evidence of Hatshepsut’s reign was erased by Thutmose III, her magnificent buildings still stand today. According to the History article, “Her greatest achievement was the enormous memorial temple at Deir el Bahri, considered one of the architectural wonders of ancient Egypt.”

Hatshepsut also commissioned granite obelisks. She even built religious temples and fixed up those that were in disrepair. Although she ruled after a long line of warriors, Hatshepsut’s harmonious reign was a successful one. Lastly, Hatshepsut broke cultural boundaries by becoming pharaoh. Many people frowned upon Hatshepsut for being a female pharaoh, but she tried not to let her gender get in the way of her ruling. To gain credibility, Hatshepsut was depicted as a male on many images and temple walls. In these pictures, she wore the regalia of a male, as well as a fake beard, which was traditional of male pharaohs. She was also buried with her royal father.

Hatshepsut was discredited for the means by which she took the throne as well. Many people thought it was a coldhearted bid for power, but that wasn’t the case. You see, when Hatshepsut’s husband, Thutmose II (who was pharaoh at the time), died, the throne went to the infant Thutmose III. Thutmose III was Hatshepsut’s stepson, as he was born to a secondary wife of Thutmose II. Clearly, Thutmose III was too young to handle the responsibilities of being pharaoh, so Hatshepsut stepped in as his regent. A regent is someone who takes over duties for someone of a royal bloodline who is either incapacitated or too young.

Over time, Hatshepsut began turning herself into a pharaoh. First, says “The Woman who Would be King”, “…she took on a ‘throne’ name…Hatshepsut’s throne name was Maatkare.” She also called herself “King of Upper and Lower Egypt”, and began showing herself as Thutmose III’s equal on temple walls. Recent studies suggest that this may not have been due to greediness, but a political crisis. Perhaps there were threats from another branch of the family. Hatshepsut was only trying to save the throne for her stepson. Still, this was a bold and unprecedented step that makes Hatshepsut stand out in history. In the end, Hatshepsut made Egypt highly prosperous.

Although Hatshepsut was king, she proved that she was much more than that. She should be remembered as a strong, king leader. To this day, Hatshepsut is associated with trade. She was a non-hostile person, and didn’t depend on violence to expand Egypt. Hatshepsut showed the world that things could be done differently. We can all learn from Hatshepsut’s peaceful reign. Today, we all think that violence is the answer to everything. Hatshepsut’s rule is testament to the untruth of this. She showed that violence isn’t necessary for success, and that message will carry on for generations.

Woman in the Snow

This was a school assignment to take the point of view of someone else in a story we read.  We had to rewrite the story from that person’s point of view.

Woman in the Snow

Having a baby was harder than I expected.  I was constantly on edge, making sure my precious bundle of joy didn’t suffer any harm. That’s how I was with my Jada.  She was a ray of sunshine in my disaster of a life:  no money, no education, no peace of mind.  It was my only job to make sure Jada stayed happy and healthy.  I had failed.

It was hard to believe how tranquil it had been just two days ago.  Jase was looking for work, but Jada and I were happy as can be.  Strolling through our little garden she scratched herself on something – now I knew it must have been a rusty nail in our collapsing fence.  I’d rinsed the cut, but didn’t give it a second thought otherwise.

I show have.  After a day, Jada’s symptoms were beginning to show.  After two days I was mortified.  She was ashy and burning up with what felt like a 104 degree fever.  With no insurance and no transportation, things were looking bleak,  But, going to the hospital was the only hope.

Forging my way on foot, through the bitter cold, Jada wailed in my embrace.  She was hot as coal with each step I was fighting icy pinpricks of sleet.  It was all my fault.  My fault that Jase was out looking for work, my fault that Jada was suffering, and my fault she wasn’t at the hospital. I had to fix it.  Jada would not, could not die.  Suffering my way across the road, I heard the rumble of a bus approaching.

Seeing me, the driver slowed to a halt and climbed out.  He was a rotund white man in a dull grey uniform.  His face told me he was all business.  As he made his way toward me, I wrapped my jacket more tightly around Jada and I.  I wished for the thousandth time that I had grabbed something heavier than a blanket and windbreaker on the mad rush out the door.

“Look here,” he told me gruffly.  “I’ve closed down the route.  I’m taking the bus in.”

I was hysterical and made sure he knew it. “I need help, please, ” I pleaded.  “My husband’s gone to Memphis looking for work, and the baby is sick, real sick.  She needs to go to the hospital.  I know she’ll die if I don’t get help.” I explained through racking sobs.  By now my bare feet were numb, and Jada almost too hot to touch.

After an eternity, the driver Grady (it said on his name tag) signed.  “Well, I got to go by the hospital on the way back to the garage.  You can ride that far.  ” He crossed his arms and nodded to me for money.

I was then I realize that along with shoes, I had forgotten to grab my purse.  My heart sank into my stomach.  “I-I don’t have the fare,” I mumbled.  “But if you let me ride, I’ll bring it to you in the morning.”

He snarled, “Give an inch and y’all want a mile. You know the rules.  No money. No ride!”

Hot tears welled up in my eyes and sob stuck in my throat.  Anger roared in my ears, Jada, my baby, was dying, dying! Why couldn’t this insolent man see that?

“Please!” I cried, “Feel her head. She’s burning up.” Grady did nothing.  I searched myself in a futle attempt to find something to pay with.  All I had was my golden wedding rind.  To save Jada, I had to let it go.  The driver refused it, and snapped something about me over-reacting, but I had already despaired.

The wind howled in time with my heart.  Jada was slipping away from me with every passing second.  Watching the bus rumble away was like losing the last of your breath underwater; helplessness and horror overwhelmed me.

I couldn’t give up though.  Jase and Jada are both counting on me.  So I summoned what energy I had left, and trundled on, past the bakery, past the library.  As I grew more numb and sluggish, Jada grew more agitated.  I was nearing the hospital at last when I felt myself slipping away.  Jada was now cold and still.  As the darkness enveloped me, I knew we were dying.  If only I had noticed the cut sooner, if only I had money, if only the driver had shown us kindness…


My Name

My name is Ariana.  More specifically, Ariana (a very holy one) Carmela Velasquez.  But I’ll focus on my first name, what I respond to , and the name that has become me.  My parents gave me this title, in part to be able to choose something that would be pronounced teh same in English and Spanish, so my father’s heritage, Panama, wouldn’t be lost on my twin and me.  But I wasn’t always Ariana.  I was going to be Daniela, the name that was, in the end, given to my sister.  However, my mother wanted Baby A (me!) to be Ariana, and Daniela to be the hyper one, and even in the womb, she was a kicker.  I however, was relaxed and Sous le même toit 2017 movie now

Before I was even Daniela, I had a different name:  Opportunity.  I know that’s odd, so I’ll take a moment to explain.  The two space rovers (Spirit and Opportunity) had just been launched, and simultaneously, Gwyneth Paltrow had named her child Apple.  My mom was inspired by Gwyneth’s originality.  My father wasn’t. So with that, Opportunity was corssed off the list and my parents moved on.  The end result, Ariana, is shared with the singing sensation Ariana Grande, whose name is too often compared to mine.  Also I share my name with Ariana Dumbledore, as seen in Harry Potty books 6 and 7.  To of my favorite stories!

Speaking of favorite, Ariana, to me is not the ideal name.  Sure, its’ nice, but there are other names I prefer to it.  Valerie, Remi, Shay, and Teddy all please me, but if I were to exchange Ariana, I would opt for Teddy.  It’s one of my sister’s favorite names, and she says it suits me. “Its solid, like you.” she told me. “Plus it can also be a boy name, and you have a ‘tomboy attitude’, even though you aren’t a tomboy.” Ariana sort of reflects that, I guess, but mostly it reminds me of a queen’s portrait, with a the woman wearing an extremely gaudy crown.

Maybe this queen is Greek?  My name comes from the Greek name Ariandne.  I think that name is rather elegant.  Ariana is sometimes sounds short and rough.  It fits the personality that I let the world see, but not really the inside me.  My middle name, Carmela, is better.  It belonged to my maternal grandmother, or Baba.  On the paternal side, I have, of course, my last name, Velasquez.  I actually think it sounds kind of sophisticated, but I worry about losing opportunities because of bias against my Hispanic surname,  I won’t, though, let people think badly of my family.  I love them and I’m proud of them.  That’s the end of discussion.

Nearly the beginning, I was Opportunity.  I might want to be a Teddy or Shay, but I am Ariana, a very holy one,  and a mix of two countries.  I’m glad for my name, even if I don’t love it 100% of the time.  Anyway, it’s mind, the one my parents chose for me.  I’m Ariana Carmela Velasquez.