English I/II Pieces



by Tristen Stoll

Dogs have accompanied man for centuries. One of those dogs has a special place in my heart. His name is Bosco DeLaRosco Brown. But we call him Bosco. Bosco is a cute purebred English Labrador Retriever. He is also a stumpy, brown, cinder-block-headed dog. Every day when I come home, he is always the first thing I see: sitting waiting for me, lying on the porch, or taking a nap in his chair.

When I hop out of the car, his ears and tail immediately perk up. As he spies me walk toward the porch, like a fish jumping out of the water, he flings himself in the air. Every step I take makes him wriggle higher and higher into the air. Sometimes when I step on the porch he is so excitedly wriggling and hurling himself so high that he flips himself over and lands on his head, back, or butt. When I reach the porch, I drop my school gear and give him a huge squeeze. As I hug him looks at the person closest and makes his sad face look: help me. After I put my gear inside I come back to release him from the rope that holds him on the porch.

Bosco then darts away as fast as he can, turns around, and starts running in circles or patterns, longing to be chased. When he runs, the wind blows his stumpy, soft, fluffy, brown ears around like rag dolls. His tail tucks in a perfect curling loop between his legs. His tongue flops around his mouth. He looks as if he is screaming and running around shouting, "My boy is here! My boy is here!"

Grievous Destruction

by Diesel Messenger

My brother qualifies as a weapon
of mass destruction.
CRASH! Tinkle.
He's on the rampage
The fighter screams past
firing every concealed missile
in random directions.
The blackened heap of rubble
that used to be my mother's patience
is all that remains.
He streaks through the house like a tornado.
Grenades fall on each unsuspecting organized party.
He rockets to the ground
creating a massive crater in the earth.
When the dust clears,
there is only my brother,
fast asleep in a pile
of broken plane parts.

Typing vs Handwriting

by Sascha Stoll

Typing is easier than handwriting. It is definitely easier to type speedily than it is to write fast. Last year in my school, my grade received Chromebooks to take home for doing our work on them. Handwriting something always takes much more time than it does to type on a computer. When I was learning to write, it took me approximately one-and-a-half years, whereas I learned to typed in a few months. This was also true for everyone in my class.

When learning to type, students could see the keys and identify the letters they wanted. While writing by hand, it is necessary to call the letter to your brain then write it down. It is much easier to identify and press, instead of identify, recall, and write. Handwriting makes your hand sore so you can't write well anymore.

Handwriting is also sloppy. Handwritten work is always much harder to read than it would have been if the same document had been typed. Typing also makes it easier to remember indenting paragraphs. I much prefer typing to handwriting, as it feels easier to type fast, easier to learn to type, and easier to type neatly.


by Diesel Messenger

I watch the hummingbirds circle my perch. They buzz around excitedly, extracting sweet nectar from flowers. My algae-covered paws reach out and try and touch them; but I'm always too slow. The birds aren't the most sagacious creatures. They are always worrying about something, but they're lots of fun to watch. Some of them have beaks the length of their bodies, which helps them reach into the deepest flowers while gathering nectar. They're well-fed but ruffled from the lack of an adequate beak to groom themselves.

I don't do much, but then again, I don't need much either. My hobbies include napping, eating, and watching life go by. Frozen in my position, I can view a diverse menagerie of life and death. One of the perks of being very inactive is that an algae the color of the forest grows on my fur, making me almost undetectable. Jaguar would almost have to step on me to find my hiding place.

However, I have one major vulnerability: every week, I must descend to the forest floor to relieve myself. If I had to describe it using only one word, that word would be: intense. Every second counts. Heart racing, every muscle in my body straining to move at my top speed (three meters per minute) I strive to reach sweet relief. After doing my business, I make my way back up the tree. Exhaustion then causes me to collapse on a branch and sleep for twenty hours.

I accomplish my business relatively quickly and quietly, while not attracting much attention. However, in my youth, I developed a capriciousness which ultimately led to the loss of my mostly useless, but still existent, tail. Ahe-hem. Once upon a midnight bathroom break, I crashed through the canopy to the forest floor. After pooping at the base of a tree, I felt distinctly dehydrated. Normally sloths get all the water they need from fruit and vegetables, but I had only eaten a single dried-out mango. Thirst must be quenched, and conveniently, there was a river very nearby. Being the reckless young sloth that I was, I decided to crawl over land rather than safely climb over to it, hang from a branch, and drink. At the water's edge I decided that I not only wanted a drink, but felt the need for a swim, too. While sloths are very slow creatures, our speed is slightly increased in water; this ability is sometimes necessary to find a mate if one is unavailable on your own side of the river.

Being a young soul, I wasn't a particularly good swimmer. My stroke was accompanied by much unstealthy splashing and flailing about. When it was time to dry off, I made my way to the edge of the river, but before I climbed out, a hangry piranha gripped my tail in its jaws. I let loose an exclamatory noise and grabbed onto a bush with my immensely strong claws. I pulled myself free, intact, except for my tail.

I made my way up the tree to lick my wounds and recuperate. A tail is one of the only sources of a sloth's vanity; it's a way to show your grandness and compete. Now all I have is my beautiful, moss-covered coat. The stump on my behind will forever remind me of my foolish audacity.

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