Isabella is on Fire, part two

“Please.” He chokes out in a tiny voice, and as if nothing satisfies her, the room only gets darker and darker, and scarier and scarier. Her eyes have turned a cold, solid, shiny plastic black and her hair has gone rigid.
“S-sorry?” It is a question coming from his horrified face.
“Yes Edwin, you are very, very sorry.” Her voice deepens and Edwin sees her muscles tighten, and he takes a timid step back in fear.
“Isabella… please. I beg you. I am sorry. Please forgive me.” Edwin can tell from her illuminating energy that he said something very wrong.
“FORGIVE YOU?!” she shrieks, “FORGIVE?!… YOU?!” Every muscle in Edwin’s body is screaming, begging, pleading to run. Get out of that tiny little room that seemed to be getting smaller and suffocating him more and more each second.
“I TRUSTED YOU EDWIN! YOU KILLED MY FISH! YOU DID! YOU REALLY, REALLY DID!” hearing it come out of Isabella’s mouth makes it seem silly, and Edwin, gaining confidence by the second, sustains a grin.
“Isabella, hear me out. I can save it!” Edwin is taming her, her mean energy fading, and some color comes back into her cheeks.
“But… but… it’s…. she’s… She’s dead.” Isabella sighs, Her fists unclenching and her eyes turning into a soft, sad powder blue color. Edwin feels it’s ok to approach her, and he puts his still shaking arm gently around her shoulder.
“But I can bring her back.” He whispers into her ear. She gasps and her eyes widen with shock and confusion.
To be continued...

"Isabella is on fire." A Story By: Claire Carlson

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Isabella is on fire. Her bleach blonde hair is stuck to her soft, pale skin, which is dripping with the most hot, sticky kind of sweat there is. Her sharp, grey eyes are piercing the returning glare of the boy’s mousy brown eyes, which eventually begin to water; Isabella's brother. Her thick, pink lips are held back in a low snarl, exposing her perfect, gritted white teeth, glinting in the sunlight. Her anger wells like a lump, beginning in her stomach and ending in her parched mouth. Her fists clenched so hard her knuckles run white.

“L-look,” The boy stammers breathlessly, flushing. “I didn’t mean to upset you Bell. Er, oops! Sorry! I mean Isabella, really I di-“ But he cuts off as Isabella’s eyebrows narrow further, the color in her cheeks gone.

“Don’t speak, Edwin.” Isabella chirps in a shrill, staccato voice. Edwin freezes. His muscles tense in anticipation of an attack. His teeth clamp tightly together. It was coming and he knew it.

“How dare you!” she screams. The energy in the room surging through the floor and into the feet of poor, exasperated Edwin, and turning into a violent adrenalin.

“How DARE you!” she repeats again, more intensified than before. Edwin’s teeth start to chatter. He’s at a loss for words.

To Be Continued...

WE HAVE CAUGHT THE LITTLE PEOPLE!

We have caught the midgets masquerading as sixth graders. We are no longer looking for information or live specimens. We apologise to any sixth graders who were accused of being a little person.

(Look back to "I SEE LITTLE PEOPLE HELP ME" If you are confused.)

Open House

Open house is this thursday so tell your parents. You don't have to come but you parents should, so they know what to expect in the coming year. We'll see you there jets.

Chaos Theory By: John Dough

chaos theory

A

butterfly

can

dance and

effervescently

flap in

Germany. and the

howling wind

in the prevailing westerlies ninja

jacks the butterfly! and carries it over the

kelp forests of the

lower Atlantic ocean, while

maintaining a steady chaos/

normality ratio of

o. but suddenly, a flock of

pre-pubescent seagulls, still

quaking from the

rocking blow dealt to them by

some asshole butterfly

that

undulated (not

very

well), and flew over, creating a

x wind that

you so eloquently called a

zephyr while we were walking along the beach,

and I laughed,

and you laughed,

and the whole world laughed with us,

when we were happy,

a long time ago.

Wandering Through This Thing Called Life. By: Luc Moulson

As I wander through this thing called life,

all I see is the pain and the strife,

the controlling figure who think they know it all,

just because they been through this thing called life,

if they even look into a mirror they might see them selfs for what they really are,

not helping but causing the pain and the strife,

if only they saw if only remembered they might end this spiral of pain,

telling the ones after them that they know it all,

if only they remembered how they wandered through life.

Comic-con

Otaku Mex is coming up at the Embassy hotel on the 5th - 7th of September. This Comic-con should turn out to be wonderful, there will be guests such as Uncle yo, Steve Bennett, and Kyle Herbert who was the voice of Kiba on "Naruto", Aizen on "Bleach", and Kamina on "Gurren Lagann". These people and many more will be at this year's Otaku Mex. Many more events will also be happening, to check the event list.

An Informal Affair By: John Dough

An Informal Affair

Fix bayonets!

Charge!

At the double lads!

The sergeant cries.

The Company flies into battle.

A battle of honor, now lost,

Now vacant from war,

Never to be recaptured.

Instead of man to man,

war is now cold, lifeless, unchivalrous.

Generals giving orders from miles away,

tucked away in warm bunkers and cushy chairs,

rather than shouting over the cacophony of battle,

of war,

of shells,

of rifles,

of death.

War has become an informal affair,

no longer a last resort,

no longer something t be avoided.

If one soldier dies in combat,

So what?

The world goes on.

If a million soldiers die,

So what?

The world goes on.

But a million worlds have stopped.

Families grieve,

people stare in ignorance,

politicians cheat,

presidents lie,

people die.

The world goes on.

We want you

We need you to give us good material for this blog things that affect you as a student or things you think are just plain cool, or irritating, or both. Not to mention your art....we want your art. And that popsicle you're eating. Give us that popsicle!

I SEE LITTLE PEOPLE Help Me

I have seen little people on campus, they are three feet tall and are pretending to go to this school. If you see them I will pay $10 dollars from information leading to their capture. I will pay $200 for a little person alive, they may say."I am a sixth grader that is why I am short."But it is a lie! Help stop the midget menace!
(Sorry if you are a "Little Person".)

The Potter, thy third post

I was angry at her for getting cancer, and mad at God for letting such a wonderful person get so sick, and mad at myself for being mad at my best friend and God.
Kerry never acted scared of dying. If she was, she sure kept it a secret from me.
“How were the doctors?” I hated saying rehab. Doctor meant any old, minor thing. Rehab didn’t.
She shrugged, her rich, brown hair lifted with her shoulders. Her colored contacts made her eyes almost purple. Even sick, she was beautiful. I, with my wavy, dark brown hair and green eyes felt ugly compared to Kerry.
“It was good, and I learned how to throw a pot.”
“Aren’t you already good at, like, throwing your cell phone at me? Why do need to throw something that might actually hurt?”
Kerry laughed harder. “No, Elise. I learned how to make pots. Throwing is just what it’s called.”
“Oh, phew,” I said, wiped my forehead with my hand dramatically.
“Anyway”, Kerry continued, “I brought some clay home for you, so you could try it.”
“Really? Well, cool! Let’s go!” I said. I wanted to distract myself.
She slowly stood, and winced, when she was fully upright. I took her hand gently, and we walked through her enormous house to the studio where there sat a wad of gray stuff that was clay.
I sat down, and felt it between my fingers. The touch soothed me instantly. I was surprised. I had been so aggravated for so long I forgot what it felt like to be calm. It was cold and soft, easy to shape. Instinctively, I started to form a round base. By the end of an hour I had created a wobbly, small pot. I was happy; it was one thing that helped me with my anger and fear of Kerry dying. While I potted, Kerry sat next to me, her breaths soft and even.

The Potter, second post

I sighed in relief when I saw the glossy Lexus pull up. I watched as Kerry’s father stepped out and open the door for Kerry. My stomach clenched. Kerry was so thin. You could see how exhausted she was. How much she wanted to give up. But she wouldn’t; because Kerry was strong. Stronger than me, than anyone.
Kerry had terminal cancer. Kerry and her dad disappeared, and a moment later I could hear her slow footsteps up to her bedroom. When she opened the door, her smile was so wide I wanted to cry.
“Elise! Hi! How are you?” I asked excitedly.
I jumped up and hugged her tightly. I could feel her shoulder blades, the skin stretched tight. Kerry had been my best friend since we were three years old. We met in preschool and have been inseparable since. I didn’t answer her question, but I knew she wouldn’t want to hear the full answer. I was angry and scared.

The Potter

I sat on the white window sill of Kerry’s bedroom. It was winter, outside the drifts had heaped into high blankets. The sparkling snow stuck to a metal lamppost and piled on the dark, wet branches of maple trees in the front driveway. Everything sparkled with cold. The sky felt low to the ground, as if I would just reached my hand would sink through the vast sea of thick, saturated gray above me. As always in Colorado, the chill of winter had been kept at bay long enough, and it engulfed Aspen completely in its cold depths in one blow. The heaters in this huge house worked furiously, and fruitlessly to heat a truly frigid house.

Written by one of the literary blog agents. (Mia)

Get the rest of the story in my next post of The Potter

The Grading System

Our grading sytem goes from F to A and that works. But why should the average grade be the best grade? In Fance, the grading system goes from 1 to 20, and 10 is average. If you get that you are doing fine and if you get 20 you are the best student you could ever be. It is almost imposable to get a 20 but if you get a 10 your grade does not suffer. A 10 is the equvalent to a C in our grading system and a 20 is equvalent to an A. I think we should switch our grading system to the French way because the average grade should not be the best grade.

Welcome to Jet Trails!

Welcome to Jet Trails the Jefferson Middle School literary blog. Send your ideas to jettrailsjms@gmail.com