What does the acronym “NASA” stand for?

National Aeronautics and Space Administration

National Astronomics and Space Administration

National Aeronautics and Space Association

National Astronomics and Space Association

ME BATTLE OF THE BRAINS

“On this night, we share a roof protecting us from fleets of inequity. Our unification promises a better tomorrow. Those larger than myself, sitting on their marble thrones, sipping blood from cups composed of human skin and singing songs of so-called virtue, grow weaker each moment. Their caravans are revolting. There is hope yet. There is progress! Though tonight may mark a countdown, it is still a celebration. Look at all we have done, not just for Trials but for Palatium Infra as a whole. In four years, when I’m no longer Sovereignty, the Spoiled Purity and his people will continue to strive. So drink! Smoke! Crush up those exotic plants and snort them! We will not falter, weaken, or wane. Our influence is expanding, and somebody new opens their eyes every day. Even the Silbys of Aculeus have reached alarming potentials despite their embittered minds. So long as you relish in tonight, dance, and pray to your “dead” Gods, our revolution shall rise beyond the bounds of class, and when I’m only a commoner, we shall rise again beyond our brainwashed adversaries! Cheers, my people. Cheers!” Followers raised their cups. Some clinked theirs together. Others stood still and screamed breathlessly in agreement. I smiled with courtesy, then stepped off my platform. My voice still rang across the cellar. Speeches before were grander. Those displays were supposed to be emptying, and yet this one left me bloated, swollen tight. I watched as they popped the corks of their bottles and chanted in the name of Purity. Maybe the quality of my words wasn’t what mattered to them anyway, so long as I screamed loud enough. There’s no merit in attacking your people, a voice corrected me. “That’s right,” I said aloud. “Knox, my-my Sovereign!” squealed a nearby devotee, jittering as he stuffed his face with catered pastries. He was one I’d never seen before or had failed to remember. “Look what I’ve found! It’s wine, and not the shoddy Infran kind, either. Earth-made with good fruit! I don’t know how anyone managed to get their hands on this. Maybe some space travel mischief.” He giggled and held up a small glass bottle. “How neat.” “I want you to have it, Sir.” I nodded my head. “Yes, of course. Thank you.” Backing off into the midst of rowdy disciples, I clutched the bottle. What a waste of grapes. It could have been jam instead. Earthly food had a superior taste, ripe with delicate intricacies and nostalgia, but Palatium Infra had mastered the art of alcohol. Why waste your time with a drunkenness so sad and sickening? The booze of trash. Not many more followers approached me. The barren peroration must have upset them. My hands itched to submerge into my suit pockets, and my legs stood suddenly numb, wobbling. Four more years until I’m nothing. But tonight, you are nothing. “Shut up,” I told myself. Tightly packed together in the corner of the dwelling sat the Sibyls. A mound of writhing fabric and tones of skin made up their unified silhouette. I snapped the strap of the nearest gown, balancing on my hands and knees, waving the bottle before them. In their almost rodent nature, narrow noses prodded my way. Their dresses wrinkled and fell to their ankles. Knees dropped, and eyes widened. Many grumbled at me like hungry she-beasts. Those newer ones with faded curtains for hair, sunken eyes, and dirtied nails looked, hid their face, then sobbed. I imagined them in a pack together, fighting wildly against the Spoiled Purity in their rat decorum–biting down with square teeth laced with rabies. “I’ve got you all something,” I said. “Go back off to your pedestal and yap some more. We don’t want it.” A woman rose from the pile and spat. “You don’t even know what it is yet. It's Earth hooch, or more likely a near-flawless replica. I figured you girls would also like a chance to enjoy yourselves tonight.” “Your playmates have been harassing us since the moment you hung the banners and opened the cellar door.” The youngest, with a striking cyan mop upon her head, uncoiled from the mass. What was she now? 20, 21? We celebrated a birthday recently, I thought as she spun around me. “I remember something about a promise. Multiple promises, actually. Are you trying to bribe us into just shutting up and taking it? Because if another sticky, 40-year-old, Earth-born virgin gropes my shoulder, I’m going to have an aneurysm!” the girl continued. “Why not an Infran follower? Do you like it when they touch you?” I returned her accusing tone. “I’m sorry, sweet prophets, that you feel I’ve neglected my duties. I’ll keep a better eye out. Remember, you can always just holler if somebody is bothering you. And Anwen, friend, if I’ve ever tried to bribe you with anything, it was certainly the hair dye. I mean, look at you! Such handsomeness!” I exclaimed. The other Siblys began to encircle her, uttering compliments or even announcements of their envy. Anwen disappeared in a wink with flushed cheeks back into the mound. “I’ll just leave this here.” Smiling, I set down the bottle. ** “141, 143. . .” I counted each step as I trekked the staircase. There was no doubt I lost track somewhere. The ledges kept spawning under my feet, infinitely multiplying until I wasn’t moving at all–swallowing me up in a whirlpool of stone. My tie still hung around my neck, and my blazer remained tied around my hips as a skirt. Streaks of red dribbled off from the cavity in my chest. It was a gorgeous marking, sensual to my fingertips as I traced its edges. Purity, oh, Purity. Purity and his wings of burnt skin. Purity and his many faces. Purity the spoiled. Purity the mutilated. The Silbys did not bother waiting for me. On bare feet, they stormed up the stairs to their room. A trail of red, though in paint unlike mine, streamed after them. None looked remotely near me as they squeaked and gossiped intangibly. I saved them, those Infran broads, enlightened them. As much as they liked to deny it, spit at me, and bask in the thought of their victimhood, in this home, they stood empowered. You’ve done well, my thoughts affirmed, though in the manner of an insincere commentator rather than a hype man. Teeth grace in tile violin goes laundry paper when. It dissolved into an intruding drivel. I rubbed my head and sniveled. “Do you need help, Knox?” called a Silby. Fattened by my coddling, her shadow fell upon me from the doorway steps ahead. I attempted counting again. There must’ve been at least another hundred between me and her. “I’m hallucinating some,” I said, breathing deeply to suppress a burp as I struggled to recall her name. Two syllables. Typically Latin, though sometimes English. Drops of slobber leaked from my mouth. “I’m hallucinating some, Tybal. Do you like your name, Tybal? I would have named you something better. Ty-Tyballinia. No, we’d have to eliminate the ‘ball’ aspect. It sounds too crude.” “One foot in front of the other,” she said. So I walked. Mess greeted me at the doorway. Dirtied culinary obscured the dark wooden countertops, and the sink lay running. I approached the kitchen table, sat, and set my face down upon its cool wooden surface. Assaulting my nose was the smell of neglected flowers, like soil mixed with the kind of sweet cough medicine that would have left me gagging as a child. Open windows whispered songs of the twilight hour through the vessels of busy trolleys and shooting guns. My mouth strained to vomit, but there was nothing in my stomach to regurgitate except the petals of Stulto’s bloom, which came out effortlessly in little sputters. Teetering, I stood up and brushed disgorged plant parts off the tabletop. “Love,” I said as I slogged up yet another staircase. “Are you awake?” She said she’d wait. Somebody’s gotten her. No, she always misses movie night. That sleepyhead, I assured myself. There was a stirring amidst the manor’s cloak of dusk. Portraits of myself, my wife, and my daughter turned to face me as the hallway lights flickered, escaping their quartz frames to penetrate my ears with nonsense. The taxidermied heads of Infran creatures bared their teeth. I stopped to stare at my favorite, an adabactor with daunting spiked tusks poking out from its forehead. Its nose remained black and sharp, and its eyes wide with malice. “Where is my Spes, Adaba-boy? Is she sleepy?” There’s someone in the house. The sounds of the stirring rose along with my blood pressure. Footsteps orbited around me, drawing near and far and then near again, little dancers in the dark. The carpet immersed me in its mass of purples and blues, leaving my skin stained indigo and my vision abstracted. I toiled to reach the master bedroom across the aisle as it stretched out to me with bright lights and celestial howling, like a dove struggling in a pool of oil. Never again with Stulto’s bloom. Never again on what was already a bad night. My hand brushed the doorknob, and the high abruptly faded into only a persistent hum-buzz twirling around my brain. The portraits returned to their typical depression–Spes posing with her ax, Ari’s school photo, and myself in the cap I wore when addressing the military with the Verbis emblem embroidered in its center. All lifeless shots. Who were they for when they captured not the subject’s essence but only some fragment of their identity? They used to feel personal, not advertisements of some supposed characters. Servants, babysitters, and likewise civilian guests, I reminded myself, mustn’t forget whose home they’re in. Yet my body moved independently, taking Ari’s from its hook and laying it backward against the wall to hide her distant grin and tamed posture. It was time for new pictures. Sweet ones, real ones; time was ticking. I approached my own when the stirring began again. Groans and squeals erupted from the vents as if someone had set a pen of pigs loose in my crawlspace. No, not the crawlspace, my bedroom door. I turned the ruby knob. Underneath a blanket wrestled my two squealing piglets, their skins melting together beneath the layer of duvet. Fishnet leggings and manicured nails outstretched and scraped at the sheet beneath them. One raised its head, a salmon-colored man with sweat running down his forehead. Through the crack in the door, we met eyes, his Infran Dr. Sesuss nose flaring its narrow nostrils. No mark of the Spoiled Purity existed carved onto his naked body. My chest felt tight. I stepped back. I was suffocating. Spes emerged from the linens, her hair flowing down her back and her dark skin glistening in front of the bedroom window. She giggled and held the man, the blanket falling and revealing inches of her body I had not seen in months. “Darling,” whispered the rosy-faced man, “look.” He was unfathomably ugly and grotesquely young, with beady, lifeless pupils that dilated when he faced me. The excess flesh on his face sagged while he bit down on his thin lips. My wife faced me, gasped, and strained to cover herself. Suddenly, I was a stranger. A small child who had walked into his parents having sex. I unfurled the door completely. “Get out of my house,” I said. The man stayed in place. “Get out of my house,” I repeated. “Knox,” Spes began. Tears ran down her round cheeks. “Shut up!” I turned to the man, picking up a marble trophy from on top of my dresser. “Get out of my house! I’ll kill you!” “Knox!” Spes sobbed. “God damn it! I hate you! You barely look at me. Every day, there’s less passion. God, God, God, I don’t want to fuck a dead man!” she screamed, “You get out! Get! Get!” My hands wrapped tighter around the statue. That pig of a man was attached to her at the side, his face equipped with a scowl that challenged mine. He thought I was weak; frail like a decaying dementia-ridden senior. I imagined his skull bashed in, his scowl gone, and the feist and confidence in his face beaten into numbness. A new portrait was in order of such brutality, him as a splintered slab of wood, rashed and beaten, a carcass licking my boot. The churning in my brain had come back. Every wall shook. Clock faces came to life and rang in alarm. Indescribable noises caressed my eardrum before breaking into sorrowful weeps. Was it my own? I stared at Spes in motionless frenzy, clenched my teeth, and screamed like a siren. Passionless. What a lie! An excuse, more like. One that erased all my ventures, reducing me to a nobody. But I was not a nobody. I thought of my sect, my campaigns, my endurance through the political brutality of my empty hive-mind world–even my collection of literature, maps, and artifacts. I thought of daring nights alone with Spes when we were young, ravaging each other, two sardonic eggheads suddenly overcome with desire. The veins in my neck throbbed as I gasped for air. It was all I had. I threw the figurine at the man’s head. Eye shut, I heard the thud. A million singing voices of victory flooded out of the cracks in the floorboard. Proving myself a man to the woman I loved in a display of fervent violence was passion. I strained my ears for his cries, though I did not look yet. There had to be a pause, a moment of relief, where I stood tall as a skyscraper and seemingly fought to stay contained in front of my wife and her wounded, quivering paramour. Frantic footsteps rushed off the bed and past my side. I turned and grappled against myself to seize my wife’s shoulder. “Spes!” My eyelids lifted. Escaping was the man with that same numb expression in which I had imagined him. “You’re insane,” he said. I swiveled back towards the bed. With her curly locks flowing over her breasts and her limbs bent at her sides, Spes sat limp pressed against the headboard, her forehead bludgeoned and the statue resting on her stomach. Lips pursed and sweet, my Renaissance beauty reclined there in the guise of a squashed bug. But she was not dead. The desk ornament I flung was only the size of my shoe. Spes, that dramatist, may have been slightly hurt but was far from dead. She only wanted me to think she was to observe me at my most distraught, like a leech feeding on misery. “Get up.” Staggering toward the bed, I said. “You wanted passion? I showed you passion. ‘Shoved it right into your head. Of course, we both know who that gesture was meant for. . .” I fumbled to find my wit. Cold skin met my hands as I stroked her face, unable to resist checking her pulse, even though she was not dead. “I love you, Spes,” I said. Rain pelted against a nearby window. “Spes, please. Please.” No vibration answered my plea. I lifted my hand, sitting next to her now. Tears did not come. There was not any blood on the trophy, but when I picked it up, it felt to be now only a cruel instrument. It depicted a younger me in white marble, with my glasses and collared shirt being the only things painted. Both were in pink. It was a favorable color. I scrambled from the bed to vomit pure digestive bile on the rug. My stomach heaved. I ran my nails along every piece of myself I saw, a dog chasing my tail. As I slammed myself against walls and convulsed, my own heart grew ever louder in my chest. “Dad? I heard–” Ari’s slippered feet hammered across the floor. “Mom? Mom?” I kept my eyes on the storm. Silence fell. “She-She isn’t—your—.” Gasps interrupted every syllable she spoke. “You’re a murderer. Bad. Like they said,” she breathed, “ You beat her!” The words became mush, alphabet soup. Ari ran back down the hall. “My-My mom is dead. . . .Yes. . . Manor of the Trials Sovereignty. . .Ari Sorkin. . . I’m afraid he’s going to hurt me,” she said, presumably over the phone. It was all too fast. I crawled onto the windowsill, opened the glass, and let myself plummet into the alley below. Gusts of wind howled. The lack of motion or sensation informed me I had passed and again lived. Another Palatium Infra, another strange planet in which the celestial endowed rotting men with the opportunity to inhabit. Was this it? Was it all just an impossible limbo of galactic traveling? My surroundings were overwhelmingly gray, an abyss of clouds. Perhaps I had now met the real coming world, and my family and old friends lived here, ready to rush to my sides, lift me up, and jump for joy. Spes would be there. She would be enraged, but at least she’d be there. You are a bad man. You are a bad man. My eyelashes fluttered. There was a tugging sensation in my leg. The fog was wavering along with my ascendance. “No,” I yearned, trying to grip the clouds and stick them in place. “Stay with me.” But the peace was fleeting. I felt the cement under me and the moist garments clinging to my figure. My leg burned. Carefully, I craned my neck, only to observe the promenade as my surroundings. The most underwhelming of filth and danger, individually Infran. Forever my coming world. What a fool I was, having forgotten my blessing. Those idiot Gods could not tell the difference between assassination and self-infliction; a faulty insurance plan. The urge to cry at last set over me, and so I sat and wailed hot salvia into my palm, shielding my mouth to muffle the noise. Thunder echoed my hushed howling. Raindrops turned to pebbles. Under the ambiance of the stormy night, I could have sworn I heard troops stomping, guns cocking, and the chanting of my name. They had all been waiting for this. Billboards came to life, and I could only sit and spectate as the scenery flashed red. I inhaled fear and sobriety through runny nostrils. “Trials Sovereign Vsevolod “Knox” Sorkin is currently at large for the suspected homicide of Spes Sorkin, breaking the first term of the Sovereignty Charter. We now instruct you to report any sightings of the Earth-born, caucasian, roughly 195 centimeters tall, brown-haired, and brown-eyed man to your local Guard post. One can identify the suspected convict specifically by an occult tattoo of Purity’s Coronet on his lower back. No attempted execution or elongated punishment will take place until our Guards conduct an autopsy proving his guilt, per Life’s 1238 commandment. We cannot be sure when or if the Gods will revoke his blessing. Remember, when Gods frown upon strife, opt for a peaceful life. We permit all grieving festivities until Cagidus 4th. Good year!” towering buildings sang out in broadcast, repeating that same convoluted message quicker the instant it ended. Sometimes, the announcer spoke in Latin for the Infran children, other times in Chinese, Hindi, or Spanish to cater to those of irrelevant tongues. You aren’t a bad man. You are a stupid boy. Puddles sloshed. Somebody was approaching. I didn’t dare waste any remaining energy avoiding the Guards and their prodding blades. How did that phrase go? You dug your grave. Now lie in it. And so I embraced the cement. “Knox?” said the Guard. No, her tone was too sincere, and no authority would proceed in such a manner. There wasn’t confirmation on whether or not I was armed, and it wasn’t as if she could shoot me first. She was a partygoer, having just left from the cellar’s backdoor. I shooed her away with my hand. She hovered, and I discerned her shadow hesitating over my body. A man could not rot in peace. “Come on, get up! They’re after you!” Hands reached around my torso, struggling to handle my weight as they urged me onto my feet. That leg, the burning one, my right, trembled and bent unnaturally upon impact with the ground. The partygoer slung my arm over her shoulder, balancing me. My eyes caught a glimpse of a cyan mop. “Anwen?” I rasped, “hu-who let you out?” Keys jangled in her hands–my keys. “I escaped,” she said casually, coercing me to walk beside her. “Quicken your pace. I just heard somebody on your front porch. ‘You see that compost bin down the alley? We’re gonna burrow right down into the depth of that. If they open it and uncover us, I’ll be on top, and I can hide you and act like I’m just a homeless amica trying to take a nap.” With a tightening grip, she led me like livestock to the stinking crate. “I don’t understand, Anwen,” I said. “They’re going to torture and kill you, stupid. You know they’ve been wanting to, and you just handed the opportunity to them!” “I understand that.” It was becoming increasingly challenging to hide the fragility emerging in my voice. “You said you were escaping. Why stop and help your captor?” “What else could I do? Leave you there?” Attempts to shove my wounded body inside its mass of discarded fruits and vegetables began. She yanked down upon my head and submerged me in the fertilizer sea. The evidence grows indisputable, I thought as I stared at the abruptly humane Infran girl, diving in after me, that I belong here. “Damn me to hell! I’ve killed her! My love is dead!” an uncontrollable cry leaped from my mouth. “Shut up! Soon you’ll be, too, if you don’t quiet down.” The actual noise of the Guards darted past us: disorientated marching, guns clanking against each other, cluttered belts rattling, the Latin squawking. One paused to open the bin’s lid, though only rummaged through the surface layer of peat before carrying on. “What are they talking about? I struggle with my Latin,” I whispered. “The search, mainly.” Aggression remained firey in Anwen’s clenched jaw. Though she sat on top of me, there was a monumental distance between our rain-soaked forms. I curled up into a ball, ducked my head between my knees, and dreamt of Spes, ignoring the stench of spoiled food rising from every crevice of my dwelling. The next coming world was due to adopt me again as I forced sleep. I prayed for a canyon of fluffy haze, where I waltzed with pale memories but found nothing but the petrifying stillness of my mind. Killed and ran. Violent as a Guard just to prove a point and watch it backfire. Why would any heaven want to welcome me? I clung to the picture of Spes in my head like it was the last ember of an extinguished flame. “Did you mean to kill her?” Anwen interrogated. “Someone like you would immutably believe yes.” “And who is someone like me? You can’t even treat me like a person for a moment, can you?” grating drama decorated her words. “You know my opinions. I have not seen much of your or your breed’s faces besides that of cruelty and ignorance.” I retorted. “I just saved you! Does that make me cruel and ignorant?” “It makes you an idiot, which is another word for somebody ignorant.” “And why am I an idiot?” She asked. “Because you helping me does no good. Thank you anyhow. Now, do yourself a favor and scram.” As she bent her leg in anticipation, preparing to strike me on the forehead, I sensed an invisible withdrawal widening the gap between us. “You never answered my question,” Anwen took me by the end of my tattered tie suddenly and started her game of shepherd and sheep over again, pulling me back up to the crate’s exit. It appeared as a shining light at the end of a maze of rubbish and mold. “No. Of course not. Spes was my everything,” I sniffled. “I knew it. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hit us, let alone murder your wife. The girls and I always figured you were sensitive.” My heart rate quickened. Today was one of humbling and misery–one to pray a hail spike would fall from the sky as sharp as a needle, pierce into my eyelid, and lobotomize me. I wished I could have merely died or hit my head hard enough not to have to deal with it all. No, I wished I was Anwen with her snarky, careless glow and lack of depth in her eyes. As we emerged from the compost bin together, I fantasized about strangling her until her face turned purple, her weakening spirit no longer categorizing me as “sensitive”, but the thought could only remind me of wielding that trophy and the microscopic traces of my wife’s tender skin tainting it, which turned my guts inside out. “That’s why I think you could use a little help,” Anwen said, “It seems like you can’t walk, either. Your leg is all twisted up.” She undid one of her trim pigtails and handed me the band. “Take off your tie and put up your hair. ‘Will make you less recognizable. Then swallow your pride and stick with me.”

John Adams the first Vice President and second President of the United States James Armistead black slave who served in the colonial army as a spy General Edward Braddock commander of all British forces in North America during the French and Indian War Nathan Hale "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country." Patrick Henry Virginian who said, "Give me liberty, or give me death!" New York City our nation's first capital Battle of Bunker Hill the first major battle in the War for Independence judicial the branch of government that interprets the law executive the branch of government that enforces the law legislative the branch of government that makes the law Articles of Confederation the first plan of government that the United States had agreed upon Bill of Rights lists the rights or freedoms the Constitution gives to Americans; written in the form of ten amendments Constitution of the U.S. plan of government our country still follows today Declaration of Independence document written by Jefferson declaring the independence of the colonies from England First Amendment gives Americans the following freedoms: religion, speech, press, and assembly Treaty of Paris document signed by England giving up the American colonies and making them officially free and independent Inauguration Day The day the President takes his oath of office Valley Forge Washington's army spent the harsh winter of 1777-1778 Second Continental Congress The decision to organize the Continental Army was made at the ??? in 1775. constitutional republic The form of government in which the people and their elected representatives are limited by a constitution patriots Those who wanted America to be free from Britain's control

She went by the name of Belisa Crepusculario, not because she had been baptized with that name or given it by her mother, but because she herself had searched until she found the poetry of "beauty" and "twilight" and cloaked herself in it. She made her living selling words. She journeyed through the country from the high cold mountains to the burning coasts, stopping at fairs and in markets where she set up four poles covered by a canvas awning under which she took refuge from the sun and rain to minister to her customers. She did not have to peddle her merchandise because from having wandered far and near, everyone knew who she was. Some people waited for her from one year to the next, and when she appeared in the village with her bundle beneath her arm, they would form a line in front of her stall. Her prices were fair. For five centavos she delivered verses from memory, for seven she improved the quality of dreams, for nine she wrote love letters, for twelve she invented insults for irreconcilable enemies. She also sold stories, not fantasies but long, true stories she recited at one telling, never skipping a word. This is how she carried news from one town to another. People paid her to add a line or two: our son was born, so-and-so died, our children got married, the crops burned in the field. Wherever she went a small crowd gathered around to listen as she began to speak, and that was how they learned about each others' doings, about distant relatives, about what was going on in the civil war. To anyone who paid her fifty centavos in trade, she gave the gift of a secret word to drive away melancholy. It was not the same word for everyone, naturally, because that would have been collective dece it. Each person received his or her own word, with the assurance that no one else would use it that way in this universe or the Beyond. Belisa Crepusculario had been born into a family so poor they did not even have names to give their children. She came into the world and grew up in an inhospitable land where some years the rains became avalanches of water that bore everything away before them and others when not a drop fell from the sky and the sun swelled to fill the horizon and the world became a desert. Until she was twelve, Belisa had no occupation or virtue other than having withstood hunger and the exhaustion of centuries. During one interminable drought, it fell to her to bury four younger brothers and sisters, when she realized that her turn was next, she decided to set out across the 2 plains in the direction of the sea, in hopes that she might trick death along the way. The land was eroded, split with deep cracks, strewn with rocks, fossils of trees and thorny bushes, and skeletons of animals bleached by the sun. From time to time she ran into families who, like her, were heading south, following the mirage of water. Some had begun the march carrying their belongings on their back or in small carts, but they could barely move their own bones, and after a while they had to abandon their possessions. They dragged themselves along painfully, their skin turned to lizard hide and their eyes burned by the reverberating glare. Belisa greeted them with a wave as she passed, but she did not stop, because she had no strength to waste in acts of compassion. Many people fell by the wayside, but she was so stubborn that she survived to cross through that hell and at long last reach the first trickles of water, fine, almost invisible threads that fed spindly vegetation and farther down widened into small streams and marshes. Belisa Crepusculario saved her life and in the process accidentally discovered writing. In a village near the coast, the wind blew a page of newspaper at her feet. She picked up the brittle yellow paper and stood a long while looking at it, unable to determine its purpose, until curiosity overcame her shyness. She walked over to a man who was washing his horse in the muddy pool where she had quenched her thirst. "What is this?" she asked. "The sports page of the newspaper," the man replied, concealing his surprise at her ignorance. The answer astounded the girl, but she did not want to seem rude, so she merely inquired about the significance of the fly tracks scattered across the page. "Those are words, child. Here it says that Fulgencio Barba knocked out El Negro Tiznao in the third round." That was the day Belisa Crepusculario found out that words make their way in the world without a master, and that anyone with a little cleverness can appropriate them and do business with them. She made a quick assessment of her situation and concluded that aside from becoming a prostitute or working as a servant in the kitchens of the rich there were few occupations she was qualified for. It seemed to her that selling words would be an honorable alternative. From that moment on, she worked at that profession, and was never tempted by any other. At the beginning, she offered her merchandise unaware that words could be written outside of newspapers. When she learned otherwise, she calculated the infinite possibilities of her trade and with her savings paid a priest twenty pesos to teach her to read and write, with her three 3 remaining coins she bought a dictionary. She poured over it from A to Z and then threw it into the sea, because it was not her intention to defraud her customers with packaged words. One August morning several years later, Belisa Crepusculario was sitting in her tent in the middle of a plaza, surrounded by the uproar of market day, selling legal arguments to an old man who had been trying for sixteen years to get his pension. Suddenly she heard yelling and thudding hoofbeats. She looked up from her writing and saw, first, a cloud of dust, and then a band of horsemen come galloping into the plaza. They were the Colonel's men, sent under orders of El Mulato, a giant known throughout the land for the speed of his knife and his loyalty to his chief. Both the Colonel and El Mulato had spent their lives fighting in the civil war, and their names were ineradicably linked to devastation and calamity. The rebels swept into town like a stampeding herd, wrapped in noise, bathed in sweat, and leaving a hurricane of fear in their trail. Chickens took wing, dogs ran for their lives, women and children scurried out of sight, until the only living soul left in the market was Belisa Crepusculario. She had never seen El Mulato and was surprised to see him walking toward her. "I'm looking for you," he shouted, pointing his coiled whip at her, even before the words were out, two men rushed her -- knocking over her canopy and shattering her inkwell -- bound her hand and foot, and threw her like a sea bag across the rump of El Mulato's mount. Then they thundered off toward the hills. Hours later, just as Belisa Crepusculario was near death, her heart ground to sand by the pounding of the horse, they stopped, and four strong hands set her down. She tried to stand on her feet and hold her head high, but her strength failed her and she slumped to the ground, sinking into a confused dream. She awakened several hours later to the murmur of night in the camp, but before she had time to sort out the sounds, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into the impatient glare of El Mulato, kneeling beside her. "Well, woman, at last you've come to," he said. To speed her to her senses, he tipped his canteen and offered her a sip of liquor laced with gunpowder. She demanded to know the reason for such rough treatment, and El Mulato explained that the Colonel needed her services. He allowed her to splash water on her face, and then led her to the far end of the camp where the most feared man in all the land was lazing in a hammock strung between two trees. She could not see his face, because he lay in the deceptive shadow of the leaves and the indelible shadow of all his years as a bandit, but she imagined from the way his 4 gigantic aide addressed him with such humility that he must have a very menacing expression. She was surprised by the Colonel's voice, as soft and well-modulated as a professor's. "Are you the woman who sells words?" he asked. "At your service," she stammered, peering into the dark and trying to see him better. The Colonel stood up, and turned straight toward her. She saw dark skin and the eyes of a ferocious puma, and she knew immediately that she was standing before the loneliest man in the world. "I want to be President," he announced. The Colonel was weary of riding across that godforsaken land, waging useless wars and suffering defeats that no subterfuge could transform into victories. For years he had been sleeping in the open air, bitten by mosquitoes, eating iguanas and snake soup, but those minor inconveniences were not why he wanted to change his destiny. What truly troubled him was the terror he saw in people's eyes. He longed to ride into a town beneath a triumphal arch with bright flags and flowers everywhere, he wanted to be cheered, and be given newly laid eggs and freshly baked bread. Men fled at the sight of him, children trembled, and women miscarried from fright, he had had enough, and so he had decided to become President. El Mulato had suggested that they ride to the capital, gallop up to the Palace, and take over the government, the way they had taken so many other things without anyone's permission. The Colonel, however, did not want to be just another tyrant, there had been enough of those before him and, besides, if he did that, he would never win people's hearts. It was his aspiration to win the popular vote in the December elections. "To do that, I have to talk like a candidate. Can you sell me the words for a speech?" the Colonel asked Belisa Crepusculario. She had accepted many assignments, but none like this. She did not dare refuse, fearing that El Mulato would shoot her between the eyes, or worse still, that the Colonel would burst into tears. There was more to it than that, however, she felt the urge to help him because she felt a throbbing warmth beneath her skin, a powerful desire to touch that man, to fondle him, to clasp him in her arms. All night and a good part of the following day, Belisa Crepusculario searched her repertory for words adequate for a presidential speech, closely watched by El Mulato, who could not take his eyes from her firm wanderer's legs and virginal breasts. She discarded harsh, cold words, words 5 that were too flowery, words worn from abuse, words that offered improbable promises, untruthful and confusing words, until all she had left were words sure to touch the minds of men and women's intuition. Calling upon the knowledge she had purchased from the priest for twenty pesos, she wrote the speech on a sheet of paper and then signaled El Mulato to untie the rope that bound her ankles to a tree. He led her once more to the Colonel, and again she felt the throbbing anxiety that had seized her when she first saw him. She handed him the paper and waited while he looked at it, holding it gingerly between thumbs and fingertips. "What the shit does this say," he asked finally. "Don't you know how to read?" "War's what I know," he replied. She read the speech aloud. She read it three times, so her client could engrave it on his memory. When she finished, she saw the emotion in the faces of the soldiers who had gathered round to listen, and saw that the Colonel's eyes glittered with enthusiasm, convinced that with those words the presidential chair would be his. "If after they've heard it three times, the boys are still standing there with their mouths hanging open, it must mean the thing's damn good, Colonel" was El Mulato's approval. "All right, woman. How much do I owe you?" the leader asked. "One peso, Colonel." "That's not much," he said, opening the pouch he wore at his belt, heavy with proceeds from the last foray. "The peso entitles you to a bonus. I'm going to give you two secret words," said Belisa Crepusculario. "What for?" She explained that for every fifty centavos a client paid, she gave him the gift of a word for his exclusive use. The Colonel shrugged. He had no interest at all in her offer, but he did not want to be impolite to someone who had served him so well. She walked slowly to the leather stool where he was sitting, and bent down to give him her gift. The man smelled the scent of a mountain cat issuing from the woman, a fiery heat radiating from her hips, he heard the terrible whisper of her hair, and a breath of sweetmint murmured into his ear the two secret words that were his alone. "They are yours, Colonel," she said as she stepped back. "You may use them as much as you 6 please." El Mulato accompanied Belisa to the roadside, his eyes as entreating as a stray dog's, but when he reached out to touch her, he was stopped by an avalanche of words he had never heard before; believing them to be an irrevocable curse, the flame of his desire was extinguished. During the months of September, October, and November the Colonel delivered his speech so many times that had it not been crafted from glowing and durable words it would have turned to ash as he spoke. He travelled up and down and across the country, riding into cities with a triumphal air, stopping in even the most forgotten villages where only the dump heap betrayed a human presence, to convince his fellow citizens to vote for him. While he spoke from a platform erected in the middle of the plaza, El Mulato and his men handed out sweets and painted his name on all the walls in gold frost. No one paid the least attention to those advertising ploys; they were dazzled by the clarity of the Colonel's proposals and the poetic lucidity of his arguments, infected by his powerful wish to right the wrongs of history, happy for the first time in their lives. When the Candidate had finished his speech, his soldiers would fire their pistols into the air and set off firecrackers, and when finally they rode off, they left behind a wake of hope that lingered for days on the air, like the splendid memory of a comet's tail. Soon the Colonel was the favorite. No one had ever witnessed such a phenomenon: a man who surfaced from the civil war, covered with scars and speaking like a professor, a man whose fame spread to every corner of the land and captured the nation's heart. The press focused their attention on him. Newspapermen came from far away to interview him and repeat his phrases, and the number of his followers and enemies continued to grow. "We're doing great, Colonel," said El Mulato, after twelve successful weeks of campaigning. But the Candidate did not hear. He was repeating his secret words, as he did more and more obsessively. He said them when he was mellow with nostalgia; he murmured them in his sleep; he carried them with him on horseback; he thought them before delivering his famous speech; and he caught himself savoring them in his leisure time. And every time he thought of those two words, he thought of Belisa Crepusculario, and his senses were inflamed with the memory of her feral scent, her fiery heat, the whisper of her hair, and her sweetmint breath in his ear, until he began to go around like a sleepwalker, and his men realized that he might die before he ever sat in the presidential chair. "What's got hold of you, Colonel," El Mulato asked so often that finally one day his chief broke 7 down and told him the source of his befuddlement: those two words that were buried like two daggers in his gut. "Tell me what they are and maybe they'll lose their magic," his faithful aide suggested. "I can't tell them, they're for me alone," the Colonel replied. Saddened by watching his chief decline like a man with a death sentence on his head, El Mulato slung his rifle over his shoulder and set out to find Belisa Crepusculario. He followed her trail through all that vast country, until he found her in a village in the far south, sitting under her tent reciting her rosary of news. He planted himself, spraddle-legged, before her, weapon in hand. "You! You're coming with me," he ordered. She had been waiting. She picked up her inkwell, folded the canvas of her small stall, arranged her shawl around her shoulders, and without a word took her place behind El Mulato's saddle. They did not exchange so much as a word in all the trip; El Mulato's desire for her had turned into rage, and only his fear of her tongue prevented his cutting her to shreds with his whip. Nor was he inclined to tell her that the Colonel was in a fog, and that a spell whispered into his ear had done what years of battle had not been able to do. Three days later they arrived at the encampment, and immediately, in view of all the troops, El Mulato led his prisoner before the Candidate. "I brought this witch here so you can give her back her words, Colonel," El Mulato said, pointing the barrel of his rifle at the woman's head. "And then she can give you back your manhood." The Colonel and Belisa Crepusculario stared at each other, measuring one another from a distance. The men knew then that their leader would never undo the witchcraft of those accursed words, because the whole world could see the voracious-puma eyes soften as the woman walked to him and took his hand in hers. Copyright © 1989 by Isabel Allende From The Stories of Eva Luna, Translated by Margaret Sayers Peden

Element Definition Example from Text Theme Main message or lesson Be yourself; self-acceptance Tone Author’s attitude toward the subject Encouraging, humorous Diction Word choice Weird, perfect, brave Denotation Literal meaning of a word Weird = unusual Connotation Emotional meaning of a word Weird = negative or unique Allusion Reference to another literary or cultural work Harry Potter, The Last Battle Genre Type of writing Letter Writer Author Letter writer to her teen self Title Name of the text Just Be Yourself Dear Teen Me, Psst! Hey! You in the corner of the library with your nose stuck in a book. Yes, you. Don’t recognize me without that awful perm, do you? (Remind me again why you thought that was a good idea?) Anyway, I hope you don’t mind if I sit with you for a minute, but we need to talk. Don’t worry about the “no talking in the library” rule. I’m sure we’ll be fine. Librarians aren’t as bad as they seem. Judging from the hair and braces I’d have to guess you’re in your junior year. Yes? Thought so. I’d forgotten how many lonely lunch hours you spent in the school library. You have some friends in the cafeteria that you could sit with, but you don’t feel like you really fit in, do you? That’s why you joined every school club you could. I just counted and you’re in eighteen, not to mention the numerous after-school activities you’re involved in. I mean honestly, you joined the ROTC.1 You don’t even like ROTC! And I won’t even bother bringing up that time you tried ballet. I’m still having nightmares about the fifth position! Let me ask you, how’s it all working out? Not very well, am I right? By spending so much time trying to find yourself, you’re slowly losing yourself. We don’t all have one single rock-star talent, and honestly, I think those of us who don’t are the lucky ones. Life isn’t about finding the one thing you’re good at and never doing anything else; it’s about exploring yourself and finding out who you really are on your own terms and in your own way. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to do that. Oh, don’t be so down in the dumps about it. You’ll eventually find something you’re good at, I promise. It’s a long, winding road to get there, but you’ll find it. Being able to spend all day doing what you love (or one of the things that you love) is the most amazing feeling in the world. And no, I won’t tell you what it is, so don’t even ask me. Just remember to always be yourself, because there’s nobody else who can do it for you. I think E. E. Cummings put it best when he said, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” Looks like the bell is about to ring so I’ll leave you to your book. What are you reading, anyway? Oh, The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis. I should have guessed. You should give those Harry Potter books a try. I saw you roll your eyes! I know they seem like just another fad, but trust me, they’re better than you think. They’ve got a real future! finding out who you really are on your own terms and in your own way. You don’t have to exhaust yourself to do that. Oh, don’t be so down in the dumps about it. You’ll eventually find something you’re good at, I promise. It’s a long, winding road to get there, but you’ll find it. Being able to spend all day doing what you love (or one of the things that you love) is the most amazing feeling in the world. And no, I won’t tell you what it is, so don’t even ask me. Just remember to always be yourself, because there’s nobody else who can do it for you. I think E. E. Cummings put it best when he said, “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” Looks like the bell is about to ring so I’ll leave you to your book. What are you reading, anyway? Oh, The Last Battle by C. S. Lewis. I should have guessed. You should give those Harry Potter books a try. I saw you roll your eyes! I know they seem like just another fad, but trust me, they’re better than you think. They’ve got a real future! i need you to tell me how can i start this text and i need you to add these essential questions: What are some milestones on the path to gr owing up?, What makes an experience memorable? What makes it life changing? and then Denotation, Connotation, Allusions, Diction, Tone, Genre, Writer, Title, Theme in a table and i need u to add definitions for each one and extract examples from the text

The following days are a jumble of gunfire, digging, gobbled food, soldiers running in and out of the forest in small groups, distant explosions, stray shells, bandaged heads and unexpected lulls. On the very first day, before dawn, I am ordered into one of the newly dug trenches. I huddle there, squeezing my magic buttons and singing songs to the dog. When the fighting stops, the dog disappears, but a new companion takes his place. A strange little soldier crawls along the trench toward me. ‘Private Sasha!’ he cries. ‘I’ve been looking for you all day long!’ He’s old, like a grandfather, a dedushka. He has a black patch over one eye, a tape measure around his neck and a row of pins threaded into his sleeve. Hanging from his belt is the most enormous pair of scissors I have ever seen and I wonder if he uses them as a weapon. He doesn’t tell me his name, so in my head he becomes Dedushka. Dedushka squats, cups his hand to his ear, peers over the top of the trench and smiles. ‘It’s safe to be upright . . . for now.’ He helps me to my feet, dusts me off and commands me to stand as tall and straight as I can. Then he measures me. Everything from head to toe – even my toes! He writes numbers in a little notebook, strings his tape measure back around his neck, salutes and hurries away. It’s all very strange, and I wonder if Dedushka has been bumped on the head during the battle and is now a little bit muddled. I should have given him a hug before he left. I chase after him but stop when I’m hit by a shovelful of flying dirt. Sleepy Bear is digging a cave! ‘Are you going to hibernate?’ I ask. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘No, although that would be wonderful! I could do with a lo-o-o-ong sleep.’ He sighs and closes his eyes. He doesn’t open them again and I realise that he has gone to sleep. Standing up! I shake his arm, and he opens his eyes and keeps talking. ‘No, I’m not hibernating. I’m digging a little nook where I can sleep and eat. I’ll hang up my raincape as a door that can open and close so it feels just like a real home . . . except for the lice . . . and the bad smells . . . and the bombs that make the walls shake and crumble.’ He points further along the trench to where other soldiers are digging. ‘We’re all making little houses in the ground.’ ‘Like rabbits and moles,’ I say. Sleepy Bear chuckles. ‘Yes! And soldiers who need to hide from German bullets and bombs.’ He stops digging to roll a cigarette. ‘Should I be making a house?’ I ask. ‘I want to hide from German bullets and bombs, too.’ Sleepy Bear flops to the ground, lights his cigarette, closes his eyes and takes a deep puff. I wait for him to answer, but, instead, he begins to snore! I poke him in the side. He snorts and he murmurs, ‘I think someone has already built you a house, Sasha. Keep going along this beautiful village street and you are sure to find it.’ He falls asleep once more. I kiss his dusty cheek and whisper, ‘Thank you, Sleepy Bear.’ A little way along, I see Cook in a cloud of smoke. He has lit a fire, right here in the middle of the trench, and is stirring a cauldron full of kasha. He squats as he stirs. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask. ‘Cooking supper, of course!’ he cries. ‘But why are you doing it here?’ Cook points his spoon at the ground above the trenches. ‘Because if I do it up there, my pot will be filled with holes from German bullets and all of the kasha will leak out onto the ground. It’s bad enough that our supplies can’t get through German lines and there’s nothing to cook but buckwheat for kasha. But if we lost the kasha, too . . .’ ‘Hungry soldiers,’ I say. Cook nods. ‘And grumpy!’ ‘Like Boris!’ I gasp. ‘Even worse,’ warns Cook. I picture the kasha pot full of bullet holes. And then I realise that if the kasha pot were full of holes, then Cook would be, too. I wrap my arms around Cook’s neck and say, ‘I think this is a very good place for cooking our supper.’ I kiss his smoky cheek and run along. At the end of the trench, I find the biggest hole of all. It’s wide and deep and as busy as a beehive in a blossom tree. Above, a group of soldiers is rolling logs into place for a roof, while below, typewriters rattle and pencils scratch and papers flutter and voices crackle out of five different radios. Their words tangle together to tell a strange wartime fairy tale about German guns and a loving father called Stalin and a Red Army regiment that is lost in the deep, dark forest and a wicked beast called Hitler and a delivery of vegetables that was hit by a bomb and blown into a million tiny pieces too small even to make soup. In the middle of it all, wrestling with a rumpled map, his rifle still slung over his shoulder, is Major Scruff. ‘Major Scruff!’ I run and jump into his arms. ‘Is this our new home?’ ‘Yes, Sasha. I suppose it is.’ ‘Is it safe from German bullets and bombs?’ I ask. He stares at me. ‘Were you scared in the trenches today, Sasha?’ ‘No,’ I reply. ‘I had magic buttons and a dog and some songs to sing. Were you scared in the forest, Major Scruff?’ ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Poor Major Scruff!’ I press my hand against his cheek. The dark, rough stubble is grubby with grit and his eyelids are taking a long time to open after every blink. ‘You need a shave and a nap!’ I scold. He chuckles. ‘I am too tired to shave and too busy to nap.’ I scrunch my nose while I consider his problem. ‘I know!’ I cry. ‘You nap and I will shave your whiskers. That will be two jobs tumbled into one!’ And so that’s what we do. Major Scruff slumps into a chair and snoozes while I lather his face with soapy water and shave his whiskers. The soap suds travel from his face, up into his hair and down the front of his uniform, and I have to shave his jaw and chin three times because I keep missing bits, but I finally get it all done. I am just wiping his cheeks dry when the dog appears. He licks my hand, then stretches up and licks soap suds from Major Scruff’s ear. Major Scruff wakes with a start. He feels his newly shaved face and cries, ‘Wonderful, Sasha! I feel smooth, clean, rested and ready for action.’ He ruffles my hair. ‘We must do this again tomorrow. Although next time, you might wake me with a gentle shake of the shoulder instead of licking my ear.’

Pray also for me, that whenever I open my mouth, words may be given me so that I will fearlessly make known the mystery of the gospel, for which I am an ambassador in chains. Pray that I may declare it fearlessly, as I should. Ephesians 6:19,20 What sacrifices have you made because of your faith in Jesus Christ? Have you encountered opposition for reading or carrying your Bible? On August 5, 2008, eight high school students from a small African country were imprisoned in a metal shipping container after they objected to authorities confiscating and burning 1,500 Bibles. That same month, in a prominent Middle Eastern country, a young woman had her tongue cut out and she was then burned to death by her own father because of her con- version to Christianity. These are just a couple of countless stories from around the globe about the persecution Christians face today. While we regularly enjoy the freedom to worship God openly without fear of death or imprisonment, millions of our broth- ers and sisters through the world face unimagi- nable persecution for their faith. This type of treatment is nothing new to the followers of Jesus Christ. Jesus himself warned His followers that they would face persecution for following Him, even going so far to say that “Men will hate you because of me.” (Matthew 10:22) Throughout church history, Christians have been imprisoned, beaten, stoned, thrown to the lions, burned at the stake, and much more because of their faith in Jesus. And in the verses you read earlier, Paul referred to his chains, or imprisonment, because of the gospel. Can you recall any other individuals from the Bible or history who faced opposition because of their faith? As men of God, we have a responsibility to our fellow believers around the world who regu- larly face persecution because of their faith. We need to support them in any way possible. In Ephesians and throughout his writings, Paul asked the believers to pray for him that he would have boldness to continue to preach the gospel even while he was locked in chains. Prayer is a very powerful weapon in your arse- nal. With prayer, a man of God can literally be a part of delivering strength, speaking encour- agement, and doing battle all without leaving his room. Through prayer, you can stand beside a missionary as he preaches to the people of South America. Through prayer, you can be part of delivering peace to the Asian pastor locked in prison because of his faith. How is that possible? It’s possible because your prayers have direct access to God. The most

A BAD CASE OF THE STRIPES By David Shannon Parts(18): Camilla Narrator 1 Narrator 2 Narrator 3 Narrator 4 Mr. Harms Mother Father Dr. Bumble Old Woman Environmental Therapist Dr. Grop Dr. Gourd Dr. Sponge Mr. Mellon Dr. Cricket Dr. Young <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><> Narrator 1: A BAD CASE OF THE STRIPES By David Shannon Narrator 2: Camilla Cream loved lima beans. But she never ate them. Narrator 3: All of her friends hated lima beans, and she wanted to fit in. Camilla always worried about what other people thought of her. Narrator 4: Today she was fretting even more than usual. It was the very first day of school, and she couldn't decide what to wear. There were so many people to impress! Narrator 1: She tried on forty-two outfits, but none seemed quite right. She put on a pretty red dress and looked in the mirror. Then she screamed. Narrator 2: Her mother ran into the room, and she screamed, too. Mother: "Oh my heavens! You're completely covered with stripes!" Narrator 3: she cried. This was certainly true. Camilla was striped from head to toe. She looked like a rainbow. Narrator 4: Mrs. Cream felt Camilla's forehead. Mother: "Do you feel all right?" Narrator 1: she asked. Camilla: "I feel fine, but just look at me!" Narrator 2: Camilla answered. Mother: "You get back in bed this instant. You're not going to school today." Narrator 3: her mother ordered. Camilla was relieved. She didn't want to miss the first day of school, but she was afraid of what the other kids would say. And she had no idea what to wear with those crazy stripes. Narrator 4: That afternoon, Dr. Bumble came to examine Camilla. Dr. Bumble: "Most extraordinary! I've never seen anything like it! Are you having any coughing, sneezing, runny nose, aches, pains, chills, hot flashes, dizziness, drowsiness, shortness of breath, or uncontrollable twitching?" Narrator 1: he asked. Camilla: "No, I feel fine." Narrator 2: Camilla told him. Dr. Bumble: "Well then, I don't see any reason why she shouldn't go to school tomorrow. Here's some ointment that should help clear up those stripes in a few days. If it doesn't, you know where to reach me." Narrator 3: Dr. Bumble said, turning to Mrs. Cream. And off he went. Narrator 4: The next day was a disaster. Everyone at school laughed at Camilla. They called her "Camilla Crayon" and "Night of the Living Lollipop." Narrator 1: She tried her best to act as if everything were normal, but when the class said the Pledge of Allegiance, her stripes turned red, white, and blue, and she broke out in stars! Narrator 2: The other kids thought this was great. One yelled out, Narrator 3: "Let's see some purple polka dots!" Narrator 4: Sure enough, Camilla turned all purple polka-dotty. Someone else shouted, Narrator 1: "Checkerboard!" Narrator 4: and a pattern of squares covered her skin. Soon everyone was calling out different shapes and colors, and poor Camilla was changing faster than you can change channels on a T.V. Narrator 2: That night, Mr. Harms, the school principal, called. Mr. Harms: "I'm sorry, Mrs. Cream, I'm going to have to ask you to keep Camilla home from school. She's just too much of a distraction, and I've been getting phone calls from the other parents. They're afraid those stripes may be contagious." Narrator 3: he said. Camilla was so embarrassed. She couldn't believe that two days ago everyone liked her. Now, nobody wanted to be in the same room with her. Narrator 1: Her father tried to make her feel better. Father: "Is there anything I can get you, sweetheart?" Narrator 2: he asked. Camilla: "No, thank you," Narrator 3: sighed Camilla. What she really wanted was a nice plate of lima beans, but she had been laughed at enough for one day. Dr. Bumble: "Hmm, well, yes, I see. I think I'd better bring in the Specialists. We'll be right over.” Narrator 4: said Dr. Bumble to Mr. Cream on the phone. About an hour later, Dr. Bumble arrived with four people in long white coats. He introduced them to the Creams. Dr. Bumble: "This is Dr. Grop, Dr. Sponge, Dr. Cricket, and Dr. Young." Narrator 1: Then the Specialists went to work on Camilla. They squeezed and jabbed, tapped and tested. It was very uncomfortable. Dr. Grop: "Well, it's not the mumps." Dr. Sponge: "Or the measles." Dr. Cricket:"Definitely not chicken pox." Dr. Young: "Or sunburn." Narrator 2: replied the Specialists. Specialists:"Try these. Take one of each before bed." Narrator 4: said the specialists. They each handed her a bottle filled with different colored pills. Then they filed out the front door followed by Dr. Bumble. Narrator 1: That night, Camilla took her medicine. It was awful. Narrator 2: When she woke up the next morning, she did feel different, but when she got dressed, her clothes didn't fit right. She looked in the mirror, and there, staring back at her, was a giant, multi-colored pill with a face on it. Narrator 3: Dr. Bumble rushed over as soon as Mrs. Cream called. But this time, instead of the Specialists, he brought the Experts. Narrator 4: Dr. Gourd and Mr. Mellon were the finest scientific minds in the land. Once again, Camilla was poked and prodded, looked at and listened to. Narrator 1: The Experts wrote down lots of numbers. Then they huddled together and whispered. Dr. Gourd finally spoke. Dr. Gourd: "It might be a virus," Narrator 2: he announced with authority. Suddenly, fuzzy little virus balls appeared all over Camilla. Mr. Mellon: "Or possibly some form of bacteria," Narrator 3: said Mr. Mellon. Out popped squiggly little bacteria tails. Dr. Gourd: "Or it could be a fungus," Narrator 4: added Dr. Gourd. Instantly, Camilla was covered with different colored fungus blotches. The experts looked at Camilla, then each other. Experts: "We need to go over these numbers again back at the lab. We’ll call you when we know something," Narrator 1: said the Experts. But the Experts didn't have a clue, much less a cure. Narrator 2: By now, the T.V. news had found out about Camilla. Reporters from every channel were outside her house, telling the story of "The Bizarre Case of the Incredible Changing Kid." Narrator 3: Soon a huge crowd was camped out on the front lawn. Narrator 4: The Creams were swamped with all kinds of remedies from psychologists, allergists, herbalists, nutritionists, psychics, an old medicine man, a guru, and even a veterinarian. Narrator 1: Each so-called cure only added to poor Camilla's strange appearance until it was hard to even recognize her. She sprouted roots and berries and crystals and feathers and a long furry tail. But nothing worked. Narrator 2: One day, a woman who called herself an Environmental Therapist claimed she could cure Camilla. She said, Environmental Therapist: "Close your eyes, breathe deeply, and become one with your room." Camilla: "I wish you hadn't said that," Narrator 3: Camilla groaned. Slowly, she started to melt into the walls of her room. Her bed became her mouth, her nose was a dresser, and two paintings were her eyes. The therapist screamed and ran from the house. Mother: "What are we going to do? It just keeps getting worse and worse!" Narrator 4: cried Mrs. Cream. She began to sob. Narrator 1: At that moment, Mr. Cream heard a quiet little knock at the front door. He opened it, and there stood an old woman who was just as plump and sweet as a strawberry. Old Woman: "Excuse me, but I think I can help." Narrator 2: she said brightly. Narrator 3: She went into Camilla's room and looked around. Old Woman: "My goodness, what we have here is a bad case of the stripes. One of the worst I've ever seen!" Narrator 4: she said with a shake of her head. She pulled a container of small green beans from her bag. She said, Old Woman: "Here. These might do the trick." Mother: "Are those magic beans?" Narrator 1: asked Mrs. Cream. The old woman replied, Old Woman: "Oh my, no, there's no such thing. These are just plain old lima beans. I'll bet you'd like some, wouldn't you?" Narrator 2: she asked Camilla. Camilla wanted a big, heaping plateful of lima beans more than just about anything, but she was still afraid to admit it. She said, Camilla: "Yuck! No one likes lima beans, especially me!" Old Woman: "Oh, dear, I guess I was wrong about you." Narrator 3: said the old woman sadly. She put the beans back in her bag and started toward the door. Narrator 4: Camilla watched the old woman walk away. Those beans would taste so good. And being laughed at for eating them was nothing, compared to what she'd been going through. She finally couldn't stand it. Camilla: "Wait! The truth is...I really love lima beans." Narrator 1: she cried. The old woman smiled, popping a handful of beans into Camilla's mouth, and said, Old Woman: "I thought so." Camilla: "Mmmmmmm," Narrator 2: said Camilla. Suddenly the branches, feathers, and squiggly tails began to disappear.Then the whole room swirled around. When it stopped, there stood Camilla, and everything was back to normal. Camilla: "I'm cured!" Narrator 3: she shouted. The old woman said, Old Woman: "Yes, I knew the real you was in there somewhere." Narrator 4: She patted Camilla on the head and went outside and vanished into the crowd. Narrator 1: Afterward, Camilla wasn't quite the same. Narrator 2: Some of the kids at school said she was weird, but she didn't care a bit. Narrator 3: She ate all the lima beans she wanted, and she never had even a touch of stripes again.

Gr''ade 3 Questions based on this chapter: English Alexander was a king of the ancient Greek kingdom of Macedonia. By the age of thirty, he had created one of the largest empires in the world, stretching from Greece to northwestern India. When Alexander was young, a trader brought a horse which was difficult to mount. Let us read about how Alexander tames the horse. One day King Philip bought a fine horse. He was a strong animal and the king paid a high price for him. But he was wild and no man could mount him, or do anything at all with him. This horse is really wild. It cannot be tamed by the royal men. Many have tried and failed. We tried everything possible, your Majesty. We tried to whip him but that only made him worse. Glossary wild rough/harsh mount a horse to climb onto the back of a horse to tame to control whip to beat using a long rope King Philip asked his men to take the horse away. It is a pity to send such a fine horse away. I think the men do not know how to tame him. I can try taming this beautiful horse. Perhaps you can do better than them. But be careful, my son. You are still very young to mount this violent animal. Alexander wanted to (mount/feed/tame/ ride) the horse. If you would give me the order, I will try. I am sure I can manage this horse better than anyone else. Antonym(s) worse x better young x old fail x succeed If I fail, I will pay you the price of the horse, Father. The courtiers told Alexander that it might be dangerous for a young boy to try taming the wild horse. They laughed at him. Alexander went near the horse and turned his head towards the sun. He had noticed that the horse was afraid of his own shadow. I will name you Bucephalus. Stay calm and I will do no harm. The horse was afraid of his own (body/courtiers/King Philip/shadow). English He then spoke gently to the horse. Bucephalus means 'ox-head'— head of an ox, in Ancient Greek. When he had quietened him a little, he made a quick spring and leapt upon the horse's back. I thought the little prince would be killed by this dangerous animal. What a miracle! The horse has recognized the young prince as his master. Alexander let the horse run. When Bucephalus had become tired of running, Alexander reined him in and rode back to the place where his father was standing. Glossary noticed (here) to see afraid scared/frightened calm quiet gently softly quietened to become calmer and less noisy a miracle a wonder/unusual event to rein to check or guide a horse Look at the young prince! He is mounted well! But the horse is still wild! Antonym(s); laughed x cried afraid x brave. English When he reached the place where his father was standing, he leapt to the ground. His father ran and kissed him. Dear Father! I shall add My son! Macedonia is a small kingdom more territories and bring for you. You must seek a larger kingdom glory to our kingdom. that will be worthy of you. Fascinating Fact(s) Alexandria Bucephalus was a city founded by Alexander in memory of his loyal horse Bucephalus. During Alexander's invasion of India, he had fought against the Indian King, Porus, near the river Hydaspes (modern day river Jhelum, Pakistan). His horse Bucephalus died there and he honoured his horse by naming the city after it. Antonym(s) worthy x unworthy proud x ashamed You have carried me across countries and stood bravely beside me as I fought to win the numerous fierce battles. You have saved my life many times. I am truly proud of you, Bucephalus. (Mesopotamia/Minneapolis/ Macedonia/Minnesota) was a small kingdom for Alexander to rule. Glossary numerous many fierce strong and violent Alexander and Bucephalus were said to be always together, for when one of them was seen, the other was sure to be not far away. Bucephalus would never allow anyone to mount him, but his master. Alexander became the most famous king and warrior, and for that reason, he is called 'Alexander the Great!.

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