Results of U-Write-It Week 288
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"I know the answer to the economy problem," Chrissy said. "All we've got to do is..."
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...invade Mexico!"
Her dad gave her his look, but that was nothing new. He was eighty-three years old, and he couldn't do much else.
"Honestly Chrissy, you're thirty-three years old. It's time you went out and started earning my stay in a better retirement home."
Chrissy sighed. Her dad was obviously growing senile, so she decided to cut her stay short. These places always depressed her, with the inattentive attendants and the sad patients.
Besides, her dad had been in that rat-hole for years. How could he know that Mexico was now the richest country on the planet?
by Kenneth Cross, Louisiana, USA
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...stop being self centered freaks...and actually think about what we are doing to ourselves!"
by Melissa, Wisconsin, USA
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...make sure we get the right form of the test when Mr. Beamer hands them out." She shoved the answer key back into the folder.
"What do you mean 'right form'?" Mark whispered. As lookout, stationed next to the slightly ajar classroom door, he wished Chrissy would speak more softly.
"My brother says Mr. Beamer alternates test forms; an A form and a B form," she explained.
Exasperated, Mark tore his gaze from the hallway to look at her. "Well, weren't there TWO forms of the answer key?"
"Just a sec," Chrissy rifled through the file folder again.
Just as Chrissy's triumphant "Yess!" rode over Mark's whispered "No" Mr. Beamer's gold cuff-linked wrist snaked inside the classroom door to flick on the light switch.
by Ric Hardson, US
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..."
Her voice died. It didn't wind down or grow softer; it came to an abrupt halt. Not a whisper of breath, a gasp, or a hiccup followed is.
The entire seventh period World Problems class froze. Cheerleaders stopped cursivating catty notes. Jocks reluctantly hauled longing gazes in from the football field. Losers abandoned intense studies of the second hand's journey around the clock face. Papers ceased rustling. Chairs became eerily still.
Head slowly swiveling left, Chrissy stared at Mr. Hartman. Like a red dot on a target, she locked eyes with our teacher. The statue behind the yellow maple podium left one half of her semester grade hanging in midair.
Time began again when she blinked and water splashed on the gray-green linoleum floor.
It sounded like water.
Mr. Hartman s eyes traveled from her face to her feet.
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Thirty-six years later we still have no answer to the economy problem.
by Daphne Rice, Portland, OR
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