CLACK.CLACK.CLACK. The sound of my fingers rhythimitally pressing the keyboard is now stuck in my brain. My finger easily slides over to the lowercase small words etched to the upper right. Delete. My least favorite button option, but unfortunently the most commonly used. Now the only thing I can peer at is the line flashing after every half a second, reminding me of how I am failing to unravel the characters, plots and detailed scenes that are trapped inside my brain. Sometimes, it feels as if to use these tools are prisoners you have to unlock them from inside of your brain. How? I do not know. I glance at the practically blank pixels and my fingers scramble to construct a paragraph. Then with a long pause I returned to the blank expressionless void of white. You have a will for your work to be uniqe. Distinct. Do not remain at the obvious theme or genre. Do not create a piece that resembles the others. Do not think just out of the box but think around or below the box. You have to construct a narrative that poses different perspectives on the traditional expected paper. Possibly beginning with a surprising unrelated topic and then connect it in the conclusion. You want to form it so it opens new ideas and questions, adding relatable instances to engage the readers like you. Did I engage you with this? Did it compel you?

Reading is a compelling passion for a portion of the globe. When you flip open a novel and peer at the small feeble font sprawled across the pages in preceise positions, your life pauses. Your background blurs. It mutes any noise from your surroundings and allows you to focus on the intricate characters, exquisite vocabulary, and carefully placed details.

The Google definition defines reading as “a cognitive process that involves decoding symbols to arrive at meaning and receiving information.” While that is their interpretation of the favored verb, I would define it much differently. I would comment that reading is like jumping into another individual's life and going through their life beside them. You experience the same emotions as the characters in the delicate tale.

When a reader scans the thin smooth pages and notices the lovely aroma of the novel, they can instantly appreciate the time and dedication it took for the author to construct such a favored masterpiece. The author attempts to display every sentence in a certain way to impact any readers.

George RR. Martin accurately produces a wonderful quote about this fascinating verb: “A man who reads lives a thousand lives, but a man who never reads only lives one.”

The only thing I can recall is orange. Maybe I should explain better, but accurately that is the only memory I have of that agonizing week. Different shades of neon orange, bursting with glowing sparks. This fire was uncontrollable and bursting with intense heat. Consuming not only inanimate objects, but breathing humans. More than 5,000 human beings have been marked as missing. Family members, companions and friends probably lost forever. I was three when that horrific catastrophe occured. On this present day, I am 15, and now we have a much worse complication in life than The Fire.

A drought. In the weeks following the event, rain showers were deterred. This pattern continued through the next few months and sources of water were supplementary. Many individuals combined to create groups. For multiple reasons. To assist each other to thrive, find relatives and lost individuals and to escape the ruins and memories of the fire. You see, all the combined people fled toward the mountains, which marks the border to other countries. Every group was suffering, except P.A.C. Protection and Assisiting Cooperative. With three extensive locations across this country, fhe P.A.C claims to assist us to live a better life. They are the only group of people thriving because of their extensive research and information. If any indivisual discovers a source of water you can report it to the P.A.C and in return they inform you of any info of lost friends or family members. Many of our population has devoted their life to discovering a source of water, as they cling to the sliver of hope they have for their remembered people. A portion of this country has suspicions of their tasks and claims. Many groups have been formed. When I was three, the day the fire occurred, a woman saved me from was Peggy Carnish, a neighbor and babysitter at the time. My parents had left the very morning to go to Asmin, a neighboring town for their occupation. They still are scribbled in a neat font on the miserable and long MISSING list. Either way, Peggy joined the beginnings of the Conifer group.

Settled halfway up the mountain, the Conifer group has managed to thrive. A growing settlement has formed. Every single person in the cooperation has tasks to assist the entire group. Life is not simple or easy, but we manage. While some men awake early, prepared with weapons, and trudge into the luscious forest examining their surroundings, hungry for game, others construct necessary tools or buildings. Women also do these tasks but more commonly cook, tend to medical concerns and educate children. Other than assisting their parents, children in the conifer group can be found experimenting with snares, climbing trees or exploring the beautiful wilderness. On your sixteenth birthday you are referred to as an adult and additonal responsibilities will be added to your tasks. That day dawned upon me. I enjoyed the freedom of only being occupied in the morning, leaving the remainder of the day open. If you were over the age of sixteen, your only breaks were meals, evenings and the sixth and seventh days of the week. The sixth for the group meetings and the seventh for chapel.

My cracked lips crinkle into a feeble smile as I peer across the large mountain, covered in green trees. Clouds waver as the balmy sun vibrates with a restful pallet. The moisturized air drifts onto my flushed face. I jump to a nearby branch and glide down the tree with grace. When you grow up in the wilderness you befriend the natural resources around you.

Leaves crinkle underneath my feet as my speed ascends. My pupils are focusing on the beaten path in front of me. Soon, huts appear in the distance. Since it is the beginning of the week, tasks begin early in the day, when the sun appears. Members of the group brustle past each other on the dirt road. Conversation floats through the air as I greet friends. The main hut is at the far end of the circular village. One trading post and a small business beside it. The other huts are houses for members. At the beginning of the village, there are two platforms perched on two magnificent Aspen trees, fluttering in the wind. Guards are placed on each platform, with sleek handcrafted archery weapons. As Leonord Vingo, the group leader always instructed us to take precaution. Groups, animals or individual travelers could attempt to swipe clothes, food and our most valuable possession: water. Many recent travelers have not swallowed this liquid for days, and will do anything to get it. Our weapons are more for show than a threat. Leonord has reminded us that we have never terminated a human being, and hopefully we will maintain that recognition. I can’t say the same about animals though. While we do eat plants and vegetation, we mainly digest meat, including Moose, Deer, Pheasants and Turkey. I strutted to a larger hut and found a boy with curly brown hair and dimples standing with a bow and some string.

“ Morning Keenen.” I replicated his smile.

“Mornin Layla.” He nodded. “Mum fixed up some muffins.”He handed me a plump muffin with berries cooked inside. The taste was flawless, but it was a bit dry, because of the amount of water she had mixed in. My smile grew either way.

“Tell her thanks.” I said before swallowing a huge clump of muffin. He nodded.

Me and Keenan strolled to the beginning of the village and entered the forest. sun peeked through the trees and sparkled. Logs covered with green luscious moss and trees with beautiful brown bark adorned the forest. Our eyes examine our surroundings for any movement from wildlife. While we walk, we talk about the latest news. Mrs. Pav recently was in labor, Sydney Fent recently left the group to marry a distant traveler, an upcoming visit of traders coming from the north side of the mountain and the hole. Recently, we have started to dig a well to hopefully receive water. We currently receive water from the country of Rehba. We give them resources and they give us water. Rehbans adore foreign vegetation, tools and animals so it makes it easy to trade.

We pick up our pace and navigate our way through the memorized landscape. We race each other to each snare we have made and check for any deceased wildlife stuck in our traps.

Soon we crouch down and began building a simple, but sturdy trap. We situated sticks, wound string around them to secure the sticks, and sharpened sticks to eliminate any small wildlife who entered the trap.

I wipe my hand on my handmade clothing creating dirt smudges. I gave my snare an approving look and then changed my crouching position to a standing one. Satisfied, Keenan also completed his snare.

Since we both had assigned tasks for the day we retreated back to the village. Once we entered I nodded a farewell to Keenan and he replicated my movement. I entered a hut, where four women sat, two buckets filled to the brim with red ripe berries. They greeted me with a smile and then explained our task.

We were to first wash the berries with the most minimal use of water possible. Then we were to smash the berries, add a few additional ingredients and package the jam. Each woman took a step of the process and we began to work. The process was long and dull, but I knew that it would be worth it to taste the sweet flavor of jam at the end.

After we had bottled twenty six cans of jam I walked down the street and turned onto the main dirt road. All the first tasks ended before noon, so many people were also walking down the road. I entered a small hut, an old woman in a dusty blue apron stood slicing up fruit on a wooden board. She didn’t notice me enter the room.

“Hattie, I am home!” I announced. She glanced up and the creases around her mouth became more evident as she smiled. A few white curls escaped her loose braid, dangling over her face.

“Layla!” She ran over and kissed my cheek. “Sit down. I made bread and picked strawberries this morning. She escorted me to a rustic chair. She laid a plump slice of light brown bread and three strawberries in front of me. I murmured a thanks and then my teeth sank into the crusty slice of bread with a small sliver of butter dissolving into the slice of bread.

Title is Dehydration, Fiction. My age focus and audience target are 12-15 year olds. My name is Myra Gilbert. I have very little experience in my life but have experienced many other peoples lives through books. I enjoy hiking reading and writing. I also like being around friends and family. I reside in Kalispell, Montana.

Summer is like pink lemonade. Yes, I have just compared a drink to summer. No, I am not weird. pink lemonade can be sour or tasteless like some dull long humid days in the summer in which you wish school would just begin so you would be occupied, but of course when this action came into play you would be sincerely dreading your thoughts because school was dreadful and awfully dull in your opinion. This drink can also be too sweet the taste is overpowering and strong, like when you do entertaining things to often in summer that it begins to become a routine a drawl on slowly like a slug slowly inching to his goal. When your cup of pink lemonade has the perfect ratio of sweetness, tartness and taste you have had an exceptional summer day, with the perfect balance of every single ingredient. So, remember next time you are at the grocery store or making a decision pick the right pink lemonade.