Environmental Club for Journalism (2012)

Environmental Club

The Autumn was quiet, only interrupted by the whispers of the rustling trees as the sunlight wove through the leaves from a sideby tree. Then, the bell rang and students all over campus would make their way to either clubs, or the parking lot. For a typical Tuesday, eco-enthusiastic peers rush across the hallways, making their way towards Mrs. Godfrey's class. Mrs. Godfrey is the supervisor of the environmental club, has been teaching for eight years, and is currently teaching the majority of freshmen Pre-AICE Biology as well as AP/AICE Environmental Science for the upperclassmen. Every grade level and from each distinct life history comes an individual that offers to support. At approximately 2:57pm, almost everyone has signed in and already initiated their contributions towards the club. "We get rewarded at the end, which is positive reinforcement," gushed Chandler Holland, a freshman. She added, "Either hours or sweets, that's indeed not the point. It's whether you care or not that's noteworthy because it reverts to integrity. In the end, if you really do it, there shouldn't be guilt, but that accomplishing, indescriptive feeling." Her friend, freshman Eliza Myers said, "Besides, if no one cares, the world's a mess." Eliza twirled round, scrunching up her locks disheveledly.

The club went to the back hallway of the science building to push out the rolling blue bins as they returned to the environmental homeroom and clutched a couple of gloves. When one of the girls asks to wear plastic gloves because it was waterproof, Mrs. Godfrey, who thought it thoroughly, replied responsibly that if they were to use plastic gloves, it would "defeat the purpose." From an outsider's point of view, it makes complete sense. "There are ethics, like it or leave," Eliza Myers claimed after the gloves inquiry. As much as she is a freshman, she appears to be off towards a compassionate beginning, perhaps a difference trailing in the fog, awaiting for the right time. The club each signed for the buildings that they'll be helping out and left calmly, some swiftly, as they make their routes to a destination of recognition.

The afternoon warmth swirled through the atmosphere and no one was left, minus the other clubs, in the hallways. Students were out and away, some in building 2, some building 8, among many more. Kathleen "Katie" Giovanni, another freshman yet, pushed into the first floor of building seventeen. With her fellow environmental members, they each dedicatedly collected each blue bin from outside of the classrooms. "Sometimes, we would peer into the classrooms and try to twist the doorknob, as if that's of any help,"she began, recalling her past times. Another member, Jen Johannesson, a junior, said, "The rooms would be lights out most of the time, and it's frustrating for us to see bins left inside, all piled up and full. Since it's my first year at Fort Lauderdale High, I don't know how everything circulates, but I'm sure that when recycling bins are full, they're supposed to be left out. Take the teacher's meeting room for instance, which lies midhall. I'm so thankful for the lady who opened the door for me, else it might as well be impossible to clear out that bin." Kathleen and Jen made their way to the elevator and stood there patiently, their eyes shone with hope and reason for all that environmental club stood for. Katie noted, "Oh, forgot to tell you, we're allowed to use the elevator for organizational purposes." "If anyone stops us, we'll explicate explicitly that it's for our club," Jen spoke without hesitation. "She's right, explanation plus teamwork prioritizes our objective, and get things done faster," Katie puts in.

There came more and even more bins to come and leave, sorted out into the rolling recycling bin. Katie, walking up and down the hallway, said, "The rules are pretty simple. If there's soda, gatorade, juice, or et cetera in the bottles or cans, get to the restroom and rinse it out. The papers and water bottles goes into the blue bin, and the soda cans are tossed into the black plastic bag that ties to the side of the blue bin." Jen admits, "It's not as hard as one would think it is. Besides, if it was, the social setting of it would fit anyone right as home. Making new friends and working together keeps us going, and once someone gets used to this, like me, it's become more of a leisure activity." After they finished the second floor, they pushed the bin downstairs to the recycling section of the dumpster, which was right outside the fences on campus. After flipping the bin 180 degrees forward, everything tumbled into place.

One more floor was left. They made their way back into the building and were lifted upstairs again by the elevator. When the third floor's bins were cleaned out and neat as the clothes they wore, Jen stated sincerely, "It's been a long day, but totally worth it." "Yes, let's get back to the homeroom, " Katie suggested. So after another time of dumping things out, they pushed the bin to class with the bag of cans. As soon as they got inside, Kathleen and Jen were greeted by Mrs. Godfrey, and they exchanged sisterly greetings by Chandler and Eliza. Everyone gathered at the sink in the back of the class and started to rinse out the soda cans. Chandler, who was washing her hands at the end of session, said, "We wash them out so they aren't icky and Mrs. Godfrey would sell them for our treats." She left the club, exclaiming, "Bye, Mrs. Godfrey, bye y'all! See you next Tuesday!" It was shortly before the majority left to make it to their activity buses and parents waiting outside. Eliza and Jen seemed recharged of energy as they left the Biology classroom, soaking themselves with the setting light. They smiled, chewing their Butterfingers. Katie went out after and caught up. "The moral is, every little deed counts, because when it is shipped in with others', it could make a great impact for our community." They all branched out, but that wasn't their end. For years to come, and another environmental story told again.

Chapter 1

My mind flies away to the wonders far beyond dismay. Dreams engulf my brain, blurring my vision that once was so plain. Stains of my past threw me around, until my journey's end will I feel sound. Whispers circled my presence, and suddenly, everything blacked out.

    I was in the middle of the sea. I don't know how I got there. I'm not even sure if this is a dream——it feels so real. But then again, I always take dreams as reality. The vast ocean extended to the far horizon, sunless as the skies caught indigo. Wherever I was swimming to, the answers were unknown. Having no compass, I just swam, hoping for the best. It wasn't until the blackness vanished from the blue did I find a verdant island on its stony cliffs, where there's town and forest. To the stairs I climbed and after each step, the stairs reformed into its natural structure. The cliffs' hidden stairs, according to the legends of Fleurence, are to foreshadow one's haplessness. I paused to ponder about that, about the possibility if misfortunes would intersect my trail. I don't know if there will be any, and I assured myself so to retreat into comfort. The breeze embraced me cruelly. I think it is close to zero degrees Celsius. My gossamer gown was unlike the winter apparel that I should've brought, but if I did, the warmth meant to ameliorate me could be soporific. I'd rather be cold if that's what it takes to be awake and aware until I find shelter.
   Unquestionably, the fear of entering the forest without a candle lit calls for flight. But somehow, I managed to stand. There I was, standing still like the pristine trees in the acres ahead, trusting my own sagacity, which could be unreliable. I thought to myself, "Take risks because there may not be a second chance when you turn around." This was supposed to encourage me, just when I realized that what I dreaded poisoned my mind of wonders——what if I went forth without turning back? But the hope for shelter, the hope for discovering it pulled me forward. Forget idleness, there's no time for such a phase in the freezing atmosphere. There was something appealing about the forest that I couldn't quite grasp, and its mystery drew me in. I couldn't resist the privilege to find out what lies buried at its heart.

     The woods lacked its usual moonlight. I stepped cautiously, not knowing where I was going in the evergreen woodlands. My schoolteacher, a constant lecturer of safety, would have find my decisions perilous and chide. I recommenced my strides, where echoes reciprocated even its slightest sound. The touch of birch reminded me of a blazing fireplace that I yearned since arrival. I sighed, being so lost and hopeful all at the same time, having strode with the comfort of the fir in this environment, without answers known. I turned to gaze back, and could see the edges of the cliffs, the pastures from where my journey initiated, the less dense parts of the forests that invited heavenly radiance that came each dawn, subsiding the reign of night.

       A few paces forth or so, I saw firelight at a distance. I couldn't make out what it was, but kept going. It could be a wildfire. Why didn't I leave? There was still that enigma that drew me. There has to be an explanation for what I saw. But when I got there, all I wanted to do was depart. Dreary drops of wistful water tumble to the blades of grass. The estate before my eyes was mine, it was where I could've sought shelter and reside. It was lit on fire. I couldn't smell the smoke, much less inhale the ashes, but clearly saw the pieces of the roof drift into nothing. Why was my house on the cliffs? How was I in the middle of the sea? Was this a dream? I instinctively fled. I wanted to stay there and mourn for my family, but I was, without reason, compelled to run.
        I dashed out of the woods. I was trying to breathe, trying to take it all in and make sense of it. Where did that intuitive decision to flee originate? The dewdrops fell on the stone-hard cliffs from oaks above, where leaves diverged, but sheltered the edges and too lively to be forgotten. I dove off its edge. Again, without my sagacity involved. It was like some other instinct drove me, and everything fell into place. It made sense. I was in the middle of the sea in the end because I fled home. I survived.

To finish, although not well done, is farther down the road than the incomplete.

A new June. A new haircut.

I haven't had a haircut since August 17, 2012. So that's almost two years. If I count it out correctly, it's 1 year, 9 months, and 16 days. June 1st. My last haircut before graduation. It's about the same length, more or less, as last summer. Graduation ceremony photos will stay that way. Aside from that, the end of my junior year has been of journal signing, getting my cap and gown, and my red cord just for being in the AICE Programme. Yesterday, I met Cameron at Dunkin Donuts and Miranda with her bf at Barnes & Noble. I drank green tea there. I also met a generous college girl, an alumni of my high school, at CVS before going to the bookstore. When I got home, my mom says that she saw the cat that occasionally visits us around our house. I went book shopping online last month. I ordered a novel, Winter's Tale and this book about Quantum Mechanics. I'm excited to travel this Winter.

The Downside to Apparel Advertising

   Advertising promotes modified reality, through its effectiveness of portraying bliss and narrowing societal standards unethically, thus leading the unbelievers to scrutinize at its infallible downside.
Every time monthly magazines arrive in the mail, pages are immediately leafed through. Readers' eyes are fixed on stunning snapshots of advertisements. Perhaps too much credit is given for such an unethical industry. If argued, the downside would have more bullet points.
   Most girls are easily influenced in what they see, hear, and this so results in the acceptance of what society has framed as natural. Walking into malls, there are posters on either side of the hallways, each encouraging shopping by offering attractive discounts. Consequently, consumers who think that they are saving money end up spending more. It's like a negotiation with a con artist. People soon realize that they have a hole in their pocket when they lack cash or have their cards declined. So while the advertisements are beneficial for corps, consumers walk out and into the majority crowd and its recession. Meanwhile, saving money isn't the only way costumers thought they were achieving happiness. Websites like Abercrombie and Fitch advertise with fresh phrases such as, "Here's to longer days & short dresses" and "Here's to laid-back days and lightweight layers" with photos of models drenched in bliss. It is misleading when costumers think that wearing what these euphoric models wear will bring them happiness, for it will be happiness of materialism, which is unquestionably temporary. True happiness cannot be bought, but rather found and kept. Still, it enforces the harsh truth that happiness could be gained by following current trends. Schoolgirls of recent years appear to turn their hallways into a runaway and fashion bullying is on the rise. Back in 2008, girls were shut out of the "in" group for not wearing Abercrombie in Clifton, Virginia, "the sweetheart suburban town of estates and grandeur." It contributes to the bitter truth that advertisements set standards that determine happiness. Certain clothes, although portraying similar images of people shot with happiness, do not carry out happiness as fashion bullying does suppress it. On the critical point of view, happiness should not be determined by what people wear, and moreover, by shopping for clothes.
 Advertising establishes the notion that how you drew makes who you are in society. First impression, labels, stereotypes... no wonder advertising proves to be effective. On the other hand, teenagers dress in ways that they want to be perceived as. Maybe behind those black, sleek clothes, there's a sweet, shy girl who wants to find her place in society. She is who she wants to be... with her clothes. Likewise, there could be a girl who dresses so floral, with flutter layers, but she's more of a fit for metal-pointy clothes that matches her everyday, get-out-of-my-way attitude. Advertising, with its false promise of happiness, also seals deceitful impressions from society. It's America, yes, and you can dress however you want, of course, but sometimes dressing just to fall into the space instead of finding your place isn't what our founding fathers would agree on. They fought for a freedom of expression among many other freedoms, and there wouldn't be America if the patriots were all loyalists. That's one way to look at the advertising/perception situation: loyalists buying their labels. At the same time, dressing in certain labels results how people will accept you in society. This therefore explains the "wrong-girl-right-clothes" theory mentioned earlier. If the mean girl dressed in porcupine metal jewelry and clothes, she may not be as admired or taken in society as she would be. The serene, introvert wouldn't belong in a more noticeable clique if she didn't dress in intimidating Black Canary clothes. Acceptance is why people dress the way they do. Advertisements set those standards, as always. And the rest is how society will take you. Advertisements also implant the idea that "To really dress well is to fit well". While this might be true for its models, it certainly has a negative impact on society. In AP Psychology, students learn about various disorders that girls take in their endeavor to become skinny. Anorexia, bulimia, you name it. This originates with seeing models flaunt their high-fashion apparel in stem-like figures. So shopping would not be enough; girls had to make themselves a clone of what they see so frequently. "How you dress makes who you are in society, how you fit takes where your acceptance belongs in society." Although indirectly implied, there cannot be more truth to what advertisements are sculpting.
  At length comes a group of critical unbelievers, also known as researchers, columnists, parents, and psychologists, all of whom complain of the downside to apparel advertising. Advertising does display happiness, which would be considered the purest element among its artificial standards of trends and shape. But does outer beauty of contemporary age now considered more important than inner beauty? To think, advertisements have models indulged in happiness because of how they look, wear, and fit. Their photos do not tell anything of their inner beauty, and their smiles could be a ploy to make their mark on the world, but a mark of unethical standards should be disregarded. Seeing advertisements affect the way teenagers see and treat themselves. Students at Fort Lauderdale High, after being exposed to magazines and advertisements embedded within, are more likely to talk about what they think of themselves figure wise; advertisements succeed in sales as they succeed in destroying students' self-esteem. "I feel thick", "I hate myself", et cetera are a couple of random things one would hear while walking through the school's hallways, eating at the patio, or after school before extracurriculars. Photoshopping fashion snapshots frame unrealistic ideals that results in the questionable statement as to whether teenagers will ever be happy with who they really are. Perhaps how they feel will change as they realize that advertisements' photos of the apparel industry are edited during photoshopping. The attempt of boosting sales brings unethical advertisements, which in a karma-like backfire, reveals the photoshop trick. Though advertisements could be deemed unethical, there are and in continuance, costumers who buy their fictional standards. Credulous page-turners and "in-style" consumers will shop their way to shallow happiness, which could cause impulsive buying. Parents are concerned about their teenagers' financial instability, and while they hope their teenagers' allowances will be managed wisely, advertisements slowly hook teens to break their budgets, which leads to a possibility of the inability to pay tuition for future education. Education is part of the American Dream, and advertisements could be ruining it. Besides that, trends and new arrivals could be distracting in the schools' environment and interrupting the success of students' true potential. Some years ago, Tyra Banks hosted a talk show that brought out the popular and unpopular girls on stage. Advertisements sneakily smuggle their standards into the schools' environment, and thus results in what has become of the schools. Parents who went through it understands that fashion bullying is comparable to a reign of terror, and columnists collect research on the analyzation of that matter. With advertisements, researchers will always have more to add to their statistics and its downside appears to be never-ending, or its end, if ever lived to, seems distant.
  Advertisements minimize the freedom of expression, with labels for certain trends and certain collection of styles, thus bringing consumers to be narrow-minded and ignoring their self-impressions. Audacity rules, but suppressed by the recent reign of modified reality. While corporations are eager to put out persuasive ads, which are deemed successful in carrying out its profitable purpose, the unethical procedure towards cash for the headquarters and its branches may be impacting America in ways underestimated. With luck, criticism of the unbelievers could find an egress to the dystopia of impressions advertising has created.

The Aftermath of The Cask of Amontillado

The sunlight spilled through the leafless spaces of the oak above. Each Earl sister was an adventurer herself, but reacted to the tour differently. Novelle Scotia, one of the sisters, kept lifting her chin every so often and flipped her tousled waves as if her actual purpose was to catch each breathtaking sight along the trail. Her amber eyes took everything in generally, and her silent exhalation left the turtledoves' chirps unbroken. Her interest lies in all things aesthetic, as she herself was an aesthete. Novelle Scotia's major is Environmental Archeology, which was slightly more related to this tour than her sister, and although their pace matched, she was different in matters of perspective. She scrutinized at one kind of plant, bird, or butterfly momentarily before shifting to the next since she always had to write papers such as the analysis of plant physiology or biodiversity. Scotia Rosemarie was skeptical of commercials, first experiment results among many other things, which made her financially stable, successful in confirming data and conclusions, and street-wise, as she was an extrovert, unlike her typically introvert sister. Her gray eyes were calm and patient, but shone with unbiased judgement. She ended up on this tour with her sister because they both signed up for Mediterranean Mysteries as their elective, each having a different intention: Novelle Scotia thought that mysteries in an artisan land was beautiful, and Scotia Rosemarie wanted to have more incredulity to shatter. "Ouch!" Novelle Scotia screamed. THe tour group ignored her, lost in their observations. Novelle Scotia paused on the trail. Scotia Rosemarie broke away from sightseeing a minute later and glanced back. She followed her sister's gaze toward a bite bigger than a mosquito's bite. "Maybe if you stopped acting like an It girl, dressed properly, and lit that citrus candle I gave you, you could've had a 90% chance of avoiding that bite." Scotia Rosemarie commented, waving one hand unseen underneath her trench coat and held up her mug with a strongly scented candle in the evening-turned-twilight. "And listen to you complain about your straightened hair getting frizzy the other 10% of the time?" Novelle Scotia questioned provokingly. Scotia Rosemarie always took people's blunt remarks well, however candid they were. If she was irritated, she certainly didn't express it. So she replied, "I just mentioned wishing that it was less humid."
"And you combed your fingers through your hair, indicating----"
"Indicating that if you thought that I said otherwise, or assumed what you did, you have strangely intruded my mind."
Silence.
Thought so, Scotia Rosemarie thought to herself. Novelle Scotia didn't want to be involved in anything strange nor be described or accused as an intruder. So she twirled ahead of her sister, letting the wind whip her skirt and catch full volume of it, as if to forget their conversation. Her sister concealed most of her face with a sheer scarf, and put on a pair of night vision glasses to see beyond their trail. When they arrived at the brick and stone dome, Novelle Scotia said to her sister, "Your hair, like mine, matches your trench coat."
"Thanks, " Scotia Rosemarie replied, both appreciating her sister's attempt to pacify their relationship and not appreciating her obvious comments.
"Good evening!" Their tour guide began. "If you didn't hear my self introduction earlier because you were busy shopping at the airport," she paused and glanced at Novelle Scotia before returning her eyes to the group, "my name is is Eve Shire, and I am your tour guide. For another time, I suggest that more of you will wear adventure-appropriate clothes." She pointed at her outfit that looked as if it came out of an Indiana Jones movie. "I know that we're in Italy, but we're on an educational tour, and not at a fashion show." Novelle Scotia giggled from the group, which Scotia Rosemarie thought was ironic. Eve Shire continued. "The catacomb which you will tour was rumored to be where the real Romeo and Juliet died. There are evidences that these star-crossed lovers existed, and you are for yourselves to decide if it is true that they were buried here."
 She went on with her lecture about the evidences of the real Romeo & Juliet and their story. Novelle Scotia, although very much liked Shakespeare's romantic tragedy, found the lecture boring, and a tad bit frightened about going to explore an underground cemetery. "I'd rather not tamper with my natural ignorance," she said in a low voice. Eve Shire's outfit seemed as serious as her personality. Her sister paid the lecturer undivided attention. When she decided to not let her mind drift off and listen, the lecture ended. That quickly. As the tour group descended down the staircase, their tour guide guide was far ahead, with Scotia Rosemarie following closely behind. The tour guide hold her peace to let their imaginations grow.
"It's eerily uncomfortable!" Novelle Scotia exclaimed.
"I'm with you," Klara Engelstad agreed. Klara Engelstad was another student from their women's college, and her appearance mirrored Scotia Rosemarie's, even though they are unrelated by blood. She was serious about studying on-site, but the catacombs were her place in preference. Scotia Rosemarie wished that her sister would hold her tongue. She almost believed Romeo & Juliet's existence, but her doubts held her back from falling into persuasion. The Romeo & Juliet story that she just heard of was a coincidence to Shakespeare's play, and even if she thought it was real, she would keep it to herself to avoid disbelief and explanation. Novelle Scotia caught up, and started to knock on the burial entrances, in an attempt to soften her fear. Eve Shire tried to be patient, yet she spoke firmly, "We're with you. Let those who rest in peace rest." Upon Novelle Scotia's last knock, however, she, Klara, Scotia Rosemarie, and the group heard empty space behind it. "The irony keeps on getting intense," Aria Romanova said. Novelle Scotia was the last person anyone expected to discover anything. Eve Shire sensed the group's curiosity elevating. "Alright, let's get back to the hotel," she said, hoping that saying something about the hotel would invite comfort and convince everyone to retreat to shelter. She hoped that Romeo & Juleit would be buried behind that brick wall, but decided that some mysteries should be left undisturbed. Most of the tour group, including Eve Shire, left. Scotia Rosemarie remained, as she was interested, along with her sister and Klara Engelstad. Whether it was Romeo & Juliet's mystery or not, Klara would leave without knowing about the empty space and why there was no entrance. So Klara pulled out a hammer from her beige, suede bag and swinger at the brick wall with determination. The bricks were more fragile than estimated, perhaps by age or the damp conditions underground. When the wall collapsed, it unveiled a secret long hidden: a skeleton in the shape of an elderly man was chained to the wall on the opposite end. There was a wooden branch, shaped like a torch at one end, that laid on the floor of that unfortunate room.
"I think that the torch dimmed and burned out. The man didn't die from fire because his clothes and skeleton survived; he must have died from suffocating from the smoke and was deprived of oxygen. He died before starvation," Novelle Scotia pointed out.
"Who was the man?" Klara wondered.
"Doubtless he was noble. Maybe it was revenge. But it is a crime," Scotia Rosemarie concluded.

Montressor lived in his antique estate at peace all these years. He has forgotten what he had done fifty years back because he was ashamed of not feeling guilty or sad that he buried that night at the back of his mind. Reclining in his soft, cushioned sofa, he held up a withering rose by the fireplace. The edges of its petals seemed all the more fiery against the blazing background. "Scarlett," he described the rose. That very word brought back flashes of memories of his wife, from their engagement to her end. She caught the cold, and he tried to nurse her back to health, but even with all the medicine, all their wealth, her case was hopeless. He tried to not think about her end, and instead, about their life together. "Scarlett," he repeated, and her name echoed in their house. He saved each of the little moments of their life together to be replayed each day, so that everyday's reminiscence differs. When he was done replaying, he turned on the television. A reporter right outside the catacomb said, "Investigators claimed that this historical crime scene occurred about fifty years ago." The camera shifted to a group of young women whose faces were blurred. One of them began to speak. "We're college students from northwestern Europe and traveling to write papers on our first-handed experience of the Mediterranean mysteries. Originally, this particular tour was to see if Romeo and Juliet were buried here. Luck led us to another road, and we found a chained prisoner who ran out of it," said the woman with skinny jeans, an ivory flutter-sleeved shirt, and a beige, suede bag. A woman with a dark red dress, a matching rose in her hair, black stilettos, and a french manicure stepped forward and declared, "I was knocking underground, and I couldn't really see in such a dark place, but I remembered knocking a plain wall, and behind t sounded like empty space. My friend knocked it down, and the chill ran up my spine."
"We thought it would be ideal to keep our identities blurred. If this crime happened fifty years ago, then the avenger must be somewhere around seventy years old or so. People around here live long, and most Italians have lived here all their lives, with their title and inheritances," The girl with the trench coat said.
"Too close," Montressor said, wide-eyed. These women were simply too close to the truth. He turned off his television, but could't turn off the past that haunts him. Ire erupted from within him. he was provoked by what he had done, and swung his walking stick to purposely shatter a nearby glass vase. But then he cooled down by unlocking that secret happiness of having taken revenge. Then he heard an elderly man's deep voice, crying out, "The Amontillado!" with a rich, hopeless laughter that followed. Montressor typically daydreamed of the past, alternative scenarios that could've happened, and remember many voices adequately, but this time his voice seemed real, as if the past crossed into the present. Montressor said aloud, "Fortunato, you are not real." Maybe it was his mind and anxiety deceiving him. Fortunato's voice replied, "What is real?" Montressor became confused, but confusion faded as dear sank in. Fortunato was replying, and he definitely wasn't imagining it. "Leave me to my peace," Montressor said, trembling. There was a moment of silence. Then, when Montressor thought that Fortunato left he spoke again. " I won't leave you as you have left me." From the top of the staircase, he was a figure descending. He couldn't see that well, but soon after realized that it was his servant, Marinella. It was a quick relief before he returned to anxiety. What if she knew? Around the time that Fortunato disappeared, the town started talking about what might have happened. But that was decades ago. Maybe she didn't hear. Maybe she doesn't know. But then she served the teacup as gently as it was fragile, and her movements were perfect, but fleeting as it never were. When she turned around to leave, she appeared as a captive fleeing. Montressor rose higher from his slightly bent posture, and called out, "Marin..." She stopped, but did not dare to look back. She hinted unwilling obedience, as if it was the quickest egress out of this situation. Montressor walked towards her and have her a comforting, cozy hug. She exhaled, and when all of the nervousness left her, Montressor said, "Thanks. He then injected her with a colorless, odorless liquid and she fell to the floor. From a faraway crevice of a mahogany door, his wine taster, Francesa heard and watched everything. She was not only a wine taster, for her master, but an eavesdropper for herself. She knew that she couldn't trust anyone; everyone seems to be hiding something. Her sleek, ebony mane contrasted the ignis of the logs in the chimney. She had to seek help. She sought shelter from a feudal conflict that she decided to runaway from, and now it's time to runaway from such madness in this former haven. An hour came to pass. She stepped outside her room, walked quietly downstairs to get herself a glass of water. After greeting Montressor innocently, and without malice nor knowledge of her friend's disappearance, she offered to cook his favorite dish. "I must go to get wheat though, for pasta without wheat isn't pasta."
"Of course, of course," Montressor replied. He seemed sad, but calm at least.
"Then the champagne ran out from Sunday's bash. Will you fancy more tonight?"
"I ought to sip some, lest my gelato is deemed too sweet."
"Then leave it to me," Francesa said.
"Let it be so."
Francesa hiked through the forest to the catacombs. It was almost night again. Almost dinnertime. She got the ingredients to cook for Montressor tonight. So since she did as she said she would, her mind shifted to other matters. Please, she thought, let luck come; let me find the students. A girl walked toward her, and held out her hand the western way. "Hi, my name is Scotia Rosemarie."
"Hi," Francesa said in return. Her voice started to choke. She grabbed Scotia Rosemarie's wrist, and kneeled. Her eyes rained, and sorrows silenced her. She has seen too much. She knew too much.
"Do you know something?" Scotia Rosemarie said, trying to be calm towards Francesa, who was emotionally unstable.
"My, my master..."
Klara approached. "What is going on?"
Novelle Scotia came soon after. "I think she knows something."
"Montressor," Francesa began, hesitated to breathe, then resumed. "is my master, and landlord. He has recently fell into inevitable hallucinations, and sometimes, I pity him. I think that his life was too malignant, and he ought to rest. But now that I still think so, I think so for different reasons."
"Different reasons?" Klara couldn't stray from the weeping Francesa.
"Yes. He mumbled, 'Fortunato' just lately and that is the name of the man who was long gone. Rumors say that he has been intoxicated with wine and slept forever for what he loved. But heard what Montressor said. A servant girl that lived next door to me heard it, and because Montressor take tea during tea time, she served him tea as if she didn't hear. But he has an uncanny ability of detecting soon-to-be traitors. Except for me. I am the daughter of smugglers, and while a wine taster, an actress as well. I am the last one he can guess is lying, and the first he claims loyal."
"We are not here to persecute you. For you have the key to our mystery, we must hear it out," Klara said.
So Francesa told them about Montressor and what people thought became of him, of Marinella and her untimely death, and all the details that contribute to her conclusion----Montressor had something to do with the death of Fortunato.
"I must go home. It is an hour before dinnertime, and forty to get home."
"Wait," Novelle Scotia declared rather bluntly. "Will you show us----"
"----the way?" Scotia Rosemarie finished the question.
"Yes, but I must run. I am frightened."
So The girls ran to Montressor's estate, and they, except Francesa, hid in his botanical garden. They watched through the kitchen windows that extended to the dining room.
Montressor reclined, and Francesa remained unsuspected of eavesdropping.
She prepared his dinner, with its champagne and gelato set to the side.
Montressor followed the aroma of the herbs and looked as if he craved for food.
"You've tasted much of my champagne," he commented in a jolly manner.
"As you advised beforehand," she said. "Dine well, my lord."
He clutched his silverware, started to dig in, and turned on some jazz music.
Then the entrance was violently intruded by three of the girls he recognized on the news, with reporters and photojournalists.
"Francesa!" He still believed that Francesa didn't tell them so, even if she heard him.
They questioned him if he knew anything about the skeleton at the catacombs, then embraced him, cuffed him, and took him away, despite his absolute denial.
He looked shocked.
Scotia Rosemarie said, "Innocence, denial. Those things give away, sir."
He was taken to the psychiatric hospital.
Francesa visited him, and brought samples of different kinds of wine each time.
He accepted it with gratitude.
Then one day, another servant of Montressor came to visit him. His name was Romeo, and like Montressor, he lost his beloved one, but did not die like the original Romeo with his Juliet. He was appointed as the new servant by Francesa, who saved up enough silver to hire a servant to do Marinella's dusting duties. Francesa told him the story of everything that has happened to Montressor, and what she found it along the way, being a wine taster in his estate. After Francesa visited Montressor, and brought his wine, which she couldn't identify what kind it was, and left him to his peace, Romeo said in his deep voice, "The Amontillado."
He strongly believed in justice. He believed that torturing evil will make the torturers become what they despise. To eliminate evil would be the one thing that will prevent what might come. Just because people didn't see things coming doesn't mean it won't.
Montressor tried to breathe calmly, but his heart was racing, and his teeth was starting to tremble, though it wasn't of the chill Autumn air. Did he hear that? Was it mind tricks? His imagination, his imagination, he wished. But that deep voice that was so similar to the one he had heard fifty years ago...  Those words. Everything was exactly what he wished to run from, to forget and find euphoria in his lost haven.
Romeo stood behind Montressor, and placed his hand on Montressor's shoulder. Reality took his breath away, and Montressor dropped back to his lounge, stiff and blue.

U.S. History module 8

8.02 The 1980s
"1980 election: This was a political event because it caused a change in the government. Americans wanted a firm, patriotic leader who had a plan to fix the economic problems carrying over from the 1970s. Jimmy Carter was running for reelection, and Americans overall were very unhappy with his leadership. Ronald Reagan emerged as his challenger, a former actor with great public skills and a plan. They elected Ronald Reagan in 1980 who had a controversial plan for fixing the U.S. economy, later dubbed “Reaganomics.”"
Reagan and Nicaragua: Political. When Nicaragua went through a revolution to take down their government because it was corrupt, the Sandinistas took power. The Sandinistas preferred to postpone elections and emulated the Soviet Union. Reagan decided to help fund the Contras, who wished to take down the Sandinistas. Americans were afraid that Reagan's involvement would make it somewhat similar to the Vietnam War. His consequence was an investigation of the Iran-Contra Affair.
Reagan's Plan: Economic. Former President Reagan proposed to decrease the government's taxes, influence over business, and relaxed rules in banking and savings. Job training, mass transportation development (underground metros, buses...), and student loans were reduced as well, since the government needed a balance. He increased defense spending, and in consequence, people thought that he wasn't caring for the poor.
1980s Deregulation: Economics. Since people thought that the poor was less cared for by Reagan, he made changes to his plans. People started to buy more(consumerism) in 1983 and initiated or returned to investing in the stock market. Consequence: The stock market crashed 3 years after his reelection and American found low-paying jobs under Reagan, thus causing a controversial debate of Reaganomics.
Sun Belt: People were leaving the Rust Belt, where industrial and manufacturing was in the Northeast and Midwest, for the Sun Belt, the South and West. Globalization caused plenty of unemployment in the prior booming corporations. Many workers were displaced as businesses extended overseas. Since the 1950s, there had been a demographic shift.
The Cold War Ends: Social/political. Mikhail Gorbachev founded reforms in the Soviet Union——Perestroika and Glasnost. His people had more rights. This caused Reagan to challenge the sincerity of his reforms. Reagan addressed Gorbachev at the Brandenburg Gate, saying that the Germans were separated from each other and that there was doubt of mankind's freedom. Reagan demanded Gorbachev to tear down the Berlin Wall. When the wall came down, Germany reunified in 1990.
First Lady's impact: Social. Cocaine ravaged many cities. First Lady Nancy Reagan visited many schools to warn schoolchildren of drug use. Although many students listened and avoided teenage drugs, others went down the wrong path. As of today, far from the "War on Drugs," there are stoners and people who are non-addicts. Her impact couldn't help everyone, as everyone made their choices, but inspired people then to stay away.
Punk/Glam Rock: Social. Both were the music of the 1980s. Its popularity brought the Live Aid concert. The concert was watched all over the world, and with support, millions were raised to relieve famine in Africa. The Live Aid concert, which helped Ethiopia especially, took place in Mid-Atlantic America and England. A consequence was famine relief, and soon music was reached outer space; it was method of waking up astronauts.
1. Ronald Reagan's policies had a negative effect overall, in my opinion. I respect the fact that his plans kind of parallel with Calvin Coolidge's. He also was definitely anti-Communist and preferred the Berlin Wall to be torn down, which I would support, were I in his place. But for this country, for America, his improvement was a temporary mark that faded. I believe that countless low-paying jobs would affect people's happiness (referring to the history of minimum wages and strikes), and the our happiness would be what will bring our economy up, or crush it down. If the urban poor do not improve, it will leave the majority with the doubt of how much change there was.
2. I would think that it's the fall of the Berlin Wall. The Wall has been there for so long and I agree with Ronald Reagan when he addresses Mikhail Gorbachev. The Berlin Wall reminds me too much of the Union and the Confederacy and the sad segregation in the early 1900s.