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What I Want Is by H.K. Huntrods

What I want is Enough breath

To do what I want What I want is

To swim another lap One more dive

One more kick Two more pulls

As the water parts Like open arms

It welcomes me home And holds me close

The gentle rhythm of water splashing

Pulls me away From this world

Hold your breath Until you can no longer

Explode through the surface Take a deep breath

One more kick Pull one, pull two

Messy Room Heather Huntrods

Whosever room this should be afraid Who knows what may be hiding here Everywhere you look is a mess What is there not to fear? Posters falling off the walls Clothes thrown about the floor Bags and Bibles on the bed Dresses dangling from the door. Planets swinging from the ceiling Hats are hanging on a horn Scarves tangled around the headboard Dressers so full they earn a mother’s scorn Whosever room this is should be afraid Such a mess I cannot condone So tell me who’s room this is Mine? Oh, I should have known

Swimming Heather Huntrods

I swam another lap, Upset at what I saw; A boy not following rules, And coach’s rules are law.

Over by the edge, Girls laughed at what was said The coach politely said to stop What goes on in their head?

//I love how you start a blob of mush(Play-doh)—and then you’re a heart with just a touch (play-doh)// //I’ll shape you however I choose—so many options, I can’t lose// //I love to make you dance (play-Doh), Cha Cha// //I slash you here(play-doh_—And dashing you there(Play-doh)// //Play doh is for enjoyment// //Lets play, it is fun for everyone to play with you play-doh// //P-L-A-Y-D-O-H Play-doh// //!//

Water

The water runs on puppy feet. It acts as if it wants you to catch it, Then scampers away. Within minutes it rushes back, Only to dash away again.

Keep Pushing Heather Huntrods

I take a deep breath, My heart thumps like a rabbit leg, I am terrified, What if I mess up? The roar of the crowd is deafening, I try to ignore it, I climb up on the blocks, My legs shaking like a pole on a windy day, My stomach begins to churn, I feel sick, The girl before me touches the wall, I push off the block with the power of a horse, I streamline my body as much as possible, I my goal is to resemble a pencil. I feel like I am flying, My heart soars, If I had time I would cry with joy, As I have many times before. My head breaks through the water, My shoulders, torso, and legs follow, I begin to wiggle, I kick as hard as I can, I surface, but do not breath, I lift my arms and begin my first stroke, Again and again I do this. I am over half way down the lane, The chlorine stings my nose, My lungs beg for air, My arms demand rest, I am unmerciful, I force myself to continue. My legs are tired, My body wants to stop, I keep going. I get three strokes from the far wall, I turn my face to the side, My lungs welcome the air, I turn back to the water , Chlorine sears my throat, I duck under, I do a amazing flip turn, I push off again, My legs, arms and lungs burn, They cry for me to stop, My body begins to consider it, I cannot win, I am not that fast, It is a battle between mind and body now. My arms are getting sloppy, My kicks becoming weak, My breathes are painful gasps, I hear it all in slow motion, I feel like I am dying, I am so mad, I could do better, But I can’t. It all rushes through my mind, As if I were doing nothing, I am not quite half way back, I take another breath, Throat is pleading for me to stop, My arms imploring me to halt, I will not. I force my way through, I feel like I am swimming through pudding, I see the wall ahead, I quicken my pathetic pace, The last ten strokes are easy, I touch the wall, My mind flashes through the race, The whole fifty yards, I see every mistake, And every excruciating moment, So many in so little time, Less than thirty two seconds. I am happy, I went to State.

Revision: Last night I had a stoke clinic. Because our coach didn’t come, a few of my fellow swimmers and I made up our own workout. It wasn’t as structured as our normal routine. Rather than a disciplined night of training, we focused on the fun aspects of swimming. Instead of only working on the butterfly stroke, which was what the stroke clinic was about, we practiced all four of the strokes. We worked on relays, IMs, and individual strokes of different lengths. The IM is my favorite event, within it, the Butterfly is my favorite stroke, so the extra practice was welcome. The Butterfly stroke is one of beauty and elegance, its rhythm much like that of the ocean, or the dolphin in the ocean. The pattern of ups and downs is relaxing. When I swim the Butterfly outside of competition, it is soothing to my mind and body. While I swim the Butterfly, my mind often wanders to the way the stroke resembles a roller coaster, specifically the roller coaster of life. Especially how you had better take a breath while your on top because you know your going to go back down. Up and down, up and down, over and over until the swim, as life, is done.

Christina was a star of the fall play. She thought about it every night and day. The running ‘round backstage just wore her out And telling rowdy actors cut it out They made her mad enough to scream and shout Then when the show was done they laughed out loud With knowing they made Shuman mighty proud

Yes, Heather is a swimmer that’s for sure, she waits to do what she really adores she likes to swim 2 hours everyday although her body is so very sore she jumps into the pool with much amore She swims lap after lap watching her stroke And breathing in some air so she don’t croak.

Christina and Heather had study hall And watching crazy people walk about The study teacher wants to scream and shout Instead she hit them in the head with doubt The students laughed and went about their day the principal said hey that is okay!

Study Hall Scare

I was slouched at my table in study hall, my hood over my head in an attempt to avoid having my picture taken by Alex. I was listening to my IPod, head bobbing in time to the song “These Nights,” when a hand of steel gripped me from behind. Fear stabbed my heart. Adrenaline rushed through my veins. Hairs stood on end. I nearly screamed, as would be the normal reaction, but that goes against my character. No, instead I responded by swinging at my attacker. Pencil in hand, I spun around to see Principal Herring’s icy glare. Less then an inch above his arm was my own, with the pencil dangerously close to his yellow long sleeve, button down dress shirtsleeve. My heart fell to my stomach, my head swirled with thoughts of what Herring might say or do. Is nearly stabbing the principal worthy of detention? Suspension? Expulsion? Words felt thick on my tongue. I couldn’t manage the words “I’m sorry,” although I stuttered through a few incoherent attempts. I felt sick with worry. Cold fingers of fear gripped my heart. What was going to happen? Thoughts surged through my mind, some of them concerned about what this incident may mean to my still new high school career, some, despite the gravity of the situation, were thoughts of how funny this scene must look. I caught a laugh in my throat. I felt blood rushing to my face, my face burned like a stove top, and I could hear the pounding of blood like a hammer in my ears. Mr. Herring glared at me for nearly five seconds, his stare brokenonly by quick glances at the pencil still poised above his arm. I stole a fast peek around the room. Most of the student hadn’t noticed. The few that had were staring at me, looks of horror and amusement written on their faces. Herring finally spoke. He opened his mouth slowly; I feared for the worst. He said, in a voice that resembled a growl, “Put down your hood.” He gave me a final glace and walked away. I watched him strut over to another student, no doubt to strike the same fear into this student’s heart as he had mine, then out of the Library. My breath, which I held during the entire affair, burst out of my lungs in a loud gust as I realized he wasn’t going to punish me! I was free!

Shooter Chic (Sonnet)

I love it when my shot burst through the clay, I barely even notice the sharp kick. The shattering of pieces makes my day, On the range I'm know as the shooter chic.

I can shoot twenty-two, sixteen, or twelve, And make the boys bow down their head in shame, Three shooting trophies i have on my shelves, The boys get mad cuz I'm the one with game.

But now the boys may have their chance to win, Eighteen year olds cannot compete with them Now they are the ones with the winner grin, But I remind them I'm the best, ahem.

While they may still be able to compete, I'm still the one that they wish they could beat.