PREFERRED STORY FORMAT
1.15 Spaced lines, indent tab 0.7, Georgia 11.
The Whale that Sang, by Helen Brumby
Winsome was shy, very, very shy. She shouldn’t have been really. She should have been proud of her lovely figure and her beautiful eyes. She didn’t have limpets clinging to her belly, like the older whales. (Surely that was nothing to be proud of, she thought.) She had lovely smooth dark skin, and swam through the water ever so gracefully.
She lived with her family, a pod of whales that swam about in the ocean, sometimes quite close to the land. People used to point and shout, ‘Look, look, the whales are going south again!’ or ‘Look, look, the whales are swimming north!’ Many people get excited when they see whales, though whales don’t get excited when they see people.
Winsome swam north with the pod when it was the right time, and south when it was the right time; she was a very obedient young whale, but she was not happy. Her problem was this: most whales sing. It’s something whales do so well; they make such beautiful sounds, sounds that go for many, many miles in the sea. Winsome had a song of her own that didn’t fit in. It just didn’t sound right with the songs that the other whales in her pod sang.
It was her song, her very own song, and when she tried to join with the others it just didn’t work; somehow the melodies didn’t sound right together. Her song was the only one that swam about in her head, the only song she felt she could sing.
POEM FORMAT
Fruit Salad by Teena Raffa-Mulligan
Reached peach, sweet and juicy,
drips and dribbles down my chin.
Plump plum, round and rosy,
fresh flesh, satin skin.
Dappled apple, crisp and tasty,
crunch, munch, eat a chunk.
Shared pear, over ripe,
slushy, mushy. Yuk! What gunk.
Draped grapes, green and purple,
slurp, burp, spit the pips.
Berries, cherries, apricots,
chipped, whipped, served in dips.
1.15 Spaced lines, indent tab 0.7, Georgia 11.
The Whale that Sang, by Helen Brumby
Winsome was shy, very, very shy. She shouldn’t have been really. She should have been proud of her lovely figure and her beautiful eyes. She didn’t have limpets clinging to her belly, like the older whales. (Surely that was nothing to be proud of, she thought.) She had lovely smooth dark skin, and swam through the water ever so gracefully.
She lived with her family, a pod of whales that swam about in the ocean, sometimes quite close to the land. People used to point and shout, ‘Look, look, the whales are going south again!’ or ‘Look, look, the whales are swimming north!’ Many people get excited when they see whales, though whales don’t get excited when they see people.
Winsome swam north with the pod when it was the right time, and south when it was the right time; she was a very obedient young whale, but she was not happy. Her problem was this: most whales sing. It’s something whales do so well; they make such beautiful sounds, sounds that go for many, many miles in the sea. Winsome had a song of her own that didn’t fit in. It just didn’t sound right with the songs that the other whales in her pod sang.
It was her song, her very own song, and when she tried to join with the others it just didn’t work; somehow the melodies didn’t sound right together. Her song was the only one that swam about in her head, the only song she felt she could sing.
POEM FORMAT
Fruit Salad by Teena Raffa-Mulligan
Reached peach, sweet and juicy,
drips and dribbles down my chin.
Plump plum, round and rosy,
fresh flesh, satin skin.
Dappled apple, crisp and tasty,
crunch, munch, eat a chunk.
Shared pear, over ripe,
slushy, mushy. Yuk! What gunk.
Draped grapes, green and purple,
slurp, burp, spit the pips.
Berries, cherries, apricots,
chipped, whipped, served in dips.
