dickensian+paragraphs

1 Her inexplicably flawless blonde curls lay in rows against her shoulders as she reclined in her chair, both relaxed and attentive during the second-period Honors English class. Her posture reflected the attention that flashed in her eyes as she gazed at the teacher, a playful smirk flirting with the corner of her mouth. Just as the sunlight shining through the window illuminated her golden locks, so did her eagerly raised hand just now illuminate the aptitude and ingenuity of her mind. While she held her hand steadily in the air, a jovial whisper from her friend broke her composure, crinkling her blue eyes into a beaming smile as merry laugher escaped her wide grin and lilted playfully through the air.

2 Her thin, lean figure rests itself against the desk and comfort is appearance in its language. Her wide smile - slightly turned down at the cheeks, making an almost-straight line of glistening teeth - makes the room suddenly at ease. Her eyebrows, thin brown lines, which are invariably perfectly trimmed, rise on her forehead as she grins around, then lower as she glances at her paper, seemingly thoughtful. They seem to be capable of emotion that her figure nor her smile can capture, whether serious and straight or lively and arched or somewhere in between. As she looks up from the table, they appear to carry her animated eyes, asking to learn more and hear more and //be// more, as if her expressions were not enough to define her, but just a cover on a book.

3 Jet black hair tumbles down over her shoulders as she sits, somewhat recumbent, in the plastic chair. A pencil twitches in her hand, eager to bring life to the blank page before it. Trails of grey stem from the lifeless instrument, guided by a master’s hand, and the trails converge; among their twists and turns, a face emerges out of the pale blue lines. But suddenly the pencil clatters to the desk, and the same hand takes to the sky, begging to be recognized. She watches patiently while the teacher’s eyes slowly scan across the room, and when the overseer’s gaze falls upon her, her eyes- chocolate brown and full of vivacity- light up and her lips begin to form the beginnings of a sentence, breathed into life in the same careful, evanescent way which the fleeting notes of a piece of music, floating into the ears of the audience, must be.

4 Her straight brown hair streams down her back as she sits studiously in her seat. Her mouth in a firm line, refusing to let the words flow, she quietly observes the world around her. Removed from the world, life courses through her veins as her acute brown eyes focus in on the merciless iPhone-enveloped in the purple rubber-that lies listlessly atop her desk. The cool sting of the metal around her neck sends shivers through her body, all the while stimulating a feeling of tranquility. Her hand reaches up to her sternum, grabbing at the tiny pendant, the two-triangles - one upside down on top of the other. Amidst the fervent voices of those around her, she begins to speak every so softly, her words barely audible, but the message loud and clear. The room goes silent, as everyone turns to listen, and relish the tenderness of her gentle voice.

5 Very astute and practical she appears, with large, round eyes with a color nearing that of a rich chocolate or possibly a coffee bean; and she so often sits, her jean-clad legs crossed, her toes tapping a rhythm none but she shall know. She insists she must straighten her hair, or else all will be set loose, but on those few-and-far-between days in which this hair, resting just slightly beneath her shoulders, is set loose, the chocolate curls spring free and bounce about her face. Such a face as this too frequently is understated; that smile is of merriness, those eyes contain a wisdom (part of which stems from the practicalities of the sciences, yet another part of which is of a maturity achieved only through observance and understanding) few will truly comprehend. A brief glance will lead to the conclusion that she sees yet never speaks, but such is a claim not grounded in truth. Some force far fiercer than silence lies with her, as she quiets with the unpleasant and dreary yet laughs along merry and amusing.

6 She saunters in at a time some would call "fashionably late". The corners of her mouth lift up in a subtle smile--a smile of recognition--of patience and gratitude. She brushes her forever-wavy (but nearly straight) locks off of her sloping shoulder in a leisurely manner. As she sits, legs crossed, her full lips sip at a beverage held in a delicate balance by her lean fingers, while her rich, chocolate eyes gulp in her surroundings. In the tap-tap of a pencil she drums a song, in a soft hum she sings it, appreciating every note--understanding the gravity of every word. Calm and composed, cool and collected. She is familiar with the everyday stresses of life, but in the face of this she remains the epitome of composure--unfazed by the petty pitter patter of unnecessary problems and instead focused on the booming of more distant and greater footsteps, the footsteps of the grander scheme. Take a look, and she'll take a look too, and beyond seeing who you are or who you are not, she will see what you can become.

7 The epitome of humble intelligence, she patiently awaits her turn to contribute, brushing her impeccably straight locks behind her shoulder in constant readiness, the blonde streaks resting upon her brown undertones catching the light in the room, reflecting and returning it gratefully, generously, to its admirer. Her witty, unforeseeable humor is quick and natural, a rare gift that can ease the tension of any situation, but at the same time, provoke endless thought for those among her. Eyes that glisten with each recognition of another's voice convey not only her willingness to listen to her peers, but also her definite sense of self assurance and strength, derived from knowledge and experience beyond her years.

8 She’s wise beyond her years, taking every opportunity to advance her highly developed mind. Though she sits quietly in class, her mind is at work, always thinking deeply and intelligently. She walks in to Honors English class, a class much too easy for her, with a gentle smile and rosy cheeks. Her short, luscious black hair sits above her shoulders and curls around her ears. She has magical fingers and beautiful piano playing skills, a talent I wish to have. A passionate lover of chickens, she raises several of her own at home with tender love and care. As soon as she picks up a tennis racket, she becomes a beast on the court.

9 Sailing through life in his dear sailboat, he catches a glimpse of the water. A true Frenchman at heart, he portrays, with prowess, the life of Cyrano de Bergerac, believing, if only for an instant, that this life is his own. He is a man of culture who speaks the languages of the French and the Spanish, and immerses himself in the history of the great Europe. His voice booms in the highest decibel heard by the naked ear, but it rings with confidence, valor and pride, leaving everyone who hears it feeling awake and recalled to life. Those who know him call him the man of culture and of worthy pride.

10 Situated in the back of the classroom, though she is never absent from the conversation. Her uplifting, lilting voice is always one of the first to speak, bursting with insightful ideas while the remainder of the class sits silently, either struck dumb by her eloquence or just trying to recall the question. A tall girl with luscious wavy brown hair and good posture, she can be seen at break stealing precious nourishment (from yours truly) or lamenting over the struggles of AP Euro with other fellow AP victims. Her good humor is never missing either, no matter how gloomy the day, as her laughter and positive attitude put smiles on everyone's faces. Outside of class, she gets her daily dose of physical activity through track and field, yet still manages to complete all homework the day it was assigned (in half the time it takes the average human being), finish all lit terms within the first few weeks of a semester, and is predictably in bed upon the hour of ten o’clock each night. How does she do it? We will never know.

11 Her sleek and shining black hair pulled tightly back into a neat queue de cheval, yet still cascading down her toned back telling the story of endless times withered away in the skin pruning waters being. The crispness of his papers and the taut, straight letters that had not yet destroyed her luscious and flowing main. She sneakily slides her forearm in and out of her overloading satchel with each trip retrieving a different delicacy of the highest degree yet always avoiding the image of the many buxom women roaming the streets and instead conforming to her slim and fit figure. And none of these vibrant colored delicacies staining her unswerving teeth he crafts between the lines illustrate his dedication as a student. Yet the Nike shorts that fell one after another in a perfect arc hang from his stature prove his passion outside of the classroom, the turf that is revealed every time any nearby fellow made a fool of themselves in front of the all knowing overseer who watches our every move.

12 Her distinct, short, maple curls cascade down her forehead until they stop abruptly above her glimmering, attentive eyes. With a posture of utmost propriety her elegantly crafted statements and insights reflect an ambition in writing that literally reaches across the span of the Earth. She expresses a distaste in physical education, but what falls short in the world of muscle and cardio vascular activity is made up with the beautiful and thundering roars floating powerfully from her brass trombone. Her intellectual mettle is often tested in the Honors English classroom but the confidence and resolve in her speech never falls short as she proves to her peers that she deserves the reputation of she possesses.

13 Gabbling voices echo through the room, bouncing off walls and escaping out windows in their strange, swarming way of diffusing through a room. An upraised hand silences the crowd of the Honors English classroom, for the speaker demands remains to be recognized. And the speaker seldom pronounces over raised voices. All eyes turn, bovine in their glassy reflections, to a small, somewhat slouched figure in the corner of the classroom. The figure looks up, carved obsidian hair tied behind her head, eyes deceivingly blank athwart a dark-skinned face. For within this unassuming figure beats the granite heart of a true warrior. Many are the times when she would lock hating eyes with the Moor of room 212 and come to blows. Many were the months spent away from all for some unknown purpose. In some minds hunting amongst crags and peaks for Shangri-La, in others seeking the shroud of Turin, in yet some others dancing, entrancing. But for now, the idea’s been pronounced, and the silence waxes for a moment before the gabbling tides upwards yet again

14 Lounging in her seat with the utmost ease possessed only by an athlete, she leans forward, placing the weight of her musings on her elbow. Brown hair pulled back, staring out at the world from behind the lenses of retrospect which she sometimes dons—always intent upon observing—she quietly registers all that transpires before her. Amidst the clamoring and conjecturing within the liveliest of classes she is the collected, cool voice of reason. With wisdom beyond her years, and a heart much wiser than many, she is never shy of aiding those in need. A closer look reveals the trademark socks she wears, those of the Lake Oswego lacrosse, upon her feel planted, both metaphorically and literally, firmly on the ground. Something strikes her as funny and her visage immediately becomes animated. Her bright, staccato laugh rings out, echoed in the smile on her face and the light dancing in her warm, assiduous brown eyes, contagious to all that gaze upon her.

15 In a nonchalant manner, she quietly listens to the occurrences of the day, her attentive deep brown eyes, the color of blended chocolate ganache, focused intently on the words of the teacher. Her hair, in a long wave of iridescent obsidian, rests perfectly on her shoulders. A lover of English, writing, and words in general, she shows her passion through the books she reads outside of class, and the positive attitude with which she approaches the English language. Never without her computer, a purring machine, part touch-screen and part lap-top, she is extremely adept at maneuvering through the maze of icons and applications in the technology that often stumps many others. She, whenever she utters any statement, conveys the meaning with conviction, power, and strength, inspiring those around her. his home.

16 His eyes - narrow, as characteristic of those from the Asian continent - turn upward, crinkling at the ends. The crows rest at the ends of his eyes, their feet sprawled under his eyebrows. His eyes are far from exhibiting the dullness, however, that often settles in the pupils of the aged. It is not too unlikely, one day, to glance his way and glimpse the drooping eyelids, a stifled snore erupting from his slightly ajar mouth. As he awakens, shaken by the realization of his own slumber, he runs his hand through his tousled hair. He begins to speak slowly, gaining the momentum that will carry him through his trailing speech. As another in the class raises their hand to contradict him, he smiles sheepishly, turning away in a pleasantly awkward manner. He crosses his legs, conditioned from years of kicking targets in a dojang with checkered and spongy mats. As he rests his elbows on the table, his arms bulge slightly from their sleeves - due, of course, to the all too intense nights spent at the side of his cello, practicing one velvety piece after the next. As his eyes begin to droop again, he chuckles slowly, deeply.

17 Her long golden hair and bangs cover her face, and at first glance it is impossible to discern her emotions. But look at her enormous eyes, framed by large glasses. They are eyes that tell the unmistakable story of life, hardship, and yet joy. As the mood heightens, they widen, an unbarred window into her passion. And as the class settles, her eyelids lower, encasing her magnificent brown eyes, giving them warmth that can only be rivaled by a mother’s embrace. Her luxurious blond hair and long white legs are nothing in comparison to her eyes, for when your eyes chance upon meeting, it is as if you could see the whole world reflected back at you.

18 First, one hears the bright and amused laughter, and then eyes drift until they settle on her, the owner of the voice with its infinite melody of happiness and rapture. She sits, reclining in her chair, her skirt slightly spilling over her chair. Her chin gingerly rests in one of her hands. Her bright teeth are framed by her uplifted mouth, which accentuates her cheek bones, instantly causing those around her to smile and join in her euphoria. Her light brown eyes, sparkling in the sun that illuminates her flawless features, further magnifies her mirth and bliss. Her other hand gently plays with her hair, endlessly twisting the perfect chestnut waves around her finger. She is the picture of perpetual gaiety.

19 Nothing can compare to the laughter that sounds from her petite figure that manages to hold so much joy and love inside within its tiny walls. With straight black hair and a mind just as steady, she sits attentively at her desk and hands out wisdom and food that is every bit as desirable. Her small thin fingers, strengthened by constant dancing and noisemaking, work to record soft bells of ideas that are quiet, but ring of nothing but truth and considerate nuances. She has a sea swishing inside of her, I think, one that keeps the most beautiful things above the surface, making sounds to soothe the soul, flooding channels in her brain to keep it in tune, sanding down the rough skins of challenges, but a sea that carries something more, always something more.

20 With hair reminiscent of rays of golden sunlight, she sits in class, attentive and engaged, ideas always seemingly flitting through her mind. Her face adorned with freckles, the hint of a smile dances across her face, her eyes hinting of an untold secret. She holds herself as only an athlete can, performing ungodly acts of physical prowess unmatched by those of us who do not possess the steely mindset of a competitive swimmer. Though her tendency to threaten people with a yard stick can be unexpectedly humorous, she possesses an enigmatic with and undiscovered eloquence that establishes her as one of the friendliest of people in all of LOHS.

21 With perfectly wild dark curls laying on his head, his eyes scan the room, analyzing every item to the fullest. Whenever his hand shoots up energetically through the air, people wait on the edge of their seats in order to hear his often abstract thoughts. His mind is moving at an intense pace and he sits patiently waiting to break free from this "bubble". Reclining in his chair with his legs loosely crossed, his foot is consistently tapping a beat, perhaps the melody of one of his band's songs. He embodies the Portland spirit and often shares stories of his travels to the strange yet exciting city. His animated acting skills in the Macbeth skits and his overall energy and passion for Honors English, invigorates the classroom and brightens the atmosphere. He always manages to surprise and shock the class (as well as Mrs. Wray) with his wild yet plausible ideas about books, bringing discussions back to life.

22-"The Fresh Prince of LO" His eyebrows knit furiously as he flips the page of his book in a gingerly manner, scraping the uneven surface of paper against the dark follicles that are peppered evenly across his wrist. There is something about him that captivates all of the double-X chromosomians in the room. Is it the warm grin that contours his sharp face? Or is it the perfect distribution of facial hair that makes Chuck Norris jealous of his genes? Never mind that, because his cherubic but manly face surveys the room- the temperature rises about ten more degrees Celsius- and finally rests on the window which is not even worthy of his eyes to see, for the slick surface is prickled with impure spheres of the Oregon rains. His classmates, with their hearts beating faster and faster, all fall silent and gaze at the stunning figure that epitomizes manhood. No one can perceive such beauty that emanates from this man, an individual worthy of the title: The Fresh Prince of LO.

23 Very gentle and kind in manner she appeared and was, with one arm on the table and her attention directed to the front from which the American educational system endeavored to impart on students the knowledge of a thousand years in the field of the use and previous uses of the English language to convey thought. Her dark curls acted the mat against the picture of her visage, its dark eyes and smooth complexion (delicately brushed with red at the cheeks by the serene painter of the masterwork) contributing to her clear beauty. Upon speaking, her voice flitted up and down tenderly with measured tone and style. Upon rising, she carried on a pair of converse shoes her petite figure, robed in a blouse bearing a small pattern or in a t-shirt from which the eagle of her national affiliation shrieked to fellow humans the glory of the Eastern European nation suggested by the lady's family name. Her wisdom and rationality are known and trusted, leading her to be entrusted with the representation of A day's second period class.

24.

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What she lacked in severity she made up for in formalities; a proper girl, with old-fashioned mannerisms incongruous with her youthful visage. She sat with straight posture and prim deportment as she meticulously removed the contents of her lunch pail. After folding her napkin several times over, making sure to smooth down the crease with each fold, and alternating between folding at thirty and sixty degree angles, she began her meal. The meal was banquet of concurrences; a few modest items concocted with an array of highly processed, saturated delicacies. And so the meal reflected upon its creator, as it so often does, as a paradox between the innovative and the ancient. =====

25.

By grade five, everyone knew that she would outlive us all. The teacher would shake his head and chuckle, make that 106. If there was one thing I learned that year, it was that laughing makes people live longer. Standing on asphalt with bark chips wedged uncomfortably in our shoes, we all did the math. She would outlive us all. She has this hair, as bright and lilting as her uncontainable giggles. It’s the kind of hair perfect for swinging, or running through forests. It is magical, flying hair, and it twists behind her and skips before her, carefree and yellow. It flies and flies until she runs her fingers recklessly through it. Then, it falls about her shoulders, but just like her, it is never still for long.

26
He sits at the back of the classroom, a feast before him, as he ponders the importance of literature. Raising his hand wearily, he waits for others to finish talking and takes another bit from the tender leg of a fried chicken. While waiting for his turn to speak the rap battle master crafts a clever Dickensian rap in his head. Mrs. Wray's outstretched hand motions him to speak, but only between swallows of meat is he able to proclaim his well thought out analysis. The classroom is hushed and Timmy drops a beat. A rhythm in his head, the literary student begins, "Ok, so…"

27. In far contrast to her petite size, her personality fills the cast of the moon, she being the soft light illuminating off the often sullen faces of her peers as they sludge on, weighed down by the burden of their thoughts. Even in the dimmest of discussions, her jollity offers a moment buoyancy, a chance to take one’s head out of a book, let a smile slip beneath the lips, maybe even a chuckle escape the tongue. Her words free from the repression of perfecting every syllable, she sings of what’s on her mind, untamed as the moon remains unchecked by time.

28. His tilted eyebrows and engaged, smiling brown eyes prove his attentiveness towards the world beyond the classroom. He sits confident, ambitious, as he always sits. His posture remains aligned with yellow walls, walls that hold no limits on his goals and dreams to become everything more than an average human being. The crispness of his papers and the taut, straight letters that he crafts between the lines illustrate his dedication as a student. Yet the Nike shorts that hang from his stature prove his passion outside of the classroom, the turf that remains to be his home.

29. Sits not in the back, but rather in the front of class. Full of creativity, yet not really heard in class that often. Age, about sixteen years old; height, about five feet 3? Appearance? Painted with a sweet visage, and marked with her gleaming hazelnut hair that falls upon her back as a back brace embraces her. A fractured back, her battle scar, engraves her bravery. Tumbling, flipping, stretching matches her taste. Although injured, nothing can stop her. Marked with determination she walks on the balance beam as she takes on the world. Gymnastics is her sport; strength and endurance is what she has.

30 His strong voice confidently booms through the classroom during discussions, eloquently appealing to his classmates with emotional hand gestures and making analogies to sunflowers found on the roadside. Always with a point to make, he manages to chomp down a wide array of foods spread out across the table while also consistently raising his hand every class to offer his perspective. Like the man himself, his brown hair sticks up in the front with an air of bravado that only he can pull off. Smooth words flow off his tongue during rap battles and performances that fuel the responding laughter.

31 Her most remarkable trait being her questioning; questioning in poetry and prose, a garden of words grown and cultivated whose literary vines wrapped around the accepted pillars of existence and asks them for self-reflection; questioning in the well-organized lines of newspaper print, where well-fashioned concepts, being the most threatening to the defenses of the impenetrable walls of the status-quo (as were the walls of Byzantium), are fashioned like Turkish cannon, strong in both their attack and their very existence having the guards at the wall questioning their accepted place; and at times questioning in silence, silence not being the sound of inaction but the sound of quiet analysis, the soundless computation and quiet understanding of the world presented, observation and inaction being the first step towards attacking and action: such was her, at the back of the class and yet at the forefront of knowledge and the intellectual army's advancement of understanding.