a prompt i have my kids working on in class and for homework
describe to me your Nowhere. what it looks like, who lives there, etc.
to help you along, i will post my Nowhere. i hope you make your own Nowhere. i'd love to read it.
Alisha Sorenson
Chandler
9-2-08
My Nowhere
Nowhere is an unusual place most people rarely visit-or so they think. They enter its borders every time they daydream or just zone out. No passport is required. People are not judged on what they look like or how they came into Nowhere. Nobody cares, since they are in their own little world.
Nowhere for me looks like an airport terminal. A big, wide, mostly clean airport terminal. There’s elevators and moving floors everywhere, each heading to a door. A series of doors. Some lead to an exotic oasis, some lead to deserts, some to forests, but every door looks the same, and leads you back to where you came in. Everything looks the same, for when you are in Nowhere, all is equal. All leave equal.
Most don’t remember their trips into Nowhere. Most could care less. But there are a special few who remember what their particular Nowhere looks like. These people have gifts. These people can call an image of their Nowhere to their minds with ease and describe it for others so vividly that those listening can smell the pine needles or feel the chilly air pass around them.
These people are a precious few. These people have imaginations, a gift that should never be lost or forgotten. Most of these people are children, those who have not forgotten how to have a tea party with bears and empty chairs; how to dig in the sandbox and believe they are going to reach China before recess is over; how to believe the slide is an escape hatch from the spaceship under attack. Others are teenagers who seek refuge from the problems at home or at school. Others still are adults who have never truly grown up. All are equal. In Nowhere, Nobody’s better than anybody else.
to help you along, i will post my Nowhere. i hope you make your own Nowhere. i'd love to read it.
Alisha Sorenson
Chandler
9-2-08
My Nowhere
Nowhere is an unusual place most people rarely visit-or so they think. They enter its borders every time they daydream or just zone out. No passport is required. People are not judged on what they look like or how they came into Nowhere. Nobody cares, since they are in their own little world.
Nowhere for me looks like an airport terminal. A big, wide, mostly clean airport terminal. There’s elevators and moving floors everywhere, each heading to a door. A series of doors. Some lead to an exotic oasis, some lead to deserts, some to forests, but every door looks the same, and leads you back to where you came in. Everything looks the same, for when you are in Nowhere, all is equal. All leave equal.
Most don’t remember their trips into Nowhere. Most could care less. But there are a special few who remember what their particular Nowhere looks like. These people have gifts. These people can call an image of their Nowhere to their minds with ease and describe it for others so vividly that those listening can smell the pine needles or feel the chilly air pass around them.
These people are a precious few. These people have imaginations, a gift that should never be lost or forgotten. Most of these people are children, those who have not forgotten how to have a tea party with bears and empty chairs; how to dig in the sandbox and believe they are going to reach China before recess is over; how to believe the slide is an escape hatch from the spaceship under attack. Others are teenagers who seek refuge from the problems at home or at school. Others still are adults who have never truly grown up. All are equal. In Nowhere, Nobody’s better than anybody else.