In english we were asked to demonstrate the truth behind our message by writing a narrative, or a personal story explaining why we believe that the message we chose is the one that shows us best. The goal was to expand our writing skills and be able to take real life experiences and put them on paper, or in our case computers.

In webaudio we want to help the reader feel engaged in our work, make them see what we are seeing and to do this we use podcasts. Using flash we are able to take our essay which we record using garage band and use it in a way thats more emgaging than a document. With the use of images we find take and make we can really help the reader understand our essay the way it's meant to be seen, of course that doesn't mean it's not open to interperation.

Every day, every hour, every minute, gone to waste. I sit alone on the crayon-stained couch, a remote in one hand and my phone in the other. Every day I see it walk by, as it wanders down the street, vanishing the moment I turn my head. Sometimes I think I’m just imagining it, but I know what I've seen. I wait by the door step, peeking out the stained glass window and watch as it creeps by, I creek the door open as the light runs through, cloaking my body as I take a step. I noticed a small golden object below as my foot begins to fall, with no time to react, I feel it break through the mysterious object below. Shattering into a million pieces until all thats left are sand like grains, as if I stepped on an ornament, it’s almost unnoticeable. I lift up my foot and admire the dust that’s been left behind. I begin to lean over and brush away the golden powder, a slip of paper is all that remains, I search for my fortune, but all I see is a blank sheet of nothingness. I blow away the dust hoping the words will draw themselves onto the slip, but all that’s left are the tiles below my feet. I look down and notice what I’ve walked passed everyday, the lines sketched onto the tile like hieroglyphics on a pyramid, drawing out a story. I let go of the paper and stare down at my feet. I can’t expect my life to be sketched out for me.

 It was just like any other family gathering: make sure to give hugs and kisses to everyone and then do my best to slip away and hope my cousins do the same. It was Chinese New Year and this year we all converged at my aunt Carol’s house. The house was in a very unique location, and by that I mean on top of what seemed like nothing short of a mountain with the house resting on its summit. I may have only been 8 at the time but I promise you when I say this: the driveway had to have been 50 feet of vertical pavement, or as me and my cousins called it, the cliff hanger.

 We were all sitting around outside drinking our Capri Suns and making odd shapes with chalk when my oldest cousin had enough. He edged his way over to the garage grabbing the two wheeled vehicle coated in metallic blue paint with red flames deeper than the red of a fresh cut. He wheeled the bike over the the crest of the cliff hanger and wrapped himself around it, one leg on a pedal the other against the pale chalk crusted concrete ground. He looked down for no more than a split second and lifted his Velcro sneaker off the pavement and onto the pedal, exploding down the driveway, as the flames seemed like they were about to peel off and migrate to trail the back wheel, the rubber screeched to a halt at the base of the behemoth like driveway. After seeing my cousin do it, the rest had no choice but to do the same, each one of them somehow reaching the sole unscathed. All that was left now was me, I stood at the precipice, looking down at my cousins as they chanted me on. I knew I didn't have to do this and I wanted to back away, but I wasn't holding the pen, my destiny had already been written out the moment I stared blankly as my oldest cousin tested his luck dropping down the hill. I turned around and walked towards the garage to find my weapon. All that was left was a dull blade, a mere wooden stallion lacking both pedals and brakes. With no other choices I reached for it, the wooden wheels creaking with each step. I inched my way over as close as I could to the edge, my back tire resting on our Picasso like chalk work, slowly I inhaled. Elevating both my feet off the ground resting them on the stationary wooden pegs jutting out on each side, I began to descend. For a moment all I could feel was the wind in my hair, leaves crunching below the wooden tires as I gradually picked up speed, and then it all went black. I woke up back at the peak, lifting my head only to see my paper white high socks now stained with the blood that had cascaded down from my knees. Like any mature 8 year old facing the site of my blood covered legs I began to cry. After what seemed like hours, I was bandaged up and now coated in the remains of my strawberry lemonade Popsicle. I took one last walk out to the driveway and saw the remains of my sword scattered across the base of the mountain.

That afternoon I realized something I had overlooked past every day before: I wasn't my cousin and I didn't need to be him either. Every time I saw him I would try to be like him, try to write my story like his, but I didn't need to. I wait around every day for “destiny” to come knocking at my doorstep, to break open that one fortune cookie that changes my life. But in reality it’s up to me to find it and it’s up to me to follow it.