Eric was a nine-year-old boy who lived with his single mother, Stacey and sister, Lily. They lived a hard life. Eric felt bad for their situation but worse for himself, especially in school.

Eric's leather boots were worn out. They didn't protect his feet from the rain, and his socks became totally wet as water went through the holes in his shoes. Stacey attempted to fix the holes but it was no use. Eric still walked to school with that pair of broken shoes. How much he wished he could also have new comfortable and expensive shoes his classmates wore!

One day, Eric returned from school and complained to Stacey, "It was raining today. Water has leaked into my shoes again. I hate my boots! Why can't you get me new ones?" Stacey was sad and helpless. "I spent our last savings on your sister's medicine. She's sick. Eric you know that. You need to act like a responsible big brother!" she answered. Tears welled up in Eric's eyes. "I hate you!" he shouted. "You only care about Lily! You don't love me!" Then he cried and ran to his room.

After preparing dinner, Stacey went to his room with his dinner plate. "I'm sorry, Eric," she whispered to comfort him. "We're going through a very tough journey recently. But I'll get you new shoes in the future." However, Eric refused to listen to her.

The next day, when Eric went to class, he took his seat quietly and hid his feet under his chair, as usual. He was embarrassed to show his boots. As the math teacher Mrs Fletcher entered the class, all the students greeted her. "Today, we have a very special friend with us," she smiled. "Everyone, please welcome Ben, your new classmate." Soon after, a boy with a pair of crutches(拐杖)entered. The new boy only had one leg. Eric was shocked. He and all his classmates thought how unlucky Ben was and that he must be very shy and sad.

注意：1.续写词数应为150左右;2.请按如下格式在答题卡的相应位置作答。

Paragraph 1: At that moment, Mrs Fletcher asked Ben to introduce himself. 

Paragraph 2: Inspired by Ben, Eric realized he should appreciate what he had. 

Last weekend I made my first visit to a remote village, home to one of our students, Tombe. Another teacher and I walked for two and a half hours to get there—first, up a mountain from where we had fantastic views, and then down a shaded path to the valley below. When we arrived at the village, Tombe's mother, Kiak, saw us coming and started crying "ieee ieee". We shook hands with all the villagers. Everyone seemed to be related to Tombe.

Tombe's father, Mukap, a man with a strong jaw and a wrinkled forehead, led us to his house, a low, round bamboo hut with no windows, with a door just big enough to get through, and with grass sticking out of the roof—this shows it is a man's house. Such housing is dark inside so it took time for our eyes to adjust. Fresh grass had been laid on the floor and there was a platform for Jenny and me to sleep on. There was a fireplace in the centre of the hut. The only possessions I could see were one broom, a few saucers, a kettle, cups, pans, and a couple of jars.

Mukap built a fire outside and laid stones on it to heat. He then placed the hot stones in an empty oil drum with kau kau（sweet potato）, ripe corn, and greens. He then covered the vegetables with banana leaves and left them to steam. It smelled delicious. We ate inside the hut sitting round the fire. I loved listening to the family talking softly to each other in their language, even though I could not participate much in the conversation. Luckily, Tombe interpreted for us.

Later. I noticed a can standing upside down on the grill（烤架）over the fire. After a while. Tombe threw it out of the doorway. Tombe told me that the can was heated to dry out the leftover food. His family believes that leftovers attract bad spirits in the night, so any leftover food is dried up in a can and the can is then thrown out of the hut.

We left the village the next morning after many goodbyes and firm handshakes. My muscles were aching and my knees shaking as we dragged ourselves down the mountain towards home. That evening I fell happily into bed. It was such a privilege to have spent a day with Tombe's family.

In spite of the fact that I had stayed with my sister for 14 years. I knew one thing—I would not want to be like her. In high school, she was a journalist and it was 1 she talked about. No matter how many times I said it, I 2 myself in "Intro to Journalism" freshman year,3 . Why? That was because my mother wanted me to be a journalist, 

Though it was the4 thing I wanted to do, I got to realize the point of being a journalist. It was 5 writing a report. It was also communicating with people by telling stories. After a short term, I began to see what happened around me 6 —I saw things as7 , which I wanted to share with people who wants to 8 .

In the second semester, I joined the newspaper staff and 9 nearly every position on staff, from designing different columns to taking photographs. I wrote stories, opinions, and almost any other thing for every 10 of the paper.

I loved everything around me, but I found my gift in visual journalism. I had a/an 11 for design and I was12 ready to put in. When I was writing each story, I promised to tell in its entirety. There is possibility that some 13 of a story can't be presented in a paragraph form. That is 14 I came in. I worked to improve the 15 of our magazine every day. But my work is not 16 to this. I also worked to add the web and multimedia 17 the publication. I loved producing content for the newspaper. 18 , I found myself creating less and less through my junior year. Then 1 was thinking up ideas and helping others to do the 19 to make their work happen.

Now, I'm proud to say that I have fully made 20 of what it means to be a good storyteller.

An Art Class

When Kelly was twelve, she started taking classes at Miss Grace's School for Art. She didn't like it at first: the "novice artists"-the kids who hadn't really done art before-worked mostly with clay, and Kelly was a terrible sculptor. 

It wasn't until her third year that Kelly found something she was really good at-charcoal drawing （素描）. She loved watching the lines spread unevenly across the page as she moved the bits of charcoal back and forth over the paper. 

One day, Sophia. the best artist in her class, sat down and set up her easel （画架） next to Kelly. Kelly felt a sinking feeling in her stomach. She'd. actually found an art form that she enjoyed-and was good at--and now Sophia was going to outshine her again? Kelly fought back tears when Miss Grace entered the room. 

"Hello class, Miss Grace said. "We'll continue to work on the project today. What masterpiece would Sophia have come up with?

Kelly looked at Sophia's easel and she couldn't believe it--it was a mess! For a brief moment, Kelly couldn't actually believe her drawing was better than Sophia's. 

But then she looked at Sophia, who was watching Kelly with an anxious expression. "I…. I couldn't decide what to do, " Sophia said. "And you're so good. Sometimes I feel like my stuff is just so bad in comparison. 

Kelly looked to see if Sophia was joking, but she seemed completely serious. Now Kelly was shocked. "I'm not talented ... Miss Grace seldom praises me. You're the best one in our class!"

Sophia raised her eyebrows. "I might be a really good copier of the stuff, but I have no idea what to do when it comes to making up my own images. You are so great at making new things out of the old stuff. I've loved your works. "

"I've loved yours, too, Kelly said. 

"Well, definitely not this one, " Sophia said. 

Kelly smiled. "Maybe not right now. But if you move these lines up. . . "she said, pointing her finger on Sophia's paper. 

Sophia was quiet for a moment. "That's a great idea!" she said finally. 

Kelly smiled and turned back to her drawing, looking every so often at Sophia's work to see that she was taking her advice, down to the last line. 

One teacher had two students. One of them had a positive vision while the other had the 1 one.

One day, the teacher 2 for a park with both the students and while wandering in the garden, they 3 a mango tree from which some ripe and juicy mangoes were 4 . On seeing this, the teacher thought to 5 both of his students. Then, he asked the first one, "My dear child, what do you think of this mango tree?"

The student answered instantly, "Teacher, in spite of people 6 this tree with stones, it gives us sweet and juicy mangoes. It does 7 but still it gives us fruits. I wish all human beings learn this important 8 from the mango tree-to share their 9 even if they have to suffer for this."

After that, the teacher asked the other student the same question. The student 10 answered, "Teacher, this mango tree is no good and will not give mangoes by itself but only when we hit it with stones and 11 . Therefore, we should hit it hard to get sweet mangoes from it. That is the only way to 12 these mangoes. It is also clear from this tree that in order to get good 13 from others, we need to be violent and only when we become violent, then and only then will we get 14 ."

The teacher was delighted with the answer given by the first student because he had an admirable vision and 15 the tree with positive vision.

For about three years now, I have been writing poetry. It was not until my junior year in high school that I developed an interest, love and skill for writing poetry. 

Back in elementary school, I loved to write stories. I would write stories on post-it notes and anywhere I could. Yet when I had to write a limerick(五行打油诗) for an assignment, I could not wrap my head around poetry. I had a very hard time figuring out how to rhyme words and have the words make sense. I eventually tossed the paper with the attempted limerick in the trash. I did not try my hand at poetry again until several years later. 

Many years later in my freshman year of high school, my English teacher gave my class a poetry project as an assignment. I still remember my limerick assignment and was afraid of doing the poetry project. For the project, we had to analyse a poem and write a response to it. I chose to respond to Robert Frost's poem Fire and Ice. I also wrote my own poem first. I became really excited when writing the poem. 

Two years later, I started writing poetry as a hobby and for fun. To learn how good or bad my poems were, I handed them in to some magazines and contests. I won the second place in the North Carolina Poetry Society's Sherry Pruitt Award Contest, and had my two poems published as high quality poems. I have continued to write poetry, and have even self-published three collections of poetry in both print and e-book formats, which can be found in my store on Lulu. 

Now, I love writing poetry, but I don't hate writing short stories. I just find it more difficult and not my style of writing, even though I still write short stories occasionally.