Name _________________________________________ Period _____ /40
Design a Planet Project
Go to https:
www.wikihow.com/Create-a-Fictional-Planet and scroll past the intro.
NAME your PLANET: ____________________________
PART 1 Determining the Physical Aspects of the Planet
!! You must READ the instructions & bullet points under each heading !!
1 Describe the atmosphere of the planet.
2 Note the climate of the planet.
3 Decide how there will be seasons on the planet.
4 Describe the landscapes on the planet.
5 Note the distinct landmarks on the planet.
6 Describe any natural resources on the planet. Create names! Describe how they are used!
7 Decide if there will be cities, towns or villages on the planet. Create names & descriptions!
8 Create a map of the planet. Draw this out in LANDSCAPE mode (sideways- use whole paper.)
PART 2 Designing the Species on the Planet
1 Note the different life forms on the planet.
2 Create unique biodiversity for the planet. Create names of species! Include some drawings of species here!
3 Describe the history of the species on the planet.
4 Decide if the species will use technology on the planet.
PART 3 Creating the Rules of the Planet
1 SKIP the “Magic” step 1
2 Determine if the planet will be hospitable.
3 Note how the planet functions within a larger system. Draw out the planet’s solar system here! It’s space neighbors, does it have a moon(s)?
Draw this out in LANDSCAPE mode (sideways- use whole paper.)
Printout
Tuesday, April 20, 2021 9:26 AM
Physical Science Page 1
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Ga
iel García Márquez
OF LOVE AND
OTHER DEMONS
Translated From Spanish
By Edith Grossman
…
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
About the Autho
FOR CARMEN BALCELLS
athed in tears
For the hair, it seems, is less concerned in the resu
ection than other parts of
the body.
THOMAS AQUINAS
On the Integrity of Resu
ected Bodies, QUESTION 80, CHAPTER 5
…
OCTOBER 26, 1949, was not a day filled with important news. Maestro
Clemente Manuel Zabala, editor in chief of the newspaper where I learned the
essentials of being a reporter, concluded our morning meeting with two or
three routine suggestions. He did not assign a specific story to any writer. A
few minutes later, he was informed by telephone that the burial crypts of the
old Convent of Santa Clara were being emptied, and with few illusions he said
to me:
"Stop by there and see if you can come up with anything. "
The historic convent of the Clarissan nuns, which had been turned into a
hospital a century earlier, was to be sold, and a five-star hotel built in its place.
The gradual collapse of the roof had left its beautiful chapel exposed to the
elements, but three generations of bishops and a
esses and other eminent
personages were still buried there. The first step was to empty the crypts,
transfer the remains to anyone who claimed them, and bury the rest in a
common grave.
I was surprised by the crudeness of the procedure. Laborers opened the tombs
with pickaxes and hoes, took out the rotting coffins, which
oke apart with
the simple act of moving them, and separated bones from the jumble of dust,
shreds of clothing, and desiccated hair. The more illustrious the dead the more
arduous the labor, because the workers had to rummage through the remains
and sift the de
is with great care in order to retrieve precious stones and
articles of gold and silver.
The foreman copied the information that was on each stone into a notebook,
a
anged the bones into distinct piles, and placed a sheet of paper with a name
on top of every mound to keep them all separate. And so the first thing I saw
when I entered the temple was a long line of stacked bones, heated by the
savage October sun pouring in through the holes in the roof and with no more
identity than a name scrawled in pencil on a piece of paper. Almost half a
century later, I can still feel the confusion produced in me by that te
ible
testimony to the devastating passage of the years.
There, among many others, were a viceroy of Peru and his secret lover; Don
Toribio de Cáceresy Virtudes, bishop of this diocese; several of the convent's
a
esses, including Mother Josefa Miranda; and the bachelor of arts Don
Cristobal de Eraso, who devoted half his life to building the coffered ceilings.
One crypt was sealed with the stone of the second Marquis de Casalduero, Don
Ygnacio de Alfaro y Dueñas, but when it was opened they found it empty; it
had never been used. The remains of his marquise, however, Dona Olalla de
Mendoza, had their own stone in the adjacent crypt. The foreman attached no
importance to this: It was not unusual for an American-born aristocrat to have
prepared his own tomb and be buried in another.
The surprise lay in the third niche of the high altar, on the side where the
Gospels were kept. The stone shattered at the first blow of the pickax, and a
stream of living hair the intense color of coppe
spilled out of the crypt. The foreman, with the help of the laborers, attempted
to uncover all the hair, and the more of it they
ought out, the longer and
more abundant it seemed, until at last the final strands appeared still attached
to the skull of a young girl. Nothing else remained in the niche except a few
small scattered bones, and on the dressed stone eaten away by saltpeter only a
given name with no surnames was legible: SIERVA MARÍA DE TODOS LOS
ÁNGELES. Spread out on the floor, the splendid hair measured twenty-two
meters, eleven centimeters.
The impassive foreman explained that human hair grew a centimeter a month
after death, and twenty-two meters seemed a good average for two hundred
years. I, on the other hand, did not think it so trivial a matter, for when I was a
oy my grandmother had told me the legend of a little twelve year-old
marquise with hair that trailed behind her like a
idal train, who had died of
abies caused by a dog bite and was venerated in the towns along the
Cari
ean coast for the many miracles she had performed. The idea that the
tomb might be hers was my news item for the day, and the origin of this book.
GABRIEL GARCÍA MÁRQUEZ Cartagena de Indias, 1994
ONE
AN ASH-GRAY DOG with a white blaze on its forehead burst onto the rough
te
ain of the market on the first Sunday in December, knocked down tables of
fried food, overturned Indians' stalls and lottery kiosks, and bit four people
who happened to cross its path. Three of them were black slaves. The fourth,
Sierva María de Todos los Ángeles, the only child of the Marquis de
Casalduero, had come there with a mulatta servant to buy a string of bells for
the cele
ation of her twelfth birthday.
They had been instructed not to go beyond the Arcade of the Merchants, but
the maid ventured as far as the draw
idge in the slum of Getsemaní, attracted
y the crowd at the slavers' port where a shipment of blacks from Guinea was
eing sold at a discount. For the past week a ship belonging to the Compañía
Gaditana de Negros had been awaited with dismay because of an
unexplainable series of deaths on board. In an attempt at concealment, the
unweighted corpses were thrown into the water. The tide
ought them to the
surface and washed the bodies, disfigured by swelling and a strange magenta
coloring, up on the beach. The vessel lay anchored outside the bay, for
everyone feared an out
eak of some African plague, until it was verified that
the cause of death was food poisoning.
At the time the dog ran through the market, the surviving cargo had already
een sold at reduced prices on account of poor health, and the owners were
attempting to compensate for the loss with a single article worth all the rest:
an Abyssinian female almost two meters tall, who was smeared with cane
molasses instead of the usual commercial oil, and whose beauty was so
unsettling it seemed untrue. She had a slender nose, a rounded skull, slanted
eyes, all her teeth, and the equivocal bearing of a Roman gladiator. She had
not been
anded in the slave pen, and they did not call out her age and the
state of her health. Instead, she was put on sale for the simple fact of her
eauty. The price the Governor paid, without bargaining and in cash, was her
weight in gold.
It was a common occu
ence for a stray dog to bite people as it chased after
cats or fought turkey buzzards for the ca
ion in tne streets, and it was even
more common during the times of prosperity and crowds when the Galleon
Fleet stopped on its way to the Portobelo Fair. No one lost sleep over four or
five dog bites in a single day, least of all over an almost invisible wound like
the one on Sierva María's left ankle. And therefore the maid was not alarmed.
She treated the bite herself with lemon and sulfur, and washed the bloodstain
from the girl's petticoats, and no one gave a thought to anything but the
festivities for her twelfth birthday.
Earlier that morning, Bernarda Ca
era, the girl's mother and the untitled
spouse of the Marquis de Casalduero, had taken a dramatic purge: seven
grains of antimony in a glass of sugared rosewater. She had been an untamed
mestiza of the so-called shopkeeper aristocracy: seductive, rapacious,
azen,
with a hunger in her womb that could have satisfied an entire ba
acks. In a
few short years, however, she had been erased from the world by her abuse of
fermented honey and cacao tablets. Her Gypsy eyes were extinguished and her
wits dulled, she shat blood and vomited bile, her siren's body became as