SAINT ANN’S MIDDLE SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE 2025
Staff
SophiaA.,RoanA.,HaddieB.,AudenC., Giacomod'A.,DianaF.-D.,PalomaD.,GeorgiaL.,TheoLee, LucilleM.,VirginiaS.,GloriaS., ValisS.-Y.,PhoebeS.,IsabelS.,TatianaW.
HighSchoolEditors
PetraJ andAmuP
FacultyAdvisors
DavidKhouryandBenRutter
ThestaffwouldliketothankJenZerneck,LauraWinnick,AbeCorrea, JustinRodriguez,EllenFriedrichs,ArdenStockdale-Giesler, MargieHanssens,RamonaEdmonds, AlishaMascarenhas,AsiyaWadud, Mary-LouGower,JenPeana, theArtDepartment,theEnglishDepartment,EliForsythe, andallthosewhosubmittedtheirwork.
SaintAnn’sSchool 129PierrepontStreet Brooklyn,NY11201
Art
Nico K. Virginia S
Oliver K
Leila J. Alistair R. Marlowe K.
Pearl D. Isaac L
Alistair R
Miles F. Elle G.
William K.
Oliver K
Walden K
Rowan B.
Pierce D. E.
Willa P.
Olivia C.
Shiloh D
Sio P
Pond R.
Virginia S.
Henry S.
Susanna M
Arjun G
Pond R. Virginia S. Marlowe K.
Amber W.
Luc A
Salim J
Marlowe K. Mina N.
Elle G.
Sio P
Izzie C
Teddy R. Amber W.
GlimpsesofaPoet
IPeekintoaglasswindow— Aschoolalivewithyouth. Bentoverbooks—thePoetNotes— AnairywhiffofTruth!
Theyearscreepby,unnoticed‘til Herfriends—Theydrift!Theywed! Theyflocktochurchlikemindlesssheep ButShe—loneWolf—holdsstead.
Iglimpseintoanopendoor, Thepoet—middleaged. ShakespearewhispersinherEar— IsalltheworldaStage?
Emily—thePoet!Atherdesk. AQuestioninhermind— WhatwondrousWordshallIwritenext? Eureka!Whatafind!
StellaW. 5thGrade
Quelled
Hate is such a disheartening, petty emotion we cannot have it. We can hate ourselves, laying our shoes down in the vestibule, hanging our coats over the dining room chair. There is an absence; it is not seen, it is not felt, it is not heard. It is not there. In school they taught us we could not hate, but they hated us other times. We discovered ourselves in the cityscapes, the office building next door; we discovered a blankness in the copiers and the white collar workers with their sleeves rolled up, and the half corner of their cubicles we saw from our classroom, decorated with sticky notes. We knew we were them, and they were us, knew that once they had been told that they too could not hate, could only hate themselves.
When we grew up we became disillusioned, but even then we avoided petty arguments in the back of taxi cabs coming home, for fear it would blow back at us. We worried that each party and club would gradually, bit by bit, make us monsters, and we wondered about the other girls in the bodycon dresses we had bumped into on our many trips to the bathroom. Sliding off our high heels, we stashed them beneath the jump seats. We waited for something to happen but it never did, feared that the taxi driver, whose face, family and personhood we could not see, might abduct us.
We clung to the other girls our age from the schools near ours, the girls who knew they could not hate so they did other things. Lost, shivering, sick castaways on a raft in the deep, deep blue, deeper than the nine rings of inferno–one might open her purse to find, nestled in the center, a tampon, in a green wrapper.
We allowed ourselves nothing, still allow ourselves nothing. Not a foot. Not an inch. Not a hand or leg or a moment to breathe when it seems you cannot. We would walk into the massive buildings in the city in the summertime just for a little cool; we hated the people everywhere because they seemed so sad.
Every year the frigid contempt of winter would bleed out into the marshy uncertainty of the spring months, that pale green sickness, everyone infected with the same infection, walking and talking the same way.
There was a haze throughout, not a fog, because you could see through it, it was just different. We couldn’t find anything, lost our house keys, bobby pins on the bottom of our purses, pantyhose with runs, the fold-out pages of perfumes in magazines, splayed on the floor and useless.
We could not see past tomorrow.
We would stand in a public restroom, walls and doors scraped over by hands which had dared to lend their flowering meanings to other people’s eyes. We viewed the purgatory which was behind our heads in the reflection, the lines where someone had taken a key and scraped words into the glass.
We felt ourselves sink out of view beneath the feeling, the knowledge of our shortcomings so clear and evident it was glorious, it exploded into pops of color like when we were young and we began to hate for the first time.
Whichcomesfirst Thethoughtsorthewriting Orsimplythewords
Notthoughtsnorphrases Justvocabularythatpoursout Asifinsideone’smind Isjustatub
Notoffluidbutofwords Ormaybeeventhoughts
Withalittlelip,asnottospill Thattipsslightly Andouttricklethewords
Astreamofthisandthat Thatfallsintoplace Andbecomesthoughts Orisalreadythoughts Thatbecomewriting Oncetheyhitthepage Andsometimes Thereisnopour Butthepageisdipped Andoutcomesthecorner Allwetandtranslucent Withwords
BridgetC. 8thGrade
My Mom’s Girlfriend from Hell
My mom has a girlfriend from hell. This girlfriend’s name is Courtney Love.
Courtney Love is not actually my mom’s girlfriend. My mom doesn’t have a girlfriend. She has a husband. My dad, Rob.
What my mom has is obsessions. She’s a writer. Not the kind that makes things up, a fiction writer. She’s a nonfiction writer, and that means she can’t just use her imagination to come up with a main character and create a story in her head. She has to find a main character who is already walking around in the world and who already has a story. A real life person. But to write about this person in a way that makes them as interesting to other people as the person is to her, she has to fall in love. That’s how she explained it to me, anyway.
Only I didn’t get it at first. Five feet away from her desk on a wall in a frame is a note I wrote her when I was in the first grade, and this note shows how much I didn’t get it. I left it right on her pillow the day she came back from a work trip. (She’d gone to L.A. to interview the writer Bret Easton Ellis, who writes books, freaky ones that I want to read but my mom won’t let me until I’m 14.) She couldn’t stop laughing when she saw it.
Here it is. (Just so you know, I am a better speller now.)
Dear Mom
You are worm and cotuly and you had sex with Bret Estin Elis. Don’t try to hide it from me. Naw lets get down to business. I want to go to the natural history meseim this week and I want no arguing about it.
Ike
My mom was not having sex with Bret Easton Ellis, who is gay. So I was wrong about that. But I also wasn’t wrong because she does get so crazy obsessed with whoever she is writing about. That person just takes over her thoughts and she is off on another planet. My dad and my brother Archie and I can sometimes barely get her attention no matter what we do. It drives me absolutely crazy how distracted she can get. What will happen is that she will be with me, and we will be doing something, playing ping pong or taking our dog Mr. Jones for a walk, but I can see her lips moving silently and I know she is talking to this other person in her head. So yes, she’s with me, except she’s really someplace else and with someone else. I hate that!
I’ll admit that there are times when these obsessions pay off for her. Like, just before I was born, she got obsessed with a woman named Eve Babitz, an old writer nobody had ever heard of, and if they had heard of her, they’d forgotten about her. Plus, Eve had Huntington’s, which is a disease that eats your brain, basically. Oh and Eve had accidentally set herself on fire and didn’t like to see people anymore and had become this hermit vampire who lived in a dirty, scary rat’s nest of an apartment in Hollywood and who never saw the sun. I wouldn’t want to go near such a person, but my mom couldn’t resist.
She kept saying, “Eve is a genius, Eve is a genius.”
So what my mom did is write Eve letters and call Eve on the phone. Eve ignored her. So my mom, the obsessive person that she is, made friends with Eve’s sister Mirandi (Mirandi always sends me Dodgers shirts and hats and sweatshirts, which I love even though technically I’m a Yankees fan, because Kike Hernandez is the flashiest player in baseball and he’s the second baseman for the Dodgers) and Eve’s old boyfriends and old friends and people like that.
It took a couple of years, but my mom finally wore Eve down, and Eve let my mom fly to California and visit her in that monster’s cave of an apartment. Then my mom wrote about Eve for the magazine she works for and even wrote books about Eve. Eve’s books had gone out of print, but after my mom did what she did, they started publishing them again, and Eve got famous. Well, famous for a writer. I was watching Jeopardy with my uncle John, and Eve was the answer to a question! Or, I guess, since it’s Jeopardy, the question to an answer.
It’s different with Courtney Love, though, I can tell. (In case you don’t know, Courtney Love is a rock star from when my mom was young. My mom thinks Courtney is a misunderstood genius. I think Courtney is a crazy person and that everyone understands her just fine.) My mom sees herself as tough and tenacious and unstoppable and all that kind of stuff. Yes, ok, she is. But Courtney is tougher and Courtney is going to wipe the floor with her and she doesn’t even know it. My worry is that Courtney will do something to her and then it will just be me, Archie, and my dad. That would be just awful.
First of all, my mom writes about writers, and Courtney is not a writer. Courtney is a rock and roll person. Writers, from what I can see, live inside their brains rather than their bodies. For example, I don’t picture a writer being good at punching. But Courtney IS good at punching. I know this because I know how to Google. She punches people and some of these people are women. She had a boyfriend who had a wife, and she ran over the wife’s foot with her car, which is just too crazy for me to handle. I read most of a Reddit thread (usually I go to Reddit for baseball and football conspiracy theories) about how she maybe murdered her husband Kurt Cobain. Even her dad thinks she murdered her husband.
Did you hear what I just said? Courtney’s own dad thinks she murdered her husband. That is insane! In fact, Courtney is so insane that they are always making jokes about her insanity on South Park and Family Guy, my two favorite TV shows. (I also really like The Office and Seinfeld.)
The worst part is that Courtney texts my mom all day and all night and my mom never doesn’t answer. We all tell her to ignore Courtney, but she keeps on picking up her phone. She’s already a high-strung and uptight person who doesn’t sleep much, only now she’s even higher-strung and more uptight and she never sleeps.
Also Courtney is always getting mad at her for absolutely no reason that I can see, and it always upsets her, and that makes everybody else in the family’s day hard because it puts her in a terrible mood. A friend of my mom’s called Courtney my mom’s “girlfriend from hell.” (That’s where I got that expression.) My mom thinks what her friend said is funny. Well, I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s true.
I ask my mom, isn’t she worried that Courtney will run over her foot or murder her? My mom says that she’s safe because Courtney lives in London. “Hello,” I say back, “there’s such an invention as the airplane.” My mom just laughs and doesn’t take me seriously. She thinks Courtney’s nutty behavior will be good for the podcast she’s doing.
She also insists that Courtney is a thrilling genius, the way she insisted that Bret Easton Ellis and Eve Babitz were thrilling geniuses. But I don’t see that at all.
I don’t even like Courtney’s music. It’s screechy and crazy.
On the wall across from my mom’s desk, right next to my note, is a quote from someone named William Carlos Williams. It says, “The pure products of America go crazy.” My mom thinks this quote is about the people she writes about. But I think it’s really about her.
IkeA. 6th Grade
How
Howthethickparkafoldedaroundyouperfectly
Howtheytoldustofindahappymedium
Howwedidn’tlisten
HowthebrightlightofTimesSquareforthefirsttimetookmybreathaway
Howthemomentdistractedmefrom
Howyouwerealreadylookingahead
Howanotewasleftonmyfrontdoor
Howitsaid,“I’msorry”
Howyouweregoingtotellmeinperson
Howyoulivesomewhereelsenow
HowIwonderifyou’rehappyorifyou’reinyourhousewondering
Howyoucouldhaveletmego
Howasingleredrosestilllivesinthejarinmylivingroom
Howitstillremindsmeof
Howitallendedand
Howyouneverlookedback
MiaH 5thGrade
Lady Fisher lived in a large manor far away from the town. She had inherited it after her father’s death. Most of her days were spent sitting in one of the luxurious rooms with a hot cup of tea, staring unmoving at the wall in front of her.
Some days, she went into town, but only to run errands; she was never in town simply for something fun or to go on an outing with one of her old friends. And she always made sure to get back as soon as possible.
The manor itself was very nice, with large, plush armchairs in the living room and a canopy bed with frilly sheets in the bedroom. But it felt too empty and miserable without her father there, who had provided a source of light in the dark, gloomy space.
The only other thing that Lord Fisher had left his daughter was a goldfish named Fred.
Fred the goldfish was a tiny fish, and his scales (which weren’t actually very gold) gleamed in the scarce light that bounced off the sides of the tank. His tail was so thin that it looked as if you could take your thumb and index finger and tear it to shreds without much effort.
Lady Fisher made sure to feed Fred every morning and afternoon, and she kept his tank clean by wiping the sides of the glass walls and scooping the poop that little Fred lovingly lay in the pebbles that lined the floor of his home.
She actually despised the fish, but it had been her father’s pride and joy and she intended not to let the old ghost of Lord Harold Fisher down.
One early spring morning, when the plants outside were starting to thrive again and blue jays sang pretty melodies to each other, Lady Fisher slipped out from under her comfy duvet and, feeling that it was still too early to change out of her silken pajamas, trudged into the living room to feed Fred.
Taking out the thin spoon from its spot in the cabinet by the fish tank, she stuffed the silver cutlery into the matching bowl of fish food and dumped it carelessly into the eager fish’s home. Fred’s tail danced back and forth like a dog’s as his breakfast slowly floated down to the bottom of the tank.
He gobbled it up greedily as Lady Fisher watched him, scowling in contempt.
“Disgusting little fish,” she mumbled as she turned to make herself some tea.
And that’s when Fred jumped right out of the fish tank.
Goldfish don’t live for a very long time. The ones who live in a tank or some kind of enclosure with an owner who looks after them, the pet goldfish, usually lead a very dull—if not lonely—life. They eat, they sleep, they swim a couple thousand circles, and then die of either old age or boredom.
The goldfish who live in open water, the independent goldfish who find their own food and build their own shelters, lead interesting and adventurous lives (though they tend to get eaten a lot).
Fred was getting old, and he was determined to live his last few seconds out in the open, free to do whatever he would like.
So as he sat there, gasping on the cold wooden floor, his body begging for water, he gave Lady Fisher a satisfied grin and thought, I was a lucky fish. The thought echoed louder than ever in his head as he closed his eyes.
Lady Fisher stared at the cold, unmoving body of the fish that lay somewhat delicately on the smooth planks in front of her.
“What is wrong with that fish?” she said to no one in particular. Her voice bore into the bone-chilling air like a long, unforgiving knife. She grabbed one of her father’s thin, floral hand towels from its place by the sink in the bathroom and wrapped it around her perfectly manicured hand before picking up the small dead fish. She absolutely refused to touch Fred with her bare hands.
Then she rushed back to the bathroom and threw him into the toilet. She yanked down the pearly-white flush and watched with excited apprehension as the brave fish swirled down into the watery depths.
After all this, Lady Fisher returned back to her habitual morning routine, slowly sipping her chamomile tea and staring at walls, not knowing that Fred had been more free than she ever was—and ever would be.
MinaN. 4th Grade
Once upon a time, there was a coat. And I was that coat. My job was to stay still and wait for someone to buy me while the grumpy old man who ran the store was staring at me. Just like all the other coats, I was standing right in front of the window with the sun beating down on me. It was so hot. I felt like I was gonna melt. But then I had an idea… My idea was to escape.
It was a dark and stormy midnight. No one was at the shop. I grabbed socks, jeans, a hat, shoes, and gloves. I tilted my hat down so no one could see I had no face. I put all my clothes on. I ran out of the shop as fast as possible. I felt the wind tugging my body, and I felt free!
I found a very expensive watch in the middle of the road. It was four in the morning. I thought I should go get a job. I decided I should be a cashier. I saw a deli. It looked nice. There was a “Now Hiring” sign on it. I went in.
I asked the deli manager if he would hire me. He said that it was fine.
The next day, I walked in happily to work.
The sun was shining, the deli was packed, the loaves of bread were all lined up. But then, I saw something that sent a chill up my seams. It was the grumpy old man who ran the coat store.
“Hey!” he shouted. “That’s the guy who stole my nicest coat!”
I saw a fat guy with a moustache in a blue shirt eating a donut. It was a policeman. He got up and yelled, “You’re under arrest!”
They thought I was a thief! I dropped myself on the ground.
“Where is he?” said the policeman. Then he grabbed me and threw me over his shoulder.
And soon, I found myself back in the store. The shop was different. The coats were as blue as the ocean, the manager’s shirt shined like the sun. I could watch the window, but I knew I’d never get out there again.
PhoenixS 4thGrade
TheLonelyBoat
Thelonelyboatwasverylonely, justsittinginitsoldcanalasalways, waitingforanofferthatwouldnever come,
togetoutofthecanal andhoprightintotheflow ofcargoshipssloshingaround inthecleanlittlewavesoftheHudson, makingtheirwaywherevertheyneedtogo.
JonahS. 4thGrade
The shackles were dull, heavy and slightly warmed from the sun. They encircled her wrists and ankles, tripping her up every few seconds, and their clink-clunk cut through the hustle and bustle of the area. She still remembered the gunshot and the blood. Her mother was dead, had died protecting her. Tears fell down her cheeks. Her skin was slick with sweat and her clothes in tatters. If she didn’t move fast enough, she felt the whip ripping apart the flesh of her back. The cries of those who fell behind could be heard from her spot in the line of dark bodies. She winced at every grunt or shrill scream. The sand was hot and blistering beneath her feet as she trudged toward the ship. She tripped again, falling, struggling to her feet as fast as she could, but it was too late. “Damn slave, get up!” a man said. The whip flashed white hot. Her scream pierced the air as she felt blood trickle down her back.
The ship was dank, warm and filthy. Rotten fish and blood stank up the water in the hold. Every time she breathed in she held back a dry heave. The floor beneath her bare feet was grimy. She looked down making sure to not step on any splinters of rotten wood. Finding a bench, she grabbed the oar in front of her. It was rough and had a thin sticky film on it. She held on firm though she wanted to recoil from the nasty thing. She pushed forwards, backwards, repeat. Her body fell into the constant rhythm. After an hour or two, her arms began to burn. She could hear thumps from above as the other slaves rushed back and forth on the deck. The pain in her arms was almost unbearable and a steady dribble of water hit her shoulder. She could now hear shouts and screams; she looked up and gasped as the ceiling began to cave. Suddenly it collapsed in and water flooded into the bottom of the boat. She struggled to get free of the chains weighing her down but they were too heavy. She let go and collapsed to the bottom of the boat, exhausted. She held her breath as long as she could; eventually she took a deep breath in.
She woke up on a beach. Sand in her hair and mouth. The grainy texture and clawing taste made her gag and she turned to her side, spitting. She rose to her shaky feet and swallowed. The sand she couldn’t spit out was rough against her throat. She looked at her ankles and wrists, but there were no shackles. They had slid off her in the sea and waves. A body was lying in the sand a few feet away. She ran to it, but saw it was lifeless as soon as she lifted the mouth to her ear. She wept, wept for everyone who had died, wept for herself, wept with joy for being free.
She walked inland, under the steadily rising sun. Her salty tears dried and left paths in her cheeks. When she reached the first tree, legs sore and tired, she sat down beneath it. The sun was high by this time but she felt solace in the moving shadows of its warm fronds. She drifted into sleep, back resting against the amber trunk, shadows dancing across her face. She dreamed of her garden full of orange trees. The trees were heavy with ripe, sweet fruit. The oranges that had ripened early were on the ground. Birds pecking to get below the tart peel to the sweet juice. She dreamed of shea nuts. Her mother taught her to take the fruit and rub it on her body. The lotion made her feel soft and light. She dreamed of the iron sand she and her mother would collect with magnetized rocks. Melted down, it made spears for warriors.
When she woke, the sun had started its descent. Coconuts hung above her. They were just reachable if she stood on her toes. She picked one, and when she smashed it on the ground, a crack appeared. If she tilted it just so, sweet water spilled out. She drank greedily and desperately, the cool fluid drifting down her throat. Another smash and the coconut broke open. The white meat inside was just like the coconuts at home. She used her fingers to peel away strips of the white flesh. Those pieces she ate quickly. She repeated the process until she was full. By then, the moon had appeared to brighten the dark sky, and she fell asleep again.
She woke with the sun, stronger than she had been in a long time. The further inland she walked, the more lush the scenery became. A huge mess of bark and moss and leaves was somehow a single tree. Little white and pink flowers bloomed in the edges of the moss. It was beautiful and unique, like no tree she had seen before. But as she looked closer, she saw a line of biting red ants emerging from a patch of bark. Her nose crinkled at the thought of red hot stings along her arms and legs. She walked on, and came to an orange tree. Involuntary tears welled up as she thought of home and saw her mother’s corpse among the fallen fruit.
She stayed at the orange tree for one moonfall; she wept the entire time. Then she walked on until she reached the sand-swept end of the island. She fell to her knees and looked out at the calm rolling turquoise waves. The scars on her back stretched as she lay down. She thought about her own name, what it ment. Exhaustion ran through her, but she refused to sleep. Chidera, she thought to herself, don’t you dare fall asleep. But her eyes fell closed as she realized she would never return home.
Hourglass
InJanuaryweswappedConversefortheday
InFebruaryweprankedMr.Mintothinkingweweresisters
InMarchwesuckedonlollipopsaswetriedtowalkinsync
InAprilwewenttotheschooldancetogetherinmatchingoutfits
InMaywecriedwhenyourmomtoldusyouweregoingtoanewschool
InJuneweswappedcampaddressesandpromisedeachotherwewouldwrite
InJulyyoudidn’twriteback
InAugustyougotanewphoneandforgottogivemeyournumber
InSeptembermymomaskedifsomethinghappenedbetweenus
InOctoberyouwenttrickortreatingwithyourfriendsasIsatathome
InNovemberyoudidn’tremembertoinvitemetoyourbirthday
InDecemberIwavedatyoufromacrossthestreet
DaphneL 8thGrade
On the Ginger People
What is a Ginger?
You may have seen a strange creature or creatures as you make your way to work or live your daily life. This is a Ginger (Rubrum malum). A Ginger is a creature resembling a human, but with natural hair that is red, copper, ruddy, orange, etc. As we all know, humans (Homo sapiens) cannot grow red hair, or as it’s commonly known, ‘ginger hair,’ hence the name. The curiosity of a Ginger being starts with the fact that they have a mutation in the 16th chromosome causing their hair to turn the unusual fiery color. Otherwise, Gingers look and behave like humans.
Where did they come from?
The Ginger species presumably originates from Central Asia and spread across Asia and Europe, being often seen in and around the populations of the Scottish, Irish, and Ashkenazi Jewish peoples.
Will they hurt me?
Gingers do not have it in their hearts to hurt or harm you or your family. Gingers and their ilk are much like humans and will retaliate if provoked. Do not attack a Ginger and they will not attack you.
Are all Gingers Irish?
No. Most Gingers are not Irish or of Irish descent. Ginger communities are prevalent in Ireland, but since Ireland is so small the majority of Gingers are from elsewhere. Gingers are wont to collect pots of gold and sit at the end of rainbows, though.
Will I have a Ginger child and what to do if I have a Ginger Child?
Do not worry, only 4-5% of the population even carries the gene for red or reddish hair. Humans do have the possibility to give birth to a Ginger child if one or more of the parents have Ginger ancestry. The offspring of a Ginger and Non-Ginger or a Ginger carrier and a Non-Ginger will not be sterile, so do not worry about your bloodline going extinct. Only 1-2% of the population of the world has actual natural ginger hair, and do not worry, they are not dangerous. If you have a Ginger child please register them with the United Nations GingerWatch and treat them as you would a human child.
LiamH. 8th Grade
Chess
SuchPowersoughtbyFoolswithCrowns— ButwiththeslightestTouch— TheFrivolouswillfalltoDeath— AllfreedfromCorruptclutch
TolookbackatPastAnguish— TofeelBelligerent— TheCountlessNamesof“Nobodys” LostwiththeKing’sAssent
ABattlefieldofStrategy OfValorandofGreed— Usedonlyforpersecution Ofmenandnoblesteeds
NeveM. 5thGrade
AgreatAmerica
Whereprotectorsareprosecutors
AgreatAmerica
Wheregraduationsbecomegraveyards
AgreatAmerica
Wheretherearecheerfulchildrenlookinguptocrookedcriminals
AgreatAmerica
WheremyAuntIrenecan’tgetinsulinanddiesofinsufficientbloodsugar
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A. 8thGrade
The Restaurant
We had just run the marathon and we were so hungry. I felt like I would eat anything and everything. So, my two friends and I decided to go to the EAT! EAT! EAT! all-you-can-eat restaurant.
When we walked up to the restaurant, I could instantly smell the wonderful aroma of so many types of food, but I picked out the smell of pizza and burgers especially. Larry even closed his eyes and just stood for a moment, inhaling the mouth-watering smell. Then, we were drawn in like magnets to where I knew must be the most wonderful place in the world. Inside was busy but pleasant with many people with so many types of food on their tables and many people were leaning back in their chairs, contented and full. A waitress with an apron that said “Keep on stuffing that food in!” came up to us.
“Hello. Can we have a table for three please?” Douglas asked, eyeing the voluminous burgers on the plates of some people nearby.
“Of course. Follow me this way,” said the waitress. “Is this your first time here?”
We nodded our heads and she grinned at us and left us with the fifteen-page menus at our table. There was everything from pancakes to dumplings to pizza and we ordered around half of the whole menu. The waiter smiled slyly when he heard how much food we wanted. We spent the longest twenty minutes of our lives waiting for all that glorious food and noticed the table next to us was getting desserts. Pies, cakes, brownies and lemon bars covered that table. Again, our mouths watered and we could not wait to get to dessert.
Finally the first dish came out. It was a plate with three steaming hot sausage and pepper sandwiches. They were heaping with delicious green and red peppers and crispy sausage. We ate ravenously and we were done eating them in one minute, which was probably a new world record. Next came three full plates of steaming hot raviolis with a garlic and sage sauce. They had a citrusy and cheesy filling on the inside and we gobbled them up quickly. By the time we were done, so many more dishes were out. As we were about to really start gorging ourselves, I heard someone at the table next to us say, “It’s so delicious it hurts,” and we all laughed, kind of confused.
A group of people at another table were ordering a fairly small amount of food. They were nervously looking at each other and at the food as if they were somehow scared of it. I looked around at the other tables to see how much food everyone else had and I was suddenly taken aback by how many people there were in the restaurant. It started to feel a little too crowded for my liking, but I just shrugged it off and continued eating. Finally we started getting more full and had to start eating slower. We still had a lot left to eat. But, we hadn’t gotten what we were the most excited about, which was the pizza. We figured it must’ve been swapped out for the dumplings, which we didn’t order. Still, they were delicious, and we didn’t mind too much. Then, as a waiter was coming past us with a huge bowl of spaghetti, he tripped on Larry’s leg and the spaghetti spilled all over me. My white shirt was covered in bright red tomato sauce.
“Oh my goodness! I am so sorry!” cried the waiter.
I told him it was fine and headed to the bathroom to clean myself up. As I was coming back from the bathroom, I noticed a small painting on the wall titled “Opening Night.” It was of a group of people sitting at a table at what was supposed to be the same restaurant. They had a lot of food on their table and there was a crowd of people around them. I wasn’t exactly sure what they were doing, but it almost looked like they were shouting, which seemed like a strange thing to be doing in a restaurant. Still, the painting was well done I thought as I went back to our table.
“Good luck finishing that,” said the waitress with the funny apron as she passed by us. We all just looked at each other and decided that we definitely could do it. I grabbed a delicious-looking bowl of ramen but when I looked at it closer I noticed that it was so oily on the top that it looked like it had been squirted with lotion. And, when I looked even closer, the egg was strangely colored and kind of crusty on the surface and the scallions were all brown and dried up. I pushed it away assuming it was just one dish that the chefs made a mistake on.
Twenty minutes later we decided we could definitely not do it. So, we called over a waiter and asked him if we could get some to-go containers.
“You want to-go containers?” he asked incredulously. “I’m sorry but we do not allow to-go containers here.”
“Oh of course,” I say. “In that case we might not be able to finish.”
“Oh no! That absolutely is NOT allowed!” he cried. “We have a strict policy. You eat everything you order.”
My eyes widened as I tried to think about all that food. I looked at Douglas and then at Larry. They gaped with looks of horror. The table was still half-covered in food. Then, I took a deep breath and really looked at how much food was left. I look up at the others.
“I think we can do it.”
We began eating like we never had before not just to obey the rules but also to prove to ourselves that we could. There was something that seemed unexplainably pleasing about eating all that food in one night. After getting down the two plates of lasagna, the crowd started circling around us. Then, all at once, they started chanting. “EAT! EAT! EAT!” thundered around the restaurant. Tears began pricking at my eyes as I “kept on stuffing that food in” and I looked up at my friends in misery.
After two of the most wretched hours of my life, we had finished eating all of the food, even that oily bowl of ramen. We started getting out of our seats, barely able to move, when a waitress came up to us.
“Don’t you want dessert?” she asked with a wicked smile.
When the numerals attack When the ultimatum is When ultimate means starting When the hierarchy shrinks to small When the clasp loosens When a walk in the park is When a challenge is too easy When humor not funnyWhen all ends meet other When soulmates attractWhenanentirevoidedvoidcomesbackWhenagavageisseenasapleasantryWhen wecometocomeWhenacomingofagemovieputsyouback Whentearsare mynirvana WhenthiscomestoanendWhenIbelievethatyoubelievethatIshouldbelieveWhenIam alwaysrightWhenIfeeltheneedtobewrongWhenawordbecomesnonsenseaftersaying ittoomuchWhenmylastsentencestartsgettingtomeWhenI’mWhenwhereWhenallof usaredone
DesiS. 5thGrade
My Life as a Twenty-Dollar Bill
I woke up this morning in a cash register. I had been in that horrible place as long as I could remember, and today wouldn’t be any different… or would it?
A grey glove covered with orange juice reached into the cash register and grabbed me by the tip of my head. I was soon picked up and walked outside. Then the wind whipped me out of the cashier’s hand and onto the cold, hard concrete. A few minutes later a kid ran up and picked me off the ground. They ran with me all the way to what looked like a candy shop and exchanged me for five candy bars.
After three hours of sitting in a wallet, I was given to a waiter as a tip. The waiter immediately left the restaurant and put me in a donation box for an animal shelter.
The next day I was taken to a pet food store. The owner of the store gave me to an employee, who gave me to another kid. Then that kid dropped me in the park.
About an hour later, a baby picked me up, opened their slobbery, slobbery mouth, and... Luckily someone took me away just in time. She brought me to a supermarket.
The next morning, I woke up in a cash register. Right where I began. I’ll never be free.
February 19, 2025
A mini pulls up to the stoplight. An arm dangles out of the left window, graying blonde hair coating his tattoos like a caterpillar on a dying leaf. His groceries and bags lay on the passenger seat. The light turns green and he pulls away.
At the next red, a black Ford, covered in shiny soap streaks from the car wash. The car comes to a halt so sudden that the Army bobblehead on the dashboard slips. He hastily drives off, a plume of cigarette smoke trailing behind.
It begins to rain. The scaffolding came down last week, and I have no umbrella. I sort out all the coins, then flip over my dented Dunkin Donuts cup.
Then comes a Volvo. Remnants of ribbons still hang on the back. IKEA crib materials sit in the back. The woman in the passenger seat gingerly reaches to cross an item off a list. The car carefully rolls away.
Then, a man on a bike. The three wet DoorDash bags slap his legs as he comes to a halt. He checks his phone, a look of disappointment and panic on his face. He quickly pedals away.
Next is a Jeep, with an elderly woman in the passenger seat shouting at her son. One of her grandchildren sits directly behind her and reads her a list. The jeep drives away, much slower than before.
The rain comes down harder. Looks like there won’t be any more money for the day. I wring out my jacket and roll it to make a pillow.
At the next stoplight, a gray KIA. A woman in a black dress rolls up her window, her wedding band on the wrong hand. She glances to the passenger seat as if to say something, then quickly picks up her phone. The light goes green.
Next is a Land Rover. The driver quickly stuffs a bagel in her mouth, then checks the time. The back seats are filled with presents, wrapped in pink paper. She rolls down the window, wafting the fragrant smell of Jolly Ranchers emanating from the back seat to me. She hastily drives away.
The sun sets and rises, and another day ends and begins.
AgnesB 8th Grade
Courage Is Vermillion
That was the color of the chunk of rust I drove on that somber day behind the July sunset. There were no words that could describe that unprecedented sunset. You told me there was nowhere in the world that I had not yet seen. Wrong was what you had to be. You told me the most painful thing in life is never feeling pain. You started to laugh, I started to cry, tears of anguish flowing down my cheek. We drove until the break of daylight feeling dejected and rejected at the same time. You told me to feel gratified you must first feel satisfied, I said to stop the rhyme you said all in good time. The desolation made my heart sink to the depths. You told me that sometimes all you need is an open road. We kept on driving till an abrupt stop at a waterfall like the Niagara, but smaller like the neglected sibling. Living it’s life in a shadow of lies. We ate in resentment. You said to make a dollar you gotta be a scholar. And to be serious you have to be delirious. And I said to stop the rhyme you said all in good time.
TheaS 5thGrade
After The Rainstorm
After the rain storm I felt love, you told me that love is the pink in a July sunset. You told me to live in the pink of a July sunset because the world is there to tear the color down. You told me that most get tears by the power vested in their own words. You told me that the power in the word being is unlimited, I cried. I gave you what you asked for. You told me to not expect thank you because praise of any sort tears up pride. I gave you a ride to the movies. You said to never expect goodbye because it puts tears in love’s eyes. I panicked. You told me panic creates the barrier that breaks by the hands of unwanted pride. You repeat what you said. You said your wisdom is tainted. It is. You said I don’t know the way lies can sting more than disappointment has ever stung. You told me to never hope for an unprecedented life because I was not a contrarian. You told me to say goodbye.
RisingPoems
Takeyourselfashighasyoucan Dabbleyourhandsintheclouds Findyourwordsandholdontothem
Putyourwordswheretheycanbeseen Showitasarisingpoem Creatingmoreandmorepeaceasitgoeson
Themoreyouwrite,themoreyousee Themoreyouwrite,themoreyoufeel Themoreyouwrite,themoreyouunderstand
Gohomeasyourisehigherandhigher Andwatchasyourpencilwrites Risingpoems
SkyL. 4thGrade
“Thus She Denied Herself from Heaven” (an excerpt)
Every morning when I wake up, light is descending from the sky into my bedroom. It’s just the sun, but I always think there are angels waiting outside my window for me. It’s kind of terrifying, to be honest. I don’t want the angels to take me away. And I know it’s silly, I know that’s not what angels do. They don’t just snatch you up. They don’t—they can’t—just grab you and steal you away. It’s not their job. But even so, I can’t help but rush to draw the curtains, shut out any possible sign of angelic light—I wake up and the first thing I do is yank them closed, the curtains. And there—in the very back of my mind, where it’s awfully dusty and unused, I know that—I know it—curtains can’t stop the will of God. I know.
It’s not just in the morning, in my bedroom. I see them everywhere now. Just the other day, I stepped outside, barely beyond the threshold of our doorway and I looked up. I wanted to see the sky, it was royal blue—the color you only ever find in the depths of summer. And so, I looked up
I was blinded.
And it was the sun—I know now, that it was the sun, it was. But I thought—I knew it was an angel, it was a halo and it was coming for me, it was hurtling through the sky, a holy weapon ready to strike me down. I dashed inside and slammed the front door, then I collapsed on my knees. I curled up like a fetus, on the little mat in the entryway—for wiping your muddy boots. I got a migraine. I fell asleep.
I woke up and I just felt this overwhelming sense of depression. To feel the need to run from the purest, goodest being is… it’s so very tiring.
PalomaD. 8thGrade
CherryTree
Thousandsuponthousandsofpetalsfall intheswayinglate-springgrass, theirlightpinkhueilluminatingthesmallshardsofshinygreen, moonlightspiralingoffinasilkensheenoflight, rulingoutthedark.
EndlessR. 6thGrade
TheWhiteBird
Thesunfliesupanddown eachday,whilethemooncontrolsthe waves,thefootprintsinthesand fadeoutandthen fadeinagain.
Thewhitebirdsettlesonthe rock,nestlinginherdowny feathers,callsbutnoone hearsher, aloneinthedarkness.
EleanorP. 5thGrade
SingingPoetry
Iseethesunbetweenthetrees, Ihearalovelymelody Ismellrosesthatmakemesneeze Itastethebagelfromthedeli
ThismorningIfeelasifIcanfeel Everything
KatharineS. 6thGrade
Don’tJudgeaMonsterbyitsAppearance
Arevoltingmonstersneaksupatyouincuriosity Youjoltbackasyounoticehisterribleappearance. Butyoudidn’tknowthathehasaheart,anditisbroken,andonlyyoucanfix it.
NinaV. 4thGrade
A Spiraling Poem
It’s cold out here…
The sharpness of November has my cheeks a light pink
The crisp coolness of the air is…. Youknowwhat?Ihatethisaestheticpoem!Itflippingsucks!
Here’smydeal.It’scold.Idon’tappreciateit.I’mnotafallperson.I’mnotawinterperson. I’mascream-to-Metallica-while-I-do-the-dishesperson.
Andyou’reprobablythinking,Wecan’tpublishthis,thisisgarbage!
Itisgarbage!Idon’tknowwhatyourstandardsarebutI’mdonetryingtomeetthemsoI’mjustgoingto writegarbagebecauseI’mhonestlygoingcrazyandthisisn’tevenapoemanymoreit’sjustmegoingcrazyin themiddleofthenightandwritingitinaGoogledoctoscarepeople!ButIloveit!
AlizaB. 8thGrade
There was a man named Pavel. He desired bread. So Pavel got up. Suddenly he fell and hit his head. Pavel was alone with no one to help him. Then he died. So let’s not talk about him.
There was a man named Anton. He sold bread. But his only customer wasn’t there at his usual time. So Anton made no money that week, so he couldn’t eat. Then he died. So let’s not talk about him.
There was a woman named Anna. She was having a wonderful day until she found out her cousin, who was a breadmaker, had died. Anna cried the rest of the day, until she fell asleep. The next morning Anna did not wake up, and she didn’t wake up ever again. So let’s not talk about her.
Strange how everyone dies one after the other. So let’s not talk at all.
OwenL. 7th Grade
Without light, we wouldn’t know who we were or what we looked like.
Without light we’d all be wandering the halls, hands in front of our faces trying to remember where we put our backpacks.
We’d rely on sound alone, bumping into each other with an “Oops!” and a “Sorry!”
Never doing art, for we could never show each other what we’d made.
Never playing baseball, because we couldn’t see the ball we’d just thrown, and sometimes it would clonk us in the head!
Nevermoving,nevermakingfriends, justussittingaloneintheblackness.
Butmaybe, somewheredeepdown farintothecrevicesofourminds, maybesomethingnew couldlearntolive.
EmilyF. 4thGrade
Thewaterripples Asthefrogjumpsbravelyin. Thewaterisquiet.
Mirabelle C. 4th Grade
Seagullsflappingwings
Aswavescrashontotheshore Awhalesurfaces
EvieB. 5thGrade
Thesoundofthewaves Crashingontheshorefills Myearswithloudmusic
ElizaR 4thGrade
Sunsettingthroughblue Dovesrampagingfromtheshine ofthesolemnsky
EmilyC.-V. 5thGrade
Wavescreepingup fromthedisbelief,sunshine blindingthemwholly
EmilyC.-V. 5thGrade
Rainpourslovingly Willingtoshareitswater Withanybody
EvieB. 5thGrade
Thesunshinesitslight asthebluejayschirpwithjoy, butdarkisthenight.
SunnyD. 5thGrade
Dogstheyarefuzzy Andsweet,theyarecutenotfierce, IwishIhadone
TeddyF. 4thGrade
TheGreenThingsonTrees
Inautumn theleavesarelikefire— seasoned,wise red,orange,brown— whilethewindscarryundertonesofthewinterchill
Soonthebreezewillturnharsh riptheleavesfromthebranchestheysoclingto, whileitturnstheairtocoldandtheyarenomore, justbarrenbrancheslackinglifeandspirit
Daynight,daynight soonandsoforth timepasses thingshappen— theexpectedandtheunexpected while thesnowcoatingthebaseofthetrees losescertaintyandseepsbacktotheground fornextyear andtheleavesregainlifeandunfurlfromtheirbuds greenandfulloflife tobeginagain
AliceH 6thGrade
Iusedtoweararibbon inmyhair. Pigtailsandbows havepassedthebaton.
Iusedtodo themonkeybars atrecess. There’snoplayground anymore.
Iusedtoread comicbooks,andthinkthat violencestayedinside thosevividpages.
Iusedtolove thesmellofsummer, butit’swinternow.
AgnesK. 6thGrade
I was indicted last week. It’s a complete witch hunt. Some bureaucrat at the Justice Department laid completely false charges on me. It was a travesty. Now I have to get a lawyer and everything. I have to stop work in order to ‘focus’ on this brainless case. That’s what my board says anyway. They’re full of crap, the lot of them. Always on me about targets and predictions and whatnot. I keep trying to explain to them that we need to focus on expansion—this will lead to profits! But they don’t care. The only thing they pay any attention to is the number of zeros on their dividend checks. I grew the company anyway. I definitely know what’s best for it. Shareholders are the worst. It’s like they show up to glare.
We sit around a huge table, big enough where you can’t see the person opposite you. The only thing you can see is all 36 of their beady, darty eyes staring holes through you. After everyone sits down, they take their hands and throw them on the table. They put them into weird, tight positions, making them red and hot. A sweaty smear often appears beneath them. This only makes the room even more awkward, tense, and uncomfortable. When all of their attention is trained on you, it makes you feel nervous. Not the scared, anxious nervous. The type that puts extreme caution in you. It’s like trying to hold the attention of toddlers: You say one wrong thing and they start talking and yelling amongst themselves. You have to act like a magician, waving your hands and providing a very simple explanation of whatever is going on. It helps to have a slideshow so even if someone still doesn’t understand what you said (you’ve said it three times by now), they can look and read what you were talking about. They appreciate a graph too!
I don’t think they’ll be too fond of my indictment. A discussion on ‘leadership issues’ will probably make its way onto their beloved agenda. But whatever. I’m great at reassurance anyway. I’ll probably say something about how everything is fine and they have nothing to worry about. They’ll eat it up, I just have to stack it up nicely onto their plates. I could probably sneak in some praise as well. They really do love hearing about themselves. Not as much as they do talking about themselves, but it’s close. Our company is doing great anyway, they have no reason to be upset. OK we’re not doing ‘great’ so to speak. But every company hits a few road bumps on the way to success, right?
Three months ago a suit was filed against some idiot who thought it would be a fantastic idea to get drunk at an office day party. The guy wasn’t just drunk though. He was wasted. As any Brad or James or whatever his name was does when they get drunk, he said some questionable things. Well, they really weren’t questionable—more like racist, sexist, homophobic, ableist, etc. He was fired immediately, yet it’s turned into this whole scandal. Apparently we are promoting a “toxic work environment.” I don’t think so. To be fair, who knew you could get drunk off of alcoholic soda? And how much of a moron would you have to be to do that? For these people, the work parties are the best part of their jobs. Or maybe the only fun part. Just because you were offended doesn’t mean you have to ruin it for everyone. I’m forty percent sure our company insurance gives you up to five hundred dollars a year in money for therapy. The dumbest part of this whole thing is that I get the blame. The second dumbest part is that the suit that was filed is demanding half a million dollars in so-called “mental and emotional damages.” The guy didn’t even say anything very hurtful. OK, maybe he dished out a couple personal attacks but nothing physical. Mental and emotional attacks? Give me a break. If it was up to me, we wouldn’t pay a dime. But it isn’t, so we’re just gonna settle, go down without a fight. Well actually, it is. I run the damn company, but I couldn’t afford to make that decision. I’m in enough trouble. I’ll probably make a statement. I wouldn’t have anything to do with the actual statement of course. I probably won’t even read it. My signature will be on the bottom though. Honestly, I thought we should cover it up. Not be in complete denial, but smooth over the details. Throw some money at people who are upset. Admit there was an incident, but no details or anything. It’ll work great. I’ll make it work. But if it doesn’t, then we’re kind of screwed. That will look bad. My staff will be horrified. Probably lodge complaints about me, the disloyal bunch. I run this whole company, the whole thing, yet it feels like I never actually do anything company-related. Always in the public eye, never at a desk working. But soon, I’ll be in court, on trial. I’ll have to tell the truth. Thank you!
HenryS. 8thGrade
Whatisthepointofanoralexam?
Whatdoyouseegoingintothestateofdeath?
Whatifyourfriendssecretlyhateyou?
Whatifeverythingisplannedout?
Doyoudeepdownhaveapassionwaitingforyoutomakeamove?
Whydoeshateexist?
Whyareyouhiding?
Dovirusesintendviolence?
IsaacL. 5thGrade
Is something nothing?
If something is nothing, then nothing is something, but nothing is nothing and something is something.
So if something is nothing, something is nothing and something and nothing is something and nothing.
If something is not there then the absence is something.
So nothing is something, and something is nothing.
HenryM 4th Grade
Youngbird,doesn’tknowanythingabout whatthebigscarywordwilldotoasmall birdlikehim.Excited,fresh.Buttheyears goby,sadnessandsorrowmakeshim different.Older,weakerbutstillhappy, thengone.
AudreyE 4thGrade
Our Holy Matrimony
When I think of wedding Victor today, I think about bluebells and corsages and tomato cans with peeling labels. He and I will stand in our kitchen for hours just peeling potatoes, handing them back and forth, the ribbons of rough skin releasing the soft, yellow flesh like a baby into the new air. We want to have a baby. He wants a little girl named Lacey whom he can take to the park everyday to ride bikes. I haven’t thought past the sharp amber eyes and the chubby baby hands grasping my hair and tugging. I imagine clean hospitals and gowns with no backs and the TV loud with colors and letters and people and the world heralding in our baby with an acquired roughness that she may acquire too.
I want red curtains, the thick fabric that I may softly push aside to reveal my view from the sitting room window, only to find the bright hope replaced by the reality of a gray day. Outside our apartment, just the same as now, trams will be pushed by mothers bound as if tied by ropes to their babies’ sides. Already a Janice or Denise, just shy of her twenty-third year, has lost out as the queen of the house. The world will be just the same after Victor and I wed of course, nothing will change.
I imagine Victor’s hand on the small of my back, guiding me away from the dismal scene, pulling me down from the ceiling where I have floated, like a stray balloon, among the faded pink roses my mother will have surely fastened up there (or employed someone to fasten, for a dollar an hour, as I can hardly imagine my mother perched dangerously on a tall ladder, her Sunday dress sticking straight and starched like an outlandish lampshade on the raw, white light bulb that she is, gluing wallpaper with rank adhesive to the ceiling in my and Victor’s sitting room).
I imagine her picking out the wallpapers, one for each room, leaning over the counter sternly at the clerk like the fearsome president of interior décor. I imagine the blues and yellows, patterned with golds and stripes and little flower buds, or maybe a deep green which will remain in our house for the rest of our natural born lives, a green which Lacey will scribble a big, lopsided flower on, destroying the pattern, one day when she is six.
Victor keeps my fears at bay, we sit on the floor, as there is no furniture yet, and listen to Billie Holiday records as I flip through bridal magazines, the pretty girls smiling but their eyes seeming to drip ironically in sadness like paint, fluorescently dignified, posing, waiting in limbo before the (supposed) minister.
Victor smells like lemon soap, bright like Friday night, the street signs shimmering, keeping up to the doo-wop as the light searches and the warm momentariness hugs us in the crowded club. It is the age of gold now, I know this because Victor comes home everyday with a smile on his face, because I can afford nice dresses in silk and satin, because I can sit, the numbness overtaking me, and not care about much at all.
Except everywhere there is not Victor I can’t shake this unbearable sadness, as though there is a big blinking light where he should be. That is why I am marrying him, because there is nothing without him and a little sliver with him, a scratch of bright that will grow and grow until it envelops all the sadness there is to be had. Victor is a magical man, he can stops wars and deaths and hopeless suicides from jumping off of high bridges. Victor will do anything for me. Victor will hold me, in the time in the dead of night yet just before dawn, when I am alone in myself and there is nothing to be seen, and he will walk me down the street, step by step, whispering reassurances in my ear. Yet somehow, I am afraid of what I must give up.
In the end, all multitudes must snake down a maze, like marbles filled with light and reach their ultimate conclusion, the drifting off-space where all the lost things live, and maybe someday we will all come to claim them. I hear the bells now, the wedding march, the miles of soft carpet stretched before me, all the melancholy aches and pains, the end of childhood traipsing around me in circles like a rose in spring opening up.
Variations
Sleepiscomingnear. Twilightiscreepinginclose. Theoutsideiscrisp.
Darktwilightsleeping, makingitswaythroughthetown, rushinginwispysteps.
Duskishererightnow, coveringtheearth’sbody Lifeiscoming.
Morningglowsabstract, breezeswingingalongwithlife, dazzlingitssun.
LiaC. 4thGrade
Drew (an excerpt)
I’ve always been in love with Jude. Even before Payton came to Donna High, I loved her. I knew she couldn’t love me back, it’s just science. She can’t love me because I’m in love with her and those relationships never end up working, two people being in love with each other. That’s why I love her and she loves Payton and Payton’s dead. Payton died half a year ago. I know that because there were little flowers lining the window of the room our class has English in, marking the 182 days that have passed since Payton fell out of it.
He fell out because one of his friends dared him to jump out of the window and then he did, but we were instructed by the school not to say that he died from jumping out of a window because that makes it sound like he knew he was going to die, which he didn’t. The window was only on the second floor, so he could have survived and he did survive—we think—but we’ll never know, because immediately after he fell, he was run over by my mom’s car.
After that, a lot of people were saying my mom was a murderer and should be put in jail, which didn’t really bother me but Jude wouldn’t talk to me for three months after that. She never even cried about Payton but she wouldn’t talk to me. Eventually, Jude forgave me, but now I know that she will never even consider loving me, no matter what, because I know that every time she looks at me, her mind will go back to Payton’s flattened body on the school pavement next to my mom’s bloody gray Toyota.
The Orient Yacht Club is the life of Orient. Every Tuesday, each member gathers for the races. As you walk down the pier toward the club, the wind is blowing all around, messing up hair and making you squint. There’s a little mist from the water mixing with the breeze. Smooth rocks protrude through your sandals. As you get closer to the old building, the faint whistles from the referee boats make their way to you. The sailboats are there, almost too far to see, ants crawling on the water. The salt air and the barbecue are prominent. Millions of bikes outside the club are parked messily by junior sailors.
The buzz engulfs you as you walk through the doors, an overwhelming amount of bustle. Little kids are hunched over on the big dark wood tables doing crafts while their older siblings race. There’s always some little boy wailing, and a group of girls howling with laughter. The teens in the corner on their phones, dragged to watch the races. As you exit the club from the other side, a gust of wind can knock you off your feet. Everyone is thanking god that they’re here and not on the water. To the left, the clatter of ice means cocktails are being made. The cheering from the corner of the pier comes from supportive grandparents and parents. A set of binoculars is passed around. A group of moms at a table are drinking margaritas and catching up. Laughter and chatter mix with the breeze, wrapping around like a familiar rhythm, another Tuesday at OYC, exactly as it should be.
TatianaW 7thGrade
IS, IS
ISthesunacircleISmusicamelodythatsingsinyour heartIStheworldawondernotyetfullydiscoveredIS thedishwasherdirtycanIputmydishesinIStheworld acircleISitdinneryetISthecatfedISyourdreama dream ISthatsongontheradioapoemISyourheart happyISthewindowwashedISthechoredone.
Learn
the
AlphabetwithaSickChild
AisforAnesthesia
BisforBronchitis
CisforChickenpox
DisforDeath
EisforEczema
FisforFlu
GisforGastroenterology
HisforHeartAttack
IisforIllness
JisforJointPain
KisforKidneyDisease
LisforLiverSpots
MisforMeasles
NisforNarcolepsy
OisforOveractiveBladder
PisforParanasalSinusDisorder
QisforQ-tipGotStuck
RisforRunnyNose
SisforSmallpox
TisforTickBite
UisforUndertheWeather
VisforVertebralFracture
WisforWhoopingCough
XisforX-ray
YisforYellowFever
ZisforZomethingEvenWorse
KatharineS 6thGrade
SuckedintoHeaven
Thepictureleansagainstme.
Itrytorunaway. Itchasesmedown, ButI’mstillfaster. Itstretchesitslongarms, andgrabsme,andpullsmeintothepicture.
Ifallasleep,unconscious. WhenIwakeup,I’minheaven.
NinaV. 4thGrade
You step out of the stuffy yellow taxi you had been confined in for 45 minutes. Onto the sidewalk, dotted with black gum. Navigate the maze of suitcases and their owners. A small yappy dog, barely in its mesh bag, snaps at you. You give it a wide berth, only to step into a puff of cigarette smoke. Nevermind, you have somewhere to go. Step through swinging glass doors, into even more noise and lights. Onto a thick black mat, guarding the shiny tile floor. Flinch, as a tangle of suitcases tumble your way. Carefully guide your own suitcase into the airport. Into a long, winding maze of poles and stanchions. Wait, wait, wait, the person in front of you forgot their passport. Zone out, daydream, now’s your chance. Finally, out of security, run up the escalator. The food court greets you with the smells of:
● Salty peanuts
● Donuts, drowning in frosting
● Hamburgers, overflowing with ketchup
● Spicy chicken wings
● Creamy chocolate
You linger at each stall, shop, and store, wondering if roasted and unroasted cashews actually taste that different. Wondering if having no cheese on your pizza is considered weird. Also wondering why so many dogs are incessantly barking (at you). Settle at a sticky table across from your gate. Jump, metallic voices announcing delays, startling you. Uh-oh, wrong gate. Take-off is in 15 minutes. Sprint down identical white hallways, reflecting light into your eyes. Past clusters of whispering people. Dash into your gate just as long lines of people shuffle slowly into a long winding tunnel, connecting to the plane. Hoist your bag into the storage space above you, buckle the cold metal seat belt buckle. Listen to the talk talk talk about safety and emergency exits. Lift up, feel your back slam into the back of the seat. Into the sky. Away.
Dusk Plotted
Dusk plotted its rise
With doubtless ideas of how the pavement would stray
The branches would inevitably shadow
The third lamp would blinker
The doorframe would carelessly rust
Her hair would clump together without aim
Her brown eyes would be underlined with pebbles, water
Her tears would drop to conjoin on the harsh floor, with drilling
Her nose became blotted, her time futile
Soon silence ended with the scent of anecdotal wine
Her name would echo, give sustenance, Be full of pride
CleoQ. M. 8th Grade
Earth
Sunlight rises as morning draws near People draw out of their beds
But on the other side of the world, The warmth leaves As darkness consumes As people sleep and awake.
As a lonely dove lies awake, Waiting for a mate, Making the nest piece by piece, while she stays alone. Until someone comes,
An unlikely friend But still, they work together.
And somewhere else where the sun never rests, And the moon never shines, And there’s no one to love.
All there is is a small light Living on the inside.
K. 6th Grade
WhatIf?
Whatiftherewasnonight? Ithinkitwouldbehardtosleep, becausethelightwouldshine andyoureyeswouldblur. Butifyouclosedthecurtains, itwouldbeliketakinganap.
Butwhatiftherewasnoday? Imaginewalkingtoworkinthedark. Therewouldprobablybelightson allthetime,everywhere. andyourelectricitybillwouldbesuper-expensive. Walkingtowork,sayinghi toyourfriendsinthedark onthewaythere. Thesameforkidsinschool,too.
Thisiswhy youshouldappreciate bothdayandnight.
LaylaS. 4thGrade
Watching
We took our soup outside. We waited as a fire kindled. No one could tell who had started it with the throwing of twigs and leaves and the clattering of spoons but it started and it roared and it made us dance. Leek soup aside, we started; at first it was timid little movements then it became a joke (“Who’s dancing? Not me!”), but once the fire started to grow, so did we.
Shame tossed to the compost, we danced and we waved and we moved, the fire grew ever bigger and it watched us and seized us and once we couldn’t take the dancing and heat a second longer, we ran away and leaped dashing through the air into the icy water and it screamed. The cold was around us and there were a hundred people calling out no but we screamed back, we screamed to drown out their screaming, we screamed because all minds would, and we screamed back yes.
And now it was in our hair and crawled down our spine and there was nothing to do but to wait for it to end but it wouldn’t end and so we ran back to the fire. By now the fire’s flames where towering hands reaching up, they reached up and grabbed the stars and we watched them and we tried to grab the stars too, but we couldn’t so we ran back to the lake.
We continued like this until we collapsed in the grass between the fire and the water and we laughed ‘cause we thought that we had conquered both, though in reality they had conquered us, and we went to sleep that night and dreamed of stars in a world where neither fire nor water was allowed.
EsméB 6th Grade
Genus Campulus Horror
Sex None
Description Head of goat, paws of lion, thin tail unlike a lizard’s
Diet Unknown
Length 4’
Height 1’ 9” (standing, 3’5”)
Born 4/19/1984, 2:13 AM
April 21
5:32 AM Campulus Horror drank around one ounce of water which gave me a chance to catch sight of the inside of his mouth. He has the beginnings and evidence of several rows of teeth, though he still has his milk teeth which are dull and much resemble a goat’s. I have installed a small dog bed so he has somewhere to sleep, but I’m unsure if he is actually sleeping or rather resting because his eyes never seem to close.
7:14 AM I have given Campulus Horror a more suitable name: Robin, in honor of the reddish furs and bright orange feathers which have been developing these past few hours on his chest; also for his growing bravery and defiance of rules. (We remain unsure of his sex, but I have grown close to the little fellow and feel guilty saying it.) I am the designated “caretaker” of Robin, so I have set up a sleeping bag on the floor of my office and a baby monitor to see his activity during the night and keep an eye on him when he is alone in his cage in the laboratory room.
11:52 AM Robin has been worrying me, he does not seem to be eating, and drinks water only occasionally. He also has not been urinating, let alone excreting waste of any kind. I can’t lose him, not like I lost my Ollie.
April 22
3:28 PM Robin’s weakening body concerns me, but why should Robin die so young? Yes, I know, he was never meant to be: an accident which could have gone much farther south, yet, in what way is it his fault?
My coworkers think that we should use him, test medicine and even perform vivisections on him, but in no world would I ever let that happen. I will shelter him, protect him. Hide him like how I couldn’t hide my Ollie.
It was unfair what happened to him, that stupid Jackson knew what he was doing, but I’ll bet he never really loved anyone like I loved my Ollie. When they came and took him, I remember I ran away like a coward, I was too afraid to confront my worst nightmare. He had never even harmed anyone, only that stupid Jackson, but I know now that that stupid boy made a bigger scene of it than it really was. But, the thing that truly scared me was that I maybe didn’t really know my Ollie, even though I had known him my entire life. One thing I do know is that my Ollie went to heaven. Even if he had not been taken, he would not be alive now, but he had so many years ahead of him then, who would be so cruel to crush all of life so abruptly? They don’t care though, it’s their job, just like the other scientists, it is their job to be cruel. I can’t blame them for doing their job.
Still, I remember playing tug-a-war with my special Ollie, he was so big and strong, he won every time. He had this one bone, a rope one, which was our favorite to play with. It was by far the best one in his whole basket of toys.
4:46 PM I have attempted to feed Robin things, but he does not seem to be interested, just like how a rabbit would not eat meat, nor a tiger vegetables. Some thirty minutes ago, I cut myself while cutting steak for him, and, as if he could smell the blood, Robin scampered over and licked my finger and nibbled around the flaps of skin that were severed by the knife. Isn’t that sweet? He probably wanted to heal the cut.
8:29 PM I keep thinking about my Robin, the poor thing must be starving to death! He surely won’t live much longer if this keeps up. Perhaps it is his incoming razor-sharp teeth coming in that have been bothering him, so I might consider grinding up some carrots or beef in a “smoothie”.
11:34 PM The cut still has not healed over, and it is in a rather inconvenient place for writing, maybe my Robin will lick it again and heal it!
April 23
3:01 AM I have a terrible migraine, and I can’t seem to sleep, and, on top of it, my Robin has been restless, he has been running all over in his cage, to a point where it was knocked over and I had to go replace it back on the counter.
5:04 AM My Robin is hungry, so I will get him some food from the grocery store, then grind it up and see what happens.
5:46 AM I think I am catching some sort of illness, because, while walking down to the basement to get the blender, I got light headed and tripped on a cable then hit my arm on the side of an abandoned desk. I don’t think I hit it bad enough for a bruise though. Maybe I was just tired from last night. The store opens at eight o’clock on weekdays and Saturdays, but it is closed on Sundays. I forgot today was Sunday. In the meantime, maybe I can hang out with my special Robin.
12:16 PM I taught my Robin how to play tug-a-war with Ollie’s old rope bone. He won! I have not been feeling great anyway. He did get a little excited and bit my hand rather badly, his teeth have been getting sharper! My special little Robin is growing up!
3:56 PM It turns out, I did get a bruise from falling earlier today, ouch! It seems rather big, though, and the cuts I have gotten still have not stopped bleeding. My headache has returned and I feel rather ill. Going to bed early tonight will be good for me.
6:24 PM I have decided to sleep with my special little Robin in the lab room, it will do us both good to have company: him with his hunger and me with my fever.
1:13 PM I woke up with incredible pain in my lower right leg. I don’t know what it is, but I can feel the blood pouring around my calf on the floor. I can’t see very well now, but I can feel my especially sweet little Robin licking around my leg to make me feel bett
WinonaJ 8thGrade
Hello!
I was an ivy leaf Crawling on the edge of a Giant Abandoned Mansion.
I was a seafaring pirate Who inhaled the salty sea air And felt grains of sand encrusted in my beard.
I stormed the Bastille, Led royals to their just fate.
I was a colossal white Bengal tiger, My paws sank into the milky snowdrifts of icy Nepal.
How wretched to live only once!
To explore,
To wonder,
To be born, Todie,
Totry—onlyonce!
Ihavebeenmanythings,it’strue, Butrightnow,inthisminute,inthismoment,inthissecond, IamalittlegirlinapuffycoatinBrooklyn.
StellaW. 5thGrade
Compensation
nailpolishpollutestheair andigladlysuckineverybreath. iinhalelikemylifedependsonit andiexhalebecausethetreesneedit, whichmakesmefeelresponsible, inthisworldbuiltonlayersandlayersofastroturf. todayibathedmyselfinchemicals, tomorrowiwillrecyclepaper,ascompensation, tomorrowiwillwelcomemisinformationwithopenarms–i’lltrynotto,iswear–buttoday iwillexhaleforthetrees
PalomaD 8thGrade
Nothing
Whenthereisonlynothingallinquiet
Nothingisnothingandnothingissilent
Whenthereisonlynothingallissmall Becausenothingisnothingatall
Nothingisruinedbyanythingthatis Becausenothingisnothingatall
Nothingdoesn’tloveorliveorhate Ifyou’remeetingwithnothingyou’llneverbelate
Nothingissomethingyetnothingatall nothingisrulerofallthingsquietandsmall
WillaP 6thGrade
True Joy
After the waterfall, we were laughing. You told me that the only way to know true joy is to give it to someone else. I tried to. I failed. The ocean on that warm summer day was joy. I felt it. But was that real joy? The radiance of the world is in the word summer. Drinking lemonade on the front porch with my family was like joy, but was it true? We knew it would end.
They said embrace the change. I declined the offer to become ordinary, knowing the best thing in life is strange. Then winter arrived, and all was lost. Bundling up in emotions, hot chocolate, and snow boots was the closest we could get to home. I said inhospitable feelings were the worst of all. You said sometimes all a person may need is separation from what is right. People need to feel melancholy in order to feel happiness, you told me. I wanted you to stop all the logical nonsense. You said nonsense is how all the great ideas were born. The best ideas arrive at your doorstep when you feel tired. I said maybe so.
The next moment we were dancing, like all the world had disappeared. At the waterfall, the current cascaded onto your head so full of wisdom. Bright blue matching my eyes, threatening to pull me under, just like the anger I felt. I do not know what caused it: the resentment I felt towards the color daffodil yellow, or the uncomplicated obliviousness of love.
How do you know how to feel? How do you know how to think? Maybe you don’t. Maybe we’re all just playing it by ear.
MadeleineR 5thGrade
Plummeting Poem
Climbing up a never-ending ladder of life, the slender hand creating words as it twirls across the page
As each word is created I climb up and up and up Till I’m complete and the words mean finality
Eventually after days of waiting patiently to be concocted into a story as thin as a Dr. Seuss or as hefty as the dictionary I have come to the conclusion of a book!
Then one dismal day a gangly gangler
Comes loping up to my desk that I call home And steals my pride
They read my beauty with sheer concentration but once I sense they’re finished
Their shoulders drop up and down in a rhythmic sway A reaction that’s the daughter of disgust, and nausea washes over them like a tsunami andIcantelltheydon’tappreciatemyuniqueness
WhathaveIdonewithmylife?Ihavewastedcountlesshoursofprideandsatisfactionwithmybeing!My heartsinkstothedepthsasIplummettomyinevitabletruth.
TheaS. 5thGrade
Thehonk,theblindinglightsofpictures projectingontallshinybuildings,thesmellof smoke andDunkin’Donuts theforeveryoungbrightredsign saying 42ndstreet wewalkinastraightlinealldayknowing this isourtimeandplaceto scatter MickeyMouseandElsatryingtoget pictureswithcryingkids. Sidewalkscloggedupwithstreetvendors. Laughter,echos, gone.
JulietW 4thGrade
Withoutapencil youwouldnotbereadingthisstory becauseIwouldnothavewrittenit,andthat wouldbeverysad.
Withoutapencil youwouldnot havethatextraoneounce inyourbackpack thatyouhavetocarryaround thewholeday
Withoutapencil yourheadmighthurt becauseyourimagination needstocomeoutandplay onitsownplayground. Forushumans ourplayground ispaper.
Write,writeon! Yourpencilisyourmagicwand. Takeitwithyou andexplore.
Wehumans areluckyenough thatwehavepencils sowehavetousethem, right?
LouisaZ. 4thGrade
A Cob of Corn
A cob of corn
Was standing on the kitchen counter, Vigorously hitting the macarena. Meanwhile behind the cob of corn, A raccoon snuck toward it, Silent as a fire alarm, Majestic as a hawk, With no wings. Or head. Or feet.
Swift as a snail, the cob of corn Turned toward the raccoon Hitting the macarena
With renewed vigor.
Blinded by the corn’s thrilling beat, The raccoon bounced back, With such enthusiasm
As to fall off the kitchen counter And tumble into the black abyss
Known as the compost bin.
The cob of corn began to chant, In a demonic voice,
“Begone! For if thou dost not leave My humble domain I shall be forced To summon the Force known as the granny To forcibly remove your being.”
In shock the raccoon jumped out Yet again bumping into the Cabinet with the deadly force of a sleepy Bunny rabbit
And the horde of grandmas descended Upon the wretched beast
Crushing its body beneath their Massive weight.
Pleased after defeating the terrible leviathan, The cob of corn resumed its sport Of hitting the macarena In a joyful sort of way.
Unbeknownst to the cob of corn
The evil being
Would not be disposed of so easily.
Its face crushed into a likeness of David Bowie, It came scrambling up the counter, Eager for its revenge.
The corn cob’s heightened awareness kicked in, Letting it know that its challenger was not defeated. Whispering a terrible battle cry To make the raccoon tremble, It ran around in a desperate search for butter. With its greasy weapon in hand It attacked the raccoon with the agility of a Beetle flipped on its back.
Locked in a fight of life and death, the cob of corn and the raccoon Battled, exchanging blows of Varying power.
With the might of an irritated mouse
The raccoon attacked, Doing little to no damage to the Bewildered cob of corn.
The cob of corn lashed out, Calling upon the strength of 1000 grandmas, And made the poor animal’s living daylights Into its dead daylights.
The cob of corn prodded its unfortunate victim To ensure its demise.
And then returned to its dance as the Raccoon, sly as a duck, rose from the shadows Already plotting its terrible revenge upon The cob who had not only Sent the raccoon’s pride to the next realm But shaped its beautiful face into the Likeness of David Bowie.
Thankfully, due to the winter cold
The battle weapon of the cob of corn, Had not melted.
Sadly he had misplaced it... Or so he thought.
The raccoon, sly as a whale with no depth perception, Had taken the butter to a location Where it would never be found… Or so he thought.
As it turns out, leaving an item you stole on the floor
Is not such a good tactic for keeping
Something hidden.
The cob of corn
Easily retrieved the item.
Outraged that he had been outwitted
By a mere cob of corn,
The raccoon hurled himself
With the force of about half of a hamster
At the cob of corn whom he so intensely hated.
Whirling around and striking
A statue-worthy pose,
The cob of corn asked the
Slightly bewildered raccoon
“Do you know how many babies it would take to Defeat you?”
With great surprise the raccoon’s jaw hit the ground.
“Seven,” said the cob.
With tears in his eyes.
The raccoon retreated
Into the darkness again
Already plotting his revenge.
Again.
Meanwhile, the mighty banana observed the raccoon’s Foolish moves, thinking about how
Much better he was at the macarena.
Practicing the macarena from the shadows,
The banana was prepared to make his move.
The banana hurled toward the battle
Battering the poor raccoon.
The raccoon bounced back
With the agility of a sloth with back pain.
Tired, the raccoon called for reinforcements.
The four raccoons sprang from the shadows, Completely missing the cob of corn
And the banana.
As soon as they hit
The countertop
They sprang to their stubby little feet
With the alacrity of a Narcoleptic panda.
Unsurprised,thebananaandthecobofcorn
Responded,competitivelydancing
Tobestoneanother
Beforeapanelofcucumbers.
Afterknockingdownoneofthe Raccoonsthecobofcorn
Lookedupattheirjudges.
Raisingtheirshortarmshigh,
Thecucumbersraisedvariousnumbers, Rangingfrom8,towait,14?
Annoyedbythebiasofthecucumbers
Thebananastartedhittingthemacarena
Tilleventhecucumberswere Wooed.
Thecobofcorn,
Knowingthatitwastheoriginal, Startedtofeela
Deepsenseofcompetitiveness.
Suddenlythelightsdimmed
Andaflashlightshone Brightlyonthecobashestartedtodance, Hittingthemacarena
Untileventheraccoonswereapplauding.
Begrudginglythebananaadmitteddefeat, Thoughinsisting
Hehadlethimwin.
Asthecucumberscamedownfromthestands, Thecobandthebanana Noticedsomething.
Theraccoons,inspiredby Thetwo,hadslippedaway, Offtopracticetheirowndance, The“Salsa.”
RyuK. 6thGrade
Therisingsun breakingthecloudyfog spreadingraysoflight
Alilypadon ripplingwaterwavering inthemorningbreeze
Afrightenedfrog tryingtoconquerher fearoftheforebodingpond
RomyK. 4thGrade
Downpour
Therainfalls Igotsass
Salttearslittertheground Glistening
Aswecrackupaboutthemostrandomofthings I’mcrazy
Butboo,youaretoo Tolovemeiseasy
Toforgetme,difficult You’llfollowmeupahill
Becauseourlaughsarethedownhill Sourandsweet
Likethedownpourontheconcrete
AlizaB 8thGrade
The Cold Returns
I look down at my hands frozen. Shiny tinted frost growing around me. My skin is silvery and sharp. My breath is almost tangible. My eyes blur into a blue oasis. I close my eyes and embrace the cold. But then my eyes jolt open again. I feel a warmth glowing around me. Soft tentacles brush my skin and the blue turns to yellow wherever I’m brushed. It feels as if a soft blanket is wrapped around me. I lift my chin, and light projects onto my face. It’s silent, nothing changes. Bubbling comes and the top of my head begins to melt. It continues down to my feet until all that is left is a gelatinous puddle. Still it doesn’t stop until I am nothing but a liquid.
I get shot away from the earth. In space I condense into a sphere. Rocks hit the clear bubble that has formed around me and bounce off. Leaving rings that echo until they’re gone. I grow stubby legs and arms. What was I? That’s nothing to worry about now because I entered an atmosphere. I am on fire and falling at an immense speed towards a planet. I plummet into a vast body of water. My bubble shatters and mud swirls around me. The mud settles unveiling a vast ground full of rocks and algae.
A hoard of creatures smaller than me with many different colors and shapes march in. Some are clear with dots in the middle, some have long tentacles used to pull themselves forward, and some are square. Moving all in different ways, they pass by me unnoticing. They’re all going in the same direction. I decide to follow them. We walk for what feels like days until we get to a tall mossy chute of rocks protruding from the ground above the water. One by one they crawl out of the water. Out of the water they illuminate from the sun’s light. They climb into the top of the chute, I follow them. I fall to the ground. I look up to see them falling down with all of their colors shining in the light. They’re beautiful.
I appear to be in an underwater cave. There is a magenta fire in the center of the cave. The cave is covered in smooth cool blue rock. Over the fire there is a bowl of boiling water made of stone. The creatures gather around the water frantically and take shining pearls from it. In their presence the pearls burst open and from them hundreds of tiny versions of the creatures emerge. A force compels me to the water. I grab a handful of pearls. A bubble forms around me. Frost climbs up my limbs. I turn grey and frozen. I close my eyes. The cold leaves; now all I feel is warmth pressing deep into my skin. A tired feeling takes over.
I open my eyes to see people standing over me dressed in green. The man in front of me says, “Did you manage to secure the last ingredient for the new regeneration tank?”
“Yes, general,” I reply. I hand him the pearls.
“Good work. Are you ready for your next mission?”
The general types in a code on the screen next to my pod. For the millionth time I feel the probes enter my brain from the device in my neck that connects with the pod. The probes return and I am left with the next instructions.
“Yes, general,” I say.
“Good.”
I close my eyes and the cold returns.
OctaviaR 8thGrade
The Slumberman
The wind was a-howling The rain was a-pounding, The cat was a-yowling And The Knight was a-snoring, Snoring, Snoring; Although it did sound more like a roar.
Come in the morning, he’d said he would, Before the sun’d arrived, But for The knight, mornings weren’t really a “could” Thus The Knight went on snoring, Snoring, Snoring; Snoring till he could no more.
Waiting in her casement, The Maiden had been, Looking out for her love, with his noble peach-fuzz. There wasn’t a battle he could not win, Except against his will to snore, Snore, Snore; Snore until snoring he abhorred.
And as her hair The Maiden was bejeweling, With many a precious stone, The Knight began voluminously drooling, And as he snored and also drooled, Drooled, Drooled; Drooled and drooled as his saliva pooled, Pooled on the castle floor.
While her hair may have been long, And her love very large, Her attention span wasn’t really that strong. And as The Knight kept on snoring, Snoring, Snoring; The tips of The Maiden’s dark red lips turned down, Down and down; right into a frown.
Whenfinallyrosethesun,TheKnightdidtoo, Hesatupinbedandstartedtodress, Thushewastrulyawoken, andfoundadroolpoolinhisshoe. Andalthoughitwasgross,rightupitwokehim, Wokehim,Wokehim; Wokehim,soherememberedjustwhathewaslatefor.
Whileherpatiencemighthavebeenlow, TheMaiden’sangerwasgreat, Soshereadiedaslendercrossbow, Andcontinuedwaiting, Waiting,Waiting; Butwaitingnowwithlethalintent, IntentforTheKnight,withnegativelament.
Andasheremembered, leaptintoactiondidTheKnight, Negatinghisboots,TheKnightgotdressed, Andleaptoutthewindow, givinghishorsequiteafright, Sogallopedthehorse,buckingwithterror, andthusTheKnightscreamed, Screamed,Screamed; Screamedandscreamed,tillpowerheredeemed, AndofftotheMaidenhewent.
Whenarrivedhedid,TheMaidenwasawaiting, Smiling,andwaving,nolongerforlornlyplaiting, Sohetookoffhishelmet,andforthesunhehadhate, Now,trulyseehimTheMaidencould; shesmiledfromeartoear. Thussensingthechange,falteredTheKnight, Thedroolstillglisteningonhischin. SodownreachedTheMaiden, downforthebow, WithwhichTheKnight’ssnoring sheplannedtoslow
AndthusTheKnightfell,impaledintheeye, Felledbyonewhomhe’dbeenlovedby. Andyet,TheKnightkeptsnoring, Snoring,Snoring; Snoring—forevermore.
CharlieS. 7thGrade
TheTimeBetweenDays
Isuppose
Thatdayshavenotimeoutsideofthem
Thatthosetwentyfourhoursstretchoutandout
Thenhowisonedifferentfromanother?
Ifthosedaysstretchonandonandon
Dotheynotbecomeone?
Dothedaysnotbecomeweeksnotbecomemonthsnotbecomeyears
Butthatisn’tmuchfun
Ifeachdayisthenext
Ifeachhouristheonebefore
Instead
Iliketothinkofaspacebetweenthedays
Beforetheclockstrikestwelve
Beforetheyearshifts
Beforethefiftyninebecomesnone
Whathappensinthattime?
Thesewordsfillthatspace
Takeupthosemoments
Thedaysgoonforever
Theycanneverbefull
Thetimebetweenthedaysholdsweight
Notbecauseitcontinues
Butbecauseitends
BridgetC. 8thGrade
The Not Poem
How about you dictate a poem and I write it down? No.
Okay. Those are the first two lines, and this is the third one, so what would the fourth be? N, space, O, space, T, space, underlined three times. Okay, but what would the poem be about?
Listen: I’ve only got five more minutes, so I gotta finish this quickly. So you agree that you are making something? Definitely not.
Okay. What are you not making?
A poem.
And what is that poem you are not making about? Well, I’m not making it, so it’s not about anything. Are you sure?
Pause: don’t write this part down. You should name it Conversation. Okay.
Wait, I changed my mind! It’s called “The Not Poem!” Okay.
NO.Isaidpausetheconversation!Deleteallofthatplease! Noproblem.
Goodbye.
Hangon,I’mstilltyping. Thispoemisdone.Seriously.AndnowIleavetheroom.Imeanit!
JulianA. 5thGrade
Areyousureyou’rehere? Beit.
‘Causeyouseeonlyyou. Doesthispleaseyou?
Everythingyouknow,gone. Forever.
Gustsofwindflushyouwithhope. Hope.
TabithaR. M. 4thGrade
NotWhatTheySeem
Noteverythingiswhatitseemstobe
Athornyvinereadytodrawblood
Couldbethestartofablossomingrose
Acobwebinthecorneroftheroom
Canbethebeginningofanewlife
Thesnowballyouthrowatsomeone
Canbetheoriginofanavalanche
YouandImightnotbewhatweseem Notjusttoothers,maybeevento ourselves
SkyL. 4thGrade
TheOne
You,mylove,youaretheone, theoneIwanttocomehometoeveryday, theoneIwanttoseeeverymorning, theoneIwanttogoonsummervacationwith, theoneIwanttobuyChristmasgiftsfor, theoneIwanttowrapupinmyarms, andyoudon’tturnmeaway, youdon’tevenlookatme, youjustholdmefortensolidminutes, theoneIwanttoraisechildrenwith, theoneIwanttospendtherestofmylifewith, theoneIwanttotakecareofwhenyougrowold.
Youaretheone, theloveofmylife, andmybestfriend.
VivianM. 4thGrade
As I sat up suddenly, images of my daughter screaming my name flashed through my head and the smell of my pungent body odor filled the air. This was the fifth time I had woken up this night, my mind tormented by thoughts of the past. The life I had thrown away for money. My mind flashed from image to image as I lifted my filthy body from the thin mattress, walking with heavy steps towards the well of grey water that stood in the darkness. There I opened my helmet quickly to cleanse my blackened face, gasping at the sheer heat. I splashed water against my face till the layer of dirt rubbed off. The two showers we were allowed each month weren’t enough for all the men in camp. Lights flashed on, and I had to squint to see the other men groggily walking out of their tents with a tired rhythm to their steps. They had on the same disheveled uniform and the long beards that had to be shoved into their helmets reeked of sulfur, blood, and sweat.
“Look who it is,” I heard one of them yell as they limped toward the water tank, and a laugh rippled through the crowd. I was usually the first one up, something other men made fun of. It was just about the only thing we had to laugh at, and I was happy to provide them with a release before another treacherous day. As the laughter died out, a loud robotic voice came over the loudspeaker and started monotonously reading out commands; all the men stood stiff as a board, one hand clutching their heart and one raised in salute to the country that some of us could only faintly remember. Although all of us had signed our own signatures, most of the men had never really wanted to leave their lives on earth but were forced to by desperate circumstances.
I was one of these men—twenty-one with a child and no way to afford her. One night when I came in late to see my girlfriend, Ava, sobbing with the baby, crying with hunger in her arms. There was no formula in the fridge and Ava was too tired to go out. I headed to the store and spotted a poster on my way out that offered an opportunity that at the time felt too good to pass up. The next night after my shift I snuck away to the local FedEx, signed a waiver, and the next six years of my life were decided. I still remember my selfish pride as I walked out into the brisk summer night air with my packaged uniform. That night I did what I did because I thought I was being a hero, taking a risk to make money, but when I told Ava what I had done and
she broke into tears, I realized that no amount of money could excuse the fact that my daughter would grow up without a father. This scene had been the source of my mental torture over the last five years but also the only thing keeping me going. What I would do to see my girlfriend’s smiling face, and to see my daughter.
As the announcements droned on I felt a yawn building in my throat but held it back because I knew that even the slightest sign of discontent would lead to severe punishment. A hundred and fifty men had been killed by officials, or sent to work in conditions where it was impossible to survive. As we broke into our groups for the day, I headed through a group of dirt-caked men over to a far corner, a clearing by some ragged tents. Here we received our commands for the day from a single speaker, an old-timey model, since our first had been destroyed by a man named John. This was considered “suicide by official” by men in the camp and was the most common cause of death. Men like John had lost their will to live but couldn’t let down the people back home. This way, the family’s anger was directed not at them but at the government, sparking again the controversy about the mining mission that caused protests back on Earth.
Around the camp there were many tunnels and shafts that went deeper into the Martian core. These shafts smelled of sulfur—rotting eggs—but also of something that would bring in obscene amounts of money for the United States, the richest country in the world. The danger came as we went deeper because of how unpredictably the densities of the dirt on Mars shifted. Within a few minutes, half our group had dipped down like swimmers cautiously wading into a pool, and now it was my turn. I focused intensely on each step, and just as I was about to take my fourth, I felt a slight vibration in the ladder. Glancing down, I saw the sides of the shaft collapsing onto the people below me; their suppressed screams rang in my ears as I scrambled out of the pit to safety.
The rest of the day was dedicated to the funeral service of the fifty-three victims, and as our boss gave speeches, tears welled up in some of the men’s eyes that like a mirror reflected the makeshift grave that had suffocated their friends. “Group Fourteen may we always be with you,” read a marker on the bed of dirt. There was an American flag and a small photo of each man. That night I had my usual dreams, but this time they stirred inside of me. That was the night something clicked, and my weakening will turned into a burning desire. I was not going to let my one daughter grow up fatherless and live as a mere memory to everyone I loved.
* * *
I shivered as I said goodbye to the driver and to the heated seats of the Cadillac that had driven me from the landing pad all the way to the countryside where Ava had moved. Walking through the gate that led to Ava’s green cottage, I felt giddy excitement. It was a simple design with shingles coated by thick moss, and it smelled of fresh plants and herbs. I mounted the steps, moved my hand towards the doorbell, and took a deep breath before ringing it. Hours seemed to pass before Ava opened the door, and as I broke into a wide grin, her face twisted into a confused frown, and when I picked her up and twirled her around in an embrace, she didn’t hug me back. I set her down, seeing our daughter at the kitchen table, running toward her only to be greeted by the same sad expression on her lips. I hugged her anyway and imagined the feeling of her arms curling around me, but nothing came. She ran to her mother’s side as if I was some sort of monster.
“You’re supposed to be dead,” Ava said, pacing back and forth biting her nails, something she always used to do when she was scared. “I raised Klara not telling her what happened, I told her that you had died.” Tears were pooling in her eyes. “Neo, I can’t have you in my life, I can’t! It’s too complicated.” She started sobbing.
It was at that point that I saw a man run down the stairs and move to shield Ava from me. It was then that I realized that she had moved on and that there was no getting her back. I had let the love of my life slip through my hands and now the only thing that I could do was leave, this time not for my own selfish pride but for the good of Ava and the happiness I wanted her to have. So I slipped the check out of my bag and laid it out on the table and walked by what was once my family with a final glance toward Ava as a goodbye.
Tornado
As a luminous Stormcloud Lingers overhead, Thunder Grows louder You scream and aren’t sure Whether You’re louder than the Rumbling
The Sea is Tumbling and the Swirl in the Sky That looked like a Decoy Is a Beast Setting out to Destroy
KatharineS 6thGrade
The Never-Ending Library
Mary and Robert Smith were the kind of old married couple you would read about in books. They lived in an old house in the middle of a huge forest outside of Chatham. Their house was built in the usual style of the time, and with every storm that blew by little pieces of the roof would tend to fly off and collect in nearby trees. Inside, there were four rooms, three small and one large. They slept in one, ate in one, sat in one—and in the other there were books. Books of love, adventure, wars, relations, families and friends, lost and found. And in total probably only ten that they had yet to read. Every morning they would wake up at seven-thirty with a book by their bed. They read for an hour or more depending on their mood and the book. Then they would go downstairs to eat a breakfast of eggs and toast and occasionally, on a Tuesday, fruit.
Mary Smith would tend to wear a bright red scarf when she left the house to take her daily walks in the woods. Mary had a soft smile and brown hair with highlights of gray. She had this one pair of old boots that even if Mr. Smith offered to get her new ones, she would just say no and continue wearing the old. They were originally a light brown but now looked more like black from all the use.
Mr. Smith was a plain man who often looked like an amalgamation of vexed, dejected, and apathetic. He never had much to talk about other than the books he read. And when they sat down for dinner, if Mrs. Smith asked a question or brought something up, he would look down at his meal, and back up at his book, never answering.
It was a Tuesday in late December. The weather was cold, there was snow on the ground, and the trees glistened and shone with icicles when they finished the last book in the library. Robert shifted off the unpleasant dark green couch that poked them with feathers through its cushions and advanced through the old squeaky door into the dining room that led to the library. He scanned every shelf looking for another book to read, but there were none left that hadn’t previously been opened, sniffed, and explored. That is to say, read. He slowly sat down and began to weep. Mrs. Smith came into the room and caught him sobbing on the floor.
“Whatever is the matter?”
“I have just finished my last book.”
“What a coincidence,” she said. “I have just finished mine.”
“No, you don’t understand, my last book,” Robert said. “We have plucked every story from our library.”
“Really? Our last books?”
“Yes, really. What are we going to do?”
“I’m sure we can make do. It’s okay, we can talk and spend time together. It might be good for us. We can make an effort to live without reading.”
Mr. Smith’s brow furrowed, and he looked unhappy, but he agreed and got up off the floor. By that time it was quite late, so with nothing left to do they went to bed, slowly making their way up the stairs.
The next morning they woke at seven-thirty, slapped their hands on the bedside tables, and remembered that there was nothing to read. With a groan, they walked downstairs. Mr. Smith sat at his place at the breakfast table. Mary watched as Mr. Smith opened his mouth.
“Yes?” she said hopefully.
He closed it, then opened it again.
“What?” she asked again.
“Never mind,” he said.
Mrs. Smith started to notice that he didn’t close his mouth as he chewed, that his teeth were yellow and stained, that bits of bacon were caught in the corners of his lips, and grease coated his chin. Mary thought she might be sick, but then she remembered that before they had become obsessed with books, they had shared fun times together; she remembered his smile and how it would make all the stars in the sky look brown and dreary; she remembered the way he would hold her up and never let her go; she remembered that they used to go places together and see amazing things; and most of all she remembered how they loved each other, how their dream was to grow old together and always find joy even when times were hard. Now she only saw that dreamy smile when he had a good story in his hand. The only thing he would ever dare lift up now was a book, and Mary doubted that they would ever love each other again. If asked, she couldn’t tell you the color of his eyes.
“Why don’t you wipe that stuff off your face?” she said.
Robert looked at her in shock. “Excuse me?”
“Are you ever going to clean the stuff off your face?” she repeated.
He wiped his greasy hand across his nose.
“You should see yourself my dear. You’ve started to let yourself go, haven’t you?” Mary burst into tears.
“Why are you crying?” he asked, mortified by the sudden emotion.
“Why am I crying? Why am I crying?” she said. “I am crying because three weeks ago on one of my walks in the woods I saw a snake eating a baby bird. I am crying because I saw a hunter shoot a deer. I’m crying because in the last book I read the main character died at the end. I’m crying because when I was ten my sister bit my mom on the arm and my mom slapped her cheek. I’m crying because I married someone completely different than what you are now, and I don’t even recognize you anymore. I don’t know you. That’s why I’m crying.”
He looked at her as if for the first time in years. Seeing the sadness in her eyes, he said, “I’m sure you wanted us to get along and be happy without books, but I don’t think I can do it.”
“Me either,” she said with a small cry.
“What if we started over?” Robert said.
Mary’s heart leaped and she imagined going somewhere, seeing something, loving each other once more. “What do you mean?” she asked hopefully.
“We could read them all again,” he said. “And when we’ve come to the end once more, we could read them a third time.”
“Okay,” she said in a sad voice.
And that’s exactly what they did. For the rest of their lives. Read.
First,floatawayto theworldofdreams andbeginyourquest.
Then,runinthe fieldswiththeice-breathing dragons,theywillletyouride ontheirbacksifyouwillthemto.
Sleepwiththetwenty-foot-tallelvesand dozeinpeacefuldreams.
Returnfromyourqueston ten-hornedgoatstraveling atthespeedoflight.
LeonM 4thGrade
TheUntoldStoryofaLittleVine
Itstartsouttiny but gradually daybyday weekbyweek monthbymonth thevinestartstotakeover atree apole andthen inchbyinch anoldman’shome
Thevine intrudes invades Ittakesoverand meddleswiththe lazy tired oldman
untilthelazyoldman finally getsouthishouse justtotrimthevine takingsomethingsounattractive andmakingitlookbeautiful
Butthatonlylasts foronlyafewdays justuntilthevinedecidesto takeitsturn andthecyclestartsagain.
AlessandraC. 6thGrade
A Hell of Arpeggios
Barely minor arpeggios chase their tails around the clock. The gray blankets wrapped around each customer create a rainy, relaxed atmosphere. A long hallway reaches down the small building with bolded headings at each door. The music plays on, mostly A and B flats, but the occasional perfect fifth to keep you on your toes. The lights are dimmed to a low honey color, and the air fills with oil perfumes. The room sings of quiet breathing, like a noteless orchestra. A dirty blond foot masseuse, name tag “TJ,” waits patiently as a young girl, maybe fourteen, removes her shoes. She doesn’t bother to read the name tag.
“I’m TJ,” he tells her quietly, and takes a seat in a small spinning chair.
She nods, her eyes already closed. His hand moves quickly over her feet as his eyes pass over the room. A man with a baseball cap and a chain kicks off his shoes and flops into a chair with a loud plop. A frightened employee with startling red hair scrambles his footwear from the floor and begins to rub his sweaty, linty feet. A pattern of rain starts on the metal roof of the massage parlor, blending kindly with the music. It will help the flowers grow. A hum fills the room, as if thousands of wasps were waiting in the vents. The air purifier sings a B flat, out of tune with the winding arpeggios. The girl doesn’t seem to notice, but TJ’s hands quicken their pace, scratching hard at her with a dry towel. She squeezes her eyes; her legs are spotted with pink dots.
“The pressure okay?”
“Ya, um, sure,” she twitters.
Red hair seems frightened of the feet in front of him. The sweat smell stings his eyes and water gathers at their rim, but tears only help mute the intensity of his brightly colored head. The smell of sweat and oils fill the room like smoke, but the girl remains almost in heaven. TJ’s attention is swept to the window as a bird flies into the glass. His nails accidentally pulls her skin deep within itself. Color appears on the girl’s calf not so different in shade than the red headed employee. She opens her mouth wide, but no sound comes from the darkness within. She swallows her pain politely. Her eyes will themselves shut.
TJ continues to paint her leg that same Christmas ribbon color. He stands and walks away in a fogged mood, the arpeggios stuck like magnets on his mind. The girl lets out a long slow whimper. The other customers’ are unaware, eyes shut, mouths slightly agape. TJ returns with a small bottle of lotion. His nose crinkles like wet paper as he pushes out a pea-sized drop. A smell of old citrus tumbles into the room. TJ starts his oiled hands over the open wound. White cream and blood mix to create a pinkish color like the rim of the sun on a cloud. The girl breathes in sharply, catching TJ’s attention. His eyes widen, and he tries to scrape away the drying mixture with the used towel. Bits of cloth sprinkle the sunset on her calf. Desperately, he applies hot water to her skin and pulls the leg of her jeans over her Van Gogh portrait of hell. When he taps her shoulder, she jumps from the chair but only gets halfway before she remembers her manners.
“Do you want something to drink before you go?” he asks anxiously. “Lemon water?”
“I’d love that, thanks,” she answers, forcing a dry smile. When he leaves, she pulls up her jeans to see the mess. But the water, blood, and lotion have formed a sort of glue that binds her skin and pants together, and as she pulls up, not realizing exactly what she’s doing, she succeeds in taking off half her skin. This time, as her mouth opens, a dark piteous scream falls out. The room swims as employees jump from sliding chairs. TJ enters holding a cup of water, an old brown lemon floating on top. The rain falls through a leak in the ceiling on the customer in the baseball cap. The girl lies on the floor, struck dumb. Red hair asks TJ for her name.
“She didn’t say.”
“You’re fired,” he mimes back.
GloriaS 7thGrade
AlwaysSmiling
Ifyouwereinthefightofyourlife
Atthebottomofthesea
Youwouldstillbesmiling
Ifyouwerelockedinaroomwithnoescape
Andtheythrewawaythekey
Youwouldstillbesmiling
Iftheytoldyoutherewasnowaythatyoucouldmakeit
Youwouldstillbesmiling
ButifItoldyou
That’snothowlifeworks
I’mnotsosure
VivianM 4thGrade
Shell
The yellowish glow of the Broken shell Catches the eye of many
The small shape of the Broken shell Misleads many
The dirty cover of the Once-pretty shell Confuses many
The oldness of the Broken shell Makes many look on
HadleyW. 6th Grade
Thanksgiving Pies
It was 11:00 pm and I still had to make the pies. I always like to prepare things the night before so it would be easier the next day when you have to put together the whole dinner. I thought of my grandchildren’s happy faces. That gave me enough energy to continWue baking. It was the night before Thanksgiving and all my grandchildren were relying on me to make their favorite pies.
I began cutting up the pears. Then, the apples. I always make four pies for the family. Pear and cranberry, apple, pumpkin and chocolate and pecan. I added the sugar to both bowls. The cinnamon didn’t have a label, but I know cinnamon when I see it and put one tablespoon in each. I put together all the fillings in forty-five minutes and slowly started making the crust, getting more tired by the minute. Once I was done, I wrapped it in plastic wrap and stuck it in the refrigerator with the pie fillings. All I had to do tomorrow was put together the pies and make Thanksgiving dinner with the rest of the family.
As I lay in bed finally getting to go to sleep I thought, “I should really stop late-night baking, I get so tired by the end.”
The next day, I made banana-nut muffins for breakfast. “You’re such a great baker, Grandma! I’m so excited to eat the pies tonight!” said one of my grandchildren, Laurence.
I smiled. My grandchildren are the most lovely children. Everyone started cooking around 2:00. We started preparing the turkey with stuffing and herbs from my garden. We put it on the grill to cook for three to four hours. Then, I began to put the pies together before the kitchen got crazy and so they could cool off in time. I’ve always loved Thanksgiving. Everyone gets to cook with their family and eat a lot of delicious food at the end of the day.
I had rolled out all the dough and begun to put the fillings in. Some of them had a lot of filling but I always like more rather than too little. I rolled out more dough to make a top on the pear and cranberry and the apple pies—only for the pear and cranberry and the apple because pumpkin and chocolate and pecan pies don’t need tops. Then, they went into the oven. I set a timer as the others came back into the kitchen to start cooking again.
Then, a little while later, while I was preparing the stuffing, my eyes began to water and I started sneezing.
“Sorry about the sneezing, I don’t know what that was all about,” I said.
“Maybe you have allergies,” said Martha, one of my daughters.
“I have allergies!” said Robin, my granddaughter, who was helping in the kitchen.
The pies looked perfect when they came out of the oven. I put them in the dining room to cool and went back into the kitchen. We made mashed potatoes with a combination of sweet potatoes and normal potatoes, and we made roasted vegetables. We made cranberry sauce and eventually took the turkey off the grill and took the stuffing out. It was a grand Thanksgiving feast and everyone had a smile on their face the whole time. We shared stories and joked about last year’s Thanksgiving where the mashed potatoes came out all wrong. Everyone ate seconds and thirds and fourths until it was impossible to eat any more.
Finally, the dessert came out. Four magnificent pies were put onto the table and everyone stared in awe. The pie was cut and set on plates with heaping piles of whipped cream on top. Then, all the kids took a bite at the same time.
“Three, two, one!” I said.
“AAAHH!” gasped Philip.
“MY MOUTH!” cried Lanie “IT’S ON FIRE!”
Diana began to sob, trying to feel her mouth.
I stared with wide eyes.
Gary began to run around, into the living room then back through the dining room yelling, “Water, water!”
“The water’s over here!” said Justin.
“I don’t care!” shouted Gary and he ran back into the dining room.
“What’s going on?” said my daughter Ruth as the kids screamed and sobbed and tired to scrape the taste of their tongues.
My eyes widened with terror and I stood up quickly and hurried into the kitchen.
“Where are you going?” asked Terry.
I didn’t respond. I opened the spice drawer and took out the jar of reddish powder. I opened it, lowered my nose to the rim and sniffed.
Will I ever be forgiven?
The Crane
The crane flies, with open wings over the water, keeping pace with her constant heartbeat. She flies and flies, too far to number. But when the day is done, she flies right back, to where she’s meant to be.
EleanorP. 5thGrade
Waterfall
Thewater Glintsin Thelight,luring Meinlikea Rope. Thesoundof Arushofwater Likeabigflock Ofbirdsall Flappingtheir Wingsin Unison.
Thewaterreflects Thesun, Turningitwhite Anddistorted.
Aboveme,a Cornflower-blue, Cloudlesssky Punctuatesthe Scenery.
Alone Seagull Fliesabove. Iwonderwhere It’smigrating.
Ithasa Longwhile Togo Untilit Reaches Home.
MiaH. 5thGrade
Contortionist
Mygrandma doesnotreallylike thecontortionistatthecircus. Ithinkthatshethinks thatitiscreepy thattheycanstretch somuchandbendalot. ButItakethatinwithdifferent perspectivethanher. Ithinkitissocoolandimpressive toseethemturntheirbodiesinto twisteduppretzels. Thinkhowmuchtimeittakes togetevenonemovement. Itissortoflikehisorherbody isjustlikespaghetti.
Tryamove:Standup anddoabackbend andthenputyourhead throughyourlegs, andsmile.
Whensomeoneisnot inthesamemoodasyou, findtheirmoodandfeeling, andtrytomatchthemup. Getanewperspective. Thenpickupyourpencil andwrite.
LouisaZ. 4thGrade
Art
WhentheBitterTearsof Lonelyclouds Scrapeagainsttheground— Theyleavemarks Ofsour Sentiments Towardemotion astheyfrown— Againstthe RisingAnger AndtheGlowingJoy— TheAnxiety— AcupofTea SpilledontoaPage TheSadness— Nothingbuttherain Inthebackground ofastage.
NeveM. 5thGrade
WhenaPaintingComestoLife
(KatherineBradford’s"ViewAcrossGreen,"2017)
Thedeepplungingsensation whenyoulookforthefirsttime
Backforasecondglance deeperanddeeper
Atthethirdlook feelingtheupbringingchillofcoldwater tricklingdownyourspine
Fourthflashofcolor seeingandinawayfeeling thevibrantcolorofthefigures
Atfifthyoureyesstick followingthefiguresasiftheywererevolving aroundthegreenemblemthatisn’tshown butseemstobetheirgoal
Theoutlineofthepaintcatchesyoureyeonthesixth invitingyouintotheirworld notsuggestinginfinity,creatingawelcomingaura butwarningyouofthesinisterbeyond
Thehuman-likefigureonthebottom catchesyoureyeforareasonwhenyoulookforaseventhpeek tellingyouitisuptonogood creatingthesenseofforbiddingthatlurksbytheunwanted asifitisunwanted asifitisnotneeded asifthebadauraisonegiventothosewhoaren’tcaredfor
Eighthglance givingyouthehintthatthebackground isimportant thatitwillhelpunlockthepuzzlethatishiddeninthepainting
Ninthglance thevibrantfiguresseemtodrawtheirattention tothebeingstaringatthem tryingtofightyouoffbutfailingbecauseoftheirimmobilizeddisadvantage
Tenthglance thepaintingseemingtogiveupeffortsoffightingofyourgaze thepaintinglyingstill motionless harmless lost
LouisaP 5thGrade
IsItaDrop?
It’sborn
Justlikethat
Itrollsdownmycheek
Reachesmylips
Whereitloses
Halfofitself
Andkeepsrolling
Untilitfallsofthecliff
Attheendofmychin
Andthat’sthelifeofonesingle
Tear
ElenaP 6thGrade
AStart
Theliftingof Weights
Releasesyoufromthepastwhere You’vebeenheld. Anewbeginning.
Abreezesweepsyourface, AndIknow It’shere, Thesweetmarchof Love Tellsmethat.
We’vebothwonderedforawhilenow Whatitwouldbelike ThischangeI’veneverexperienced Because I’mnewhere
But Ifinallyunderstandwhatyou’vebeenexplaining About Spring.
CarolineL.-L. 6thGrade
Changed by a Train Ride
I handed my ticket to the train attendant. Hans Orberg, it said in big bold black letters. As I walked into the train, I purposely stumbled over myself, falling precariously over a young woman’s table.
“Oh! Excuse me,” I exclaimed in a disarming way. This wouldn’t work if she was scared of me. “Are you okay?” I asked cautiously.
“I’m fine,” said the young woman, a hint of tartness puncturing her voice.
I slid into the booth she was sitting in. “How are you doing?”
“Pardon?” she said sharply. I had moved in a little too fast. This one was harder than I thought.
“Your day? How was it?” I continued. “I have to admit I’m a little tipsy at the moment, to say the least. You know, I don’t think people think about how their day was quite enough. I ask how their day was, people say ‘good’ and we part ways. It’s terrible! I’m Herschel, by the by.” I was trying to act drunk. People are more open when they think you’re drunk.
I looked down at my watch to check the time; I only had an hour left on the train. That couldn’t be right. While I checked, out of my peripheral vision I saw the young woman trying to leave the booth. She was still scared. I had to turn it up. Even with all my experience, there is still room for improvement. Even when you learned from the best.
“Wait—come back! I don’t mean to be so… intima– inti– intibagating?” Oof. A little over the top. How had Rebecca done it? Humor. And I fell for her hard. I also like alleged college presidents.
“It’s intimidating,” she said, kinder than before. Progress. “Long day?” She sat back down, no longer trying to escape the conversation.
“Well, you could say that,” I said, laughing at my own words.
“Where are you headed on this train, the pub?” Teasing. Humor really is the key to hearts. She was actually quite funny, and I was starting to like her quite a bit.
“Been there, done that,” I joked.
She giggled and brushed my arm. Better.
But it’s scary how easy this is. How they fall hard and fast, just like I did. And how even when it’s over they’re glad it happened. I noticed her nails were painted a candy apple red—they matched her lips.
She pushed me playfully on my shoulder. I pushed her back lightly.
“A little alcohol won’t hurt,” she said. “In fact, sometimes it can push you in the right direction.”
For a moment I was confused, maybe because of my heady internal thoughts, maybe because of her nails lightly brushing a circle on my wrist. Then I remembered, I was pretending to be drunk. It’s so easy to get lost in the high of love, even if you don’t return it.
“So, where are you headed?” she asked earnestly.
“Why d’you need to know where I’m headed?”
“Well, what if we’re going the same way?” She was hopeful, but I couldn’t do this for that long without going too far.
“I’m headed to a Christmas tree farm, as a matter of fact. I know it’s ridiculous that I schlep all the way out here for it, but it’s a tradition, you know.” I was a bit bashful at sharing my personal life. Even if it was a lie. It’s more convincing if you believe it a little.
“No, I don’t. Can I come? I’m sure you’ll need help dragging it all the way back to central London, no?” Hook, line, and sinker. And she seemed nice after all. But wait. “How d’you know I live in central London?” I didn’t actually live there, but it never hurt to make them feel special. Rebecca had made me feel special. And I still glowed when I thought of it. Even when she never called me back.
“I can just tell,” she said.
“You know what I can tell?”
“What?”
“...Nevermind.” Intrigue created.
“Heeeeer-schel. I think you want to tell me,” she said in a taunting way.
Huh, I was enjoying this more than I thought. More than usual. But I was still aware I was faking. Right?
“You okay? You look a little sad.” She noticed. She cared
But I couldn’t. She didn’t know the real me. If she did, she would know I had lied to her. I had been faking for too long to go back— She bit her lip. She likes me. Faking can’t hurt. I checked the time; I would arrive in twenty minutes. Just go with it.
“Are you okay?” she sounded concerned. “You seem a little out of it.” She slowly brushed some biscuit crumbs off my arm. I wondered how they got there in the first place.
I was about to answer, but she looked up at me, made eye contact. Now that I think about it, it was a little cheesy, but I forgot what I was going to say. I couldn’t look away. I wanted to show her the real me, but I was afraid she’d never like me then. And if she knew I was lying, she wouldn’t trust me.
I couldn’t risk anything. I had to appreciate this while it lasted.
I could never get past talking. Then it felt real. Too much like what Rebecca did to me. Even if I learned all this from her, she took it across a boundary I wanted to cross, but morally couldn’t. So we talked for a while, but the more I told lies, the more I had to continue telling them.
Then, all too fast, and all too soon, the train attendant’s blaring voice came over the loudspeakers: “Liverpool station,” it said.
Fudge. That was my stop. Only a few more minutes. The woman was talking about a choir she was in. It was quite interesting, actually, and I found it hard to interrupt. But finally, I looked at her straight in the face, and kissed her, the candy apple red lipstick staining my lips. Then, I left my ticket on her table, my number scribbled on it in blue pen. I got up and walked straight towards the door.
Halfway through the car, I stumbled again. But this time, I didn’t fall. I stood up a little straighter, and looked back at the woman sitting in the booth. Our eyes met, but there was a look of sympathy in her eyes. I turned away and walked out, changed by a train ride.
SotoV.,AliceP.,andMaxE.-S. 8thGrade
Depressed is the only feeling I have now. But I didn’t always feel this way. I was a happy child, one who would slide on a frozen puddle even when I might fall. When I was five, I attempted to ride my dog, even though he was a Pomeranian. When I discovered that tomatoes were fruit, I tried to make a smoothie with them. Sometimes I would go to a pond and try to catch frogs with my dad’s baseball mitt. Sometimes I would put a box on my head and see how long it would take to bump into something. But that was before my mom got sick.
It was a sunny day in Los Angeles when my mom started to cough like crazy and vomit frequently. After a few hours we decided to drive her to the E.R. and in the car her vomiting got worse and worse and close to the end she was coughing blood. When we arrived, we waited our turn. Finally we were taken to a room where a doctor talked with my dad for a couple minutes and then began asking my mom some questions. I will never forget that day.
Back then I had no idea what really had happened to my mom. So I was confused when my dad started to cry; I had never seen him cry, and thought it physically impossible. But after that, he cried more times than I could count.
Tomorrow is my 8th birthday, but I’m not that excited. I’m missing the one person who I really need for tomorrow. A few months ago I realized that my mom would never come back from her vacation. I really hate this feeling—it’s the worst—but I’ve been feeling it for a while. It feels like there is some sticky glue in my belly. My dad wanted to organize a party, but I told him not to. It would just make me miss her more.
I am eating my lunch, alone, for the second week in a row. Lasagna and boiled carrots. When I had braces, my mom used to boil the carrots for me to soften them up. Carrots are funny, they’re sweet and earthy, and taste orange, but not like oranges. Oranges taste green. The table where I sit is behind a pillar and hides me nicely. I just don’t feel like being with other people these days.
When I get up to put my tray away, I see Danny across the room glancing my way. It looks like he’s whispering something to Sarah, who is in my science class. She could probably explain to me why carrots taste so sweet, even though they stay underground for most of their lives. She was in science camp with me last summer. Danny sometimes played soccer with me and some other kids in the park by school. I admired his spirit, he never quit, and never yelled at me when I missed an easy shot. We also liked the same raspberrylemonade-flavored ice cream from the truck that stopped by our school. I wonder what he is talking to Sarah about; they usually don’t talk much.
After lunch, I head to English. Mr. Dickens is about to begin a lesson on “A Christmas Carol.” I’ve heard about it. It’s a ghost story, the main character is some guy named Scrooge, there’s a lot of money involved, and for some reason it takes place at Christmas. Eric is sitting next to me. I don’t really know him, other than that he’s good at sports. Today he is wearing a baseball hat and a Kobe Bryant jersey. I wonder if Mr. Dickens will make him take off his hat. Last year I defended Eric’s right to wear a hat in class, but today I slump in my seat and hope Mr Dickens won’t look at me. I manage to go unnoticed the whole period. When the bell rings, I make sure I’m not the first or the last out of the room.
At home, my dad is there smiling, a box of cupcakes in his hand.
“I came home early for your birthday,” he says. I take the cupcakes, mumble thank you and nibble halfheartedly on one, as I put my backpack down.
“Do you want to do some gardening for your birthday?”
“No, I have to do homework.”
“On a Friday?”
“I want to get a head start.”
“How about we do it together, in the garden at the picnic table?”
“Sure,” I murmur.
S U R P R I S E !
There is Danny, Sarah, even Eric. Every person in the grade is in my backyard, with balloons and a pile of presents ready for a party. I can’t believe it. I didn’t know that anybody cared.
It was the best birthday party ever.
WilliamS. 5thGrade
Excerpt from “A Doom Ray Back to the Moon”
In the darkness, an eye opened. Its sclera had the same swirling cream appearance as the marble of Ancient Greek statues, inlaid with a clear violet, amethyst-like iris on which were engraved three runes. In the center was a pupil that could expand and contract, like a cat’s, but at this moment, it was wide, and through it shone a bright white light that flooded to fill the eye like milk in water. And so the eye began to shine, and light began to radiate from it in a cone. And the light pushed away the darkness, illuminating a small space that swirled with blue and green matter. The blue and green matter had always been there, swirling endlessly, with no order to it. But the light was organized, because it was brighter closer to the light, fading away as it got further away. The light revealed the chaos that had always lurked behind the darkness, but in doing so, it also brought order and structure to it. And, as is inevitable, more order soon began to emerge.
The green separated into yellow and blue—a lighter shade of blue. The deep blue that had forever swirled aimlessly now had a drive—competition. The two different shades of blue were now competing. Neither could accept the other one’s right to exist. Eventually, they began to compete over control of the yellow. In the time that followed, they tried endlessly to outrace and outsize each other. But neither was ever destroyed. The two shades of blue were evenly matched.
Then the eye closed and went to sleep, and in the darkness, the two shades of blue were confused, and collapsed on top of each other.
The trains were all screwed up. When Rachel Kilburn got to her subway station, she found she could barely fit on the platform. It was one of those days where she had struggled to get out of bed, knowing she was probably missing the earlier train. When she made the earlier train, there were always some regulars, and some one-offs. When she took the later train, there was always a different group of regulars, and some oneoffs. Today, there were both groups of regulars, and perhaps quadruple the one-offs. It occurred to her after a little while that some of these people whom she had never seen before might actually be the people who got on the train that came before the early train. Three trains’ worth of people. Rachel sighed. What’s wrong with the trains this time? she thought.
“Attention, passengers,” boomed the loudspeaker. “The trains are delayed due to an accident involving Metro-Cycles. Do not worry; you are all safe.”
Oh my God, thought Rachel. Not Metro-Cycles again. This public transport rivalry is screwing up everyone’s lives. Why can’t they just get over it?
Metro-Cycles and PTC (Public Transportation Corporation) had been rivals as long as the younger one (Metro-Cycles) had been established in 1947, but the rivalry had reached its seemingly eternal climax twentytwo years ago. If you saw a graph of the rivalry’s intensity, it would look like a big jagged slope that just climbed right up to the very top twenty-two years ago, and then just stayed there, a flat line. Rachel Kilburn lived in a boringly violent world.
When a PTC train met a Metro-Cycles train in the subway tracks, they would usually try to outrace each other. These races could go to dangerously high speeds, and often ended in accidents when one train crashed into whatever vehicle was ahead of it, be it a public train or a private trolley. That would block up one set of rails, and probably cause a fair bit of traffic. Occasionally, however, a train driver from one company might intentionally crash into a train from the other company. When that happened, not only were thousands of innocent people harmed, but the whole train track was screwed up. Not a single train or trolley could get by. And sometimes it took hours for anyone to clear the track of the ruined trains. From the amount of time that had passed without a train coming to 13th Place PTC Train Station, it seemed most likely that this was what had happened.
Good grief. New Sheffield, with its magnificent three-dimensional transportation system. The glorious network of trams, cars and trains. Well guess what? It’s also the only city where, on all three levels, two rival public transportation systems intentionally crash into one another! The goal of public transportation should not be to hurt people. But stupid PTC and Metro-Cycles were so obsessed with competition.
The reason Rachel Kilburn hadn’t moved out of New Sheffield was because that would trigger four competitions: one for who would buy her house, one for whatever house she tried to move into, one for whoever filled her job, and one for whatever job she applied for.
RaymondG. 8th Grade
Paradise
Whatisparadise?
Paradiseisratherrelative,isitnot?Everyonehastheirownuniqueplacethat’sjust—theirs.
AndIamgoingtogiveyounochoiceotherthantoreadaboutmine.Andwhilethathappens,itwouldbe greatlyappreciatedifyoucouldcloseyoureyeswhenyou’redonereadingthis,andpictureit,maybeevenfeel it.Anyway—let’sgetonwithit,okaylove?
Myparadiseisasunset.Asunsetwithagreatorangeglowingsun,shimmeringinthesmokeofvariouspastel-colouredclouds.Ithasjustrained,andtherearetonsofraindropsscatteredaboutthevibrantgreengrass, coveringthevarioussunflowersandhibiscusflowersthatarepeekingoutfromsaidgrass.Eachraindrop containsitsownworld.Theroarofthenearbyoceanplaysitsmelody,andyoucanheartheticklesofpalm treeleaves…
Thesmellofcoconutandgunpowderfrombrightfireworkslikeaperfumeintheair.‘Tisastrangecombination,butitismine.Overawarmlittlefire,jasmineandstrawberryteaisbrewing.Asenseofmagicand mysteryisengravedintotheatmosphere.
Musicisplayingsoftlysomehow,somewhere.
Whataplacetobe,no?
AlizaB. 8thGrade
Eve’s Repent
My fault—that’s what they say
We had everything
But I threw it away
They say I’m greedy
That I took control
But when I step back, I’m needy
They say I was tricked, “I’m stupid” (Though I knew the whole time) “Untrustworthy, useless, deluded”
“I’m sorry”—
That’s what they expect me to say
But—God knows—my eyes aren’t starry
They call me temptation
Damning and crude
The fall of only my creation
I say Adam made his own choice
But God is unfair
Trial smothered my voice
A gilded cage
A shiny new garden
A king and a captor as old as an age
Death may be my fate
But I am free
The whole world can hate
Soon you will see I am the key
DaphneA 7thGrade
Because it was
Because it was
The ocean in gray Headlights, noises
You kept them away Shadows, monsters
You kept them at bay
Just you and I
Underneath the stars, unbottled stars
The just-rained wood beneath our bare feet
The taste of laughter on our breath
And the smell of loud music in the wind
Standing under the black light moon
The feel of dewy sand and orchid flowers in the air
Fireflies, and the secrets we told
Twilightiscoming
Seethesignsofthebrightstars
Wisdomofthesky
Whenlifeturnsanewshadeofgray
Looktothesky
Thewindwillsendasign
Andthemoonwillsingalullaby
Thesunwillmakeyoulaugh
Andyouwillbefriendadarkshadeofblue
Wisdomofthesky
Flecksofgold
Glitterthroughtheair
Facesilluminate
Intheblindinglight
Theskyisinswirls
Puffsofsilverfloataround
Hoveringovertheground
Youcanseethemoonentering
Fromthetaintedhorizon
Poppiesswaytothesong
Ofthesky,thesongisanorchestra
Asymphonyofinstruments
Thebeatingofdrums
Likeaheartofstone
Thesongofthesky
Isthesoothingsoundofnature
Themelodyofhappiness
Onadaywithsunnyskies
Whencarnationsbristleinthewind
TheaS. 5thGrade
Askyscraper, seemingtotouchthecloudswithitsreachingbranches.
Anumbrella, protectingyoufromtherain asyouhuddlenearthetrunk.
Achair, mosscoveringitsrootswithasoftgreenfur.
Abending,stretchinghome, hometoallthattakeshelterwithit.
Alife, plantedoneyear, aseedlinganother, afineyoungplantthenext, thenfinallyastrong beautiful tree.
EmilyF. 4thGrade
It didn’t seem like it then, back when my mind was full of big ambitions, notions of grandeur, back when I thought I could make a difference. I know now that I never did, but I’ve finally come to some semblance of peace with the hand that life has dealt me. The days of my youth were hardly as golden in the moment as they are to me now, but we do always miss what we can never have back. It makes a difference, being older. Everything seems a little more bittersweet, tainted with the knowledge that my days are numbered. And I know dwelling on the past certainly won’t do me any favors, but sometimes I can’t help but to indulge myself. My mind is aging with my body, and the recollection I have of my very own heyday grows further and further with every passing year. I have been trying to be more honest with myself recently, and I’m going to try to be now, with you. I have only very few real memories left, and I can feel them slipping through my fingers, melting away like the snow come springtime. What I have now is more like a montage, all the limitless days of my youth blending together, all the bright skies and red sunsets combining into one fading hazy horizon. But there are still the moments I do remember, the moments I know I’ll never forget, not even when everything else has gone still and quiet and the only thing left of myself are those memories, playing over and over again until I have become them. Rows of corn, stretching on forever, an illusion of eternity. I used to love to play in that corn, the golden fields a backdrop for countless different stories, each one brighter than the last. A small pink house, standing out against a bright blue sky. The house I grew up in, the house I know better than anyone. I know each creak of the floorboards in that house, I know each groan of the pipes. The meandering brook running through the forest, bubbling and laughing as if it had not a care in the world. The envy I felt for that brook; words cannot even begin to describe. Many a lazy day was spent there, chasing frogs, capturing butterflies, laughing along with it. The Fourth of July parties we used to throw, biking into town with my brother, a 20 dollar bill grasped tightly in his sweaty fist. We would race, wind coursing through our hair, the exhilaration alone enough to live on. Fireworks exploding high in the air above us, the smoke left behind, waiting, lingering long after the show was over. If I listened closely enough, I could almost hear the echoes of holidays gone by, the countless families who came before me, their long dead laughter ringing in the air. Walking through town with my closest friends, the smell of the wind, the smell of freedom. Irresistible boutiques lined the streets, waiting with open doors for the inevitable collapse of our willpower. Everything we had ever wanted was right within our reach. It was almost like a different world, one full of possibilities, one without constraints. Everything intoxicating to a teenager, calling to them, watching them, seeing them trapped at home, bound to home when all they think they want is to be free. The long wistful walks to school, full of what-ifs and howcomes and if-onlys. My mind drifting up and up and up and into the sky and the stars and the clouds in the way that only young minds can, with only the earth beneath my feet to ground me, to make sure I don’t stay up and up and up and float too high and too far and too long and forget to ever come back down. And then my memories start to blur again, the white fog I know so well now filling my head, erasing my thoughts, claiming my life for itself. I’ve resigned myself to it, this feeling of helplessness. And yet, I can’t help the sharp pang in my chest, that quiet hope—maybe, just maybe, this time—I can hold on to it all, just a little longer. Because really, who are we without our memories? Who are we really without everything we’ve done, felt, and said? Without all our moments of joy and sorrow, all the little pieces of life that shaped us into who we are? That’s why I’m telling you this, my story. So one day when my timer has almost run out, I can look back on this letter, and I can remember. I can remember how it felt to be young, how it felt to be free. So I can remember who she was, the person I used to be. And I don’t know if I’ll ever be ok with the person I’ve become, but I’ll try. I’ll try, because sometimes that’s all we can do. Try to remember, try to hold on to what’s slipping away.
IsabelS 8th Grade
Confusement
Iseeyounotmebecausethe eyesdonothavethepowertolook uponthemselvessoyoulookandsee meandilookandseeyoubut neitherdoweseewhatwelook for.
ChizaraA 5thGrade
Thericemixedwithwater beingpounded untilitbecomes theperfectricecake, chewyandsweet mugwortflavor steamingonpineneedles achewy,stickytreat
Riceisrivers connectingeverything andeveryone thenitgoesthrough ametamorphosis, likeabutterfly
Itcanbeacloud orasheep’swool orpureperfection
UnaK S 4thGrade
Nannies
Marion went out into the chilly morning, the smell of rain fresh in the air. She was a nanny for the Robins’ two kids, Lyla and Barney, and she had been with them for almost three years.
When Marion got to the Robins’ house she picked up the kids and walked them to school as always. Their parents couldn’t bring them to school because they were “very busy with work.”
“Hey, what exactly are your parents’ jobs?” Marion decided to ask as she walked the kids to school realizing that somehow she still didn’t know.
“Oh, it’s so boring,” said Lyla.
“Yeah, you don’t need to waste your time hearing it,” said Barney.
“Oh, okay,” said Marion, surprised that they didn’t tell her. “Just curious.”
Back at the house, she added miso paste to a broth for a surprise dinner: ramen, the Robins’ favorite meal. She had been making the broth for three days and she was excited to see how they liked it. Excited for the surprise ramen, which was a change from her normal everyday routine, she went back to her small apartment just a couple blocks away. She started trying to read her book but she couldn’t focus. Why had the kids not answered her question? She couldn’t help but feel a little excluded. They had never done anything like that before and she was almost starting to feel like a part of the family before they said that. But she didn’t know because she’d never felt like she was in a family before. Her parents had separated and her mom moved away. Then, when her dad got remarried, she never felt as close to him as she had before. So, she probably just had to wait, and with time the family would open up more.
When Marion picked up Lyla and Barney from school, they once again surprised her with how they wouldn’t open up to her.
“How was your day?” asked Marion.
“Oh, nothing really. Except for that thing with the slime,” said Lyla while looking at Barney with a sly smile. Then, both of them erupted with laughter.
“Oh, yeah that was so funny,” said Barney through his laughter.
“What’s happened with the slime?” asked Marion.
Again Lyla glanced at Barney. “Inside joke,” she said bluntly.
Again Marion felt strangely left out. But no, she didn’t need to know everything. She had done the very same thing with her friends.
As they stepped back into the Robins’ house, both Barney and Lyla’s eyes lit up.
“Do I smell ramen?” asked Lyla looking wide eyed at Marion.
“Wait a minute, are you making us ramen for dinner?” Barney looked as if he could explode with happiness.
Marion smiled. These were the kids she knew. “Maybe,” she said.
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” they shouted and hugged her tight.
Marion felt a warm glow inside her. She then knew she was completely wrong about how she thought they might be pushing her away.
Marion herself was very proud of her work. The ramen had sauteed shiitake mushrooms and snow peas, scallions, and a soft boiled egg as toppings in each bowl. Mr. and Mrs. Robins also seemed very happy about the ramen when they came home from work.
“Oh wow! I think ramen is my second favorite meal of all time!” said Mrs. Robins as she took her first bite. “And this is really good!”
She thought it was their all time favorite meal. Well that didn’t really matter, she was being ridiculous. “Thank you! I’m glad you like it.” she said.
“So,” said Mr. Robins as everyone started tucking in, “How are we going to bring Lyla to her swimming competition tomorrow?”
“Oh I hadn’t thought about that,” said Mrs. Robins. “Do you think we could reschedule some meetings for that?”
“I could do it,” volunteered Marion. “I would love to bring Lyla to her swimming competition.”
Mrs. Robins gave her a strange look. “You want to bring her?” Then, she caught herself and her look turned softer. “You really shouldn’t have to do that. We’ll figure out a way so we can go. It’s really not your job to take her.”
Again, Marion’s brow creased. Even though she kept asking throughout the dinner if they really didn’t want her to go, they kept on telling her that it would be out of her way and that she shouldn’t. She decided that they probably just wanted to make her life a little easier and weren’t trying to exclude her.
When Marion woke up the next morning, her first thought was that she needed to go to this swimming competition. She had been the kids’ nanny for long enough; she wanted to go and watch. Her surprise arrival would surely show them how devoted she was. She was pretty sure she knew what time the competition was at and she knew that it was at the pool that Lyla always went to from when she brought her to practice. Then, she set off to the competition, knowing that this was the right thing to do.
Marion got to the building and she smelled the distinct smell of chlorine before she even went in. When she opened the door into the swimming pool, the race was about to start and she spotted the rest of the Robins sitting in the bleachers. Mrs. Robins and Mr. Robins looked her way and when they realized that Marion had just come in, their eyes widened. They did not wave or smile. Neither did Barney, who had just noticed her as well. They just stared at her like she had done something wrong. Confused, she hurried over to where they were sitting, and when she sat down next to them, Mrs. Robins very slightly scooched away. All of them kept their eyes forward without even glancing at her. Marion frowned. Then, a man’s voice started counting down from five. The race was about to start.
The race was very impressive. It was like a relay race where there were four teams each with four swimmers. The swimmers went one at a time and each did different strokes going across the pool and then coming back. When they hit the wall, the next person started and the first person came out. Lyla’s team got first. Marion hurried down the bleachers to congratulate Lyla. Maybe she wouldn’t be so rude to Marion.
“That was amazing!” Marion told Lyla as she shivered in her towel.
Lyla looked up at Marion. “Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know you came.”
Then, the rest of the family was behind Marion. “Why did you come?” asked Barney.
“And just in case you didn’t know” butted in Mr. Robins before she could answer, “Lyla’s our daughter, not yours and we should congratulate her first.”
“I didn’t know there were rules about this!” Marion snapped back. “Also why didn’t you want me to come? You know I’ve been the kids’ nanny for so long now. I think I finally deserve to get to know a little more about your lives!”
“What makes you think that?” questioned Mrs. Robins. “You are the nanny and nothing more! You are not a part of this family! We won’t tell you what we don’t want to! You will never be as close to my kids as I am!”
“Oh yeah?” retorted Marion. “I don’t think so. You should spend more time with your kids and stop being so busy with work.”
This set the parents on fire. Their eyes widened and in them she could feel the heat of rage. “Do not teach me how to be a parent!” cried Mrs. Robins. Then, both of the parents took Marion by the arms and pushed. She stumbled backwards until her feet were no longer hitting the ground. Then, she was falling into the cold water of the pool. Lyla and Barney ran to the edge of the pool, and neither of them were surprised by what their parents had done. Then, they just waved little goodbyes and ran out the door with their parents as the lifeguard ran over to see what had happened.
“Time for a new nanny,” said Mr. Robins. The kids took one final glance at Marion and a very small flash of sadness came across their eyes.
SalenaF 7th Grade
Iwillbewatching fromthesky Iwillbewatching Fromtheclouds
Iwillbewatching Whenyouturnten Whenyougraduate Makingaspeech Throwingyourhatintheair
Whenyourheartbleeds Iwillbetheretohealthewounds
Whenyourheartglowsgold Iwillbetherewatchingwithpleasure Asyoulaughandsmile
Youmightnotseemetherebut Iwillbewatchingfromthesky
SkyL 4thGrade
Murals from the Future
On September 7th, 2011, Mickey Smith passed away. On September 8th, 2011, Cooper Academy found out that Micky Smith, an alum of the school, had died the night before. And on September 9th, 2011, a picture of a young Mickey Smith, sweaty and in a hockey uniform with his arms wrapped around a boy his age, was projected on a fading white wall in the school’s entrance. Two LED lights sat directly below the photo. One outlined Mickey’s chin in blue, the other colored his friend orange, his face more fruitlike than human. The whole thing looked like what it was: a history teacher and a math teacher had been asked to get up early and figure out how to work the new projector, using the school colors.
All this was to make a memorial for a 90-year-old man who while leading the Cobras to the semifinals had fractured his hip in the final period and been carried by his teammates off the ice. A legend. Three days later, every kid in Cooper Academy would be telling versions of stories they’d heard about the one-time stud, Mickey S., and his completely insane life. It was the kind of attention someone got only when they were gone. It didn’t matter if each story was real or not; all that mattered was now that he was gone people might as well talk about him, and the girls he liked, and the truly remarkable career everyone had been so sure would be his “if not for the player on the other team who slammed into him so hard his right hip literally flew out of his body.” Parents and teachers were touched by how deeply every student seemed to care about this man, but no one was really sure why. When asked, each student would give the same answer.
“He’s basically a God.” “No, you don’t understand,” they would find a way to add. “He could have gone pro.” The reality was that, despite his hip, there was no universe in which Mickey could play professionally. But the kids didn’t see it that way. All this made death take on a different meaning. In the students’ minds, death made you interesting. The student government enacted a tradition that every time an alumni of Cooper Academy died, they would be honored at school.
The assembly hall was repainted, and a few months later a TV with two built-in LED lights at the bottom was installed. News articles were written about the students at Cooper Academy, honoring the ones that had gone and preparing to honor those who were still with them.
Astepintoreality
Ablinktoreachthisworld
Ataptoknowyou’reseen
Asmelltotellyou’rehere
Atouchonthebackandintheheart
Asoundtoknowyou’reloved
Aplacetoseeandremember Andthat’sjustlife
ArchieA. 4thGrade
Non-Bloomer (an excerpt)
There was a slight wind, a slight sharpness in the air, a slightly cloudy sky. Figs Town was very “slight.” Subdued, mild, placid, words like that were the very definition of the place. There was drizzle, but never downpour, there was light snow—the kind that rests on the pavement briefly, before disappearing altogether—but there were never blizzards. There were breezy days and warm days and partly cloudy, 70 degree days.
Figs Town was a good town. Figs Town was simple, and the rest of the world seemed to take pleasure in remembering that simple towns existed, so Figs Town continued to be simple, continued to be good, continued to be partly cloudy, 70 degrees Fahrenheit, and the rest of the world continued to enjoy that. *
Knox was eating lunch. A ham sandwich. Toasted. With butter. His mother was a few feet away watering a flower in the window. In the corner of the pink tiled kitchen on the TV there was a man in a suit, ironed to a crisp, so it no longer resembled fabric, more like a plastic figurine outfit, melded to its body. The volume was low, background noise, but Knox could hear him say, “The Figs Town disease, still unnamed, is slowly claiming more people as its victims.” His sore throat from a few days prior momentarily came back to him, and he shoved a piece of dry bread into his mouth.
“Hey sweetie, feeling okay?”
“I think I’m feeling sick.”
“What do you mean you think you’re feeling sick.”
“I mean I’m not sure that I’m sick.”
“Well you’re not sick if you can’t tell if you’re sick.”
“Okay.”
His mother turned away from him, then turned up the volume. “It’s partly cloudy and seventy-five degrees, and this is the Figs Town radio station.”
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“What’s the Figs Town disease.”
Her hand reached for the handle of the sink, where seafoam green patina seeped from a crack by the faucet. She flicked her wrist and warm water came flooding from the tap, coating her hands and making the dishes clatter noisily.
“What’s what sweetie?”
“The disease.”
“Which disease?”
“The disease on the television, Figs Town disease,” Knox said, struggling to speak over the noisy sink. His mother proceeded to clank the dishes louder, accidentally bumping a tall tin pot into the ceramic side of the sink. The sound reverberated throughout the house. Knox covered his ears.
“It’s just a thing. It’s going around,” his mother said.
“What type of thing?”
“What type of thing do you think, Knox? A disease type of thing. I’m done with this conversation.”
“Momma, are we gonna get the disease?”
“Probably.” A look of fear and exhilaration flashed across Knox’s face; his thick, arched eyebrows were pulled together, and his dark eyes grew bright.
“You know, back when I lived outside Figs I used to get sick fairly often. Winter is cold season.”
“All the time?”
“Being sick is normal, strengthens your immune system.” She flexed her arm to demonstrate, then smiled in a way that said Okay, I’m done talking now.
“But Momma, people are dying. The broadcaster man said victims. That means dead people.”
“No, silly, people in this town are dramatic. They’re sheltered, and I don’t blame them. If I was born in a paradise like this, there would be no way in hell I would leave it. People here don’t understand the way the world works outside of this one little town in North America. People here—they don’t get sick, they don’t have hurricanes or hail. Nothing that catches on fire here burns.”
Knox wasn’t so sure.
It was a Sunday, but not the bad kind of Sunday. It was the rare kind of Sunday where you felt as though many more empty, pointless and lazy days would stretch on before you and after you, infinitely, and there was nothing you could do. It wasn’t a bad feeling, necessarily. It just kind of felt like your whole entire life hadn’t really happened. It felt like floating.
Knox was attempting to play a board game. The trouble was, he was home alone, and it was a two player board game. Two players at least. He kept trying to take turns with himself, which is harder than you might think – every time he would switch places and play as his own opponent, he would just end up trying to make his other self win. It was so frustrating it gave Knox a headache. He lay his head down and began to make a snow angel in the tufted white carpet beneath him. He closed his eyes. He swayed his legs and arms, and imagined pools of snow gathering on either side of him, the outline of his body forever planted in the frozen earth. Unfortunately though, it was such a small rug, so that if Knox reached out too far in the making of his “snow-angel” then his fingers would slip off the edge of the carpet and grasp the heated wood floors that surrounded him, ruining the whole effect.
He stopped making a snow-angel. The bottom sides of his arms were red from sliding against the carpet. So he just lay there. He thought about a lot of things. He thought about his immune system and what a snowstorm looked like in the middle of the night. If you could see it at all when the sun sank. Or did it just sort of disappear? All of a sudden Knox heard his mother’s key in the door and he sat up. Quickly, he slid over to the kitchen in his socks, and sat down at the table, pretending he had been watching the television the whole time. His mother didn’t like it when he watched a lot of television, but she liked it less when Knox made snow angels in the living room. She told him it was “delusional.” But really, Knox understood, it was because it made her sad that he had to roll around on the floor instead of actually being able to go sledding or have snowball fights. It was alright by him though. He didn’t particularly want to go sledding. He just liked snow angels.
“I made it!” That was his mother. She always did that, she always said “I made it” instead of “I’m home” or “Hi honey!” When he was little Knox had thought it was funny, but now he just thought it was weird.
“Hi,” he responded.
“Hi.”
She made her way into the kitchen, dumping everything onto the countertop before she reached over to the TV with attempted subtlety and turned it off.
“I was watching that.”
“I don’t like so much TV,” his mother said, but she turned it back on anyway because they were talking about the weather. The screen lit up right at the exact moment something interesting was happening. Something important was being said. Knox knew important things rarely ever seemed to be said in Figs Town.
The Plastic-Figurine News Anchor looked unnaturally excited. He was moving his arms around vigorously and the fabric of his suit was now in motion, creasing and flowing as he waved about frantically. Knox’s mother reached for the volume knob.
PalomaD 8thGrade
Home
Theoldgumonthesidewalk
Theyoungchildintheplayground
Thefirstbeamofpinksunlight,coloringtheglassbuildingsoftheskyline
ThelastleaftodieonatreeinCadman,coveredinfiveyear-olddoodles
Thetwowhitebeamsoflightfromthememorial
Theseaofblackbuildingsatnight,eachroomlituplikestars
Therowsofpigeons,prayingforbreadcrumbs
Thecolumnsonthecourthousethathaven’tbeencleanedforyears
Thesoundofpenniesbeingcountedattheendofadaybusking
Thefeelingofdreadwhenyoucan’tfindanumbrella
Thecoldclusterofchildrentakinguptheentiresidewalkduringafiredrill
Thehot,pastelchalk-coveredpavementinthesummer
Thethicktrailofcigarettesmoke,emanatingfromthecorner
Thethinstreamofwaterandgasolineliningthecurbduringastorm
Thewanderingsenior,searchingconfusedlyforthepostoffice
Andthefamilymovinginnextdoor,soelatedtoseewhatwecallmundane.
AgnesB. 8thGrade
Alightflickers
Theplaybegins
Aclockticks
Thekettlewhistles
Twocupsofcoffeearepoured
Thetableisset
Theeggsareserved
Thefamilychatters
Justlikebefore
IrisP. 5thGrade
Thecrunchingofpretzels
Murmursabouthomework
Lockerdoorsslammingshut
Pencilsscratchingonpaper
Shoestappingimpatiently
ThesippingofIzzes
RomyK. 4thGrade
The Dream
Through the town, past the creaking red wagons, into a forest whose trees never make a sound. Down the old stone path with moss growing over it, all the way until he reaches the old house. The house is yellow, and crumbling from age, its door an ugly bluish grey, creaking in the wind. Its windows are an odd shape, and it has a crack running across it that gives it an evil leer. When he glances down, there’s a diary right in front of his feet. He picks it up, and looks at the entry it’s open to. It has a series of tally marks, and he wonders what they are for. There are fifty-six tally marks in all. A wolf howls, sending shivers down his spine. Another one, closer this time.
He jolts awake to the sound of his alarm clock, grateful that it’s only a dream. It’s a Saturday, but he’s going running later this morning, so he gets ready, and goes downstairs for breakfast. Breakfast is eggs and toast, his favorite, so he takes a little extra time to savor it, and then scarfs it down. He walks out the door, and then starts to jog. He jogs to the start of the trail, and then gradually gets faster.
Just past the first trail marker, his best friend passes him, going in the opposite direction.
“Hey, Julius,” he calls out.
“Hey, Max,” his friend responds, barely slowing down, and then he keeps going.
Near the end of the trail, Max’s attention starts to shift. He doesn’t realize that he’s going through the town, past the creaking red wagons, into a forest whose trees never make a sound. Down the old stone path with moss growing over it, all the way until he reaches the old house. He realizes where he is too late. The house is yellow, and crumbling from age, its door an ugly bluish grey, creaking in the wind. Its windows are an odd shape, and it has a crack running across it that gives it an evil leer. When he glances down, there’s a diary right in front of his feet. He picks it up, and looks at the entry it’s open to. It has a series of tally marks, and he wonders what they are for. There are fifty-six tally marks in all. A wolf howls, sending shivers down his spine. Another one, closer this time. Huh, he thinks, it’s almost exactly like my dream. A minute later he lets out a blood-curdling scream. No one hears. When all falls silent, there are fifty-seven marks in the diary.
L. 5th Grade
Time and Art
At 3:18 on 12/09
This poem burst forth at last. It will exist beyond my years, A keepsake from my past.
Tick tock, tick tock, seconds fly by. Your death begins at birth. When babes come out into the world, They’re fresh and full of mirth.
Each passing day, we all decay, Too quick, Time wears us out. Theweeksandyearsslipthroughourhands, Memoriesfade,nodoubt.
Yetancientmythsoutliveusall, Poseidon’swrathstillroars. TheStarryNighthangsstillandbright, Thebrushstrokesdanceandsoar.
Beethoven’sNinthburststhunderous Throughouttheconcerthall. ExplodingsoulswithOdetoJoy, Happytearsgentlyfall.
Artistsdocraveeternallife, AlwaysgreedyforTime. Theirfleshisrottinginthegrave, Butartlivesonsublime.
StellaW 5thGrade
No Place Like Home
The heartbeat of Chappell Roan resonates in my ears. My finger taps along against the wrinkled black leather of the car seats. I add in my other finger. Rows of fresh apartments zip across my view, then get cut off by the window. Each building tries to look modern by stacking up different sizes of white rectangles; they look like Jenga towers, if Jenga were made by millennial architects. I regard each one with solemn sincerity, remembering how the plans had first been pasted on the fresh green wood, and work continued until the border was finally torn down, revealing the lightly anticipated building. I hate the idea that I won’t stay to see the cycle repeat itself.
“We’re almost there,” my cousin Ali says. “Do you have a request for the last five minutes?” Nobody’s ever really cared about what I want to listen to, so I’ve grown accustomed to my dad’s country playlists of Sturgill Simpson, Charley Crocket, and John Denver.
“No, I’m ok, thanks for asking.” I force my cheeks up my face until my eyes feel squished.
“You sure?”
Ali’s girlfriend, Olivia, puts on a Sabrina Carpenter song. Confident guitar starts, and a powder blue glow fills the screen. Sabrina blows a kiss over her shoulder while an invisible wind blows her Barbie-blonde hair towards the passenger seat. I watch until I lose interest.
“Can I roll down the window?” The answer will be no. If you roll down one window it fills the whole car with bumps of turbulence sound, and rolling them all down would just make everybody cold.
“Sure,” Ali says.
There is a soft flow of surprisingly warm air. I roll it down halfway and lean my head closer, my short auburn curls flying back, rhythmically bouncing against my head. My eyes close, and I let my thoughts settle. I breathe in the LA air, the familiar scent of stress and pollution.
“We’re almost here!” Olivia says from the front, in the tone of a dog food commercial.
The situation starts to sink in. I am in a new place, with new people, and soon a new house. I bounce my leg on the ball of my foot as my thoughts begin to spiral. I only ever see Ali and their parents at Thanksgiving and Christmas. Even then it’s only for two or three days, and everybody is absorbed in festivities and cooking, holiday stuff. You never get quality time during those sorts of gatherings. I usually just sit in the corner and read, or snuggle with their cat Sandwich if he decides I’m worthy of his company (he usually doesn’t). I don’t know how I’m supposed to spend the rest of my life with them! I mean it’s not going to be the rest of my life; it could just be a week or so. Nobody ever tells me anything.
When Ellen showed up at my house with her smirky “you can talk to me about anything” attitude, she just said my dad had to “take a break” for a while, and I was going to go live with my aunt and uncle. So just like that I threw all my stuff in the duffel I use for camp, grabbed my only real necessity, a guitar my grandpa gave me three years ago, and waited on my stoop for Ali to pick me up. Though the departure was sudden, I’d been expecting it for months. My dad had been getting worse and had been home less and less. Some nights I was left to binge Heartstopper alone under the covers. Other nights, somebody I didn’t know at the time, but now guess was Ellen, would call my neighbor to come check on me. She would come by at seven, out of pity, and bring leftover meatloaf and a deck of Uno. We would play, and she would ask me the same questions. “How’s school?” “What’s your favorite class?” “You know I went to the same school as you back in ‘84.” I guess she made me feel better, having somebody there and all, but it didn’t help that she let me win every game.
The car pulled into a spot between a bright orange Jeep and one of those really tiny cars that only fits two people—like the ones kids used to abandon in the park next to my house, with the red bottom, yellow top, and a cartoon face. Me and my friends used to fight over who got to drive and who had to climb on top while the other person pedaled.
“We have arrived at our destination!” Oliva says while Ali unplugs their phone and slips it into the front pocket of their sun-faded jeans.
My fingers grip the unexpectedly cold handle and carefully push open the door so as not to scratch it on the short rusty fence surrounding a cautious little tree that has been stripped of its leaves. My distressed black Converse slap the pavement, and I close the door, making sure not to slam it, and meet Ali by the trunk to grab my stuff. My worn duffel bag strap digs into my shoulder as I step towards the other side of the trunk to grab my guitar.
“I got it,” Ali says. “You go ahead.”
Olivia is waiting by the apartment complex, and as she opens the door I rub the soft cotton of my t-shirt in between my fingers, trying to ignore all of my worries. Inside, a small brightly lit entryway leads to a staircase and elevators. My eyes bob around from the window of a mailroom where I can see hundreds of Amazon boxes to a small framed photo of a beach at sunset.
“Welcome to your new home,” Ali says, magically appearing behind me. The word echoes in my head; my breath speeds up to match the pace of my memories. All I can hear is Ellen’s voice saying I should be grateful that they are welcoming me into their home, or that I should be excited about new experiences. She gets paid to say stuff like that. I don’t think she understands a word she’s saying.
HaddieB 7th Grade
TheSerpent’sGuilt
Sssssuchassshame Shelosssstitall Me?
Ididn’tmean Tocausssseher Troublessss She Wasssn’tsssssupposed Totakeabite
Ofthatsssstupidapple Shewassssssssupposssed
Tossssayno Torefusssse
Tossssstayfaithful Me?
I Feel Ssssorry.
TatianaW. 7thGrade
Paintings
You appeared in my room one day. You stood on the wall. On your canvas colors swirled. It seemed as if your picture was moving. In the center was a door: small, wooden, locked. It was gold around the edges. Around the door was an aurora borealis of dulled-out colors spiraling. I’d look at it, petrified. One day as I was staring at it my hand stiffened. Moving on its own, it reached toward you, tore open the door. You were there inside. Small and delicate were your wings and tail. Your blue eyes stared up at me. Inside of them I saw what might as well be a galaxy. You climbed onto my hand, and as I pulled you out, the painting stretched, its membrane sliding over my hand, then fell back into place leaving ripples on its surface. You sat there on my hand, cold and smooth, the nails of your webbed hands clinging to my skin. You yawned, your pink tongue curling. I hugged you to my chest and petted your head. Eventually you fell asleep.
Weeks passed. You had grown to the size of a small dog. I’d been feeding you bits of steak and leftover fruits, which you enjoyed. From your door now open excreted a black goop staining my wall. From the black goop came veiny circles pulsing. You looked at them worriedly and your appetite declined. I tried to sweep the spheres from my wall, but they clogged my broom, and they only expanded. You only kept growing, now the size of a medium dog, but so did the spheres. Eventually they grew paintings from their centers. In the paintings were black swirls and silver spirits. You were frightened, your antennae and ears twitching, and I tried to burn the paintings and the spheres. The fire danced across their surfaces and fizzed out with a puff of smoke. I cradled you in my arms. You seemed so frail. Eventually, when you had left my room for a bit, out of the paintings came creatures. They were dressed in black uniforms with aqua trim. They had long silvery horns and whiplike tails. They talked to me.
“Have you seen this deadly parasite?” They held up a picture of you.
“No, he’s not a parasite. He’s so sweet!”
“So you have seen it.”
Something in their faces changed. Their jaws dropped. “Behind you!”
I turned around. You were big now and looming over me. Your fingers were extended, and the jewels that draped your body sparkled more than ever, though a cold seriousness had overtaken your countenance. I froze, knowing something was dreadfully wrong, and before I could move, your tail pierced my spinal cord. I spasmed. There was a tingling sensation. Every cell of my body began to change.
With tears in my eyes, I asked you, “Why?”
You looked at me with sincere eyes and said, “Sorry.” My body shrank and became your original shape. Starting from head up I began to fade. I looked up at you. You smiled back and you, too, faded.
Ever since I’ve been waiting on the inside of a room with a locked door. I watch the world. I see a figure often staring at my door. I know what I have to do, so that I may see you again.
Clockstickbutnotimecanbetold acloudistobewatched avoiceistobeheard,thesunshines ontothemoon.Theviolinistplaysacheerytune Isitsummer?No,it’stoocold
ErinR. 4thGrade
Spring
The sunflowers blooming next to a pink Cherry blossom. The pollen Circling through the air waiting
To catch a sneeze. My house, coughing up hairballs of Smiles.
Soon the bombs of pink will float away, And come back in 365.
The air fresher than a New haircut. Spring. Oh how I love spring. Or do I?
EthanJ. 6th Grade
umbrellaszippingoutthrustintothehowling graycloudsflippedupsidedown,insideout andleftandright
AlinaG 5thGrade
WhentheStillnessComes slowlysoftlytheseasanddampandblown isliftedbyroughwindcirclingthe calmdarkblueocean,thenstillness
AlistairR 5thGrade
“MyRoommateStoleMyPencils!”
Myroommatestolemypencils! They’renowheretobeseen! Ilookup,down,left,andright butthey’vegoneoutofsight.
“I’msorry,kids,”Isaidtomyclass. “Someonestolemypencils,whichmeansnowritingday.” Thekidsbegantocheerandclap. Someevenyelled,“Hooray!”
ButthenIlookedbeyondtheshelf.“Ohtheretheyare!”Isaid. Mystudentsmoanedandgroaned. ButIdidn’tcare.“Writingtime,kids!”Isaid. Andthat’sjustwhatwedid.
NinaV 4thGrade
Old Friends
Anna’s left tooth curved into her right. She made circles around it, as if she were a dentist. Pesto: I was scared to eat anything green. But she ate the greenish pasta with no hesitation. Intrigued. We skipped every crack on the sidewalk dodging monsters. Vibrant chalk lined the monkey bars. We played toy cars instead of pretend because she pulled the scissors before I could even say shoot. I dressed as a fairy, she was Spiderman: we were slowly becoming opposites. I had never had McDonald’s, for my mother made me eat organic. I liked the difference. She cut her long curly hair in the bathroom as I played with her unwanted pink pony. I was only five, but I knew I didn’t want to ever lose her.
Kindergarten. I bit my pinky nail off, it began to bleed. Why so many bruises? the raspy teacher said. You need to eat more chicken! I hated chicken. I hated kindergarten, too. Abigail handed me a frosted flake and beamed. Soft blocks in her playroom stacked to create our new home. Her dog was named Gingersnap. My mom liked Bernie, so I liked Bernie. Her parents didn’t even like Hillary. I moved schools. And Abigail became a memory.
Bella’s father put us to bed. His large rough hands smelled of smoke. Packs of cigarettes turned up when we played hide-and-seek. We stuck cigarette butts in her boy doll’s mouth: now he was cool. Summer was coming to an end. We feasted on pickles and jam on my bright orange fox dishes. My parents’ alarm clock didn’t go off. Go away, her brother insisted, his cheeks becoming rosy as he was wearing only boxers. Bella had puffy features but her brother was sharper, explicit. Why did she get to have a brother? Why did I have to be alone?
Q M 8th Grade
On "The Triumph of Death" by
Bruegel the Elder
The chaos is a blooming artwork around me, tentatively flowering through the smoke of hellfire and the intimate hatred of all that is holy.
I look far up the hill. A fleshless man, with only dry bones to hold him, and a hardened heart to sustain him, holds an axe high above the head of a man still alive, flesh reddened with life, however fleeting.
The death knell is rung from high on a leafless tree branch, and as its memorial message echoes within my empty ribcage, I see the glinting blade fall against the innocent man’s neck. A death with barely a single witness, yet it claws at my own hardened heart, reminiscent of even Abraham and Isaac, high on a mountain of their own.
Behind my eyes flashes the hue of uniform grey that his skin will soon become, then I see the intercostals between his ribs crumbling to the ground, to dust. From dust you came, and to dust you shall return, they tell us, all but our stagnant hearts, always writhing within the cage of our bone-dry ribs, cursed to exist in this finite life forever.
I watch the fleshless man amble away, proud of his triumph.
I watched him over the ridge and to the next hill, from my spot on the ground. I watched as his legs, bone precariously stacked on bone, made their way up the steep incline of charred earth, and I watched him transform into the vulnerable corpse I had seen him to be.
I watched each pearly white knob of his spine topple to the ground, no longer a backbone but a pile of vertebrae.
I watched his ribs drop to the floor, knocking against each other. Finally, his skull, weighty and relevant, hot and pure, cascaded to the ground and shattered. There was no viscous brain wetting the sand and blackened grass. There was no blood staining the ground and no beating heart pumping it.
There were no weeping relatives, or screams, cries, handkerchiefs passed or mourners comforted. In fact, it was absolutely silent.
Only the faint echo of a pained scream could be heard as finally, the trees seemed to begin to grow leaves again and I felt my heart beating with life once again.
RuthM. 8thGrade
Come
Comejoinmecomefindmecomeplaywithmecomeandleaveyourworldbehind justforadayortwocomeandhangoutneartheshorewithmecomesplash andswimwithmecomebacktotheislandyoucamefromcomeand gatherberriesformorningsuppercomelaughbythecampfire withmecomebacktomecomebacktothehomeyou leftbehindallthoseyearsagocomebacktothe familythatyouleftbehindcomeseethe bestfriendIthoughtIwastoyou comehomeagaincome againtotheplace youleftall alone come back to me.
SunnyD. 5thGrade
Foul Play
Walking through his courtyard, Theodore Stemble sighed. His whole life he had been making money and more money after he invented The Carousel Cone (a double cone, but instead of two it’s four), and yet he often felt bored. He wondered what life would be like if he wasn’t a multi-billionaire. He thought it would be nicer to be middle-class, to have a dream. You see, he felt that he couldn’t dream, since all his dreams had come true.
He decided he would do something. Yes, do something. An actual thing that took effort, not just sitting back while you get richer and richer, while you get served a fresh Sprite with a little umbrella on the rim at the push of a button. The more he thought about it, the more excited he got. He took the elevator to his fifth bedroom to talk to his oldest and most trusted servant, Mr. Smithies, whose job was to fluff the pillow before bedtime.
“Mr. Smithies?” asked Theodore as soon as the doors opened.
“Yes, Master Stemble?”
Theodore described his thoughts to Mr. Smithies and asked what he should do.
“I think,” said Mr. Smithies, “you should throw a party.” He scratched his bald head. “That’s the trend these days, you know. With cake and food and hippity-hop. I think you could have a marvelous party.”
“Thanks Smithies!” exclaimed Theodore, slapping his old servant on the back and bounding down the spiral staircase, beaming.
Theodore Stemble could think of only four people to invite: his mom, his cousin, his dog, and his second grade teacher, Mrs. Brittle. They came at two o’clock, and he greeted them in his 1955 Mercedes Benz.
It was a nice but awkward party, as most parties are at rich people’s houses, and nothing out of the ordinary happened until 5:30, when Mr. Smithies arrived at the balcony of the grand ballroom.
He paused as all the guests looked up at him. “Master Stemble is dead,” he said. “I found him in the bathroom.”
The room exploded with sound, chaos, and confusion.
“Settle down! Settle down!” roared Smithies over the noise. “Yes, yes, I know it sucks, but people die all the time, so we just have to live with it.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Also, I didn’t kill him! So if any of you think I killed him by slipping poison in his martini at 4:30, I didn’t. Okay? So get that thought out of your heads. He had a heart attack on the toilet!”
“Really?” asked the head chef Steve.
“Yes! Now, moving on—”
“What were you doing in the bathroom then?” asked Mrs. Brittle.
“Shut up!” yelled Mr. Smithies, his face red. “Nobody asked you, so pipe down!”
The silence was deafening. Guests and servants shifted uncomfortably on the waxed floors. Theodore’s mother cleared her throat.
“Well, shouldn’t we get a detective or something?”
“No!” yelled Mr. Smithies.
“What?”
“I mean, y-yes,” he said feverishly. “But I–I mean, why do we need a detective if there was no foul play? Am I right?” He chuckled. “Just so you know, I didn’t kill him. So, uh…yeah. I’m gonna go now.” And Mr. Smithies left the room in a hurry. The people stood there, frozen.
Steve puffed up his chest and said, “Well, I’m gonna call a detective. Detective Wimbles. He’s the best detective I know!”
Everybody gathered around to watch Detective Wimbles walk down the courtyard path up to the front door, where they were all huddled. He was a thin man with a small mustache and a cane, and walked very slowly, so that everybody would notice him enter. He stopped and looked at them all.
“Well, I must say I am famished. I could really go for a tuna melt right about now.”
Everybody stared at him, and Wimbles noticed maybe he hadn’t made himself clear.
“I said that I want a tuna sandwich.” He stopped. “So, hurry up! Chop chop!” he said, shooing one of the butlers away. He turned to Steve. “What’s up?”
“Well, my boss, Theodore Stemble, was found dead in the bathroom, remember?” said Steve. Wimbles twirled his mustache.
“Yes, yes, that does suck,” said Wimbles, staring off into the distance. There was a pause, and he stopped twirling his mustache, realizing everyone was looking at him. He stared around.
“What?”
“Well,” replied Steve slowly, “I called you, to help us. You are a detective.”
“Oh!” said Wimbles. “Oh right. Cool, cool, cool, cool.” He straightened his collar. “So! Where is this body you speak of?”
“It’s in the bathroom… I just told you that.”
“Oh! Right, right, right. Well then, let us go! Come on chaps! We—I’ve got detective stuff to do.”
They came into the bathroom, to find Theodore sprawled on the floor next to the toilet, and Wimbles bent down. He stared a long time at the dead body, examined it, and straightened up.
“He is dead,” he announced.
“Yes….Yes, we know,” sighed Steve, getting a little tired of Wimbles.
“Oh, okay. Well, what do you need me for?”
“Well, we sort of want to know how and why he was killed. I suspect foul play, and I think Mr. Smithies is acting really shady.” At that moment Mr. Smithies walked in.
“Mr. Smithies?” asked Wimbles.
“Yes sir?”
“Are you shady?”
“Uh, no.”
“Oh, okay.” Wimbles turned to Steve. “He isn’t shady.” He looked back at Theodore, and tried to put a calm look on his face, but on the inside he was frantically thinking of smart words to say. He cleared his throat.
“He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.” He had no idea what it meant, because he got it off the internet, but it sounded smart.
“What?”
“What I mean,” Wimble stalled, “is that a smart man only believes half of what he hears, and a wise man knows which half.”
“You’re starting to sound crazy, Wimble,” said Mr. Smithies. “Also, just so you know, I d-didn’t kill him, so… just remember that I am not guilty of murder, and that I did not kill my boss because I am in his will and I am not not paying taxes. Okay?”
“Geez, chill out,” said Wimble, twirling his mustache. “We know you didn’t kill him!”
After a moment of trying to put on an expression of deep thought, he pointed at Steve. “You did it.” Everybody gasped.
“Me?!”
“Yes, you. You fiend!”
“How?” yelped Steve.
“I don’t know, but you did it! So… go to jail!” Wimble spat, shooing Steve away. “Anyway, I’m bored, I didn’t get my requested tuna melt, and I just solved the case, so bye, chaps!” And with a wave of his hand, he walked out the double doors, along the courtyard, and past the front gate, the thunk of his little cane getting quieter as he stalked away.
6th Grade
To Fall
I tear my shirt off me, burning cold as it was, and I fall into the pond. Falling was a childish thing, but aren’t children supposed to be beautiful? Jumping was a brave thing. Do you have to grow up to be brave? So many children, so many emotions, tears, songs, laughter, screams—Was that beautiful? Was that too much? Was it scary? Were we beautiful? it was a late chilly evening between the jump and the plunge in front lies the mass behind lies the past thebrothoficystockisn’tjustifiedbytheeyes,forthatisjustwhereitlies itwasunseenandreseen,andnoisilysilent itwasexpectantanditsawthepast thejump,thehit,theicystock,theman,theboy andthentheplunge Ilookedaroundatnothing andthennothinglookedatme andnowIwonderwhichonethenothingnessdidsee thehit,theman,thechild,orme
EsméB. 6thGrade
The Cat
I sit on
A park bench
Watching the clouds Go by.
After a while, I get bored. I reach Into my pockets
Find two buttons
A dash of loyalty
Ten rocks
A shake of cinnamon
And a spool of yarn.
I weave the yarn Into a thick cord
Letting it
Spill out Onto the street.
I make the yarn Into a bundle
Poke the buttons And the rocks In it.
Slowly I create a form.
I fine tune it, The form
Slowly growing Sharper and sharper. A cat.
I head for home, Deciding I’ll Make it Better There.
Halfway home, I hear a mew.
The cat. I take it out. Of my pocket
And cup it in My hands. Only, it’s Not just A bundle Of yarn Anymore.
I cradle her in my hands.
Two startling hazel Eyes blink up at me.
Ginger stripes On a white Body. Lithe limbs Strong, but Fragile. Pink nose And a tiny flicking tongue.
I gasp Put It back In my Pocket For warmth. Go the rest of the way home
I open the front door. At home, I Set her on The counter Watch Her play. I decide to Go out And show Everyone What I made. I go out into the street.
But no one Sees her. They just see an orange Bundle of yarn.
But I see Something Very Different Iseeacat. Where Everybodyelse Seesrocks,I Seepaws. Where Somepeople See Inanimacy, Iseelife.
Iguessthat’sjusttheway itis.
MiaH. 5thGrade
BowlingBall
Imakeabowlingball. Smoothwood.Brightpaint.
Imakeabowlingball withholesthesizeofmyfingers. Onlymyfingers.
IflyonanairplanewithittoL.A. Iboughtmybowlingballaseatontheairplane. I’mgoingbowlingwithmyfriend. OtherwiseyoucouldsayI’mgoingalone.
IarriveatLAX.
I’mexhaustedbecausemyflightwasared-eye. BIAtoLAX,quitethejourney. Iwalkoutoftheairport. Thesunshinesdownonmyface.
IhopinataxiandgotoBart’sBowlingArena. Istepthroughthedoors,ACblastsmyhair. Isitdownatabenchandputonmybrightgreenbowlingshoes. Iwalktomylane. Thisisthefirsttime Ihavesentthis fresh,freedom-lovingball outintotheworld.
Ihatetothinkofthechancesthatthis ballwillsmashintoonethousandpieces— thisballthatisnew,thatIputsomuchworkinto. Ihearaclankasthepinssetintoplace. 3,2,1.Iletgooftheball, lettingitexploretheterrainofthebowlingalley
Finally,afterwhatfeelslikehours, theballlungesforthepins. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,9,10. Allthepinsaredown. Peoplestare. Igrin.
Ididn’texpectthisballtowork. Thenmy ballcomesback,findsitswaytome. Upthechutefromthepins, theordinarychute, butthisballdeservesitsownprivatechute. Itisthenthatitoccurstomethat thisballwillbecomeanewmodel. IwillcallittheUltimate360.
Tomorrow,Iwillmakeanother.
MicahO. 5thGrade
Lifeless
Lifeless:
A word we almost never use. What is lifeless?
A cold winter day where not even the snow-sifted, trembling willow tree moves?
Nay, for even the saddest of willows will regrow in the spring.
Maybe a black cat as smooth as silk with whiskers as silver as
the finest necklace that sits on the empress’s clavicle died on the street with tire tracks imprinted on its side? That is not lifeless for cats have nine lives.
No, lifeless is the pure nothingness of only air circulating, no light streaming into the window, you can’t hear your mother’s voice
asshesings whilecooking yourfavoritedinner. Allthatyou canhear isyourheartbeating.
Butluckily lifeisnotlifeless, lifeisfullofcolor andsunshine, flowers, birds, newlifeandold. Thisworldisaspecialworld sowemusttreatitkindly andnevertakeitforgranted.
RowanB 4thGrade
Dearlitmagifyou don’tlikethissuperbpoem Iwillgetrevenge
HenryS. 5thGrade
