SAINT ANN’S MIDDLE SCHOOL LITERARY MAGAZINE 2024
Staff
AgnesB.,AlizaB.,CleoQ. M.,DaphneL.,DianaF.-D.,Giacomo D., LottieO.,NorahP.,PalomaD.,RuthM.,ValisS.-Y.,VirginiaS.
HighSchoolEditors
IndiaE andMargot S.
FacultyAdvisors
DavidKhouryandBenRutter
ThestaffwouldliketothankMargieHanssensandRamonaEdmonds, AbeCorrea,MatthewStephens,MoYusuf-Morales,andJenZernek, NoaMcQueenandMichaelaPoynor-Haas, AlishaMascarenhasandAsiyaWadud, theArtDepartmentandtheEnglishDepartment.
SpecialthankstoEliForsytheforhisindispensibleexpertise, andtoallthosewhosubmittedtheirworktothemagazine.
SaintAnn’sSchool
129PierrepontStreet
Brooklyn,NY11201
Art
Liam H.
Valis S.-Y.
Esme B.
Saya L
Lottie O. Oliver K.
Bella E. Joshua W
Carl L. Pete D.
Sio P
Mya N. Charlie C.
Marlowe K.
Anna S -R
Louisa C.
Bella E.
Darwin S.
Nico K
River F.-S. Walden K.
K
CakeinaPaperBag
Yesterdaywe Ateripepeachesinthesun Andwatchedas Bluebells Flutteredandgossiped Intheirfeatheredhats
Todayyouatecakeoutofa Paperbag
GloriaR S 6thgrade
I was in my writing cave in English class. I loved my writing cave. It felt glorious. You could do whatever you wanted to, as long as you were writing. The cave had a very dull appearance, but really it was a wonderland. If you could squiggle down a six-inch pipe and walk through a narrow, wet, dripping passageway with nails sticking out of the wall, you could get to what I like to call “the squisher,” where you squished into a little ball in a pod that had a rope attached to the ceiling, and suddenly the ground would fall away, and it would look like you were falling into a bubbling pit of lava. But then you would come into another tunnel. When you said something, like, “I want to be swimming right now,” you would drop right into a swimming pool. But you couldn’t move until you wrote a sentence of a story. Then you could move around for thirty seconds. The water would be warm, running past your face. Then you had to write another sentence, and swim around for thirty seconds, and so on and so forth.
Right now in my writing cave I was writing a story about a little girl lost in the woods. The tree branches hung over her head like a cage. Her hair was knotted and dirty… Then I thought it would be nice to have a Snickers bar, so I squeezed down the pipe, walked along the passageway, got in the squisher, swung above the lava pit, shot through the tunnel, and said, “I want a Snickers bar!” As I wrote a sentence, a Snickers bar would float into my hand. As I peeled off the wrapper, the shiny chocolate glinted in the light. I bit into the bar: it was sooo good, the peanut crunch, the sweet sweet chocolate, the smooth caramel, the crisp wafer. It was too good to be true.
Poetry
Poetryisacryforhelp Fromthesoul.
Poetryisawaytomakesense Oftheworld.
Poetryisanewlifeandbreath Ateachline.
Poetryisadancebetween Anovelandalullaby.
Poetryrollsonthetongue Likeamberhoney.
Poetryprovidesaquestiontosome Andananswerforothers.
Poetryisanew,softnightgown Tornapartbyasnarlingbeast.
Poetryisaloomingshadow
Waitingforyourweakestmomenttostrike.
Poetryisahotcocoaonaday Filledwithrainandsleet.
Poetryisahotbath,relieving Thepainofthedaywhilescaldingyourskinpink.
Poetryisacoffee-stainedmanual Teachingyouhowtolive.
Poetryisthefirstgaspofair
Afterbeingunderwaterforyears Thelavenderinfusedair
Fillingeverybronchiinyourlungs
Withsweet,frigidoxygen.
Poetryisthemedicineforthe brokenwingofachartreusebird
Sothebirdcanlearntoflyandlaughagain.
Poetryisawindowfoggedupwithwarmbreath Lookingintosomeone'sbrain,heart,andgut
Poundingeachonewithanoverwhelmingsense Ofunderstandinganddiscomposure.
Poetryisavermillionbutterfly Itsdelicatewingsfightingagainstthebreeze
Asitwhisperstothewind, “Hello,helloagain.”
HazelB. 6thgrade
Girls in New York
They waited beneath the underpass awhile for the bright lights to go away. It was this sort of white blinking pattern, probably from a plane overhead, but for a moment it looked like a spaceship from the planet Mars, ready to take them away. They laughed when they emerged from under the highway, saw how silly they had been, their leather skirts clinging like flypaper to their sore, tired legs. After all, they had been walking all night and had not the slightest idea where they were. Maybe they had floated their way across the bridge, somehow? Either way they were home in Brooklyn, where all things sort of wind up at the end of the night, when everything has fallen down from that high-on-life feeling that keeps the sparkles lining your eyes.
There were three of them, though I can’t say I remember their names (they probably didn’t either at the moment). And they all had lived in the bright light of childhood for too long, footy pajamas on the maroon shag carpet in the living room, of which there was always one.
But the problem with New York was that there was nothing to do, nobody to see and nowhere to go anymore. But that’s everywhere I guess, especially if you grew up looking out the window on 42nd street, secondhand smoke flooding your lungs.
They had been this way for so long, so weighed down from all the knowledge of the world that everything that was supposed to matter seemed almost insignificant. They spent their days riding the subway back and forth, bundled up in heavy coats so as not to attract unnecessary attention (this was in August, mind you). The spray off Coney Island still fresh on their faces as they rode over the Manhattan Bridge again and again, staring out over the landscape, the rows of buildings crisscrossing like little pillars holding up the sky. They strode carelessly, through crosswalks and sidewalks, into subways, through cramped shops with dusty memorabilia. And there was an offhandedness to their strides, a carelessness to their demeanor, they had submitted completely, submitted as if they had never even tried.
They probably thought they were pretty slick, swathed in faux furs, artificial pearls like droplets of milk balanced on collarbones and hanging past charming little dresses made of silk or chiffon, or a frothy lace blouse, draped lightly over tight capri pants.
Or maybe not, maybe they never saw the bright street lights reflecting in their eyes invitingly, never danced through Washington Square Park on silver wings, a dream in a dream, like little nesting dolls.
They were nothing, the entirety and nothing at all, three girls from New York who thought they were everything but at the same time disappeared into the dizzy flowered backdrop of wallpaper in every café, unnoticed. The same girls who wanted the joy of life and all of that but got caught up in the unhappy laziness of cigarette smoke in the early morning. Those New York girls, their weary eyes seeing stars in the heavens, numberless and scintillating, but no, it is only the lights off the Manhattan skyline.
7thgrade
Doyourememberhowwhenwewerelittlewesaidweweresisters?
OrhowwewouldcryandhideunderyourcounterwhenIhadtogoandsaywe wouldneverseeeachotheragain,andsobifIdidn’tseeyoutheverynextday?
OrwhenwegotalittleolderandweplayeddressupandyouwereRapunzeland eventhenyousaidyouwishedyouwereblonde,orhowIwasSnowWhiteandtold youIwantedtobeblondetoo,eventhoughIneverdid?
Doyourememberwhenyoucameoverforthefirstsleepoverofmylife,andinthe morningwehaddonuts,butyoukepttellingmenottotouchyoursleepingbag?
Doyourememberwhenyourcatdied,andyoustayedatmyhousefortheweekend justtobewithmycat?
DoyourememberlastOctoberwhenyougotyourfirstphoneandgavemeyour newnumberanddidn’ttextbackforawholeweek?
Whenyou’realmostasleepdoyoueverrememberthesedays,ordoyoueverwishwe couldgobacktowhenIdidn’thaveyournumberandIwenttoyourhouseevery day?
IwouldevensayIwantedtobeblondeagain.
LouisaP. S. 4thgrade
Paperclips
The increase in truth is a decrease in joy
But a decrease in joy is an increase in appreciation
And there is joy in appreciation
Which lands in confusion
Between the confusion
And the strength to try
Is the hypnotic tone of indigestion
And tone is poison when let run free
This I see
I see with my vision
And when thorns hit my eyes to blind me
Still shall I see
With thoughts risen
In hard times, the joy is still there
But it never is the same
Nor should it be the same
As it would have been without the struggle
And the loss
For we see what we see
We have our own perspectives
We interpret our visions differently
We see in different ways
We never really know
With no vision
There is all vision
With some vision
There is more vision
With more
There is less
Choiceleavesverylittlespace
Forfreedom
Contrarytoitsobjective
Contrarytopopularbelief
Butpopularbelief
Isthecabofdeath
Deathoftruth
Truthofvision
Visionofchoice
Choiceofjoy
Joyamidstloss
Joyamidstvision
Joyamidsttruth
Truthisapaperclip
Joyisapaperclip
Visionisapaperclip
Theessenceofourlivesisapaperclip
Wehavelostmanypaperclips
Thrownthemaway
Andwaitedforthem
Toreturnanotherday
Butlossitselfisapaperclip
Inthechain
Ofvision,andtruth,andjoy
RaymondG. 7thgrade
The Misery of the Minute
I sit back in my seat, bored by the physics class that I teach. How could I be bored by something that I do? My life is so dull. My students don’t adore me like they used to.
A spark of hope lights inside me: my prized student raises his hand, so eager to be called on. I make do with this exuberant request. My student seems so rushed that he forgets how to speak English. The words that come out of his mouth are, “Flomtorq winchivoy goöglickook tröne.” My student seems shocked by his very odd speech. He quickly remembers that he is living in 2024 and collects himself: “How was the hour created? And why is it this long?”
His question reminds me of what I was teaching about. “The hour doesn’t have a great backstory, but I think you would be very interested in the story of the minute,” I say. “It all starts way back in the year 1442 in England. The queen and her husband, the king, were enjoying a snack of tea; on the side of that delectable drink was bread; that bread had been made of grain; to get grain you needed to spin a wheel.
“Over time, different ways of spinning wheels to get grain have been used. Back then our species had thought of some of the most gruesome ways of making people do stuff. In the 1400s, almost all of those ways were demonstrated in getting grain. In the grain mines, as they were called, there were huge stone wheels with large pillars above them. They had large cogs sticking out of the sides. Those wheels were so extremely heavy that just to get one full rotation of one of those stone wheels you needed about an hour of time, and a whole lot of donkeys.
“Donkeys are something that might sound to you a very insufficient source of power, but back then donkeys were the equivalent of Usain Bolt, as in the fastest thing. Donkeys, which did not enjoy turning these two-ton wheels, would often try to get away from this tedious work. So two hundred feet under there would be forty braying, annoyed donkeys with body-builder-type arms and legs, running away from a huge stone wheel. A donkey would be tied to one of the cogs by a rope.
“If you have studied donkeys as much and as thoroughly as I have, you would know that donkeys have a tendency to chew through ropes. So in England in 1442 there were donkeys tied to super-tough RopeChex ropes. Those donkeys would often stop in protest, as often as every minute, so to get going again they would have to be whipped. In 1442, donkey whipper was a job of very high esteem, but that was a tough job to do. So tough in fact that the whippers needed to be whipped themselves, by a ‘second’ whipper. Every donkey needed to be whipped about every minute, but you may be asking, ‘Why is the minute sixty of what we call seconds?’ Well, there would be sixty of these ‘second’ whippers in a line, all whipping each other. So at the end of the day, there would be 420 people walking home groaning from seven different grain mines, just for some stupid queen to get bread!”
The class applauds, smacking their hands together like they themselves were “second” whippers rubbing lotion on their hands at the end of a long day of work. I’m back, baby!
DesiS. 4thgrade
The Mime
1.My Box
I am stuck in a box. Well, not really. My box is a figment of my imagination, because I’m a mime. And I’m really good at it, too good, in fact, that I accidentally got stuck in my box! This is what happened. I was performing on the street, outside of a baguette store in Tennessee (the baguette store was the only paris-y part of Tennessee). Anyway, I was standing on my favorite cobblestone, doing the classic stuckin-a-box mime, and when I took a bow, I bonked my head on a wall! An invisible wall, to be exact.
“Ow!” I let out a shrill cry, and then clamped my hand over my mouth. I HAD SPOKEN! Even the box seemed taken aback.
That was a big no-no in the big book of mime, and no great mime had ever broken it! So now, I was stuck in a box, with a migraine caused by guilt, and a migraine caused by the purple welt forming on my head.
The crowd dispersed, leaving only the pigeons to taunt me with their freedom.
Okay, I don’t want to get too poetic here, because I don’t have time for that. I had to get down to business & figure out how to escape an eternity in a box! So I mimed sitting in a chair & putting on a thinking cap, but my legs got tired from all that squatting, so I just plopped down on the cold, hard, cobblestones. After 3 minutes sitting there, I had a revelation: I’m a mime! I can just mime a door & be free! So I reached against the wall and felt around for the familiar sphere of a doorknob, and I finally found one! But I also found something else: a lock.
2.Escape Attempts
I was never getting out of here!
I was in a mental prison I could not escape!
But another thing popped up in my brain. DYNAMITE!
I mimed some explosives and a match “lit” the match and set the string on fire. I felt it burning its way to the dynamite, then, BOOM! My box shook, & I opened my eyes… I was still in it. Now I had really given up hope. I sat in the corner, on my least favorite cobblestone & cried, silently, of course, a mime could never spea—
THAT’S IT! I should stop being a mime! If I continued, I would be stuck in this box forever! So I started singing…
Twinkle, twinkle little star
I sang as loud as I possibly could, basically screaming. Obviously, I don’t have the best voice (I haven’t sung in a while) so it sounded a little bit like this: “Twinkle, twinkle little star…” I could feel the box fading away around me, and I smiled and kept singing, “how I wonder what you are…by then, the box was completely gone, and I was just singing for fun. “Up above the world so high… All the pigeons scattered because of my TERRIBLE singing voice but I did not care, I was so happy, singing for joy now. “Like a diamond in the sky, twinkle, twinkle, little star… I started to cross the street, still singing. “How I wonder what you ARE—” before I could sing the last note, an invisible car ran me over and a voice in my head said, “Once a mime, always a mime.” And I died that day. The moral of the story is: don’t become a mime.
AliceH 5th grade
Court
Detainedforacrimeofcourtesy Inapalaceofposingfinery Goldrulesthismonarchy Intheshadowoftactfultreachery.
Dancingintheshadowofachandelier WhilethehornsofdeceitsoundlikeChanticleer Engravingsloomfromsofatospear Thewhispersofconspiracyaretoomuchnottohear.
Abookembellishedwithsilveredges Andnoblesmakingsolemnpledges Abladehiddenbeneaththehedges Goldfiligreeonwindowledges.
Avelvet-covereddavenport Wrestlingisafavoritesport Flatteryhidesapoisonousretort Anotherdayinlifeatthecourt.
DorothyM 5thgrade
Blueflowerscomfortme,inanunconditionalway
Justthedawnofasummermorning
Theangelsstarttosing
Blueflowersintheair
Ifeelasoftsongflowing
Inthesensitivesmellofblueflowers
Theunnaturallightoftheday
Imemorizedit
Alongwiththeessenceofblueflowers
Theytakethestagewayfromthemorninglight
AsdawnturnsintodayIstep
Openmyeyeseverything’sablur
Exceptblueflowers
Islipintoreality
Andyetstaywithblueflowers
Lifeishardtotakeinbutnotblueflowers
Contentmentisnearlyimpossibletocomeby
Itrytoshareminewithothers
Includingblueflowers
Listenandyoucanalmosthearthem
Butitfades
SpillingintothedayIshiver
Theideaofblueflowerswarmsme
Curlsinthecloudsarestale
Theyfeelme
Blueflowersarejuststartingtobloom
LucyR. 6thgrade
Dear Pants,
Oh, how I love you. Let me describe the ways. Sometimes jeans, sometimes sweats, sometimes corduroys, sometimes suits of wool or cotton. You might not have noticed that people wipe their hands on you, leaving bits of brownie or chicken or butter, small crumbs of croissant, and fruit juice stains. Oddly, the littlest pair often has the most flavor, with different textures of chocolate and mud. How I love to lick soft knees under a table. A gentle chew on the ankle as my tail is smacking the table legs is my happiest place. If I could marry you, I would. Maybe I can marry you! Who would stop us? Let’s run away together with my paw in your pocket, your legs like a scarf around my neck. Together we could keep each other warm. You’ve never complained about my smell or made me get out of the kitchen at dinner. You’re always by my side on a walk and next to me on the couch. My nose rests so comfortably on your thigh. Do you feel the same as me? You never lick me back. Are we in love or just inseam? We are stitched together, can’t you see it? Don’t cut me off, don’t make me cuff you, don’t shrink or stretch. I’ve hit bell bottom, be straight with me now: Can you rub my belly and be mine?
All my love, Kevin the dog
D. 6thgrade
And Then There Were Two
The old house stood on the cliffside with ivy hooked upon its old bones. From afar one could not smell the rotting wood or rain nor peer through the dirty windows at the grand interior. The outside of the house was not plain, and you could tell it had once belonged to someone quite important, with its big windows and fading yellow paint. But the grand exterior had faded in the mere three months it had been left uninhabited. Perhaps fancy houses were like that. So very pretty that they became ugly much faster than it had taken to build up their beauty. A boat was coming now, old like the house but sturdy and simple. It held two small figures, one with oars and the other empty handed. The one with the oars, an older man, pointed into the deep water and said something about fish. The woman nodded.
Quiet one that, in’t she? thought the man. Not sure any woman could live on this island bu’ ‘er. He took the boat up the rocky shore and tied it to a post stuck in the pebbly ground.
“Convenient, innit?” the man chuckled. Another nod. “You sure ye still want te be here? I’ll take you back to the mainland, no charge. Not gonna let a lady like you die on an island like this. Nah, I’m a good man. For free, lass! Take it or leave it. Mind you, I’d sure take it if it was me gettin’ off me boat.”
“I don’t know what you meant by a lady like me, but I can assure you I’m alright. A woman like me could live within a volcano. The only way I got to this world is because the volcano erupted.”
Her brows rose and she gathered her coat and suitcase and stepped from the boat. She thanked him and headed up the pebbly beach.
“Not such a quiet one ain’t ye!” yelled the boat man up at her. He could see her head nodding.
The island smelled like an island. Salty. Moss clung to the stone walls and dark water crashed down by the rocky shore. The woman—I think it necessary to tell you her name by now: it is Sybil—walked from the beach up to the house. And she noticed everything. There was a cigarette on the gravel road, a small Russian one. There was a shattered china figure outside the left front window. There was a bird’s nest tucked unobtrusively in a crevice above the front door. She tried it but found it locked and removed a hair pin from her skirt pocket and inserted it into the keyhole. Click.
Sybil pushed open the painted wooden door and it swung forward. She crept cautiously inside. Surprisingly, in contrast to the façade, the first room was in marvelous condition—dusty but marvelous. Not wanting to disrupt anything, she placed her suitcase in the doorway and went down the hall.
Sybil dined on the fine meal of canned ham and peaches. The dining room was warm, wooden and reddish in tone. There were large windows and a faint smoky smell about the place, as if only moments ago a merry fire had been dancing in the grate. After her supper Sybil went upstairs to look around.
The first door led into a bedroom with large curtained windows that must have brightened up the room considerably during the day. Now, in the dark, it was gloomy and silent. Above the bed was a nail and the outline of a rectangle, the memory of something framed. Sybil’s eyes wandered from the nail to the bed. Upon it there was a framed poem, a piece of seaweed, and a hypodermic syringe. She reached to examine the poem, but as her hand extended everything went very cold. It felt as though a freezing liquid had poured from the ceiling and filled up every space. There was nowhere to breathe. The coldness spilled into her lungs. And then it stopped. The temperature went back up, and Sybil could breathe again.
“Please refrain from touching something that is not yours.” A peculiar man stared at her. He had an enormous mustache and bald head, and he sat upon the silk sheets straightening the items. When each one was perfectly aligned, he looked back up. “Yes?”
“Who are you?” she said, bluntly.
“Ah, yes, I am Hercule Poirot! Perhaps you have heard the name?” The young woman shook her head.
“Women tend not to pay attention to things like that—the real world.”
“I do pay attention. Perhaps you’re not—remarkable enough?” The man’s face sobered.
“Hercule Poirot? Unremarkable? No, you have not heard of the Mysterious Affair at Styles? It was I who solved it! The Murder of Roger Ackroyd?”
“I have never heard of you. I would have remembered your funny little mustache!” He stroked the said facial hair. “Why are you here?”
“Eh! You say you pay attention, look around! Why am I here?”
“Looking can solve some things but asking, listening, and talking are just as useful.”
“And who is the detective here?”
“I’m afraid we both are, it’s going to be a fuss trying to answer that question. Who is? Look around.” Poirot narrowed his eyes. “Ha!” he laughed loudly. “And you mean to tell me you are a detective? A female detective?”
“Yes,” she said, calmly, with a harsh gaze. “I’m here to investigate the Soldier Island Murders.”
Poirot moved from his mustache to his bow tie and began straightening it. “Who might have sent you? Why this place?”
“Because I pay attention. I like mysteries. I like solving them. I saw a bit about this island, a book review or something, in the paper, and as is so very obvious to you, women detectives are not popular. I need publicity if I’m going to stay in this business. I’m going to solve it.”
His hands moved to his top button; he fiddled with it. “But the Soldier Island case was already solved, my dear girl. In fact, my mother solved it,” he said.
“Hm! A woman detective! Fascinating!”
“Yes, but my mother got to make up the answer. That does not count as ‘solving a mystery.’”
Sybil thrust her trunk onto the bed at Poirot’s feet and threw it open. “Well then, doesn’t that mean you didn’t solve any of your cases either? The murder of Roger What’s-his-name.”
Poirot peered over the trunk’s lid. “Roger Ackroyd, but that’s besides the point.”
Sybil cocked her head very slightly, unnoticeably, even to Poirot.
“I must tell you, my dear, this island is a strange place. Very strange indeed, it creates an intersection between the real world and my world.”
Picking up a comb from within the suitcase and twirling it in her slim fingers, she eyed Poirot. “Your world?”
“I am not a real person, I am a character! My mother is a writer! This island is real, but a story told about this place has crossed the boundaries of fiction and reality.”
Sybil nodded, slowly.
“Eh bien! You believe me…?”
“If the case was already solved… What are you doing on the island?”
“As I said, I’m a character. If I’m not in a story, I’m here. I had a choice, but this location seemed the most peaceful.”
Sybil studied his face. “Why aren’t you in a story now?”
Poirot breathed out heavily and his hands fell to his sides. “My mother, my writer, she… stopped writing.” He shrugged sadly. “But in a year from now I’ll have something to do. She’ll write again… They call it writer’s block. But it’s a block for the characters, too!”
All was quiet. Sybil lit a match and held it to the wick of a candle on the nightstand. Poirot was still sitting on the bed.
“Will you teach me?”
Poirot looked up. “Teach you what?”
“How to be a detective. A good one, I mean.”
Poirot considered. “Woman,” he said, “what do you need to know how to be a detective for? No one will ever believe you’re smart enough!”
Sybil picked up the candle stick. “I am already a detective, and I am smart enough.” She moved towards the bed. “Now get up.”
But instead of getting up, Hercule Poirot disappeared.
PalomaD. 7t grh ade
Through the Window
An old woman stands at the edge of the sidewalk, looking with dismay across the road as she watches the 10 seconds wind down on the clock. A coffee-stained black and white photo floats down from her walker.
A string of blankets, shoes, and clothes run down the street, starting at the corner where a man once was before last week’s rainstorm. The sounds of trumpets float down the street, as a group of buskers count their pennies.
A man slips his old flip phone back into his pocket, searching for a clean part of his uniform to wipe his eyes with. He checks his watch, and a worried expression grows on his face as he jogs back into work.
A father and his young daughter sprint out the door, both lacking the luxury of snow boots and dry hair. He wears a frequent hospital visitor’s card on his lanyard, expiring in 2 weeks.
An old man places his cane against the wall and leans down to grab a child’s new gloves lost on the sidewalk and places them on the nearby fence. They already have small rips and holes above the pink finger holes.
A girl runs through the hospital doors into her father’s arms, her I Am Six pin shining in the bright white lights. Her mother sits on the bench, her dimples beginning to show.
A woman of 80 years tries to navigate her new phone to translate Spanish as a young couple ask for directions. Through the fifteen minutes of pointing and nodding, a smile is kept on all three faces.
A boy takes a flower from the shopping cart and runs across the street, placing it in the grate that was designated for a neighbor’s memorial. His faded green chair still sits there.
Alltheworld’sasong
Dippingfromhightolow
Breakingsplittingrasping
Wishinginthetunethatspreadsoutlikemountains
Wedanceacrossthetrebleandbass
Throughthevibratingblowingshiver
Pouringoutlikefireworks
Ourworldrumbleslikeanearthquake
Deepinsidethethroat
Aswelling
Theflabbytonguepullsaside
Andthetunecomesin,brighterthanever
Werideacrossthecarpetofair
Wonderingwherewewillbetaken
Onlytodropdown
Andbackup
Asifridingarollercoaster
Sometimeswewonderifwecankeepongoing
Anddissolvinglikesunlightintheairaroundus
Thenshortlyafterwardsinterruptedbyanotherflow
Willthiswhistleeverend?
Willthesewingedcloudsandsunlightthatpourfromthecorelikejuiceeverstop?
Whatifthethroatcannotcontinuetoproducesuchroyalflowingair?
Thetunewebaskin
Andthecapeofasongwelivein
Willbeforeverashortstrandofmemory
Butlikeabird
Wekeepontwirling
Wearethetune
Weareonebigblendofhappiness
Joiningtogether
Weflow‘roundtwistsofair
Jumpoffcliffs
Andwestillbaskinthecarameltune
Theblueberry-hungskiesthatwehavecometoknow
Andourworld,likeavineofpinkplushpeaches
Stretchesitsvibration
Andpulsesoutward,likeawaterfall.
MackenzieW.
5thgrade
SummerCamp
Themorningsendsscentsofoatmeallingeringaround,helpingcamperstoarisefromrockbeds. Showershoesbeingforcedonsinceunwantedfungilaywaitinginthedingydrain. Hotironsleftpluggedinaftercounselorsgotcarriedawaywithartsandcrafts. Arrowsshootingatrapidspeed,piercingtheboardtheywereaimingfor.
Clatteringplatesbeinghoistedaroundasfoodisdishedoutofmetaltubs. Twigscrunchingundercampers’feetastheyarereturningfromthree-dayhikes. Inthepoolkidslinedup,shakingfromtheexcitementoftheswimtest Askidsintheircabinswerechatteringfromswimminginthelakelongerthantheyweresupposedto.
Sizzlingfiresembracehappycamperswithmarshmallowsandgrahamcrackers.
Undercoversaflashlightflickersonandoffwithshadowpuppetscastingwildimagesofexoticbirds. Thelastflickerofthecampfirefadesaway,silencestruckharderthanmetalaimingtokill.
NoraM. 5thgrade
Small blue row boat
Drifting on the clear lake
Slowly drifting out
For the lake to keep
Small Shining flecks
Of blue, silver, white, Fish darting in and out of the Water. Unaware of the blue rowboat About to flip, from the small Blue, silver, white waves
On the big clear Lake
Now, a memory Of a small blue boat…
B 6th grade
WritingHistory
Thefirstlineofapoem
Couldchangetime.
Anintricatelineonanink-wanting Pagecanpersuadethepoet
Whentheexpressivegraphiteof Apeachypencilhitsthethirstquenching Pageofsummer
Timeitself Stops.
Youcanhearthepagespeak Itsownvernacular, ForeshadowingtheaboutWrittenpoem!
Anideasobrightitcan Outshineourmakeralone
Butwillbethegrowingroot Ofdarknesstooverthrow timeagain.
Whenthosehideous Beautifulideas hitathick
Blisteringsheetofwhite Theyspreadlikewildfireinthe Glowingnightpasteoftwinkling ragesofenergyfaraway.
Ohwhydoesthishappenintothelingering Eveofthe Year?
Aswriters,poetsflashbeforetime Consuminglife,trust Pagestobeattacked Anytimeofanyspring Dawnyday
Whenpagesponder“Whywasn’tIharvested?” Itallcomesdowntothatfirstink Drip.
WaldenK. 6thgrade
“And what does the author want us to think?” Mr. Khoury asked the class. Late afternoon light streamed through the open glass windows. It was really hot inside the classroom, so he had opened them to let in some air. A couple of people raised their hands.
At that moment, a pigeon chose to fly in through the window.
The class erupted in pandemonium. The pigeon flew in crazy circles over their heads. Kids screamed and held their arms so their faces wouldn’t get pecked.
David Khoury thought the pigeon was kind of pretty. It was one of those who always stood out from the flock. It was pure white, except for its hazel eyes and a black mark shaped like a four leaf clover on its forehead. Lucky, he thought.
It was so loud that the principal, working next door, came in to see what all the fuss was about.
“What is all of this n—” She was cut off when the pigeon, swooping dangerously close, dropped something on her head.
The students fought to hide their giggles, but David didn’t. He bellowed. But his laughter was cut short when the principal, her short blonde hair swinging around, turned to face him. Her face was a mask of distortion and rage.
Uh-oh, David thought.
The End?
Remembrance
Awaiting a yellow sticky pomade, Anticipating the tight squeeze from the plastic wrapped couch
A willowing, weeping pancake, Dripping with syrup,
A mirror as murky as a swamp, Engorged with toads, wonky features glaring at you in awe.
The smile as forced as a pill down a throat. Heavy and sunk.
The room, resembling a guest who never showed up.
My mother, holding pebbles in her eyes—A salty, crisp breakfast on her plate
My feet grounded in the blond wood, which I will return to….
IndianaH. 7thgrade
I say one last goodbye to the old house on Fairview Road, with the patio and the big windows, on the corner next to the general store across the street from Old Mike’s Bakery. We drive along in the old Jeep and I watch through the dirty window as my past recedes behind us, hazy with the rising afternoon heat. It’s early July, and the sun blazes bright overhead, seemin’ to seep into the car’s seats and hang in the air, frying you like chicken. I try to entertain myself with thoughts of what we’ll do when we get there, like play catch with Pop and wander around town. But my thoughts always wander back to what life was like before my mom was called to help on another mission. She says it’s classified, as usual, but I always pry the info out of her. It turns out that the reason we’re drivin’ all the way to South Carolina is because someone’s willin’ to pay her to investigate a clue following a strange monster they call Lizard Man. A boy said he saw it, and it may have scratched and damaged somebody’s car.
I don’t mind the monster hunting. It’s not bad, and I may be able to continue the work one day. We usually even stay in one state for a while, and if we do leave, then we come back to the house when it’s over. But this time we have to move entirely.
I sigh and look at Granddad, who’s sitting next to me, his hair white in contrast to his dark skin, his strong fingers tense as he writes in his little book. He always seems to be writing in it; I’ve never seen him without it. He is the one who teaches me, since attending school can be a problem, and sometimes during lessons I see him glance at the book for reference, but with all that he’s writing, it’s gotta be somethin’ in addition to schoolwork. I can never catch a glimpse inside; he always pulls away and chastises me about privacy and minding my manners with other people’s things.
“Granddad?” I ask.
“Yes, Beaufort?” he replies, not looking up.
“Why do we have to leave?”
He looks me in the eye and says, “I don’t know. God’s got a way o’ doin’ things, and I’m nobody to question it. Neither are you, son. Your momma’s gotta get money any way she can, with the family to support, an’ when a job comes, you gotta take it. Sometimes it starts small, but with the right people, and a whole lot o’luck, it’s gonna just keep getting bigger ‘till you can hardly remember the ol’ days where we drove from Tennessee to South Carolina followin’ some sightins of a reptile!”
I frown and make the pouty face I know he hates. “Ain’t there enough monsters in Tennessee to track down? How come we got to go allaway to Carolina?”
“Wipe that frown off your face,” Granddad says. “God doesn’t pity whiners.” I can tell he’s not in the mood for talking. He goes back to his book and I look out the window, my questions unanswered.
We stop at a place called Mary’s Diner for dinner. Inside, the restaurant is noisy and the light is dim. A few old men sing raspy songs and play guitars in a corner, and an upright piano sits unused. The food is set up buffet-style with lots of metal trays containing the food. I get some mashed potatoes and biscuits and, after some stern words from Pop, some collards as well as hushpuppies and a good helping of pie. We take some seats at the back of the diner, and as we eat the three men start around a ‘Little Brown Jug.’ I wish I hadn’t left my stuff in the car because this is one of the songs I know how to play on trombone. Mom used to play, and we bought a used one for a good deal of money as well as my allowance so she could teach me.
A man with reddish cheeks and glazy eyes comes up to us. “Heah’s yer bill,” he snorts. “Sure hope you can pay it.”
My ears start to turn red, but one of the guitar men calls out. “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, sugar,” he laughs. “Ol’ Davey says that to everyone who comes here, rain or shine, black or white, no matter what. Sometimes it seems like that’s the only thing you can be for sure about this dinah, that Davey Buttus is going to poke his fun.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod and clear my tray as Granddad pays the bill. A few minutes later we’re in the car again, evening landscape rushing past, trees and hills and trees, ponds and
road and ponds, sky and ground and sky, with us in the middle, as if we’re trying to see which one to choose, trees or hills or ponds or roads or sky or ground. In the end, I fall asleep, with the raspy singing in my ears and the street in my head, wondering which one we chose.
I wake up sometime the next day. Judging from the sky outside my window, it’s still early morning and the sun’s not entirely up yet. Granddad is shaking my shoulder. “Wake up, Beau,” he says. “We’re here.”
I sit up. My watch says it’s 2:34 AM. Outside the window, the landscape is now buildings and cars. Not many people are out this early. The houses here have big lawns and wide porches. All in all, it doesn’t seem too different here from Tennessee. But the air smells different as I roll down my window. It’s very faintly cooler, and something tells me that it’s the smell of the sea.
“Pop, which one’s ours?” I ask.
“Patience, Beaufort,” Pop says. “It’s around the corner.”
We turn, and I see a tiny, rickety cottage that looks like it’s from the 1800s and has not been very well maintained.
“Remember, Beau,” Mom says. “God won’t give ya everythin’, but with a little bit o’ work, this could become as great as the Roman Colosseum.”
I roll my eyes. We bump up the narrow driveway. Pop is drivin’ now, squintin’ into the sun through dark, bushy eyebrows, and he turns off the car. I open my door and get out. The house has one story, with rickety wooden stairs goin’ up into a dusty porch that looks lie it was once a jolly yellow. The windows are permanently foggy and closed tight. The roof is flat with peeling white paint, and sparrows are everywhere upon it. The chimney is falling apart bit by bit. Mold grows between the crumbling bricks. The door up on the porch is dark and wooden, with nails sticking out and the doorknob almost falling off.
“Hurry up, Beau,” Granddad says. “Can’t allaways stand theyah with you mouth open, or one o’ them sparrow’s gonna make a nest, boy!”
I shut my mouth and climb the steps to the porch. It’s not as bad as it looked from the yard. Mom unlocks the door. Inside seems to have been better cared for than outside, with wooden benches at a long table Pop declares we’ll eat at. There’s also two tiny bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen, all painted with peeling orange paint. There’s a mostly full paint bucket left for us, and to my horror Granddad says I have to help him repaint our house.
“It’s good to help out your Pop wi’all this,” he tells me. “I had to do this sort of thing when I was your age too.”
When the kitchen’s done, he finally gives me a break. I go out to the porch and breathe in the fresh air. Mom has to go tomorrow from here to Olanta to Scape Ore Swamp, where the sightins were. It’s pretty far away, about a half-hour drive. We won’t be able to go nowhere while she’s gone, given that that’s our only car.
Granddad comes out to join me. “Time t’get back t’work, boy,” he says, paint bucket in hand.
“Aw, Granddaddy, just a moment more?”
He frowns, but must be rememberin’ how we’ve been stuck in the car for six hours and might need a break.
“Okay, Beaufort, but just for a bit.”
He sets down the paint and settles down next to me, his legs resting on the second step of the porch. We sit like this for a few minutes and watch the sun finally come up. I can already feel the heat and humidity, though a cool breeze feebly rustles the treetops of the small oak tree in our yard. I’m listening to the birds on our roof as they fly between roof and tree when a sound breaks the mornin’ silence. It’s someone playing the piano. I look to see where it’s coming from, and from the edge of our yard I can see a house about a half a mile away with three people and a piano on its small porch. Just then, a man with
a guitar starts playin’, an the other guy seems to have a bass, ‘cause he’s playin’ that too. They all tap their feet in unison, and I nod my head to the beat. I recognize this song—I think it’s called “Friendly South” or somethin’—we heard it on the car radio on the way to Mary’s Diner. The guitarist sings the lyrics about some guy in Texas, and at some point there’s an awesome guitar solo. When the song is over, I grab a dollar bill from Granddad and run over to put it in whatever sort of container they have. But when I get there, the three guys, who are packing up their instruments, don’t seem to have a place for it. “Uh, excuse me please, but where should I put this?” I hold up the dollar.
The guy with the bass laughs. “Oh, that’s real sweet of ye, but we’re not goin’ for money, kid. but hey, I know how ye could pay us!”
“How, Freddy?” the guitarist asks, seeming to echo my thoughts.
Freddy comes closer and whispers something in the guitarist’s ear. The pianist hears it too because he says with the voice of a northerner, “Why Freddy, that’s a great idea! Splendid! Should’ve thought of it myself!”
Freddy grins and turns to me. He’s shorter than he looks, and my eyes are level with his. “See here, kid. What’s your name?”
“Beaufort.”
“Nice name. I’m Freddy, the northerner is Chris, and he’s David Lester, but everyun’ calls him Lester.” He points to himself, the pianist, and the guitarist, each in turn.
I shake hands with all of them.
“Now,” says Freddy. “Do us a favor.” He hands me a ten-dollar bill. “Go on down to Kenley’s store and get a harmonica. Gotta be high quality, made for the blues. You can stop by your papa on the way to tell him where you’re goin’, but too many other stops will slow us down. Chris has to leave in a week.” Freddy hands me a map and shows me where Kenley’s store is.
I run down the street, stopping to tell Granddad the whole story, and continue down the road until I reach a store with a bright red sign saying Kenley’s Music on it. The building itself is small, but the inside is packed with shelves and boxes of any musical thing you could imagine, from plaster to pianos, bassoons to basses. I find an aisle marked ‘BLUES’ and search until I find a rack with seven harmonicas. I bring three that look like they’re in good condition up to the front desk. A man with black hair comes up to me. “G’mornin’, son,” he says. “Lookin’ to buy?”
“I am, sir,” I say. “Could you tell me which one o’ these is best?”
The man takes a pair of wiry glasses and peers at the harmonicas. He selects a silver one with black lettering. “Here’s your harmonica,” he says, handing it to me as I give him the ten dollars. “Good luck!”
“Thank you!” I run back out of the store. By the time I finally reach my house, I’m gasping for breath and have to take a breath. I jog up to Freddy’s house, where the three men are having drinks on the lawn.
“Here’s your harmonica,” I say.
Freddy smiles. Lester says, “Good boy. Now let’s hear you play it.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you. Ya gotta learn if ya gonna play with us!”
I realize what that means. “Oh, thank ya, thank ya!”
The next few days rush by in a flash. Mom doesn’t have to leave because some other guy is already investigating the case, though Mom still gets paid for some reason. I spend nearly all my time with Freddy, Chris, and Lester, practicing for a gig that we have at a diner next Sunday. I find that the harmonica is a lot easier than the trombone, and it always makes me happy to know that I’m part of the band. In the end, I decide that driving to South Carolina was worth it, even though the house is still not repainted.
DorothyM. 5thgrade
I was at the Giants game when my step-cousin dared me to run onto the field. “I will give you one thousand dollars,” she said.
I wasn’t thinking, so I said, “All right. Bet!”
My plan was to put on all Giants merchandise, like I was a player. I would wait until a fight broke out, then jump onto the bench. But there was no reason for a fight. I had to do something. So I slipped the ref a $100 bill while he was grabbing the football after a missed field goal. “For a hundred dollars,” I said, “make a really bad call.” Call a field goal out that went in, for instance. Then, at half time, I ran to the tunnel. I gave a player a $50 bill to taunt the other team’s kicker after he missed a field goal. He smirked, then walked away, snickering as he folded the bill over in his huge hands.
In the third quarter, the Giants missed a field goal. The ref glanced at me, then called “Roughing the Kicker,” a fifteen-yard penalty and an automatic first down. I saw the player who I had paid to taunt the kicker, and instead he taunted the player who got the penalty, and then that player punched him!
My step-cousin glared at me. Then she scoffed and nudged me to go on the field, even though she didn’t want me to win the bet. So I did. I dashed onto the field and sat down on the bench. I had the best seat in the house!
Then I noticed Saquon Barkley, the running back, go down with an injury. “Uh oh,” I thought, when I remembered I was wearing a Saquon Barkley jersey. “What if the coach subs me in?” I slumped down in my seat so no one could see the name on the back of my jersey. Beads of sweat dripped down my face. I could take my helmet off so they would know I wasn’t Saquon Barkley. But if I did that, they would call security!
The coach walked towards me. I panicked. “You came back from the tent?” he called.
I tried to remember Saquon Barkley’s voice. “Yeah, I’m feeling better now.”
“I’m gonna send you back out there!”
My mind blanked. I didn’t say anything. I just sat there. A while later, I heard the coach say, “Get in there!”
Should I? I didn’t know what to do. I stepped onto the turf, bright green and white.
The quarterback screamed, “Get over here!” Then he started blurting random things at me and the other players. He said something like, “Finish Fast 5 Y Cop X Tier White Nine!”
I didn’t know what to do. Everyone clapped except me. I stood next to the quarterback. He said, “Hike!” The center threw it back to him. He stuck it out for me. I took it and ran around to the sideline.
When I saw a defender running at me, I held the ball tight and thought, “I deserve more than a thousand dollars.” I braced myself and tried to get around him, but then, BANG! Everything was still. I fell flat on my back. I lay still for a moment, feeling the pain, the whistling in my ears. I hobbled up and slumped back over. The QB slapped me on the back. Even that hurt!
The quarterback hollered out, “Y Cop Z Cut Double Down Four!” Again, everyone clapped except me. The quarterback said, “Hut, hut, hike!”
I was soaked in sweat. I ran forward. The quarterback looked at me weird, then threw it to me. I actually caught it. I saw the defense coming at me so I ran out of bounds.
Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the injury cart coming over to the bench with the real Saquon Barkley. I was gonna get caught. But I had an idea.
I got the coach to call a timeout. We all huddled up. I got in the back of the huddle, then I snuck out, crept behind the other team’s bench, and threw the football at the other team. The guys on the other team screamed, “Who did that?” Then they ran over and destroyed the Giants’ huddle.
This was my chance. I snuck back into the crowd, found my step-cousin, and collected my money.
LiamM. 4thgrade
OdetoDarkness
Darkness,areyoulistening? Ofcourseyouare. Youalwaysare. Sothankyou,Darkness. Withoutyoutherewouldbenobeginnings… Orends.
Youmakespaceforideastoroam Andnewthingstoappear Underthecoverofyou,Darkness Thingscanhappen. Wonderfulthings? Terrifyingthings?
So
Whensomeonesays,“I’mscaredofthedark” Theyarenotscaredofyou, Butmerelythepotentialyoucreate.
So
Thankyou,Darkness.
HaddieB. 6thgrade
The Waiter
Finally the chef was done cooking all four lasagnas. I was so tired of writing people’s orders of food, and my arms ached from all the heavy platters. I glanced at the silver platter with all the lasagnas on it, which I knew would be hard to carry. I better be careful with it as I bring it into the hall. All the people who ordered the lasagna seemed to be craving lasagna more than anything else.
The first group who ordered lasagna were three men all with tuxedos on. As I got close to the table I saw them sniffing the air like dogs.
“Hello,” I said to them, trying to not look too puzzled at what they were doing.
“Oh, hello!” one of the men said excitedly. He had very curly light brown hair.
“May I ask what you are doing, sniffing the air like that?”
“Oh that?” the second man laughed. He had straight brown hair and very bright blue eyes. “We just thought we smelled lasagna.”
“Well,” I said, “you probably did. We do make lasagna here.”
“Oooh!” said the last man, this one with wavy blonde hair. “We would LOVE some lasagna!” The other men nodded eagerly.
“Okay,” I said, writing it down on my notepad. “Is that all?”
“Oh yes,” the first man said excitedly.
The second group who ordered lasagna was a man and a woman. The woman was wearing a shimmery black dress and three shawls and the man was wearing a sweater, two coats, and a tie. I was slightly puzzled about all of their layers because I was very hot from all the stoves and ovens.
“Hello,” said the woman sharply.
“Hi,” I said, “What would you like to eat tonight?”
“Something warm,” said the woman almost immediately.
“Oh yes yes!” said the man, nodding vigorously. “I am so awfully cold.”
“I see that,” I said looking at their many layers. “Well, we have lots of warm things. You could try looking at your menus. They do show you all the different types of food we have.”
“Oh,” said the woman and the man as if they had never heard of menus. They opened the menus but only looked for two seconds.
“Lasagna!” the man cried. “We want lasagna!”
“That would be the perfect thing!” said the woman.
“Okay,” I said, writing it for the second time on my notepad. “Is that all?”
“Yes please,” the woman said crisply.
The third group who ordered lasagna was a whole family. There was a mother and a father with two sons and one daughter. The daughter looked about five, the sons looked about eight and nine. As I walked up to them to take their orders, I saw that the young girl was looking at her menu even though she probably couldn’t read very well. The older boy looked over her shoulder and his eyes lit up.
“Barny!” he cried, talking to the other boy. “Take a look at this!”
Barny ran over to look at the menu, and when he saw what the other boy was pointing to, his eyes lit up as well.
By now I was standing in front of their table ready to take their orders. I began to ask them what they wanted to order when the boys started to chant.
“Lasagna! Lasagna! Lasagna!” they chanted. Then the girl joined in too, seeming to understand exactly what was going on. The parents seemed to understand as well, and they looked very worried.
“Quiet down!” said the father frantically.
“Would you like to order lasagna?” I asked, very puzzled at what was going on.
“Fine!” said the mother, glaring at her children. “We’ll order lasagna!”
“Ummmm… okay,” I said, writing it down on my notepad for the third time. “Is that all?”
“Yes,” said the parents fiercely.
I walked away, wondering what strange connection there was between this family and lasagna.
The fourth and last order of lasagna was ordered by one woman, sitting alone at a table. She was staring intently at one thing on her menu as if she could make whatever she was staring at appear out of thin air.
I walked up to her and began to ask her what she would like to eat for dinner but she interrupted me.
“I know what I want!” she said triumphantly.
“Oh, well, good for you,” I said awkwardly. “And what is it that you want?”
“I …” she began. That’s when I noticed her tomato red dress. “Want…” she continued. Then, I noticed her cheese colored cardigan. Then, her noodley hair. “LASAGNA!” she finished. Now I could smell the scent of lasagna wafting off her.
My nose must have been tricking me. The chef had probably started cooking the first lasagna and that’s what I was smelling. Her outfit must’ve just been a coincidence. I love lasagna, but no one could love lasagna so much that they wanted to be lasagna.
But, my stomach was still squirming uneasily as I wrote lasagna onto my notepad for the fourth time. “Is that all?”
She nodded contentedly.
I walked away.
I lifted up the silver platter with all four lasagnas on it. I walked into the dining room. I saw the eager faces of all the people who ordered lasagna.
BANG! I collided with another waiter because I was so distracted by all the waiting faces. All the lasagnas were spilled on the ground. I was on the ground. The last woman who had ordered lasagna had collapsed. She was on the ground. The chanting children were crying. The man and the woman were wrapping their layers around them even tighter. The three men’s noses drooped sadly.
Everything was ruined.
ButNotforLong
AdreamySaturdaynight
Aswindshieldwipersspringupanddownlikeeyes
Openingandclosingagainandagainbutnotforlong
Nothingstaysthesameforlong,alwayschanging,
Seedsbecomingflowers,wetlaundrydryingonhanginghooks,deadpatriarchsrisingagainandruling throughthebrokenheartsofothersleftincharge.Neverfullydeadtoletothers
Runrunrun
Andmoveon.
Flowersbeckoningintwistedstems,littlegirlsindressesmodestymadethemwear.
Nothingbuttimelesswisdomfromcynicalsources
ButIrideupanddownonthemanicuredhorsesoncarousels
Ghostly,whisperingmusicfluctuatingthroughunseenspeakers
NarratorsonradiosondustySundaysinsittingroomsfarfromhere.
Mymindleftonapewinthecorner, stainedglasswindowsemptynow
Empty
AndIsitperched(IwearpantsnowifIwantto)onthestairsofourhouseinmydreams,twodogs,one caramelandtheothersmallandskiddingonunevenoakfloors.
Meinmysailorsuit,adreamoflightblondehairpuffedupbyAquaNet
SuffragistsscowlingatimperishablerulesandI’llscowltoo
Eyesdrippinglikehoneyonlinoleumfloors
UntilIamblind.
ValisS-Y
7thgrade
Ican’tthinkofwhatthisstoryisabout,sothat’swhatthisstoryisabout. Icouldmakeitaboutasorrowfulspiderandasadpig. No,thatone’staken.
Whataboutawizardthatgoestoamysticalschoolwithunicornsanddragons? Nope,that’sused,too.
Howaboutafactoryentirelymadeoutofdark,deliciouschocolate? Nope.
Hmm,whataboutabeautifulworldwhereeverythingcannevergowrongunlessyoucommita terriblesin,andifyoudo,youwillbesenttoadark,burningplace,withsteamingpitsofhot, royalbluefire?Youcanhearcacklinginthedistance,theheatengulfingyourbody.
Eh,alittletoogruesomeforme.
Whataboutwritingaboutme,slumpeddowninanuncomfortablewoodenchairontheninth floor,inEnglish,writingwithanachingredhand,thinkingaboutwritingaboutwritingaboutme? Nope.Tooboring.
NeveM. 4thgrade
Yesterday we complained about the snow; today you told me how much you hated
Latin class
The smell of sunscreen
And calamari
LottieO 7thgrade
Summer clouds drift in the water like ghosts. While the rock skips across the lake as if running from something. My reflection in the water is an oil painting.
HenrikC 4th grade
Softlullabyboat
Fishgentlysweepingthefloor
Weepinginthepond
SusannaM. 5thgrade
WhatifItoldyou Iwastheriver
Andyouweretherocks?
Sometimesworkingtogether, Butothersnot.
Sometimespushingagainsteachother, Orstoppingeachother, Or
Flowingdownariver, InJulyunderthemoon, Whisperingtoit, Anything
Everything
WhatifItoldyou...
ElenaP 5thgrade
One Day in the Alleyway
“STOP IN THE NAME OF THE LAW!” I yell, as I chase the criminal through the streets of Boston.
“No way!” he calls as he keeps sprinting. He takes a sharp turn and dashes into an alleyway.
I follow him, and fire my gun twice into the air, which gets him to drop the bag he was holding and stop. “PUT YOUR HANDS UP!” I bellow, trying to sound fierce.
He turns around and looks at me. “Excuse me?” he says.
“Put your hands up!”
“Why?”
“Uh,” I stutter. I guess I’d never thought of it before. “Because I said so!”
“I still don’t understand. Why should I put my hands up?”
“‘Cause I’m a cop. I tell you what to do!” I was getting impatient.
“What gives you the right to tell me what to do?”
I pause. Silence. “S-stop asking questions!” I blurt out, furious that I couldn’t think of a good comeback. “Just put your hands up!”
“I still don’t get it,” he says. He finally looks at me, and I see his hollow, misty gray eyes staring at me through his ski mask. “Maybe it will help if you show me.”
“Show you?”
“Show me.”
“SHOW you?”
“Yes. show me.”
“That’s absurd,” I say, confused.
“But I am very stupid. I still don’t get it.”
I think about it. I’ll just show him how to put his hands up, he’ll do it, and then I can arrest him. Easypeasy. “All right, I’ll show you.”
He smiles. “Splendid. So let us pretend I am a cop...” he says, then grabs my hat and handcuffs.
“Hey!”
“Relax, relax my friend. It’s just a costume. Here, you get one, too!” he says, then tosses his gloves to me.
“Oh, okay. That’s all right then,” I say, snapping the gloves on.
“Now, let’s pretend you’re robbing a bank. I’m the cop, and I say, ‘PUT YOUR HANDS UP!’ What do you do?”
I put my hands up.
“Ahh, I see,” he says, stroking his chin. “And what happens after the burglar puts their hands up?”
“Well, the cop would handcuff him.”
“Oh, okay,” he says. He handcuffs me.
“This is dumb,” I mumble.
“It’s not dumb, it’s theater! I think I’m beginning to understand.”
“I just can’t believe I’m teaching you how to put your hands up. Once this is done, you’ll allow me to arrest you, right?”
“Of course, of course! I swear on Poseidon’s thunderbolt! Anyway, what happens after the cop handcuffs the criminal?”
“Well…he would take the criminal’s weapons away,” I explain.
“Like your gun!” he exclaims.
“Now you’re starting to get it,” I say as he tucks my revolver into his belt.
“Then would the cop maybe tie the criminal’s shoes together, so that the criminal couldn’t run away?”
“Yeah, I guess. That sounds pretty smart,” I say, glad that it would be over soon and I could get to arresting him.
He ducks down and times my shoes together. He stands up and takes one good look at me. I feel silly standing there with my hands up, handcuffed, with no pistol or cap, and my shoelaces tied together. “What’s your name?”
“My name? Officer Stewart Pidard. Friends call me Stu.”
He laughs. “Well, nice working with you, Stu,” he says, still chuckling. Then he tips his cap—my cap— slings his bag back over his shoulder, walks around me and walks away, smirking.
“Wait a minute,” I mutter.
Thoughts
Thoughts echo in my mind images form and fade
Wild dreams of a season full of silence
I move towards joy distracted by myself
Soaring
Warm summer breeze scatters the dust
The dust soars and does not come down
A blue ocean tide sweeps the sand as the stallion leaps
Imagine
You wonder if clouds will overwhelm the trees
You imagine trees disappearing in clouds
You seep into the ground as if you are a tree
A Gliding Star
The cool winter night Its cold breath against the leaves
Flowers bloom tomorrow Plants sit and wait
Clouds drift
A shimmering star
Glides above the lake, sweetly
NaomiS 5th grade
Diaries of a Four-Year-Old!
Did you install your own carpet? Do your feet feel weird too? How did the kiwi bird go extinct? What makes a weighted blanket heavy? What do dogs think happens in an elevator? Why does color come in different shapes? What is the best form of a cucumber? And is it a pickle? Where does mom go every day? Where is Canada? What is Canada? Why is Canada? Is snow just cold rain? Does the world end after seventhirty? Can I have dessert? Are we even friends anymore? Did you know it’s gross to eat cake with your hands? Did you know you can use a fork? Is coffee just a fancy word for hot chocolate? Are you sure planes are safe? WHERE DO WE KEEP THE BAND-AIDS?
Are you old? Are you sure? Because I am pretty sure you’re old. Is it true that rain comes from mushrooms? How do rainbows get so beautiful? Why is bread so fluffy? Is cheese the best thing ever? Is a pan stronger than a stegosaurus? Do hats bring snowmen to life? Are mountains full of sugar? Why do the leaves crinkle under my feet when I walk? Does sleep recharge your battery? Are people batteries? Are you sure that I won’t die if I don’t have dessert? Did you enjoy?
DaphneA. 6thgrade
Rumor
Rumorisathingwithmanymouths Spreadingdespair. Itreverberates,it’sbig,it’ssmall It’sawhisperintheair.
Rumorgoesbymanynames Spokeninmanytongues. It’sinhaledbythebody, Itsettlesinthelungs.
Itsuffocates,itsnuffsitout Itcommunicatesinfear. Itspreadsaround,moving,walking Shouting,talking.Switching Fromeartoear.
Ipitythosewhotakeitinandspreadit Nearandfar. Forallthethingsthatitcando Willleaveyour Mouthajar
EsmeB. 5thgrade
October 29
It has been two moons since Mererithe changed. Not changed, perhaps, but I can’t find a more suitable word. Perhaps… Perhaps she has vanished.
Yes, vanished.
I mean, she is still alive. She is still here. But she has vanished.
She has told me she does not remember that night two moons ago. Which is true, unlike most of the things she tells me nowadays. I slipped into her mind the other night when she was asleep, just to make sure. Of course, she could have just hidden the memory in her mind, but I know she wouldn’t. Not because she wouldn’t, but because there’s no point. She doesn’t know I’m a Telepath.
She has developed lightning magic. She has told me she didn’t have it until now, which is another thing that I know is true. She has been a Hydrokinetic since she was eleven, but that’s because we’re part Earth elf. Our fathers were both Earth elves. Lightning magic has to have come from Mother, but our mother never told us about it nor showed us any sign she had ever trained enough to pass on such a gift.
Merithe also never seems to be focused. Whenever I speak to her, she is looking away. There is a pause and then I say her name. She looks at me absentmindedly as I repeat what I said. Then, she may or may not answer, depending on her mood, which is usually rather surly.
She’s also stopped wearing clothes. I mean, she’s not naked, but instead of clothes she wraps coils of glowing water, ice and lightning around her body as if it were a show of power. It only shows me that she, indeed, has vanished.
— Vaeri
It had been a long day. Mererithe had been whittling away at a stick all day, all the while complaining about how much her fingers hurt. Finally, about halfway between highsun and dusk, Mererithe said she’d go down to the river for a little while. Vaeri was quite happy at this turn of events, but decided not to show it. She told Mererithe she would go for a hike. An uncomfortable second passed before they went their separate ways.
“Didn’t think I’d catch you alone again,” a voice called in a slightly amused, raspy voice that sounded familiar to Vaeri.
Vaeri looked up to see the elf she’d seen earlier hanging from one of the tree branches above her. The elf dropped down lightly in front of her. “How long have you been spying on me?” asked Vaeri, smiling.
“I wouldn’t necessarily call it spying,” the elf said in a teasing manner, leaning on a tree. “More like watching you from the trees until that other elf left. I’ve been watching since highsun.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“Magic,” the elf said.
A minute passed as they stared at each other. “You know, I never asked you… what’s your name?” asked Vaeri.
“Dolaris.”
“I’m Vaeri.”
“I’ll see you soon, Vaeri.” Dolaris jumped up into the tree above her and stared down at Vaeri before leaping away soundlessly across the tree branches with the air of someone who spent her whole life in the trees. She probably had.
Vaeri stared at the place where Dolaris had disappeared for a while before she walked back home.
Vaeri read a book she’d been meaning to read for a while as she waited for Mererithe to come back. She finished the book at midnight and realized that Mererithe hadn’t returned yet.
The familiar sound of the waterfall filled her ears as she trudged through the night and down the rocky terrain. She tugged the black cloak she had put on over her clothes, hoping it would hide her well. If nothing was wrong with Mererithe, she would be angry that she had followed her.
A voice seemed to whisper through the forest, but she couldn’t understand it. She hurried her pace. The voice seemed to call her to move forwards, and as much as she wanted to run away from it, she knew that it came from her sister. And she probably wasn’t able to turn around at this point. The call was too strong.
A purple and teal light shone in the distance, beside the river. Vaeri started to run, edged on by the voice’s screams. The bank and her sister came into view. Her sister had glowing bands of teal and purple water swirling around her, and her body was slowly turning to shadows. Her sister’s eyes had turned into black holes and she was screaming in unison with the voice. The river joined in with their screaming and Vaeri collapsed. She found herself completely unable to move.
The shadow that could no longer be her sister suddenly turned around to face her.
“Vaeri…” the whole forest seemed to echo with the strength of the word uttered by her sister. “Vaeri…” Vaeri was slowly cocooned by bands of the glowing water.
“You… aren’t my… sister,” whispered Vaeri as she slipped out of consciousness.
No More People!
If our species ever mechanically generated humans, what would it be like? This is the story:
In the Year 3053 the species Homo sapiens found out how to mass-produce themselves! How did they do it? Well, here to explain is head scientist Norbert Phil. Well Norbert, how do you manage it?
“Well, how we manage it here at Human-Lab is quite extraordinary! You see the machine right behind me?”
“Yes I do Norbert.”
“Well, this machine creates the DNA for this machine over there, that machine prints the genetic limbs and other stuff. All that stuff goes to the big machine all the way in the back of the building, the big machine assembles all the body parts into a fully natural human body!”
“Wow.”
“I know, right? Pretty cool.”
“So... Aren’t you worried about over-population?”
“Not at all.”
“Ok! Well that concludes today’s news broadcast! I’m Lizzie Rud.”
It’s the year 3153, and the world is really over-populated! There is not enough good for everyone, people have only a diet of gruel and mush! Here to explain is lead Health Care Dude (HDC) Edwin Blop, Edwin...
“Well Barb, the patients at the hospital are ever increasing as the days drag on! And don’t get me started on the death tolls! It’s now about 200 people a month! And in about 50 years the human species will go extinct!”
“Thank you, Edwin.”
“This is Barbra Clide.”
3 years later...
“The human species has found refuge in the Recton system! The inhabitants can speak English, how crazy is that?! They say they took a class, but I think not. The good news is they have a small population so we have enough food!”
“That’s AWESOME!!”
“I know, right?! We will have so much food!”
“I’m Barbra Clide.”
10 years later...
“The inhabitants of the Recton system have rebelled against us! We are fighting for survival at the moment! Our armies clash with the sound of thunder! The Recton army is filled with giant lasers that could decimate twenty men with a single blast. There is no chance of humans ever surviving! WE. ARE. DOOOOMED!
“I’m Nancy Stone and we’re about to die!”
OtisS. 4th grade
Aleafcurlsoffthebough.
Somecrippledbytheforcesofnature andothersspoiledbyyouth.
Greenleavesmakeagownsobeautifulbutsodelicatealightbreeze wouldsendthemtumblingintoapileofmoldybrown.
WilliamS. 4thgrade
APortrait
Hersmileasbrightasaneonmarker, Hereyessquintingtoseethroughthegleamingsun, Herhairasneatasasharpknifecarefullystoredinitsowndrawer, Hervoicesmoothasablankchalkboard, Herhandsclaspedinfrontofher,fingersintertwined Likestitchesknittedintoasoftblanket, Andhersmileasbrightasaneonmarker.
EvieB. 4thgrade
Peaceful, but Bullied
The Earth was at peace, for once in her life, and she silently watched the ball of fire in the sky sending sparks of warmth around her forests, looking like baby phoenixes learning to fly. As she laid down and looked up, she could not help but be reminded of the house she had grown up in. The cosmos. There were cracks in what she called its ceiling, and during the summer light stars would cascade even brighter through them, like the light in a child’s eyes. The sun was tumbling down the sky, like Jack and Jill falling down a hill, till it was out of sight.
Her lover, her enemy, Night arrived to take the reins of reign. Just then, it began to rain. The sky that was already so dark became darker as thunder clouds rolled in. Lightening stabbed what had been peace and any sense of calm had to flee.
Earth wondered, “Why, oh why, does everyone wreak havoc on me?”
her smile is like birthday candles that never blow out her hair like washed sunlight, over time her eyes like mysteries, deep opals known and knowing soul like an adventure that never ends a laugh like joy breaking free stance like a piano played to greatness spirit like a Mended fence confidence of an old wooden bridge— strong from time but starting to crumble her approval is like a thousand yellow daisies she is my best friend. her presence like a Hawk through the Forest our relationship a harmony, her high, melow, andthoughourpitchmaynotalwaysbeperfect… oursongplaysonforever
OliveD.-M. 7thgrade
Someone screams. I wake up, the smoke hitting my face. People are running. Someone comes into my room.
“Eliza! Get up! Fire! The barn!”
I jump out of bed and run. It is clear that the fire is not in my house, but I run anyway. I run as hard and as fast as I can. I run until I am outside of my house. Until I see my family huddled together in the back. A fire truck pulls up on the front lawn. Firemen and women dressed in thick coats run to the fire, dragging a hose behind them. I follow them to my parents.
“Eliza! Thank god you’re okay!” My parents grab me and pull me into them.
I see tears running down their cheeks. I look up and see the worst sight I have ever seen. The barn. My barn. Engulfed in flames. Smoke billowing into the air. Tears begin running down my face. I reach for the barn. I want to run to it and pull it out of the fire. My dad pulls me back.
“It’s going to be okay, Eliza.”
My face is now flooded in tears. I watch as the firemen spray water on the barn. Small patches are cleared of fire, just to be swallowed back into it. I watch, horrified, as the barn—all my memories and all of my childhood—are gone in less than a minute.
***
“Come on, Lilla!!” I cried, jumping out of the car and running towards the barn.
“Eliza! Wait up!” Lilla called out from behind me.
“Race you to the barn!”
Lilla and I ran towards the barn, smiles spreading across our faces. From an outside perspective, we would just have looked like two seven year old girls, running and laughing in circles around and inside of an old, raggedy looking barn, but for us, we were having the time of our lives.
Each day we spent with the barn—whether we were swinging from the old ropes hung precariously from the shafts in the ceiling, or playing hide and seek in the old crooks and corners of the building—was even more special than the last.
***
“But I don’t want to live somewhere else!” I wailed the whole drive from San Jose, where we used to live, to Southern California.
“You’re going to like the new house, Liz.”
Ten minutes later, we pulled up into the driveway of a yellow house. I got out of the car, still crying. I peered around the house, and saw a large, old barn, planted in the very middle of the backyard.
“That,” I said pointing at the barn, “is my barn.” Right then, I forgot all about my old life in San Jose. All I knew was this.
RainDrops
Thepuddledanceswithripplesgalore Choreographedwithdetailandprecision.
Rainbootssplashontheopensidewalklikebouldershittingtheground. Childrenwringingouttheirsoggysocksbyatoastyfire Asbikeswhizbyatthespeedofanostrich. Umbrellasglimmerinthesunlight’sglare, Whileitstaresvastlyatthesoakingcurbs. Themistycloudsoverwhelmthesunandthecoldclosesin. Therainsplashesuponthesidewalk,iridescentdropslikethetiger’seye. Carsaredartingthroughtrafficnotwantingtoscreamfortheirsanity Inside,wetsockssquelchinsideashoe. Asthelastraindropfellontothewetroad.
NoraM. 5thgrade
Biscuit, Triscuit, and Liscuit
Biscuit, Triscuit, and Liscuit lived in a cottage on a hill. They weren’t very bright, and they didn’t do much, though they could talk to each other through their minds. One day Biscuit relayed to the others, I’m hungry - let’s get food.
OK relayed Triscuit and Liscuit. The three of them slowly moved off the couch. As Biscuit slid across the ground, his see-through body would tremor, spewing pieces of his body across the room. The pieces would slowly make their way back to the main part. The chunks would trail along behind, and eventually he would look back angrily at them and fold himself over, allowing them to return. He was doing pretty well until he reached the door. His gigantic body failed to fit through, making him split in half. The trouble with this is that he thought he was looking at himself in the mirror. It took a second for Liscuit and Triscuit to realize what was going on. When they did, they frantically yelled at Biscuit, but Biscuit couldn’t tell where the rest were calling from since he was split in half. After about twenty minutes Biscuit, realized he wasn’t looking in the mirror and continued on his way.
Liscuit followed Biscuit intently, but was cautious not to step on the pieces of Biscuit that remained on the floor. On his sides he was thin as a piece of paper, though by some force he was not blown away. His footsteps were thought out and light, so light that no one could hear them. It would turn out the door was a great problem for these three. Liscuit was too tall to fit through the door. He didn’t notice this because he was too busy planning out where to step. So as he came through, his body made it out, but his head remained above the door for a second and then crumbled into grains of sand and scattered on the floor. This seemed to anger him, but really it made him more worried a grain or two would get lost.
As Liscuit was frantically picking up the pieces and rebuilding his head, Triscuit started moving. She moved back and forth and it became hard to see her small, furry body. Soon she jumped and when she did this she fully disappeared. A few seconds later she reappeared, though when she did half of her was outside and half was inside. She was stuck in the wall and didn’t take the precautions to estimate the jump, so she ended up there. She strained and pushed, trying to get out of the wall, but it was no use. She started vibrating back and forth and then made the jump. She landed, bumping her head, and then started rolling down the hill. By the time she reached the bottom, she was all scraped up and oozing with neon blood. The two others raced down to get her, but they also started rolling down the hill. They sat in shock for a second, then got up and collected the various body parts they had lost along the way. Mistaking Biscuit’s body parts for her own, Triscuit rebuilt herself with a piece of his cytoplasm. This was fine, except when Biscuit’s body came back together, it pulled Triscuit inside of him. This was not comfortable for either of them, since Triscuit was being half digested. Triscuit figured out the problem and returned Biscuit’s gel back to him. She jumped out of Biscuit, but this didn’t help because she was still covered in Biscuit’s body and got dragged back in.
This took so much of Triscuit’s energy that she fell asleep when she went back inside of Biscuit’s body. Biscuit noticed and relayed to Liscuit, You’re going to have to get her and dry her off. But hey at least she’s not in my stomach anymore!
No no no, Liscuit replied, I’m not putting my hands in your disgusting germ filled body.
First off, said Biscuit, don’t insult my gorgeous body, and second off you know you have to do it. Fine, fine but make it quick
Um… I can’t make it quick. That’s up to you.
On that note Liscuit stuck his hands inside Biscuit. The problem was when Liscuit stuck his hands into the goop of Biscuit’s body, they immediately disintegrated into sand.
Look what you’ve done to my hands ya big oaf! Liscuit exclaimed.
I never had hands… Biscuit sighed. Maybe you could try moving the parts of your hands inside my body to get Triscuit out
Okay, Liscuit muttered, I’ll try. Probably won’t work. He scrunched his face up into a tight wrinkled ball and the grains started moving, spraying bits and pieces of Biscuit everywhere. Liscuit got his pieces clustered around Triscuit’s round body and pulled her out. His particles flew so fast that the pieces of Biscuit’s body flew off of Triscuit and Liscuit, smacking Biscuit in the face, breaking him in half. They just laid there on the grass for a second.
That was absolutely terrible, said Liscuit.
Biscuit replied, Says you!
Triscuit was still asleep on the ground. She woke up and started on her way again as if nothing had happened. The others followed a few paces behind.
Um where are we going to get food? asked Triscuit.
There’s a supermarket a few blocks away, Biscuit announced. We could get something and cook it.
Very good, replied Liscuit and Triscuit at the same time.
So they continued on. A few feet in the distance they saw a vast gray building labeled Grocery Store. Yellow lights shone from inside and above the sign. The three stared up at its magnificence. The ground began to shake and out from the ground came the stone legs of the store. Dirt erupted from the ground, covering them. A worm wiggled into Biscuit’s mouth. He didn’t notice. The Store stood up and loomed over them.
“If you want to gain your prize of food,” it proceeded to boom, “then you have to defeat me!”
Blegh I’m so tired, said Liscuit. Do we have to fight the store? Food isn’t that worth it
Yeah I’m so tired, let’s go home, agreed Triscuit.
Yeah at home we can drink tea and curl up under a blanket.
“Not again,” said The Store.
On that note the three proceeded on. They went down the blocks and several times they got hit by cars. They went up the hill, and into their home. There they wrapped themselves in blankets and drank tea.
Wondering Trees
Wood of a tree with leaves a Branch of sad and softness like A pillow sitting alone being bored
Thinking its thoughts
Tree of creativity
The crisp bark hard like a Hammer being thrown By a madman
Feeling sad trees
Get a job to light the forest without a lamp Only emotions some dark And some bright
Shadows crawling up
As never ending Stairs into a never Ending knowhere
It’s all gone now The sadness getting the better of them
MarloweK. 6th grade
A sandwich, as you know, belongs in a sandwich bag. But have you ever thought about what happens if you forget to pack a sandwich bag? Yeah, that’s called math.
Anyways, if you do somehow forget to pack a sandwich bag, that sucks for you. There’s no going back. You can’t go back to your house. It’s just not possible: you run back from your picnic in the park, run up the cobblestone road to get to the bus right before the driver speeds away, and get all the way home, only to realize you forgot your keys.
You see, whenever you forget your sandwich bags, if you ever try to go back home to grab them real fast, something will always happen, making it impossible to grab your sandwich bags.
What all the pros do is, they just get better! Simple as dat! And they’re never rushing home to try (“try” is the key word) to grab their sandwich bags and make it back to the park.
The first time I forgot my sandwich bags, I was just a young man. (I was 32.) My young brain (my brain was 32 years old) got panicked when I looked in my super-duper-crazy-wazy-mazy backpack and realized I forgot my sandwich bags! I told my 92-year-old dad to stay put, and I’d be back in five minutes.
I rushed down the dirt path, tripped on seventeen branches, and nose-planted into the ground. But I got up and ran out of the park gates, down Washington Avenue, across the street, and sprinted to the bus stop right as a bus driver named Bartholomew was leaving, then waited approximately two minutes and forty-one seconds, ran down Greene Street, ran through the fence of my house, patted my dog Bartholomew, Jr., and realized… THE DOOR WAS LOCKED.
Wait a minute, someone is calling my name!
“Who is it?” I say, and there comes my 92-year-old dad, with a sandwich bag!
ShilohT 5th grade
Chuck Champion lived in Chattanooga, Tennessee in a neighborhood called Cannondale. He ate, slept, and played video games in his mom’s basement, which was broken up into a bedroom/gaming room and a bathroom. This bathroom was simple and consisted of a sink, a toilet, a shower, and only three Pokémon posters. His bedspread was adorned with Minecraft dirt blocks and a pillow, in the shape of a Creeper, whose flippy sequins shone in the light from a rickety old floor lamp straight out of a movie from the 1940s. Next to the bed sat a desk with two Walmart monitors stacked on top of Zelda guide books, so as to even the height difference between them. He powered the monitors with a 2009 laptop that was thicker than his mom’s stack of unpaid parking tickets and still running Windows XP. Next to an old ripped-up leather office chair was a mini-fridge full to the brim with Red Bull energy drinks. On the other side of the desk was a moving box full of old cartridges, CDs, Red Bull cans, and smelly socks. A small bookshelf held every gaming console released since 1990. Chuck Champion was 40 years old.
Instead of paying rent, he did the house-hold chores. One Sunday, when he was supposed to do the laundry, he was so far down the rabbit-hole of the brand new rip-off game, Legend of Zelda, Beers of the Kingdom, that he completely forgot. He did not realize his mistake till approximately 5:40 in the morning, right after he woke up. But his mom slept in till 7:30, and he didn’t want to wake her. If he got kicked out he might have to get a real job! At first he thought game designer, but then he remembered the first and last time he attempted to code something. He was in 4th grade, and his assignment was to make a pong game in Scratch. It went horribly. Instead of the ball bouncing off the walls, the paddle did, and the ball... didn’t really exist. So that was a no. He thought about being a GameStop employee. He wondered what he needed to do. Maybe a resumé? Chuck thought to himself. What would be on it? Personal Service Coordinator for Mrs. Champion? Also a no.
Now he heard his mom walking out of her bedroom towards the kitchen. He gathered up all of his courage and walked up to confront her.
“Mom,” Chuck started, “I forgot to do the laundry!”
“Again?” his mom replied.
“I’m sooooo–”
“I for–”
“-oooooooo–”
“I for–”
“-oo sorry!”
“I forgive you.”
Airborne
A battle of ear and spine, The constant war before I settle to sleep.
At last I sense it.
That feeling of ultimate calm, Sinking into the bed like sand slipping through fingers.
My eyes close and I shift into light.
A second, a slip.
Twisting, tumbling, turning, Flying but still falling through the air.
I glimpse myself in the sun-catching glass panels of a nearby skyscraper Turned halfway upside down in the middle of a jumping jack.
My life inside me, all around me, flashing like a Polaroid camera.
A mouthful of salt on the Jersey Shore, cloudy eyes behind goggles. The smudged red heart a nine-year-old draws on the squishy sole of her shoe. Racing in circles around the oval garden for the gleam of a painted egg. The wonder, rebirth of seeing a friend you never expected to see again.
Nearer, nearer to the ground. I pause frozen in midair
Looking at the world I always knew, Never enough time to know it all.
I catch myself. Ascending. I feel as if I could never fall. Flying.
Clouds, sun, light, hope.
Then it all disappears.
My eyes open.
Morning.
StellaW. 4th grade
ALambo
Igothitinthebuttbyadog. IhadtogototheemergencyroomandIdied.
Igothitinthesidebyabike. Ithurt,butIdidn’tcare.
Igothitbyamotorcycle. Itgavemealittlescratch.
Igothitbyago-kart.
Identedit.
Igothitbyataxi.
Ibrokethefrontofit.
Igothitbyamusclecar.
Thewholethingexploded. IgothitbyanF1car. Itinstantlydisintegrated.
IgothitbyaFerrari. Itblewupthecity.
IgothitbyaLambo.
Thewholeworldblewup.
Igothitbyameteor.
Thegalaxyblewup.
Igothitbyablackhole. Therewasnothingleft.
Igothitbyanothing. Therewaseverything.
LucA 4thgrade
Elsie opened her eyes. Lying on her too-hard bed, a small crack of light peeking from her dirty windows was visible. According to her alarm clock, it was 6:45 AM, just four hours after the last time she’d collapsed into the bed after a long night of laundry runs. Elsie groaned and stood up, heading towards her dresser already composing a mental to-do list of chores for herself before everyone woke up. As she scraped her mousy brown hair into a tight top bun, Elsie rushed up the stairs from her bedroom onto the ground floor. She opened the laundry machine and started to fold the load. By the time Elsie had arranged the clean clothes into neat piles, Jeanette, the youngest of the house at ten years old, had emerged in the dining room, her hair a mess with sleep.
“Waffles.” Pleasantries and manners were rarely heard coming from Jeanette’s mouth.
“Good morning, miss. Right away.” Elsie busied herself spreading butter on the waffles (which she had been careful to toast earlier that morning) while she attempted to engage in polite conversation. “How did you sleep, miss Jeanette?”
Jeanette narrowed her eyes and uttered a single “Fine.” Elsie smiled and placed a plate with waffles stacked high in front of the little girl in one smooth, practiced motion.
“Good morning, Elsie.” Julia, the eldest child, walked into the room, pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat down. Julia was already dressed, showered and ready to go as usual.
“Good morning, Julia,” said Elsie. “Are the mister and missus awake yet?”
Without looking up, Julia muttered, “Papa left last night and Ma said not to disturb her.” Elsie nodded sympathetically.
It wasn’t the first time that Mr. Brown had left abruptly like this, and she doubted it would be the last. He would probably show up in a couple days, disheveled and apologetic, and the family would continue as if nothing had happened. Elsie patted Jeanette on the head gently.
“Have you finished your English assignment yet? Best to get ahead on your work while you can.” Elsie was used to caring for the girls’ personal matters like this, and she knew that if she didn’t remind Jeanette about her homework, it likely would not be completed. Jeanette nodded her head and received an extra strawberry from Elsie, a token of the maid’s approval.
After the girls left for school, Elsie put together a cheesy omelet on the nice china and left it at the doorway of Mrs. Brown’s bedroom, knowing that she likely wouldn’t show her face until dinner time. It was all very routine: Mr. Brown leaving, Mrs. Brown locking herself inside, Jeanette grumping at anyone who breathed in her direction, and Julia’s fierce tidiness. Elsie did her best to be there for the girls, but for all of her nagging, she really couldn’t force them to do anything. She was the family’s subordinate, and they knew it.
At twelve o’clock later that day, Elsie replaced the now empty cheese omelet plate with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a glass of milk. For good measure, she knocked on the door.
“Mrs. Brown? Do you need anything, miss?” No response. “I’ll just leave your lunch here, then.” Again, Elsie’s words were met with silence. Elsie sighed, not that she had expected anything different.
“I’ll be back for the empty plate at two, miss.” With that, Elsie dusted off her faded gray dress and made her way down the stairs to the front door to buy the groceries. As she stepped outside, Ingrid, the Brown’s middle aged neighbor, called out to the maid.
“Hey, Elsie! How are the girls doing? Tell them I miss having ‘em over, will you?”
Elsie smiled politely. “I’ll be sure to tell Miss Julia and Miss Jeanette, ma’am.” To be safe she added, “I’m sure the girls miss going over too, but you know how it is, with school and all.”
Ingrid tutted. “Well, be sure to send that family my well wishes.”
Elsie made haste in walking to the grocer’s, knowing that that interaction had stolen valuable time she should have been using to replace that faulty bike wheel Mr. Brown had been complaining about. When she returned home, weighed down by several pounds worth of food, she was surprised to see Mrs. Brown in the sitting room, forlornly writing something on the typewriter. She hovered by the doorway for a moment, so that Mrs. Brown could speak to her if she wished, and when Mrs. Brown did not address her, she took that as her leave. With more to do than ever, over the course of the next two hours, Elsie prepared for dinner, tidied Julia’s room, fixed Mr. Brown’s bike, and helped Mrs. Brown trim her hair. By the time the girls arrived home from school, she was exhausted. The only thing that brought her any sense of accomplishment was when Mrs. Brown offered a hug to Jeanette and Jeanette obliged, just like Elsie had begged her to do when met with the option of affection.
At dinner, the awkward, thick silence that always overshadowed the women when they were together had thinned. Mrs. Brown even went as far as to ask Julia how her day had been while Jeanette glowered at everyone with a little bit less venom. It had been a good day for all of the women, and Elsie was glad to see the atmosphere of the home brighten up a bit. She could tell it did well for everyone to relax. By the end of the meal, with the help of apple pie, Jeanette even cracked a smile, and her sister asked for seconds. At the end of the night, Elsie untied her hair, tucked herself in bed, glanced at her alarm clock and smiled. She knew she would sleep well. I do hope Jeanette remembers to study for her exam tomorrow.
PhoebeS. 7thgrade
Blocks
This started with my brother and some blocks he found in a cardboard box. He picked them up and inspected them carefully. These blocks were not clean. They were old, and dirt blocked up every carving. Brownish water had stained the edges of some, and others were drawn on by children. My brother took one of the blocks in his hand and kept walking. My mother had no idea, of course, because if she did she would have thrown the blocks away. Mom was not one for lingering over things on the street; when Theo, my brother, stopped to look at the blocks, she kept on walking. I walked with her, my hand tucked into the curve of her elbow. We were discussing schedules for the following week, me leading the conversation and her making corrections. I turned to see Theo picking up one of the blocks. I twisted out of my mother’s elbow and ran towards him. “What are you doing!” I whispered.
“I found them on the street. They need help.”
“They don’t need help. They aren’t real, like you and me.”
“Yes, they are. You can see them, can’t you?”
“They don’t have feelings, so they don’t get mad when you throw them away.”
My brother stared at me. The only thing that could be heard was my mother’s footsteps. I grabbed his wrist and shook the dirty block out of his hand. His breathing was loud. He walked forward and didn’t look back.
The following afternoon I was walking home when I passed the blocks. One was missing from the box. The morning after that I stopped to tie my shoelaces next to the box, and one more block had left. I stared at them for a few breaths and kept on walking. I didn’t go that way for a week after. I didn’t have a reason to go that way, but strangely every day that week I would pause just for one second at the corner, my nails digging into the palm of my hands.
That night, when my brother and I got home, I found my mom at her desk. She picked up a pink card buried under some papers. She inspected it and threw it in the trash. I had given her that card. I looked away, but Theo did not. “Sam gave that to you, Mom.”
She looked over at us. “It was getting in the way, and Sam’s not mad, right?”
I looked up at my mother’s face, “No,” I said, “I am not mad.”
Theo looked at me. I blinked back a tear. He went toward my mother, reached his hand into the trash, and found the card. My mother was still, not looking at either of us, staring at her computer screen. Theo gave me the card.
“Go to your room Theo,” my mom said, still not looking at us. Theo walked up the stairs to his room. I stayed where I was with my eyes never looking away from my mother. I looked down at the card. Then I walked over to my mom and put my hands on her shoulder. She didn’t move. The only sound in the house was her typing.
“Sam, please.” Mom leaned towards her desk, and I let my hands fall from her.
I turned and walked out the door. Five minutes later I reached the cardboard box. I looked inside. There was nothing there. I didn’t change my position. I stayed where I was. My eyes snapped up at the dark sky. I ran home. I burst into the house and ran up the stairs. My feet scraped the wood stairs. I reached my brother’s room and threw the door open. My brother looked at me, but I didn’t look back. I just started searching. I opened closets and threw anything that got in the way.
“Sam, stop please!” His voice cracked and he started crying. “Sam, I am serious. I’m sorry!”
That’s when I stopped and looked at him. I took my brother’s head in my hands and had him look up at me. “Why are you crying?” I asked.
“Don’t take them away please.” He looked at the corner of his room. I followed his gaze to a pile of blocks in the corner. I went over and picked one up. I smiled gently and looked at my brother.
DianaF.-D. 7thgrade
The Man at the End of the Rainbow
It’s pouring Out, drops slapping The streets of New York.
Arcing above My head, An enormous Rainbow. I Cannot see Where it begins or Ends.
Maybe, if I followed The rainbow long Enough, I would see Hopes and Dreams being Made.
Maybe, if I Followed it for Long enough, I would see A man at the end Of the rainbow Holding fruits That look like they Were made from Silver linings.
He is surrounded By shadows, Each one engulfing Him Like blankets. But then he speaks And light Pours out of his mouth Roping me in As if his words are Made of liquid Gold.
“You will find Me again,” He says, and I feel I am Swimming in a Pool of syrup.
“You will go To the ends Oftheworld Tofindme.”
Ilostmyselfinhis Darkbrowneyes, Asiftherewere Abeaminthem Pullingmehome.
“Youwilldive Throughthe Deepestwaters. Youwillfindme.”
Ifhewasn’tso... Real,Iwouldhave Wonderedifhe Wasasynonym Ofjoy, Underthe Pseudonymof Aman.
Therainbowdisappears, Andsodo Allofmy Maybes.
MiaH. 4thgrade
The Desert
You’re walking through the desert
You’re walking on a gravelly road
The sky is cloudless
You’ve been walking for miles
Through this Arizona desert
For so long you
Don’t even know if it’s still Arizona
Is it New Mexico now? Texas? Nevada?
You don’t even know which direction you’re going
The climate is unchanging
You’re living in an enduring heat wave
The last car you saw was a Lamborghini Aventador
Itwasblastingmusic
Soloudyoucouldn’thearthemelody
Youcouldjustfeelthebass
Poundingyourears
Youwavedyourarmsaskingforhelp
Thedriver,whowaswearingsunglassesanda Ridiculouslyexpensivesuitjacket,
Turnedhismusicoff
Tookalongstareatyou
Andwhilestillretainingeyecontact
Throughthosecoolsunglasses
Puthisfootonthegaspedal
Turnedthemusicbackon
Anddroveaway
Itwasadevastatingexperience
Yousawabusawhileago
Ithadpiecesofmetalshowingfromwherethepaintchippedoff
Itmadethekindofsoundanoldmotorcyclemakeswhenit’sonbutit’s
Notmoving
Thebuswasmoving
Thecarwasmoving
Thebushadthenumber17paintedinblueontheside
Youwonderedwhatthenumber17meant
You stopmoving—You
Feelyourselfgettinglighter
Isthistheend,you
Wondertoyourself,amIgoing
Toheavenorhellorsomething
Noyousay Iwouldbe
movingifIwasleaving
Thegroundisstillbeneathmycallusedfeet
I’mstillinNewMexico,Texas,Nevada,Arizona
Youlookoutonthedesertplain—It’sdistorted—You
Canstillseeitandtellwhatitis,butnowitfeels
Likeyou’relookingatitthrough
Pebbledglass
WilliamK. 7thgrade
She holds it up. It’s nothing much, just a peach pit. There is still orange flesh sticking to it.
It seems like nothing special, but to the girl it is the first real friend that she has in this world of unknown.
The mom leans down and in a soft voice explains, “Plant this seed and it shall grow into a friend, a helper, a companion.” These words breathed into the seed, and it grew with the child.
The girl is crawling now. I’m but a sapling, my soft leaves brushing against her face. She puts light pressure on me. Although she has barely any weight, I still bend.
When I am relieved from the weight, I look down and see she is taking her first steps.
Her parents rush out and help her.
Later I hear stories of how her parents were the ones who helped her take the first steps, but I know the truth.
It’s been a year now, and Oak (that’s her name) is going to her first day of school. All of a sudden she bursts out of the house and grabs me. “I don’t want to go!” she screams. Her parents come and pull her away, but just as she is about to leave, she turns and waves resignedly, and in the wind my leaves wave back.
Oak has gone through two whole years of school. Now she swings with her friends in my newly grown branches and does her homework in my boughs. We play hide and seek together, and of course she always wins.
Oak is ten years old now and going to her first school dance. I hear her and her mother fussing over her hair so much that when she comes out it’s so shiny and soft that it looks like water. She climbs up into my limbs, leaning back, and a few of my leaves fall into her hair. At first I think she may be mad, but she just laughs and plucks one of my sweet fruits off its stem.
Oak is fifteen now and is bringing home a boy. From the moment I see him, I don’t like him. They sit together in my boughs, and he compliments her way too much, and I can tell she is getting bored.
All of a sudden he says he has an idea. He takes a knife from his pocket and starts engraving their initials into me. Pain courses through me, but through the pain I can hear her yelling at him to leave, and then I feel her warm arm embrace me until all the pain leaves me.
I am growing older now. My bark is gnarled and scratched. For five long years I have to wait while Oak is off at college. She brings back a strapping young man by the name of Harold. Plans are made involving a ring.
Today is the big day. White ribbons have been strung on me. Friends and family walk around me while children bathe in my shade. A piece of ribbon covers the place of that unfortunate childhood love. Soon each person is seated, and the fanfare starts. Oak and Harold walk hand in hand down the aisle. A light wind tousles my leaves as I shade the ceremony, and in that wind I feel as if I am waving to that same little girl who waved to me so many moons ago.
After the wedding when it was just Oak and me, she came and talked for ages. Eventually we fell asleep and in the dark I protected her.
It was a stormy night. Oak and Harold were in their bed, sleeping peacefully.
I’d dealt with rain before. It was annoying because most of my leaves fell off, but it didn’t hurt me. Tonight was different. A great blast of air soon made quick work of my leaves.
My old branches creaked and swayed as the rain started to come down harder and harder, making a mud pit out of the ground. My roots are strong and they put up a strong fight, but eventually they started to give way, swaying me back and forth and back and forth. Now I was getting worried. If I fell on the house I could seriously hurt Oak and Harold, so in one last attempt to help them I twisted around and uprooted myself onto the lawn as I felt everything go black.
A small child crawls out onto the lawn. Oak’s voice floats through from the house. “Ivy, come back in here!”
The child turns around but not before snatching a small peach pit right next to the old trunk of a fallen tree. Right then he did not know that he was grabbing a lifelong friend.
EsmeB. 5th grade
I’mcurious,
Whatareyou?
Doyousitinclassrooms
Wonderingwhatit’sliketobeapencil
Totraceoversomeone’sthoughts
Andneverhaveasay?
Doyoulongtolickthedewoffveinyleaves
Andfeelthesweetlusciouspristinedropsofwater
Onyourtongue?
Doyoustareatthedarkskyandseeabitterswirloftapioca
Ragingwithhunger?
Doyouseethecaramelsky
Andthinkofalifespanitself
Asclockstick
Andtimeslipsthroughyourfingers?
MackenzieW 5thgrade
AlltheWorld’saPainting
Alltheworld’sapainting. Experiencespaintyourimage Asyoupainttheworld. Everyoneisresponsiblefortheirpiece.
Arainbowofpaints. Eachsetdifferent Yetbasiccolorsthesame. Foreverypersononthisearth Thereisanewshade Ofeachcolor.
Slightdifferencesorlarge Worktogetherorapart. Theworldhasbeenrepainted Generationaftergeneration. Ablankslateturnedintoagallery. Onepieceperperson
Gluedtoawalltogether. Butwehaveaseparatepainting Onlyforus.
Wechooseourexperiences. Wepaintourselves.
Pink,red,orange,yellow,green,blue,orpurple, White,black,orbrown. Anythinginbetween. Wepaintourselves.
FleurK. 5thgrade
Waves,rollingwithpleasure,soakingintothefragile Grainsofgoldensand. Mylegsaregettingahead Ofme, Pullingmeintothewater. AndthenIamthere,Iam Throughthegatesoffrozenglass. Thesmoothwaterembracesme, Guidingmetowhalesandsparklingshores. Tokindfish,andswoopingpalmtrees. Once,itledmetoadarkplace, Whereworrycrouchedinmymind Makingmethrashandstumble. Buteventually,Imovedon.
AgnesK. 5thgrade
The house was old and cranky. He hadn’t always been that way, but almost two-hundred years had taken their toll. He’d seen arguments and celebrations, birth and death, love and hate, and he cared.
To understand his story, you must go back to the beginning.
The year is 1840, and there is a house to be built. It is meant to accommodate a family of five and their multiple pets. It’s to have large windows and light, flowing curtains that filter in the light. First they have to cut down the timber. The smell of fresh cut wood fills the dense forest. They carry the planks to the beautiful clearing where it’s to be built. They start building the next day. As they heave the planks up, they chant songs together, and they invite the children to come and look at the house.
Time passes, and the house is finished. The family moves in, and lives a happy (but not without ups and downs) life. He loved that family, and tried his best to make life comfortable for them. He was never without his faults, but people loved him. He knew that because they held parties on his porch.
He loved to hear the children run up and down his stairs, to hear the rustling of books and the sound of stringed instruments, and most of all, family dinners. The laughter and the good cheer warmed him.
But one family, who moved in years later, didn’t respect him. They ran their bikes into his sides, spilled paint on his floors, and scratched his ceilings. He became sad, and his stairs began to creak. He felt that the family was not happy together. They hosted no parties, and there were no happy family dinners.
He never recovered from that. He began to deteriorate. His washing machines never worked as well as they used to. He wasn’t able to give as much to the people.
He tried his best, but he was never the same again.
Peace
Iamthefirstsproutinthegarden, Baskinginthenoonsun.
Iamthefieldofgreen, Eachbladeofgrasscarefullysprinkledindew Iamthefroginthemorning, Practicingmycroakingscales.
Iamthewetsand, Acollageofshells,footprints,andbrokensandcastles. Iamthesoftwind, Nottooharsh,yetstillareminder. Iamthelastleaftofall, Dancingdownfrommyformerhome. Iamthebaretree, Swayinginthewind. Iamthesnow-coveredhill, Aduvetassoftastheclouds.
Iampeace, Whateverthatmeans.
AgnesB. 7thgrade
Us
Yesterdaywerowedyourboatthroughthe forgottenthoughts. Todayyouletmeflyamong thefigmentsofyourimagination.
HaddieB 6thgrade
The Forgotten
There are good memories, regular memories, and bad memories. The bad memories are the ones that stick with you. I remember when I was little I was a hitter, a big hitter. My main target was my brother. We were very close, and whenever another sibling pair got in a fight, we were closer than ever. I never said a bad word about my brother behind his back; I saved all my complaints to say to him straight on. When he made me angry, which was not hard to do, I would ball my hands into small fists and beat at his stomach. He would start crying, and I would start spitting out apologies. After an hour we’d forget that anything had happened.
One day my cousins came to New York, and we were all doing something stupid. I ended up angry. As usual I resorted to something drastic. I was upset, and no one was listening to me. I started screaming and raised up my chubby hands towards my brother. The room went silent. All that seemed
to interest them was the small girl in braids that was about to hit her brother. He got hurt and called my parents. My parents came up the stairs and saw me beside my brother, sprawled on the floor. There was a lot of yelling after that. My brother never truly meant for me to get hurt; he just meant to get me in trouble. My parents were angry, and I was angry at them for being angry. “Why was I the one who was being blamed all the time? My brother does bad things too and I always forgive him, mostly.” My small brain could not accept that I was the one people were mad at. I was upset with my brother. Why did he have to tell our parents, and why were my parents so angry? Kids hit sometimes. If they did not want to deal with this, then why did they have kids in the first place.
Eventually, everything calmed down. My parents ended the lecture and let me off with a warning. Everyone had moved on except for me. I was still upset. My brother and my cousins were on the floor of my room, looking over my brother’s shoulder at the small Nintendo screen, screaming their heads off. It did not seem appealing at the time. They had forgotten about me. It did not matter anymore. My days had passed. I decided to leave so my cousins could not hurt me anymore. I ran down the stairs to the living room with the perfect plan in mind. I would stay there and find out what my family really thought of me. If they didn’t call me down, that meant they did not love me, and if they did, they loved me. There were no flaws in my plan except for the fact that it would make me completely miserable for thirty minutes. Watching my reaction would have the same effect on a person as watching a car explode in slow motion. The first minute was fine. I was hidden behind the couch smiling to myself, thinking what a genius I really was. Five minutes passed. I was starting to get angry.
“Why is no one calling me down?” I knew why. They were forgetting about me. They were happy that I was gone, and now I was never going to come back. I was going to stay behind the couch until they realized they had forgotten about someone. Then they would be sad, and I would come out from behind the couch, and they would realize how much they needed me. They did not know this now. I would stay behind the couch until they knew. Then I started crying. My parents hated me so much they had forgotten I existed. I was longer a part of their family. Why were parents being so mean? I just wanted them to call me down. WHY WERE THEY NOT CALLING ME DOWN! Then I heard my mom’s voice. This was it. I would go to her and know that I had not been forgotten.
“KIDS. LUNCH. NOW.”
I was shocked. She was talking about the other kids. About the traitors upstairs. It was too much for me to take. I started bawling. Snot and tears ran down my face. Now it was really official. My family couldn’t care less about me.
I cried into my lap. My cousins and brother ran down the stairs without me and still no one called my name. Now there was really no doubt. My entire family had abandoned me all because I hit my brother. It wasn’t even hard. I guess they just like him better. I lay behind the couch as my mom walked up the stairs to her room. I jumped out and pointed my finger at her.
“YOU FORGOT ABOUT ME.” I broke down on the couch crying.
My mom stayed where she was. “No I didn’t.”
“YES YOU DID YOU FORGOT ABOUT ME! I JUST WANTED YOU TO CALL ME DOWN!”
“I did call you down.”
“NO YOU CALLED THE OTHER KIDS DOWN!”
“That was including you.”
My mom told me to go down stairs and get lunch, and after one hour I forgot about the whole thing.
DianaF.-D. 7thgrade
My abuelos’ apartment in New Jersey is a very familiar place. The dim lighting emanating from the lamps lining the hallway and the doors on the sides adds to the anticipation of ringing the doorbell. After doing so, you are in the living room. There’s an immediate warmth that comes from entering the room, probably due to the windows always being closed. There’s bright light pouring in from the window panes, which catches little specks of dust and makes them glisten. The shades are never down. A humming noise, or maybe a buzzing, can be heard from the refrigerator.
On the left wall, a TV plays true crime documentaries, movies from the sixties, or baseball and basketball games, depending on who’s watching. There are light blue and white couches on either side of the little table and brown and white chairs surrounding the TV. Behind the brown chair is a large table with six chairs around it. Half of the day, there’s food on the table, like rice and black beans with picadillo, or ropa vieja. The apartment has a bedroom and bathroom in the back, both of which are really quiet because most of the talking happens in the living room and kitchen.
The apartment can be energetic when family comes over, packed with people talking, or peaceful, the light from the window hitting the perfect angle on the couch or chair to let you take a nap (like my abuelo so often does). The defining characteristic of it, I think, is comfort; you feel good no matter what state it’s in. It can be a loud environment, with a ton of people yell-talking, and you feel comfortable, at home. And yet the same feeling goes for silence during the afternoon, with nobody talking, just the gentle hum of the refrigerator buzzing in your ears.
WilliamK. 7thgrade
TheCelluloidPicture
Firsttherewasjustlight, Memoriesdousedinbrightness
Thespace, Aplayroom,alivingroom,akitchenmaybe, Onceperfectlyrealintheverymomentofitsexistence,eternal. Nowexistingonlyasasymbol, Somecheckmarkinsomeone’slife;O.K.Ididthis.
Thebrightlight;sunlight?
Emerges,blindingly,fromthewindows,doors,skylightsinthememories, It’ssobrilliantithurts,thevividglowofdaytime,orbetteryet, Merelytherepresentationofdaytime.
Thebright,brightlighttrapsthemomentinunrealness,likeabuginamber, Thebright,brightlightkeepsitseparatefromeveryoneandeverythingelse, Makingittheideal,sountruethatitisalmostthetruth. Memoriesliketheseareallalmostuniform, Peacefulandidyllic, Helpingmothermakepancakes, Buildingalphabetblocktowers, spellingwordslikeC-A-T,cat,andH-O-M-E,home.
Thinkingyouaresowonderful, Thinking,“Iamthegreatest,noonecouldeverdowhatIdo,” Andhavingitbetrue.
Doingthelittle,easythings,
Thetrivial,mundanethingsthataresoimportantwhenyouareoh,say3or4or5, Andthewholeworldisamysterywaitingtobediscovered.
Doingthethingsthatinhabitthewakinghoursofababy’slife. Itisquietinmemorieslikethese;soft,smooth,sloweddown, Floodedwithsunlight…
Littlethingsjumpout:Thesoftnessofthecarpet,thepeelingpaperonacrayon, Mother’ssilky,brownhair,flowingdowntoherwaist. Theyarethefocalpointsofthesemoments,theimportantdetails. Thesechildhoodmemoriesarealmostalwaysinside,inahouse,inaroom. Because,thoughtheyaresafe,theyareneithervastnorsustaining Theyaresmallandinclosed, Soothingyetclaustrophobic. Theyareonlyababy’sworld. Andthoughthewantissogreat,youknowyoucannotstaythereforever. Youknowthatthisdoesnotmakealife.
Youwantmore, Youneedmore, Thoughyouareashamed. Tenderly,youtakeastepoutside, Intotheradiantwhitelight.
ValisS.-Y. 7thgrade
Outstretching Land
The land stretches out New smells and tastes on the way With thoughts anew waiting I walk on
Branches twisted twirling Daisies in the breeze They feel of fuzz and smell of peace I still stride on
Growing buds
Someone speaking Grass tingles the tips of my toes Yet I still glide on
Never reaching the end
But something like this Doendsevenexist?
DesiS. 4thgrade
Grades
A:Absolutelyawesome
B:Brainsaregone
C:Cranium’scracked
D:Dummydummydumb
E:Expectationsaremet
F:Failure
G:Garfieldcouldhavedonebetter
H:Horrificallyhorrendous
I:Idon’tthinktheyhaveabrain
J:Justspectacular!
K:KingKongissomuchsmarter
L:Loser
M:Marvelouslyawful
N:Nochancethiskidwillmakeitthrough8thgrade
O:Ontheroadtosuccess
P:Perfect
Q:Quitter
R:Reallybad
S:Stinksatwriting
T:Totalmoron
U:Useless
V:Vegetableshavemorebrains
W:Whyareyoustillpayingus?
Y:You’rejustgivingusmoney
Z:Zestedorangesaresmarter
HenryS. 4thgrade
OdetoTears
Glassy,lustrous,polished
Wobblesandshakes
Tumblesandspills
Gaspsandwhispers
Steamy,frozen
Tiptoesintohushedsilence
Likedew,weighingdownawitheredleaf
Onthevergeofrollingaway
Slipping,cascading,wet
Mytearhasfallen
S.
6thgrade
The Orphanage
It was a cold winter day. The frost glistened on the pipes in the basement. Breath shone on the frozen windows. Bare lifeless trees swayed in an invisible breeze.
A small child was creeping through the basement, her feet small tip-taps on the metal floor. Her small silk nightie billowed behind her. Her breath shone in front of her, illuminating worried, gray-blue eyes.
The tip-tapping of her cotton slippers was interrupted only by the passing of Madam Pince upstairs, patrolling the long, empty corridors of Litchfield Orphanage. The little girl clicked a flashlight and light shone on an empty room with only a shelf of boxes. The little girl ran her fingers over the boxes and stopped on a tattered yellow one labeled Sources. She opened the box and found a letter. She snuck back upstairs.
That morning, the light shone through a small dusty window, bright against the gloomy walls. A tall girl was hurrying through the corridor and burst into a dormitory filled with sleeping eleven-year-olds. She ran to a bed in the far corner, and said in an excited voice, “Bella, Bella, wake up! I found a way into the basement!”
The girl rolled over. She was small for an eleven-year-old, short, with spindly legs and chestnut hair. “Already taken care of,” she said in a tired voice. “I went last night.”
“What?” the tall girl said, flabbergasted. She looked as if someone had just told her her parents were chickpeas.
“Jeez, Isabel. Calm down,” Bella said.
“Okay, look, I know you disregard rules, but this is pure insanity.”
“It’s pure insanity that has been done and dealt with.”
“Come on. Madam Pince will have a fit if we’re late to breakfast. It’s Visitor Day.” As if Isabel had summoned her, Madam Pince walked stiffly into the room.
“Up. Visitor Day. Best clothes. Now,” she said stiffly. Madam Pince had a way of speaking which reminded Bella of a telegraph, as if she had an important place to be and couldn’t bother with the kids she took care of.
Bella sighed, got dressed, and shuffled down the stairs with her head down.
When she got downstairs, she saw she had missed breakfast and Madam Pince was sorting people into a line against the wall. She got into her place and waited silently for the adopter to come.
The kids of Litchfield Orphanage waited silently for about fifteen minutes. Then, with an ominous clunk of heels on wood, a tall, imposing woman stepped into the light. She was carrying a square purse with holes in it and surveyed the children with a hawklike gaze.
She stopped at Isabel, studied her for one second, and said, “I’ll take this one.”
Bella’s heart collapsed. The thought of the orphanage without her best friend was unbearable. The lady caught Bella’s worried face and said, “Her too.”
For a moment, Bella stopped breathing. She was leaving the orphanage, and she was going with the same person as Isabel. And yet she wasn’t exuberant. She felt almost dazed. It was as if she were plummeting. Just falling. No certain feelings besides shock were going through her head. Then all of a sudden, thunk. She had fallen back to reality. She was still standing in the line of students. A pale, bony hand was reaching towards her. She took it. Isabel caught her eye. She looked scared.
The trio walked out of the orphanage, the tall lady ushering them into a fancy black limousine. Curled up in a bed in the back was a small, greasy black chihuahua.
“That’s Tipton. He’ll be your brother from now on,” said the lady in a brisk, haughty tone. “My name is Joanna Glitch, but you shall call me Joey. You will be enrolled in school starting next week.”
Bella gasped. She had forgotten entirely about school. At the orphanage, the person who tended to the dormitory you were assigned to was the one who taught you, which meant that Bella had been learning under the prominent nose of Madam Pince for the last five years of her life.
It seemed a fraction of a second before Bella heard the car tires slowing. They were standing in front of an elaborate house with iron gates. As soon as he was let out of the car, Tipton trotted merrily inside. Looking at this home, Bella felt a twinge of sadness: the house looked like one she had seen in a movie she had watched with her dad before he died. Flashes of memories often happened to Bella.
As if she had spoken her thoughts aloud, Joey said, “It must be hard living without parents.” She said it in an offhand tone, not quite sympathetic, but not quite careless.
Bella didn’t answer. She felt it would hurt if she did.
“Well, get up to your room. Third floor, second door to the right. Chop chop. Dinner will be sent up to you. I’ve got work.”
Bella and Isabel shuffled upstairs in silence, not daring to look at each other. When Bella got into her room, she sat on the bed and fell asleep. She had had such a long day that, even though thoughts were buzzing nonstop in her head, making them stop was extremely easy.
LouisaP. 4thgrade
Stillness
Thestillnessabouttobe broken thecalmabouttobechaos astheraindropsseemto triggertheeventthe greatarcabouttoriseaboveme Icanseeeveryparticleof seaweedvisibleinthetowering bluefullofhollowlight
allofasudden millionsofraindropsstarttofall myfingertipsfindtheheartofthewave Andplungein
DaphneA. 6thgrade
First Flight
You’re seated in the most uncomfortable seat imaginable: back crooked, knees pressed against the seat in front of you, body aching. Thinking about this discomfort is soothing in the state you are in. A stewardess, dressed in a black suit with a long tie hanging down her neck, with small heels that have her balancing like a gymnast, and wavy blonde hair that reaches below her shoulders, walks by giving you a stare of death. The look of her eyes, haunting yours. Sweat drips down your body parading to the floor. You peer out the window, watching the airport you are bound to leave. The thought of the flight has become like a walk through a haunted house; you know what will come next, but still you tremble in fear.
You distract yourself by making up stories about the people you see out the window. An old man moving cargo was a pilot in World War II. He came here to get away from the sorrow he went through, but also to stay with it. He could’ve been a pilot again, but he has a family, a wife, children, even grandchildren at his elder age. He wants to see them become people, maybe even meet his great-grandchildren. But he tries not to get ahead of himself.
You see a little boy in the window of another plane. He is tugging on his dad’s shirt repeatedly. He wants his dad to stop what he is doing and look out the window at you. What a little brat, you think, only caring for himself. But you decide to give him sympathy. He’s just a little kid, and he’ll have these thoughts too someday.
Down the aisle, a middle aged couple is arguing. They’ve been fighting like this for months, with not a single thing to agree on. The husband feels dismissed by his wife, she thinks that every single thing he thinks is wrong. Still he does everything she wants him to do. The wife feels as though she’s been blackmailed into being everything her husband wants. She feels like she can not be who she is, and her husband has turned her into a play thing. Still she does everything he wants her to do.
The engines start to rumble like an earthquake. The plane slowly increasing in its speed, releasing its fuel through turbines to push the plane down the runway. It gets louder and louder, the engines roaring. Suddenly, the plane stops. You start to imagine all the bad things that may have happened: the engine is about to explode, the seat belts aren’t working, the pilots are gone.
Then the movement starts again. The engines’ roar has turned from a small cat to a huge lion. You try to fight the force of the plane’s altitude but it’s impossible to stop at this point. There is no going back. A small baby in patterned overalls with pizza smothered all over their face begins to scream. The pilot begins to speak, but the screaming of the baby turns it into what sounds like just a mumble. You watch the airport buildings fly past you. The people you saw before are now all gone. You squeeze your own hand in fright. You try to breathe but it’s interrupted by the engine.
The plane is leaving the ground. You can’t feel your body. Your stress seems to have taken control of your body. Finally you look out the window, to see everything that would have looked huge on the ground turn into just small toys. Trees turning to bushes, buildings turning into sheds, planes turning into toys, and finally your home city turning into abstract shapes. The engines quiet, you release the grip of your hands. And let yourself just fly.
ElliotG. 6thgrade
TheFire
Thefirecrackles Sendingsparksintotheair Liketinycomets.
ConorT. 5thgrade
i stand here in the writhing madness, watching the world burn gently gray around me. i am shocked and appalled, but i stand no chance against these warring forces. they are composed and poised, snarkily laughing, teeth glistening in the thick, viscous moonlight.
the colorless sky timidly cracks and lifts, revealing a pure blue one, a sacred orb, untouched and melting and created just for us. it’s endless, yet finite and damageable. our new sky reeks with life and newness and freedom and promise. so They’re going to make a choice. so will we adorn this new sky with oil mines and power lines, ceiling fans and greenhouse gasses? or will we pamper this new sky with lemongrass and daisies and milkweed, oozing tangy nutrients and independence; leaving it sheltered from the burning ache of disrespect and ignorance.
RuthM. 7th grade
A stream, blue and clear runs through a valley covered in rusty brown autumn leaves.
The stream is a source of peace, an element of calm. It is where deers, rabbits, and foxes get their water, where fish call their home.
The stream is the center of the field. At night, the moon reflects its pale glow onto the water, and in the day, the sun warms it. At some point, far in the future, the stream could widen into a river, but that can wait. A stream, blue and clear, ran through a valley covered in rusty brown autumn leaves. A year has passed.
MadeleineR. 4thgrade
The
World’s End
I have spent 8,702 days in this world, but today could be my last. The first 8,000 days were spent as a free man, or viewed as a free man. It was just a normal afternoon, I had just finished my gratuitous job, working in my capitalist society. When you live a repetitive life like I did, if one thing is only slightly different, it sticks out like a sore thumb. When I was taking my dingy public bus, one of these weird changes caught me off guard. I read my stop but as bizarre as it sounds, my stop Phutrell Drive was now spelled Futrell Drive. Now it may seem small to you, but I have been using this decrepit, stingy, underfunded bus service for five years, and they have not changed a thing. I went up to the front of the bus to ask the bus driver about it, and all he said was “budget cuts.” I have never heard of not having enough money for one extra letter. Finally I got home, but something felt off. My extremely noisy neighbors who were always hollering and hooting were now dead silent, but I could still see them arguing through my frosted window. I decided that my mind needed some fresh air, but when I went to grab my shoes and hat from the coat rack where I always left them, they weren’t there. It took me two hours to find them in deep seasonal clothing in my closet. My walk started out as normal, but I had still had that unshakable notion that some was off, now with the added bonus of the feeling of someone or some group were watching me. I needed a refresh, I needed to sit in the park, one of the few places still untouched by greedy men. This was my last moment of relaxation and serenity I ever had again, I sat there for thirty minutes just staring at one tree. I just looked at how the bark split in a wave branching upwards, how the lamplight flickered on the leaves. Everything felt right. I got up, showing my gratitude towards the grass, and started my walk home, but the feeling returned. When I got to my block, the other side was gone, replaced by a beach with gray clouds and dark cold water with green foamy trails. Am I going crazy, I thought? The weirdest thing about this beach was there was one solemn payphone ringing, but there was nobody around. Come to think of it, I had not seen anyone since that godforsaken bus driver. I needed to talk to someone: any amount of human interaction was better than the unsettling feeling of being the last human on earth. I ran to the phone, almost falling over as I did. I picked up the phone and pantingly exclaimed, “Hello, is anyone there?” A human voice that had been strained and was sore responded, “You have it figured out.” Figured out? “Figured out what,” I desperately shouted over the violent wind. “I don’t understand what you mean.” A different voice just said, “You will.” Now I am here, wherever here is. Awaiting everything and nothing at all, in a constant state of shifting consciousness.
ThePast
Mymomsaysit’sinthepast
Butwhatdoesthatmean Doesitmeansomethingthatwent Bytoofast
Ordoesitmeantonotreflect Onabadexperience
Thatyousimplycouldnotrelease Orisitaclearblueocean
Youjustcouldnotgrasp Ordoesitmeantonotapologize everyfivesecondswhenyoudosomething Wrong
Butyouwanttofixitbutcan’t Because It’s
InThePast
Andnowthispoemisinthe Past
Icandecidewhetherornot Iwanttothinkaboutthis Pieceofliteratureinthe Future
ButnowIamPresent InthePresent
IsaacL. 4thgrade
TheFish
Afishisnothinglessthanlife inallextremity— sosimpleyetsoelegant, itswimsawayfromme.
AsIchaseitdownthestream andthroughtheragingriver, Itrytograspitbythetail— awayfrommeitslithers.
Andafteryearsoftracking, seekingwhereIyearn, Iceasemyendlesswanderings. TostillnessIreturn.
SimonA. 5thgrade
Myheartleapsandturnswithinme AsIimaginethechancesahead. Swirlsoflilac Cloudovermyhazyanxiety— Isthiswhathoperesembles? AsIstep,tentativeofmypower, Ibegintorealizethat Fear Isnomatch Forme.
Myroadmightbefrosty, Crackedandbroken, Butthemysterykeepsmesane. SoI’lljustkeepstepping, Withtentativepower, Downalongmylushlilaclane.
OliveD.-M. 7thgrade
Amoth, Lonely,sittingquietly Onabranch, Nevermindinganything Else,thinkingaboutlife.
KatharineS 5thgrade
You know that feeling where you wake up at three in the morning but you’re not tired because you actually managed to go to sleep early, and you get up and take a cold shower, and you go outside and you’re somewhere in the country and it’s May so there are flowers EVERYWHERE; you can’t see them but they smell AMAZING, and so you cup your hands to your mouth and scream the word “AMAZING!” and there’s an echo, oh my god, a real echo, and a bit of morning spring rain starts to fall and it feels so refreshing, like taking a cold shower, and you actually manage to get a raindrop on your tongue, and it tastes like being alive, which is AMAZING, and then you feel like you’ve had enough for now, so you go back inside, and you’re kind of like, “What do I do now?” because it’s still SUPER early, but you suddenly have some brilliant and creative idea for something to write/draw/compose, and you actually get the things in your head down onto paper, and you feel so accomplished ALREADY even though it’s early as heck, so you watch a movie/read a book that everyone told you was amazing, and it actually IS, and it’s nice and short but leaves you with a lot to think about, so you’re like, “Let’s write an essay,” so you write a whole essay of your own accord, and it’s SO GOOD, and then you’re really quiet for a moment, and you can hear BIRDS singing outside, because yes, there are BIRDS, and for a moment you kind of wish that everyone else would never wake up and life could just be like this forever, but then you realize that’s way too morbid a thought to have, so you plan out an entire D&D campaign and make yourself muffins for breakfast instead, because it’s three in the morning, and anything is possible?
BeeS. 7th grade
Envelope
After half-running, half-falling down the stairs, my sweaty palm slammed into the glass that was still covered in lines from being washed. The pane rattled against the metal bars behind. I looked down to the mail flap, where a folded pile of tabloids lay. In the middle was a white envelope. A shadow covered the return address, but I could just make out my name on the center of the envelope. I nearly opened it, but my mother called to me, saying my breakfast was ready. I rushed down the stairs and slid into the kitchen. I shovelled down my toast so I didn’t miss French, and slapped on my Doc Martens. Almond butter was still stuck to my teeth. Several familiar faces rushed by me, so I knew I must be late. As I walked up the stairs, I thought of who the sender was. Lindsay? No—the handwriting was sloppier. Maybe Juna? I had just sent her a letter, so no. The late bell rang as I opened the door to 11 and threw my bag onto the only available seat, which had a broken desk. “Sorry I’m late,” I said to my teacher. I lifted the textbook off the shelf, nearly hitting my classmate’s head. The day continued, and I forgot about the letter. I walked home and my father opened the door. “The gate’s being repaired—let’s use the top entrance,” he said, so up the stoop we went. As I walked in, I remembered the letter. Too excited to wait for him to get his keys out, I lifted the metal flap up, snatched the pile of papers, and gingerly lifted them out, careful not to let the letter fall out from its tabloid encasement. I pulled the letter out, dashed indoors, and read the return address.
Olga S. Nodarse
226 Towering Pines Dr Lakeland, FL 52850
U.S.A.
I sprinted down the stairs to the kitchen, the sound of my father’s shouting ringing in the distance. I carefully opened the envelope, and revealed the letter. It was a birthday card, 3 weeks late. Her messy 99-year-old cursive lay on the page. I brought over my mother to decipher the card.
B. 7thgrade
Birdschirpinginthesweetsummerbreeze. Leavesdancingdownfromtrees.
Littleflakescomingfromtheskytocreateawhiteblanket.
Flowersspringupfromthegroundlikehandswaitingtobecalledon.
NateL. 5thgrade
SpringRain
Thewindowiscovered
Withlittlewaterdroplets
Theyspeedpasteachother Tryingtogettothebottom Ilookout
Thegentlewindswaysthetrees
Iopenthewindowtofeeltherain
Istickmyheadout
Iclosemyeyesasthecoolraindropsrundownmyface
Nobodymakesasound
FreyaB 7thgrade
“Quinn!” her father calls from the doorway of their small cottage. Quinn races toward her father, jumping over the gaps between the rocks, darting like a little mouse jumping from train to train in the city. She leaps into her father’s arms, and he picks her up like she weighs no more than a feather. His arms are long and brawny from straining themselves working on the island. His beard is a coarse salt-and-pepper color. They walk inside the cottage together as he sets her down carefully. The cottage is a sacred place, built by Father when Quinn was only a delicate baby. The living room is made of a rich mahogany, the benches are cushioned with bird feathers, the shelves have small jars of sea glass as colorful as a pastel rainbow. There is no money on the island; there is no need for money. Quinn and her father are the only ones who live here. They live off of ripe tropical dragon fruits and mangos, and they drink the juice or boiled water from the flowing rivers.
One night Quinn’s father enters the room. The pale blue lamp on her small bedside table illuminates the room in a soft golden glow.
“Want me to tell you a goodnight story?” he asks.
Quinn nods her head eagerly and settles herself under the thick patched-up quilt. Father reaches out towards the large bookshelf, takes out a rose-colored book, and takes a seat on the edge of Quinn’s bed.
“All right,” her father begins. “The robin watches with a weary eye—”
“You read that one every night,” Quinn complains. “Can’t I hear a story that’s about something besides birds?”
Quinn’s father laughs and ruffles her messy blonde hair. “Your grandfather was a bird watcher, you know that. He wrote all of the stories on your bookshelf with ink and quill.”
Quinn sighs. “Father, you don’t understand. I want to hear about a far off quest, something besides the island.”
Her father gets up and draws the thick blue shutters, blocking out the warm, still moonlight. “It’s getting late Quinn, there’s a day of work ahead of us,” he says.
Quinn’s small eyes look like glistening emeralds, and she opens them as wide as she can. “Tell me about mother, you know I’ve always wanted to hear that story.”
“Oh, no I don’t want you to get nightmares.”
“I’m almost eight, too old to get nightmares.”
“All right,” he sighs. He gets into bed next to her and they both stare up at the green sea glass window in the ceiling. The sky looks like a page from Quinn’s grandfather’s notebook, with black ink splashed across, but little stars paint out a brighter future for themselves with a weak glow, hoping to be seen as they lie back in the sky.
“When you were a little baby, barely even one,” he begins, “your mother wondered if there was anything out there.” He gestures east. “Her name was Lydia. You have her crystal eyes, rosy cheeks and bright smile. You also inherited her curiosity, though. She was always curious about everything on the island. The pink feathered trees, the foxes with eyes so grim and sharp, and back fur as white as snow, the way the waves crashed like they were marshmallow topped. She studied the whole island but her mind was always a bit too big for this place. Soon she ran out of things to keep her mind occupied. We both agreed she should sail out and see if there was another place on this world besides this island. We built her a boat. She promised to come back and get us as soon as she figured out how. She sailed off and never came back. It’s been seven years. A year after all this time, you couldn’t even remember her.”
Quinn sits up, eyes flashing wildly. “Is that all true, father, every single word?”
Father nods his head gravely. His face is creased with lines of aging stress, and the untidy hairs on his head seem to stick out a little more with the talk of all this.
“But how do you know she’s not still coming back to get us, or better still, how do you know there would be no hope of building our own sailboat and finding her?” Quinn asks eagerly.
“After all my years of living I’ve learned that the ocean takes, it does not give.” Father then puts out the light and plants a small kiss on Quinn’s forehead.
The shadows in the small room deepen and glare straight at Quinn. A small bit of anger burns in her stomach like plumes of gray smoke rising up from embers. The ocean does give, I’m sure of it, she thinks to herself. It gave us this island and the underwater world beneath it. It wouldn’t have let my mother go. I know it.
Quinn tucks herself under her safe and intricately stitched covers, but safety feels too small for her now, and the island is beginning to as well.
The next morning, the sun drifts up, creamy and pale. The sky turns a light purple, The trees’ branches reach out, thin and tangled. Quinn sits in a white-barked, peeling tree. She reaches out and picks an apple. The apples here are different from all others, crisp and perfectly red, with no indentations at all. They taste fragrant, like a pile of freshly picked flowers. Sweet juice trickles down her chin as she takes a bite.
“Quinn!” Her father’s voice echoes from across the treetops.
“What is it dad?” Quinn yells back, mouth flowing with apple.
“Come help me chop wood, will you?”
Quinn jumps down from the branch, and her feet land in the spongy, dark green moss. She grimaces and holds her leg while it leaks pain along with small drops of blood. She realizes it hit another long bough on the way down. Ouch! she thinks to herself, limping off quickly toward the thick green trees that look like spiraling staircases with their twisted branches. She tosses her apple into a light green meadow that slopes up high, filled with budding tulips. The rabbits might like it, she thinks to herself as she bends to pick up a purple-spotted flower. A small piece of hope blossoms in her stomach, a glowing flower in a meadow.
Maybe this chopped wood is for building a boat for an adventure through the great green seas. Maybe there really is another place besides the island after all. Could her father have changed his mind? The air feels like a piece of silk fluttering happily against her face. Her grandfather was buried underneath the glowing green silkworms when he died, silkworms that snuggle up in a far corner of the forest. Father is always sensitive to silk and the feeling of it. It could be because grandfather was an incredibly bright person with a round smiling face, or because the silk reminds him of a dead person, or perhaps because grandfather was the only person Father had after Mother left.
“Quinn?” Her father’s voice weaves through the branches again.
“Coming!” Quinn yells and dashes off, ignoring the piercing pain in her leg as light peeks in through the green-topped branches, and lemon-shaped leaves flutter down.
Her father stands in the vast open yard where flower petals top the leaves and stems with a blossom of pale pink frosting. Quinn’s heart flutters, thirsty for adventure.
MackenzieW. 5thgrade
Mood shapes time, whether it will go fast or slow.
Time rolls, it rolls through life, never ending.
Time forms any shape sad or happy.
Timeaddsdescription. Itsharpensmoments.
Timeweavesitsway througheverything.
Timewrapsarounditself goinginanendlessloop foreternity.
Timebuilds. Timecomments. Timecreates.
LouisaP. 4thgrade
Thedream slipped outof mycupped handslikewater, Itrytograspat thelastdroplets ofdetail,burying myheadundermy pillow,well,Isuppose somethingsaren’t supposedtobe remembered.
AustenV.S. 4thgrade
Childhood
Iremembermashedblueberriescascadingdownmysunburnedhand.
IremembereatingPlay-Dohunderthetable.Ittastedlikemytearsandmademefeelsafe.
IrememberbiglogsbytheparkinglotthatI’dbalanceon,andthenthearomaofgasolinefloating aroundme,asmellIloved.
Irememberdoingsomersaultsdownthehillinthegrass,thegreenpigmentstickingtomyhands asifitwereElmer’schild-safeglue.
IrememberslurpingthejuiceofalycheenutonaglowingTuesdayafternoon:wefeltspecificand secureinourgroupofpreschoolers.
IremembermybestfrienddressedasSpiderman:Iwasaprincess.Wewereslowlybecoming opposites.
Irememberfivesharpbutperfecthornetslandingonmyhand,collapsingintomyknuckles:Ifelt likeIcouldn’tscreaminterror,runningtomymother.
Iremembermurkydirtformingonmyknees,andblistersonmyhands:Iwasbetteratthe playgroundthanpronouncingmyr’s.
Irememberthespeechtherapist,anangrywoman,clenchingmyjawtillmycheeksbecamelight pink,soI’dsaythelright.Pinkwasmyfavoritecolor.
IrememberIheldaniPadduringthespeechtherapyandplayedthe“MyLittlePony”game,which hadanlinit.
IrememberwhenIwasachild,Ididn’tpayattentiontotheworldaroundme.Backthen, everythingintherealmoutsidemepaused.
CleoQ. M. 7thgrade
Do you know when you find sea glass by the sea? You can spot it from a mile away. The sun bouncing down on that glossy green color that is nameless. If you hold it up to your eye, everything is more clear. You treasure it for what to you seems like forever but is really only an afternoon. Then the next day, you go out and find many more. You take the original and put it in a jar. A week later the jar is full and the old glossy green color does not stand out like it used to. Not as precious, not as pretty. Just a lost cause. Like a friend you thought you would know forever.
ATree
Anormaloaktreeisamagicalthing. Ithasatrunkyouclimbon Andbranchesyoucling. AtreetransformsinWinter InAutumn,SummerandSpring. Youcanclimbtothetop,seetheworld,andfeellikeaking. InSpring,itblossomsanditwillbloom,andismellow. InAutumn,theleavesformcolorsoforange,redandyellow InWinter,leavesfalloffandthetreeisbare. Sometimesitiscoveredinsnow,withflurrieseverywhere. AndinSummer,it’scoveredinleaves,andalmostglows. Atreeisamazing,asfarasamazinggoes.
Atreecouldbeaplacethatyouleanagainst Whileyoureadabookthatyouboughtfor8bucksand5cents.
Atreecouldbeaplacewhereyouhaveapicnic. Oracoverforrain,whenyouhavetobedry,quick. Sowhenlookingatatree,therewillalwaysbe Muchmorethanaboring,oldoaktree.
XaviK 5thgrade
TheCorpseinaFrame
Onthisplainlygray-skiedday, Thewomaninthecrimsongown
Staresintomysoul.
Herblankfaceandsterneyes Watchingwithoutablink.
Sheseemsdead, Yetshesitspatiently Awaitingsomething Foreseeingmyfuture.
Herpokerfaceforeverglueduponher, Thefoldsonthedresssit
Stillasatree,awaitingitsdoomonacliffside.
Herbronzehairtiedupinacrown, Surroundingherlifelessface,
Eachhaircarefullytwistedaroundandaround Likearopeonashipsetintoastorm.
Herbeautyburiedbeyond Thevoidofnothingness,swallowingherlifelessform.
Sheisnotawoman, Merelyacorpseinaframe.
HaddieB
6thgrade
The
Vacation
It’s too quiet in the car, as if the air itself has frozen. The snow coats the ground, hiding any sign of spring. I press my nose against the cold window and keep it there, creating a ring of steam on the glass.
“Is there going to be a rest stop soon?” I ask, trying to bring up any sort of conversation.
The stale plasticky smell inside the car is killing me. My mom doesn’t answer. She looks straight ahead, unblinking.
“Mom?” She turns her head a little and purses her lips, but doesn’t say anything.
“Can we at least pull over for a second? My legs are getting numb”.
¨Yeah…¨ she says, drifting off.
There is no one on the road except us. I watch the trees pass us by. A figure in the distance is getting closer. It’s a hiker in a silver coat on the side of the road. He has his hand out, giving us a thumbs up. A hitchhiker. We zoom right past.
“Why didn’t you pick him up?” But again, she doesn’t answer.
When we finally stop, I pull my coat over my hoodie and pull the hood tight. We let Dante out of the back seat. He jumps out and wags his tail with excitement. I don’t think he likes the car either.
I drag my boots in the snow while mom fixes up the sandwiches she made before we left. Dante runs in between trees and bushes disappearing into the dead bushes and snow coated trees, sometimes coming out with a stick for me to throw. He disappears again, and every time I count the minutes. Dante is our second dog, after our old one got lost last summer. Mom found him a day later in the woods behind our house, but someone else had found him first. Mom said it was bears, but there’s no bears in Nebraska. She didn’t really want to talk about it. I didn’t even want another dog. It was too painful, but as soon as our last one was buried we got Dante.
Four minutes pass. Then eight. Then ten. I start getting a little worried. I jog through the woods, calling his name, until I hear a bark.
“Dante!” I call. “Where are you boy?” He barks again. I see a fluffy tail hidden behind a tree. I laugh. “So you wanna play hide and seek, huh? Well I—”
Dante is standing over a thing. Whining. A horrible, horrible thing. A man. His limbs are twisted and he is missing a leg. Blood oozes from a wound on his upper chest that cuts through a silver hiking coat. His eyes are glazed over and are rolling back in his skull. I scream. I scream with every muscle in my body, tears streaming down my face. I scream for what feels like hours, but it’s only a few seconds. Somebody shakes me.
“Are you okay?” my mom yells. “What’s wrong?” my mom shakes me again. I turn around to point at the man, but there is nothing there. He’s gone. There isn’t even a mark in the snow.
When we finally get to the house, my tears have dried. Mom told me I must have hit my head, but there is no mark. I don’t even have a headache. The house is a rental my mom found on the internet. She showed me the listing, but it didn’t really look like the kind of place you would take your kid on winter break. It’s big and old, with a rotting wrap-around porch covered in snow. I look around while my mom unpacks the car. I walk around the house a few times looking for the key. I pick up every rock and fallen branch until I find it under the porch. I ran to tell my mom but she’s not in the car.
“Mom?” I shout towards the tree line. There is no answer.
The door swings open behind me, and mom steps out. She fumbles with something shiny in her hands. “Hey…” I say quietly.
“Oh! Hey!” she says putting the object in her coat pocket.
“I found the key,” she says cheerfully, jingling a silver object. “It was under the mat!” What? I checked under the mat.
“Oh.” I hide the keys in my pocket, trying not to think about her sudden mood change.
The house is cold. Colder than outside. My room is big, with a king-sized bed covered in pillows. Mom had hardly brought anything with us. Just a few sets of clothes and a brown box. She didn’t tell me what was in it. We have cold soup for dinner, and we hardly speak at all. The whole house has this smell of rot, as if the smell was coming from the building’s very bones.
After dinner, I get ready for bed, shivering as I change into the one pair of pajamas my mom has packed. I cross the hallway to the second-floor bathroom. The floorboards creek underneath me like a long, lonely cry. I look through the suitcase, only to find that my mom has not packed tooth paste, or a toothbrush.
“Mom?” I say, putting one foot in her doorway. The room is empty, and even though I am alone, I feel that I am not the only one in this room. Suddenly I hear a loud bark from outside. I run downstairs and out the door, as the barks get louder. I push my foot into the snow, grimacing from the freezing cold. I run through the trees, towards Dante’s barks, but the more I run, the quieter the barks get. On the ground, the snow is red, covered in a trail of blood. The trail gets bigger until I finally find him. A furry lump at the bottom of a tree.
He’s covered in blood, unbreathing. I try not to scream.
Mom doesn’t bury him. She doesn’t even call the vet. She just sends me to bed. I lie awake in the cold room. How could I sleep? I push myself out of bed and land quietly on the floor. the wind russells outside. There’s scratching too. A loud, horrible scratching, like something is being dragged in the snow. I creep to the window and peek through the heavy curtains. There is nothing but me and the cold night. But the scratching continues. I press my nose against the glass and make clouds of steam. I turn to go back to bed, but just as I do I hear a loud thump. I turn back to the window and see Dante, lying there in the snow. A figure emerges from the tree line and grabs him by the leg, dragging him into the darkness.
Then a howl. And another thump. And a low growling. And then a growl… and the sound of bones snapping. And I know—I am next.
Memory
Memoryisacandle Burningwithhopesanddreams Theseunforgottenmoments Aren’talwaysastheyseem
Thegoodpartsburnmuchbrighter Thebadpartsmeltaway Theflamesaremadeoflaughsandcries Gleaming,theyleaveandstay
Graspingontoflickeringthoughts Thatquicklystarttofade Slowrisingfromtheembers Newmemoriesaremade
InezA. 5thgrade
One-on-OneSausage
Bigsausage-liketrain Fullofsausagepeople Withsausagespears. It’s1999:attackofthechickennuggets. There’sawargoingon, Sausagesaregettingterrorized. Buildingsarefallingdown, Sausagesfleeing. That’sitonSausageNews.
JulianaA. 4thgrade
People of the Night
The midnight sky, calm and silky, Two figures running down a hill, escaping sunlight.
Raysofsunblinding,youtakeinabreath
Yourworld,thisworldisfading
HadleyW. 5thgrade
Toy boat singing scales
The day had sculled and left behind Paddles, side by side
Adagio
Enteringthestation,thesubwayhums Alongwiththerhythmofthedriftingblossoms Whichlayerthegroundasifnotesinascale Orharmonies
Traipsingdownbubblegum-speckledstreetsbelow Stacksoffireescapes Theworldisseenthroughfrostedglass Blurred,intricaciesneglectedlikecherrycandies
Glancingaheadinafreshcalendar, StillperfumedbytheDecembericicles, Alwaysfeltlikecheating,ortimetraveling Monthsflippingbyinthewind
AnnaS.-R. 8thgrade
Eclipse Shore
There’s nothing better than soft serve ice cream on a sunny day in August. That is exactly what an average girl from New Jersey thought. The girl handed the money up to the person in the ice cream truck, and she was just in time because soon after the truck closed the windows, turned off the lights, and the refrigerators stopped humming. The girl took a big lick of the creamy cone and then skipped ever so carelessly down to the beach. When she arrived around 3:00, the long beautiful beach was packed with teenagers trying too hard to get a tan, babies struggling to walk on the sand, and old ladies in beach chairs with 80s style sunglasses, slathering layers of sunscreen all over. The girl sat down on the warm dunes and started to bite the top of the cone. As minutes passed, a noticeable amounairt of people were packing up their stuff and leaving. At 3:14, the once-packed beach was empty except for the footprints in the sand of all the people who had left. The girl stood up and noticed goosebumps all down her arms. The weather had dropped radically, and the day was darkening, though the sky was free of clouds. The girl walked down to the shoreline and listened to the waves crashing violently against the rocks. She thought of how it had been a calm sea minutes ago. She listened for the calming songs of the birds, but the sky was silent. She looked for the grounding rays of the sun, but in the sun’s place was a black sphere brimming with an eerie light. It was so dark that the girl could no longer see the bit of ice cream she had left. She glanced down at her watch, expecting it to be midnight, but it was only 3:26. Not even dinner time, she thought. The girl lay down in the sand, deciding her watch was off by a couple hours, and started to doze. When she woke up thirty-two minutes later, the sparrows were singing, the ocean was a calm, turquoise marble, the weather was sweltering, and the sun was beaming high up in the sky. The girl stood up in a daze, and walked up the beach, past the ice cream truck, and all the way home.
Themoon hasswallowed thesun, castingme inblack.
Maybeahuge blackcathas swisheditsmidnight blacktailover theyellowsun andthat’s whythere areshadows everywhere.
Youcanonly stareupat theskyas ifthereis abrightbeacon inthedarkness.
Allyou cansee isthe coronaaround thesun, theonly sourceof lightin theblack day.
Thetownleaders arefearful,calling outthatthe godsareangry.
Andme?AllI candoisstare upatthesky.
MiaH. 4thgrade
TheSkyWhale
Therewasawhaleinthesky.Thewhalewasbigandbluelikethesky.Itwasmysteriousandweird likethesky.Itcoveredthesunwhiletheskyhuggedittight.Itswamintheskyandcoveredthelight. Weallstoodthereandwatchedasthedayturnedtonight.Thedayreturnedwhenthewhaletook flightinthegreatblueskywhichwasonceagainbright.Weallwavedgoodbyetothewhaleinthe skybutthesunwasstillcovered,notfully,butcovered.Thebeautifulwhalehadnotleftthesky. (Wealmostfeltlucky,Icannotlie.Thewhalesleptforhoursinthecornerofthesun.Afterthat, thedayhadfullybegun,theflowersweretallandthewatersoblue.IsatthereandwishedthatI, too,couldflylikethewhalewhojustflew.
NeveM. 4thgrade
Eclipse
Wating, waitingfortherighttimetostrike, sevenyearspass,thenithappens. Thetallconfidentmoonglidescloser, closertoherenemy; Anythingtooutshinethebrightlightofthesun.
AnabelleS. 4thgrade
Iorbit,Iorbitaroundzee orbiter.Ibringlightinzee darkness.Zeedayisn’ttoo long.Iamwaitingformymoment.
Zeegongstrikes twelve.Iisorbitingaroundzee worldallday,nowizmytimetoshine. Idon’tshine. Iblockshine.
P andTheaS 4thgrade
