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“Quote Me”
These are original quotes from our eighth grade Writer’s Guild about writing.
" It is not truly the author who writes the story. The author creates the characters,
and then the characters write the story."
~Kelly Dornan
“Writing is as beautiful and intricate as a fragile piece of blown glass. Should it be broken, it spills the
secrets that were so delicately added, and the author’s soul is bared for all to see.”
~ Delaney Jordan
“Writing is like shopping. It takes a lot of work to find that perfect
inspiration, or perfect outfit, but once you have found it there’s no
stopping the many accessories and shoes that go with it.”
~Ashlee Basgier
“Writing starts with something small on your mind as you began and gets
blown out of proportion into an idea that engulfs all who experience
it.”
~Jessica Smith
“When it comes to writing, the best thing you can do is be happy with it and hope people like it. If they
don’t, all that matters is that you like it anyway. I mean, what do they know?”
~Ciara Davis
“Writing is like playing Super Mario. The writer most go through
painful obstacles, many frustrations, and try over and over again just
to win. Destroying Bowser and winning the game is as glorious as
finishing a piece of writing all your own.”
~~Parker James
“Writing stories is never a pastime. It creates time, therefore
defeating the point of passing time.”
~Sarah Harshbarger
"Writing is like Monet's paintings. Up close, you focus on the brushstrokes and color, but when you take
the time and step back, or look at it from a different view, that's when you can appreciate the whole
picture."
~Kristen Powers
“Writing is your life story, your thoughts, your likes, and your
dislikes all coming together in the form of link splashed on a paper.
It creates another universe, parallel to ours that is different yet the
same. Its future in your hands.”
~Andrew Desrochers
This poem was selected for the Howard County Literary
Magazine winner
Waters of Imagination
By Julia Berry
The flood begins.
Water gushes out of the tap, hitting the smooth marble canyon like a waterfall.
A cool, smooth syrup swirls in, foaming where the water caresses it like a mother to her
child.
An ocean of bubbles erupt, engulfing the tub in a sea of froth, the top of a steamy latte.
The rubber duck moves with the tsunami of aqua.
Spilling to the hard linoleum; a cascade of rain in a tropical rainforest
Giving you energy where the mist whirls, a silent breath of adrenaline.
It never asks anything in return
For its generous services, and the imagination that comes free of charge
But when all the beauty disappears
Like the mist vanishing as the sun hits
We don‘t think twice about our bath
Until the waters of imagination are gone.
Labeled and Forgotten
By Ciara Davis
A chalk drawing
A girl with skinny jeans
A girl with a black shirt
A girl with Vans on
She‘s not emo
She just likes skinny jeans
And black
And Vans
The girl doesn‘t accept the label
Until someone hates her for it
Then she‘s on the defensive
And she is an emo, and it starts to rain
With each passing hour
A little piece of the drawing washes away
Eventually there‘s nothing left
And she is just a shadow
The chalk is gone
And the girl once there
Is nothing but a memory
Maryland
By Daniel Crowe
Maryland, our crabs people crave
Where the Chesapeake Bay is, which we need to save.
Land-wise we‘re small, but we have parts tall, like where the Appalachian
Mountains fall.
We‘ve got country and city too, ethnic groups and cultures; we‘ve got a few.
Hey we even have a nice beach, within a many peoples reach, Ocean City is its proper
name, and I have brought Maryland much fame.
In Maryland the country is nice, grassy plains and meadows filled with field mice.
Dams made by beavers and lakes occupied with our state dog, the Chesapeake Bay
retriever.
I‘d rather be here on the countryside,
Because unlike in other states, in Maryland, we have our pride.
To My Mom
Sorry I set your alarm
5:20 in the morning
On Saturday.
It was my birthday,
That‘s the time I was born.
Just thought you might want
A reminder of that wonderful event.
No, I didn‘t wake up.
It was only for you.
Hey, it was my birthday
I wanted to sleep in.
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I know
You are not sorry
It‘s okay though.
It was a sweet idea,
I never would have thought of it
You always were the creative one.
Even though I was mad
And yelled
I forgive you
Because that‘s my job
And I love you.
~ Ashlee Basiger
Lovers and Enemies
By Alec Day Life is Short
By Sarah Harshbarger
Tides of the world,
In oceans and lakes,
Gravitational force, A birthday cake sits on the table, QuickTime™ an d a
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Tractive outbreaks. shaped as a clown smiling in red,
blue, and yellow icing. It might
The moon and the sea, be anyone's cake, except for one
Two lovers afar, thing; a large white candle
Together they be outlined in red that reads, ―3,‖ as
Under the cover of star. the small, grinning girl before it
seems to be. As she looks at the
The moon and the sun, camera, her pose looks close to a shrug, and, I think, she is content
Together they labor, with that. Not knowing anything of the world except her best friends
To take wet fun who I can see patiently waiting for her to taste the cake first. She
From their planetary doesn't care, possibly because she thinks she knows it all. It will be
neighbor. years before she wonders, and even then she is among the lucky
ones.
Tides of the world,
In oceans and lakes, So many children have searched for the knowledge that they slowly
Gravitational force, realize they have yet to gain like Christmas presents hidden by
Tractive outbreaks. caring parents in a basement closet. They believe they want to find
them, but as they finally do they jump back, wishing they hadn't
seen them. They weren't ready. But it's too late, the presents are
theirs now. The burdens of the world are now upon their shoulders.
Because growing up was not ―all wrapped up.‖
Yes, she was among the lucky. I was among the lucky. I waited for
the knowledge the grown-ups around me all seemed to have,
however impatiently. When it came, I was ready. But still I missed
the innocent days of clown cake and purple Kool-Aid. And if
growing up happens twice, I know I will wait at the back of the line.
Because life is short.
Life is Short
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By Kelly Dornan
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What happened to her?
The winds changed, a storm hit town.
A big girl stood up
This poem was selected for the Howard County Literary Magazine
winner
Sweet Revenge
By Parker James
Dear Gnome,
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It started out normal,
Mowing along,
I was fully aware of you,
Sitting there,
With that stupid look on your face,
On your last.
I planned my attack,
A hit from the side,
Then another, The Wood Pile
And another. by Jane Rouse
I knew you knew I hated you.
So I took action. In a remote part of the yard, two piles of
Your face smooshed, wood stacked messy and askew sit. A log
Sorry. lays sideways across both of them. A leaf
I finally got my sweet revenge. plummets silently onto the pile, joining
its friends that fell earlier. The woods
Ouch that come behind the scene look cold and
lonely. One single deer steps out from
Dear Parker, behind a tree. Feeling calmness of its
That Hurt, surroundings, it bends down to start
When your mom bought me, eating. A piece of wood gets pushed put
I felt love and tenderness, of the pile by gravity. The sound of it
Now, landing seems to ring among the clearing
Nothing. for minuets after actually ends. The
I taunted you, deer jumps with a start and turns, leaping
Day in, and jumping, through the woods. When
Day out. the silence gets restored, everything turns
Looking into your piercing eyes back to normal. The clearing once again
Thinking of my own gnome family, becomes quiet. The woods are still,
Then black. feeling almost as if nothing
Your mom found me. has happened. Peacefulness
Broken, QuickTime™ and a
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Physically and emotionally, the world like a blanket
Ouch, gets laid upon a child.
Darkness Gathers
By Kasia Szeliga
Through the dark and myst fog,
I walked wearily on the black road,
Trees leaning towards me,
As if I‘m their friend.
I think about how beautiful night is,
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Through tree branches,
Then going back into hiding.
The cat crouching in the field,
Watching a mouse scurry through the tall corn,
Then begins stalking,
His soon to be dinner.
The big grey owl,
Sitting on a tall branch,
And calling hoot-hoot,
Then spreading its big wings and flying off into the night.
I think about going home,
And then start back,
The darkness has gathered,
And so has its many creatures.
A Magical Vacation
By: Kathleen Mensing
―Hi ya pal! Welcome abroad!‖ That‘s what Mickey Mouse would say if we embark on the Disney
Magic! In fact, we would get to experience new destinations on the seven-day trip. As proof, the ship
travels to Castaway Cay, the Bahamas, and Europe! We can explore the crystal clear waters, white beaches
of Castaway Cay, the vibrant colors of the Bahamas, or the excitement of Europe all in one week! Surely,
no other cruise-line is as wonderful as the Disney Magic! Without a doubt, we will have a wonderful
experience on this gorgeous ship complete with beautiful chandeliers that shimmer and sparkle like a disco
ball, Disney themes dining space that will make us feel as if we were characters in a Disney film, and
performances with the crew members that will blow us away! Furthermore, bursting, illuminescent
fireworks light up the night sky like new flowers bloom in spring. However, I know you are worried about
the cost, but I‘ll lend a hand! Whenever we purchase an item or order room service, I‘ll help pay for them.
This way, we can all enjoy this magical experience! So please, consider the Disney Magic for our next
vacation!
Time
By Erin Swanhart
Time goes ‗way when you need it most, Ode To a Toothbrush
But when it‘s not needed it slows almost By Rachel Cermack
To a stop
It waits for nobody, What would we do without it?
You can‘t buy time, No clean car wheel spokes, no
You can‘t gain it once it‘s gone, clean toilets, and most
So use your time wisely, importantly of all, no clean
Don‘t dilly, don‘t dally, for teeth
Time goes ‗way when you need it most. As the teeth are brushed, the
smooth handle of it glides
across the hands
The rough, stringy, white brush
begins it’s magic through the
mouth
Like a car wash in your gums,
its vibrations as strong as an
earthquake sending your taste
buds tingling,
the toothpaste is a perfect
In the mind… match with it.
By Erin Swanhart Bad breath dissolves away in a
fury of freshness, as you reach
In the mind there is a single white, for the cup to rinse
weeping willow. A crystal clear river flows
nearby. Memories and thoughts dance. I see stars QuickTime™ and a
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days that last forever. This is where it is
wonderful to go.
In the mind there is a forest of animals
gentle and sweet. Then out of nowhere a molten
of lava appears. It changes almost instantly to a
quiet meadow with fields of wild flowers. Then Cluttered and filthy, the room was a
the mind goes back to the weeping willow and mess. The old, ageing bright blue
the crystal river where it once was. curtains now a shade of blue like a
faded sky. Clothes were strewn about
the room. Arrangement of green, blue,
and red, like a piece of artwork. The
bed sheets were ruffled and undone, and
anything that was finished, scattered
across the floor. Homework from
months ago now left behind, to be Clean your room!‖ , rang some sense
found weeks later. It was as luxurious a into the person who resided there.
getaway as a pigpen. However, it was
only like this for a while, for nagging,‖ ~Tyler Howard
Never Sorry
By Delaney Jordan
Dear teacher,
I‘m sorry for talking
All
The
Time
I know I miss a lot,
But I really have lots of good things to say
Whether you like it or not.
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Dear Student,
You miss my instructions
All
The
Time
And really disrupt the class,
You‘re grades are suffering, you never listen
I‘m sorry but you cannot pass.
The Flowing River I‘m on my way back through the mud
By Natasha Churchyard holes.
I never have a busy day,
I come form places near and far, And always go and flow my way.
And linger under shining stars. I feel like I‘m a waterfall
The wind just pulls me down the hills, Rolling like a crystal ball.
The trees all shake and give me chills.
I go through curves, I go through waves,
The rain just fills me to the top, I go through everything but caves.
I overflow and have to stop. I stumble in and out of ridges,
The sun dries up my little puddles, And cross some big and little bridges.
I tremble over golden rocks, I keep on flowing through the Earth,
And flow uphill just like a fox. Like the beginning of a birth.
I spread apart all different ways, I stop if something‘s in my way,
And flow into the silver bays. And go back through another day.
Swimming I hit my head on the side of the pool.
by Nick Haley I looked up dazed and see Kimberly,
Smiling with a victorious grin on her
At my grandparents pool, face.
I race with my cousins,
We practice, practice, practice,
Until the big race comes.
Different techniques are used,
Swimming under the whole time, like a
fish,
Swimming above the whole time, like a
jet ski,
Or a combination of both.
I prefer both
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I‘m as ready as a bomb, wanting to go
off.
― Ready… Set… GO!‖ Cecilla screams.
I‘m off and kicking. The water flies
everywhere.
The little kids scream.
Unlike my competitor, who swims
underwater,
Barley disturbing anyone
I feel that I am first,
But I cannot tell with all the water
blinding me. Reflection
I‘m not sure if I‘ve made it yet, until… By Delaney Jordan
BUMP!
―Who is that girl I see, staring straight reach to see inside, I see a little girl in a
back at me?‖ I look back on my sunflower dress, with mussed and curly
childhood self and remember flashes of hair, standing on her topmost tippy-toes,
childhood, no real memories, but finally able to reach her treasure box all
feelings all the same. In my younger by herself. I am a stranger in my own
memories, I am an outsider, looking in. I mind, never complete, never whole,
don‘t see the contents of my topmost never fitting in, anywhere.
drawer, the one I can finally just barely
Death After Loss
By Julia Berry
Tires squealed against the slick black road; horns
beeped in terror. The impact was as loud as a
train wreck, and glass shatters curved through
the air at deadly angles. Blood dripped down my Moon and Tides
face, and my eyes drooped until I could no Jinney Kil
longer see the sirens or hear the ambulance….
My eyes open to a clean white room with an The Earth and the moon, two heavenly bodies in
unfamiliar musky smell in the air. My mother space,
hovered over me, her face calm but eyes hectic Have a gravitational pull amongst the two,
with loss. ―Ben, where‘s Ben?!‖ I cried Creating tides that embrace,
anxiously. ―Honey‖, my mom said softly, ―Ben The land beneath their view.
is dead‖.
When the Sun the Earth and the moon are all
aligned,
And vivid full moons or dim new moons are in
view,
Spring tides emerge from the waters, unbind,
With loftier tide when they are due.
When the Sun and the moon make a corner with
one another,
The Beach When a quarter moon can be
by Katherine Greulich seen,
Neap tides occur,
The warm air blows against the sand making a The height of tides starts to
tiny tornado. The ocean roars as though it was decrease and wean.
longing for someone to take a dip in it. Silence
fills the empty beach. There is nothing more
magical that the sun setting behind the dark
blue ocean. The sun finally disappears and
leaves the sky with nothing but pinkness for
only a second it seems. Then, turns completely
black as it does every other day.
This piece was selected for the one who dresses up like Ariel, the one who
Howard County Literary Magazine colored with chalk? She was so small and
young, not a care in the world. Where did she
winner go? I know what happened to the little girl. The
winds changed and a storm hit town. She blew
Life is Short over. She fell down. After everything, a big girl
By Kelly Dornan stood up as the little girl floated away in the
breeze. She glanced back at her friend, the little
What happened to the little girl? Yes, girl, and then turned into the wind, and began to
the one who toddled around the open space, the walk away.
A Midnight Walk everything for us. The older we get, the less we
By Matt LeTellier live in the moment. The more necessary thinking
ahead becomes. We live on that high of taking a
One dark and windy night jump and not worrying about what the landing
The Earth and the moon had a fight. will be like, and the consequences of that
As I walked the beach, the surf did not roar and landing.
leap.
At battle‘s end, the Earth seemed to weep.
The Moon that night was round and full.
The waves rose higher at his every pull.
The Sun pitched in slightly and took his side.
Once they aligned, I saw the highest tide.
It‘s hard to say what caused the dissent,
But the Tractive force came and went.
The Earth clearly lost the battle score. Dear Daddy,
At break of day, debris littered her shore.
I‘m sorry for hiding
The scuffle gave me quite a scare, QuickTime™ an d a
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After all the battle was quite unfair. are need ed to see this p icture . Keeping them for all
The moon teamed up with the sun my own selfish
And that‘s how the assault was won. pleasure
Hidden under the
blankets by my bed,
So unfair
Life is Short. So delicious
By Jessica Smith I swear they brainwashed me
The sweet right-out-of-the-oven smell drew me
It seems that the older we get, the more near,
we try to get lost in the moment. Lost in that one I just couldn‘t help myself.
moment of freefall, where time freezes and no
worries exist. We try to recapture that time in our I saw the cookies pop out of the oven
childhood where we lived in the moment and Started eating them right away
thinking ahead was for the boring adults that did Slowly sneaking the batch upstairs
Into my room
I can‘t truly soar like a bird
I‘m sorry For I am afraid of what people assume
For leaving evidence The mask restrains me
Dropping crumbs on the carpet Locked up in a fragment of imagination
It was an accident…maybe.
My friends come to the rescue
They come with their words of brazenness,
Dear Kristen, audacity
I need to free the rest of me
You are not very sneaky. By unearthing that key
I would have found them I release myself with the key of daring courage
One day…if I really wanted to
We all wear a mask
Too bad I didn‘t look. Few pry it off
I am one of them
If I wanted cookies, A society of the free
I would have just made my own We proudly wear the mask
For it is ourselves that we bear, not another.
They were my favorite…
They were the last
No more mix at the store…
I didn‘t care…maybe
~ By Kristen Powers
The Hoop
By Juliana Prezelski
The whistle blows, our last second in
our timeout. Back onto the rock hard court, two
points down, and a couple of seconds left in the
game. With tension rising, my teammate passes
the bumpy ball to me. I push the ball up the
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wooden court with my heart pounding and legs
racing. The announcer says ―This is gonna be
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close‖. I get behind the hard, strong pick and the
ball soars like natural off my sweaty palm. With
the ball flying high the crowd jumps up, my
knees tremble, then ‗swish‘. The crowd is like
lions roaring as the cold, shiny trophy is put into
my hands, it feels like its meant to be.
“We all wear a mask or something, either you
or someone else,”
By: Erika Koontz
I try to be myself Shadows are Falling
But the mask is impermeable By Harry Rahn
Nothing can break through
I stay clasped in unbreakable bindings Shadows are falling
I‘m running out of time
My time has come
My family is gone
My time has come
My prayers are said
My time has come
My grief has passed
My time has come
My wife is gone
My time has come
It goes beep beep
My movement is gone Turn and Fight
It goes beep beep By Mary Alice Allnutt
My vision has disappeared
It goes beep beep She had been running for years, and couldn‘t let
My speech has muted them get to her. Constantly haunted by every
It goes beep beep little thing, and she had always been that way.
My fear grows and grows Why was she running? She should just turn and
It goes beep beep face them. Stealthily they crept up, threatening to
overcome her: weight, parents, secrets, and
My time is up betrayal. She closed her eyes, and turned, ready
I see the tunnel for battle. She opened her eyes again, and traced
The machine goes Beeeep her shape in the bathroom mirror.
Shadows have fallen
I’ve got Feelings Too, You Know
Life Is Short By Mary Alice Allnutt
By Katie Waddel
I‘ve been a plane, a castle, a miniature crane
A picture can unlock the doors of your I‘ve been a football, a cube, a swan,
mind and remind you of a place that you have I‘ve been a note; you‘ve passed me on.
forgotten for so long until now. When you look I‘ve been high up on the mall,
at a picture from long ago, it can take you a I‘ve hung everywhere in the mall,
while to see what it is, to remember whom that But do you ever notice me at all?
face is from years ago staring back at you. Do you see me when I fall?
Sometimes it‘s easy to recognize, but sometimes I‘m a bit self- conscious, so to speak,
it‘s difficult to identify because you‘re different I‘m mild- mannered, a little bit meek.
from then, and not just because of that But I‘ve also been loud and eye- catching,
unfortunate haircut you got two years ago, but I‘ve been a signed photo up for snatching.
because of your changing opinions and interests. But more often, I‘ve been written on,
When I see that timid smile, I would not think More and more I‘ve been a pawn,
the person in the picture is I. That girl who had Upon which you scribble, write, and draw,
no desire to have her voice heard. That shy girl And you had not a thought of me at all.
who would flee from a spotlight and beg that she Without me, what would schools do?
wouldn‘t be called on in class. The silent little No homework anymore, that‘s true.
teacher‘s pet who always kept her mouth shut No information hung up on the board,
and did as she was told. Thankfully, that is just No signed posters for children to hoard.
an old picture and today that girl will never be I‘ll try to be modest, but I must admit,
found again. I, myself, my cousins, we are a bottomless pit
Of possibilities. Of excitement. Of fun.
I am a friend to everyone.
Was shy and quiet I used to be unknown, not discovered.
I now speak thoughts loud and clear But by now I‘ve seen a room where mothers
Better than before hovered
Above me, and the frowning face of a child, always look at each other and say ―philopophers
Closer to me, scribbling all the while. and terrorists!!‖ and laugh until we get yelled at.
Other times, all was a caper,
But did anyone ever give a thought for the
paper?
Just Me
Sorry By Kelly Dornan
By Ciara Davis
Caroline
Trey Oh! What‘s that sound?
Did that really come from me?
I‘m sorry that I stole your Halloween candy Yup, it was me, trying to sing.
But I didn‘t have any left
It was calling to me, couldn‘t you hear it? You always begged me for this
You finally got your wish
I realize you might be upset Are you happy now?
Don‘t get mad at me, it was the call of the candy
I‘m not crazy, just a little strange Jeff
So what if I‘m tall?
It was so sweet and full of chocolate Doesn‘t mean I‘m good at sports.
The peanut butter blended well with the Told you I was a twinkle toes
chocolate
And going down together was the best taste ever I can‘t play basketball to save my life.
You saw that yourself
You can‘t eat peanut butter I lost the championship for you.
So you shouldn‘t be mad Do you regret that?
I‘m still sorry, but not really I know you‘re upset you ever asked me.
Claire
You asked me to try,
I figured ‗Why not?‘
But I‘m awful at this
My instrument never sounds right
It screeches instead of singing
Philopophers and Terrorists I don‘t even like this
By: Ashlee Basgier
Yet you make me feel bad for wanting to
Have you ever said something that you didn‘t quit.
mean to say, but that‘s just how it came out?
Maybe it didn‘t make very much sense, or maybe Tara
it just didn‘t sound quite right. Well when I was I can‘t act at all,
in 6th grade we had to do a project on Ancient It‘s really a shame
China. I had never made a podcast before, but I really don‘t want to
two of my friends and I decided to try it out.
Now this was already a recipe for way too much But your pressure, your push.
laughter and not enough work getting done, but I decided to try.
we were determined to finish the project. And now I want out.
It was in my part of the script to say, ―China had
many ancient philosophers and therapists.‖ But I But you‘ll never let me leave, will you?
was already laughing too hard from our previous
mess-ups, and I accidentally said, ―China had
many ancient phillopophers and terrorists!‖ My Together
group and I cracked up. Every since then it‘s We didn‘t want to, but you
been a joke between us. Anytime someone Pushed us anyway.
messes up on what they are trying to say, we
We want to leave, but
You shove the guilt in out faces We have no escape.
Eight Sentence Story
By Jessica Call
“Guys! Guys! It isn’t funny anymore,” I called through the Disney Store. My teeth chattered
as I saw the big green numbers on my cell phone. The time was 10:25 P.M. and I knew from
many well-planned shopping sprees the mall was closed for the night. I couldn’t believe my
friends had LEFT me in here as a joke. I knew we shouldn’t have been playing hide and go
seek in the mall. Then the seriousness of things hit me with a rush, I was alone in the Disney
Store till 12PM tomorrow and I couldn’t see since it was so dark and my “besties” had ditched
me like last summer’s iPod. A steady voice whispered my name in the dark,
“Katie…Kates…Katerz.” My whole body tensed as I felt a perfectly manicured hand land on
my shoulder and Lilly whisper BOO!
Allergy Season And the muffled sound of coughing and sneezing
By Andrea Gilliland coming from that child,
Pleased me- eased me with thoughts of my fist
encounter with that sickly child,
Once upon my noontime snack, while I sat there So that now, I thought once again, `it was all a
dressed in black, coincidental accident,‘
I noticed a boy coming running past me, looking `I cannot be allergic to some innocent child who
as if he was so silly, passed by me –
And when he passed, I started sneezing, sneezing I am not allergic to an innocent child who passed
uncontrollably, by me –
As if I was allergic to that child and his ways, This is all, you see‘
you see.
`It is just coincidental,‘ I thought ‗for my And suddenly, my idea changed, and my simple
reaction to the passing of thee, thoughts were rearranged.
`This is all, you see.‘ I was confused about my allergies, and if I was
allergic to a simple, innocent child,
Ah, so clearly I can say, that it was in the month The boy passed by, and nothing happened, when
of May, I was passed by that same child,
And at the sight of each colorful daisy was a My allergy symptoms seemed to stay mild; and
single honey- bee, they did not go wild,
Then I saw that little child, the child who‘d made For possibly the whole reaction was just my silly
my symptoms go wild imagination becoming styled,
There he sat so eager and free – free to mess with And this is all, you see.
the allergies of me –
The allergies of the older, gleeful, gothic, And there I stood, for awhile; plastered to my
straight-haired me – face, a growing smile;
And this is all, you see
Thinking, wondering, about that child as though
he had never been thought of before,
But as the boy passed by again, my symptoms
did not go wild, because of that little child,
And the only word thought in my head was the
softest word, `allergies!‘
And then I knew that I had just spring allergies,
so I thought again, `just allergies!‘ Sea of Thoughts
And simply just this, you see. By Nathan Borek
Why is it, I ask, that we become enamored
with such crazy thoughts, ideas, wants and
dreams
that could never be true, but are always in need?
And in the golden sunshine they gleam, an
everlasting shine
always being reached for, but also out of sight
It is by some overpowering instinct, like the ones
of old time
which drove our ancestors towards brighter light,
which always they would find
And nowadays,
when we‘re in that deep part of mind,
we search through the sea of thoughts,
and dreams we do find.
Her First Day
By Jessica Cooper
Katie stood; her feet firmly on the tiled floor,
watching a red light flash and beep. Even though
her feet were firmly on the floor, Katie felt faint. Life is short
She wasn‘t ready for this. She didn‘t want to do By: Ashlee Basgier
this. SHE COULDN‘T DO THIS. However,
bodies bustled around her, the air crackling with Just like any little kid, I used to believe
tension, and with her hands shaking, Katie had that the world was perfect. Now that I‘m a little
no choice but to follow everyone else. ―You older, I know the truth. Kids only see the happy
ready, rookie?‖ someone asked, but Katie could things in life. Their parents protect them from
only nod her head in response, fear taking away anything that could be hazardous to them, or
her ability to speak. Within minutes, Katie found could make them view the world in a different
herself on a bright red truck, a mixture of fear light. No one‘s perfect, and neither is the world;
and adrenaline pumping through her body, racing in fact, it‘s far from it. But I also remember the
off to a burning building. It was her first day as a good things. The little things in life are what
firefighter. really make up who you are. To some people,
one fun Saturday with my friends might seem a
lot smaller then something like an important
exam. But as far as I can tell, there‘s already too
much hate and stress in the world. So if I want to
get lost in one day spent having a good time,
that‘s exactly what I‘m going to do. Because
guess what? Life is short, and I have too many
things to do that are more important, things that
make people happy and make me who I am, then By Delaney Jordan
to worry about one silly paper or one little
project. Instead of teaching kids to focus on big She is the girl in the back
things first, and the unnecessary and non- The one who carries her books in a pack
required things second, we need to learn from
their example. When they get the chance to She knows the answer, yet never speaks
spend a day just hanging out with their friends, She is as distant as mountain peaks
they don‘t think about all the other things they
could be doing instead. They simply focus on the Never does she yell or scream
here and the now. They enjoy the day for what She has no friends, but dares to dream
it‘s worth and worry about the harder things
later. So I‘m going to live life to the fullest, Yes, they like her well enough,
because you never know when you won‘t have a But they'd rather think of other stuff
chance to say, ―I wish I had done that a little
differently.‖ No one wants to listen to her
They've blocked her out, she is sure
Despite her efforts they turn away
Even when she tries day after day
So all alone she sits at lunch
Too sad to even munch
At the end of the day she trudges home
But even there is she's all alone
She wants it to end but hasn't the heart
She knows from her loved ones she cannot
depart
And so she bears it, week after week
But still in school she does not speak
In the Back Concrete Angel she does hum
Until the day that she is done.
Yiran, Elaine, and Clara They knew that I was the director of my
own little skit.
By Clara Wang
Yiran was the name given to me the day I For up to when I was two,
was born, Elaine has been the name I have known.
Meaning natural and grace. On important documents Yiran was
Since then I have worn, inscribed in blue,
The name is as floral as beaded lace that Whichever name I chose I was always my
I shall one day embrace. parent’s precious stone.
Although the doctors insisted on an It has been confusing having two separate
English name, names,
My parents decided Elaine was fit. Imagining having three is a total dream.
They felt that the name Elaine would
bring me fame,
My name has many titles along with it from
Having three would be like adding oil to celebrities like Luke Wilson to the older Luke
Appling and historians like Saint Luke.
flames, My name is Luke and I may simply say I am
I now had a three name team. proud to say, know, and hold it.
Clara was the new added member,
It replacing the old.
Elaine will be a name I will always
remember,
For it is part of my destiny that is
continuing to unfold.
Clara means clear, bright and famous,
I hope I am able to fulfill these desires. Olivia
I plead to not fall into the mouth of the By Olivia Graziano
monster of ignoramus,
I beg to realize the importance of setting My mom thought this name to be the best
Not Lucy, Jane, or any of the rest.
goals before an archer fires.
Only Olivia would be the name she would be
choosing,
Three names are in my grasp, It means olive tree, which I find unamusing.
Each with their own little history.
The quantity triggers a gasp, First used by Shakespeare in “The Twelfth Night,”
My name is a star, forever shining bright,
But how many names I will have at the end
If Olivia wasn’t my name,
will always be a mystery. I would never again feel the same.
The sound of my name fills me with joy,
Like candy and my pets, or my favorite stuffed toy.
My name means the world to me,
Luke Whether said as Livia, Liv or simply Livvy.
By Luke Barragan
The Latin “Oliva” is my name’s origin,
And with this name, I’ll always win.
My name is a trademark, a scripture, a
My name makes me as happy as can be,
production a fingerprint identifying me.
For Olivia is the name for me!
My name is Luke it is Latin and it means Lucas
but it was given to me as Skywalker for the fan
in my father.
My name can be of Greek German and Biblical
ancestry from Loukas to saint Luke.
My name means more than just its history it also
means the one from Luciana.
My name is known to symbolize Saint Luke
author of Acts and Luke in the Bible.
My name is possessive of many of my thoughts;
my feelings about my name have always been
with a high held head.
My name to me is something to be proud of
more than it being hard to make fun of.
My name is short, slightly elegant, rare, and
Twilight Ride
respected in at least my eye and by some close to By Sara Gordon
me.
Hard hooves strike the ground in their own says that it means remembering God.
type of flight
While a dark, shimmering coat is covered by
night.
Andrew comes from the name Andreas
when translated into Greek means
Cold hands gripping a warm, flying mane ―Manly‖. this could also be further
Enjoying the thrill that riding creates. translated into "warrior".
Faster and faster, running with the wind
Racing in a playful way, making sure the fun
Navy uses the name Andrew as one of
never thins... their terms.
We slow down to rest by the shining lake, Did not really strike my interest with
Checking to see that the diamond-like stars nicknames like wackie-zachie,
are not fake.
zacharoni, or even zacher-doo.
Being nuzzled by a friendly, warm and
velvety nose... Reminds me of a god being strong,
This is as close as to heaven on earth is, I manly and seeming as if he was a
suppose. mountain.
Even three kings of Hungary were born
with the name Andrew.
Was the name of two of our presidents
Zachary Andrew Hahn
Andrew Jackson who was our 7th
president and Andrew Johnson our 17th
Zachary is the name of many important
president.
people like Zachary Taylor our 12th
president of the U.S.A. Also, Zachary
was a Roman Catholic leader.
After 1990 the name Zachary hit the
popularity list and has been trending
upwards ever since.
Comes from the names Zacharya and
Tears In the Sky
Zecharya. By Christina Le
Hebrew meaning for Zachary is ―the
The weather has been wet,
lord recalled‖.
dreary and mournful,
Andrew was the first disciple to follow the soldiers had died,
Jesus and there were many cries.
Reminds me of the way that everything You sit there and wait,
used to be peaceful and everybody was for the time of your fate,
caring. will Death come anytime now?
Young Zacharia a prophet in the bible You see a face in the sky,
tears dripping down his sad My last name, Girard, is
face, French,
meaning a spear that is
it was God that you had seen, strong.
now you know that the rain was It makes me realize that
a purpose. I am sharp and keen which is
never wrong
That is my full name,
and I very proud to have it,
my name is part of me
and I wouldn't go on without
it.
My Name
By Sarah Girard
My name is Sarah An Girard,
and I like it like delicious
sweets. My “Gracious” Name
Sarah means princess in By Anne Harshbarger
Hebrew,
which is really just a treat. My name means grace or gracious
I think that’s pretty neat
I was named after a song Sometimes it only fits halfway
that my Dad loves to sing. But that’s good enough for me
It's called "Sarah Smiles"
and happiness is what it When I was five or six or eight
brings. I didn’t think that name was great
After eleven years or so
My middle name, An, is Korean Love for my name began to grow
with a
Chinese origin meaning peace. Anne truly is a foreign name
It reminds me that I can be French, German, English, Dutch
gentle, Its Hebrew source is Channah,
gentle as fleece. It’s also French for Anna
My first name goes way, way back
To the thirteenth century “We must make a decision”, they often would
That seems older than the pyramids scream.
But it belonged to royalty
Day after day and night after night,
What really, really frustrates me There seemed to be no end to their plight.
Is the nickname Annie-Bannanie
And all the other ways to spell it Early one morning my mother awoke,
Like A-N-N or Anny And said to my father would this be a joke?
So how was it selected? Rapunzel Rezeppa will be her name,
It’s quite simple you see They laughed out loud and said, „we‟re insane!”
It’s classic and old fashioned
Much favored in my family They decided that day no more reflection,
They needed a name that stated perfection.
When I think about my name
I see graceful queens in flowing gowns As hard as they tried no name had been
Swans swimming in a castle’s moat chosen,
Elegant lace and sparkling crowns
It was as though their brains had been frozen.
Graceful like a swan,
As they watched TV, a soap opera, so lame,
That’s not really true to me
My mother cried out, “I have the name!”
Though Anne is a pretty name,
I think I’ll go by Annie
The beautiful woman on the screen,
Her name was Taylor, she looked like a Queen.
One who cuts cloth is the names true meaning,
Which one could say is not so demeaning.
Though very different from the woman on
screen,
A tailor‟s profession can bring much esteem.
Although it‟s true meaning doesn‟t describe me
at all,
It gives me no reason to start to bawl.
I adore my name,
The Name Game It brings me no shame.
By Taylor Rezeppa
My name is pleasant,
Almost like a Christmas present.
While I waited safely to come into this world, Middle English, Old French is its history you
A debate like no other, had unfurled. see,
Now its origin is not a mystery to me.
What my parents would name me, they
couldn‟t agree The one thing that makes me want to fight,
So they stayed up each night, sometimes after Is when I get called a name that‟s not right.
three
Taylor the Wailer, or Tay-Lard won‟t do,
The names discussed were endless it seemed,
For all of these names are very untrue.
Taylor on the show was very witty,
Not Taylor the sailor, nor Taylor the fool, On top of that, she was quite pretty.
To call me those names, would be so cruel.
My name brings out both good and bad,
There are some things that aren‟t so great, But either way my name is rad.
But there are some things, I‟ll tell you straight.
SHORT STORIES
A Strange Day in July
By Jessica Cooper
July 12, 1941
Dear Reader,
Qu i ckTi me ™ an d a
My name is Katherine Frank, I am 14
de co mp res so r
a re ne ed ed to se e thi s p i ctu re .
years old, I live in Germany, and I am
Jewish. Jewish. That one word has
changed my life. I used to live in a house
by the sea, now I live in a cramped
apartment that my family shares with
two others. It is still by the sea, but it is
nothing like the large, beautiful house I used to live in.
Actually, it is not an apartment at all, merely an attic on top
of an apartment belonging to some Christian friends. I live in
hiding and fear. You see, an evil man named Adolf Hitler is
terrorizing the Jews, and the only safe place is to be where I am
now, imprisoned in a dusty attic. The only thing I have to
remind me of happier times are the three stones I am enclosing
in a package and attaching to this letter. When I was only 7
years old, my family went out to the sea and went for a walk. I
found these three pebbles, and have kept them all these years
because of how unlike anything else they are. They are truly
beautiful. Now, I look at them when I am scared and alone,
and they remind me of happier times, free times. If you find
this letter, that means the inevitable has happened. The Nazis
have found our hiding place and taken us away, and I have
been forced to leave my precious stones behind. If you find this
letter, I am gone. So, dear reader, I am asking you to do one
last favor for me. Please take the stones and walk down to the
ocean where I have walked so long ago, and throw them into
the water. Remember what it is like to be free.
Love,
Katherine
“What is it Noah?” Emma asked, trying to peer over his shoulder. Noah held
the letter in disbelief; he couldn’t believe what it said. Silently, he passed the letter to
Emma, and as she read Noah watched tears begin to slide down her cheeks. 7 year
old Emma and 9 year old Noah had just moved to their new house in Germany, and
their mom had asked them to go unpack some things in the attic. While up there,
Noah had found a piece of paper and a package, stuffed in a corner. It had been
placed strategically, out of sight if you just glanced, but visible if you really looked.
“We have to do what Katherine asked, Noah” Emma said, once she was done
reading the letter. “We just have to.” She sat down on the floor and picked up the
package, resting it on her lap. Noah nodded his head in agreement. Those stones
must have really meant something to Katherine. Carefully, Emma began to tear the
brown paper wrapping off the package, and inside she found, just as promised, three
stones. She held them up to the light and gasped. They really were beautiful. Late
afternoon sun streamed through the dormers and made the stones glitter. They were
smooth to touch and perfectly oval. What made them the most beautiful was not
how they looked, but the meaning behind them. Emma handed them to Noah, who
slipped them in his pocket. “Can you believe it, Noah?” She asked, looking around
the attic. “Three whole families stayed in here. In our attic!” “It is hard to believe.”
Noah said. “All our stuff barely fits in here, yet three families were able to share this
space.” Emma nodded her head. “I don’t like being up here very much. Now, when I
look around, I don’t see our attic anymore. I see a place where three families were
forced to live in fear, never knowing how much longer they would be alive.” They
quickly went back to unpacking, a silence settling over them. As soon as they were
done, they would go to the beach.
At the beach, Noah pulled the stones from his pocket. He looked around,
noticing how the sunlight glistened on the water, making it sparkle. He couldn’t
imagine living with this all his life and then everything being taken away, just because
of his religion. Behind him, Emma scrambled over a rock. “Before we throw the rocks,
I think we should have a moment of silence for Katherine and her family, and all the
other families that died, the way we did when my hamster died last year.” She said,
once she was standing next to him. So they stood there for a minute, trying to think
about what it was like for Katherine and her family, but failing. They just couldn’t
imagine having to live in fear everyday. They were free, and they took that for
granted. Emma took a stone in her hand, and threw it into the water, watching it skip
out into the ocean before sinking to the bottom. Then she took another stone, and
again threw it, watching the pebble hop out into the water. Noah threw the last stone,
or at least, he tried to. He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping
back. Noah tried again, but to no avail. Exasperated, he dropped the stone into the
water, and watched it plop down. “Noah! You can’t just leave it there!” Emma cried,
reaching down quickly and picking it up. “If we can’t throw the stone, we need to take
it back to the house. “Why?” Noah began to ask, but Emma had already turned back
to the house and was starting on her way. Noah shook his head and followed her,
knowing that once Emma had her mind set, there was nothing you could do to stop
her.
That night, Noah couldn’t fall asleep. He got up and walked into Emma’s
room, where she had placed the stone on her dresser. He picked it up and fingered it,
rubbing it between his hands. Emma awoke a few minutes later. “What are you doing
here, Noah?” She asked groggily. “I just don’t understand. Why wouldn’t the stone
skip into the water? It’s what Katherine had wanted.” Emma got up and went to
stand beside Noah. “I thought about that to, but sometimes things just can’t be
explained. We’ll never be able to explain why Hitler did all those nasty things to
people, and we’ll never be able to understand why that stone didn’t skip. I don’t think
Katherine had wanted it to.” “Why not?” Noah asked. “That’s what she said in her
letter.” “I know, but now we’ll never forget what happened to Katherine. Whenever
we look at the stone, we’ll remember.” Noah nodded, and with that he started back
towards his room. “Good night, Emma.” “Good night, Noah.”
Noah and Emma never lost the stone, and every time they look at it they are
reminded of what happened during the Holocaust. Sometimes, when one of them
was feeling sad, feeling as if their problems were the most important in the world,
they would go and finger the stone, trying to imagine what it must have been like for
Katherine. When they did this, it reminded them that somewhere in the world, people
had much bigger problems than failing a test or getting grounded. Years later, when
Noah had already left the house, their parents were leaving soon to move into a
smaller apartment, and Emma was getting ready to move out for college, she
rewrapped the stone and added another note to Katherine’s letter, before setting it
once again in the attic.
Dear Reader,
My name is Emma and I am 18 years old. When I moved into
this house, my brother and I found these stones. Two of them
skipped into the water, but, for some unknown reason, the third
one came skipping back. Please guard this stone carefully, and
whenever you see it, imagine what it was like for Katherine. We
are so lucky to be free. Remember that.
Love,
Emma
The Third-Floor Bedroom
By Rachel Victoria Cermak
―So this is it, our new home,‖
gazed Alana. Peering up at the tall
Italian villa, she admired the detailed
stone front, glowing fountains, and a
beautiful manicured landscaping. The
QuickTime™ and a
house had three floors, but something decompressor
about the highest was special. The main are neede d to see this picture.
part of the house was heavily modern
and heavily designed, but the top
seemed plain and dull, with only one
room. She thought back to what the
previous owner, Mr. Pablo, had said to
Alan and her family. ―This place will
really come alive with excitement and
enchantment, especially the third-floor
bedroom.‖ She clutched her leather
suitcases and designer bags as she opened the bright white door and headed up the marble
staircase. She glanced around at the gourmet kitchen, expensive entertainment center, and
Mediterranean decorations, taking it all in. She found her room on the second floor, the
one closest to the steps closest to the steps leading to the third floor. The furniture and
décor were all beautiful, but nothing compared to her view of the purified swimming pool
and blossoming gardens beneath her. She fell back on her Tempur-Pedic custom designed
bed, breathing in the fresh air, deep in thought. Her thoughts drifted back to the
mysterious third-floor bedroom. She sat up and walked into the hallway, staring at the
steps leading to the bedroom. She began wondering towards them, pondering what would
happen. Once at the to, she gasped with surprise at the walls layered with stunning scenes
of animals and birds. She came to a scene of a bird flying through the air, and ran her
fingers along its beak. Suddenly the room felt as if it were spinning in a hurricane as
sweat rolled down Sarah‘s back. Her expression stiffened as she became struck with
terror. The most extraordinary thing occurred as the bird slowly peeled from the wall. It
was halfway off, becoming more three-dimensional by the second. Its soft blue feathers
parted, its sparkling black eyes danced, and its golden beak lifted. It was a beautiful
creature, one that could only be imagined in fairy tales, but here it was, right before her
eyes. ―How could this be possible?‖ exclaimed Alana. All she had done was touch the
painting, and now this incredible creature was flying and slicing through the air, like
magic. They locked eyes, and the bird curiously came towards her outstretched hand. She
never felt anything more stunning. She was astonished, and realized Mr. Pablo had
experienced this, too. She spoke to the small miracle and whispered, ―Who are you, and
how can this be happening?‖ The bird cooed and simply fluttered over to the window‘s
curtain. It raised it with his wing, and behind it was a note written in thick manuscript.
Alana read aloud, ―The one who may be able to unlock a world of magic simply by a
touch of their hand, holds the key, the adventure and happiness.‖ The bird nodded
slightly of its approval, the sunlight reflecting off its tiny skull. The bird then spread its
wingspan out, stretching all the way across the room. Alana was amazed at how much
was under those fragile wings. It gestured her forward, and with sudden elation, she
climbed into its majestic back as it took off out the window and into the vast valleys and
coasts of Italy. As they glided through the air, Sarah‘s eyes absorbed their beautiful estate
and their new homeland. They dipped through the air and explored the country for an
endless amount of time. When they were to go back to the estate, it would happen all
over again with new adventure every day and unimaginable experiences to behold.
Writing Autobiography
By Julia Berry
From as long as I can remember, I have been almost excessively
creative. Before I could properly hold a pencil, I held crayons or
QuickTime™ and a chubby paintbrushes in my hand and I would let the creative
decompressor
are neede d to se e this picture. energy flow to my fingertips, drawing what I was thinking. As
soon as I knew the alphabet and simple words, the energy would
flow onto the paper from the round pencil in my small hands.
The handwriting was crooked, the words were sometimes spelled
incorrectly, and my punctuation wasn‘t perfect, but I was ecstatic
I could finally write.
I first wrote something big in my day care center at the
age of two. It was St. Patrick‘s Day and we had read a story
about a leprechaun, of course, and after each child was supposed to write a sentence and make our own
class leprechaun story. But when the poster was being passed around, the other kids didn‘t know what to
say. A couple days later my mom was given the poster because I had written the whole thing by my self,
since the other kids had writer‘s block.
When I was in preschool and learning simple words, I would use a tiny pack of post its to write
on, and using my play kitchen I would take orders from my parents and little sister. After writing on the
post its, I would tear off the post its and stick them to any surface I could reach—my bed, my door, the
carpet, the walls. But this was just the beginning of my writing life.
Now fast forward to 2007. In fifth grade, my imagination had not wilted, but blossomed. I was
always thinking of something creative. It was as if I had half of my brain keeping tabs on reality, but the
other half immersed in my own little world. The imaginative side would not keep quiet for a second; it was
always scheming or planning. One unforgettable idea was my own personal newspaper. Dubbed the
Banana Times, I wrote up a one page long newspaper with spring break ideas, various contests, and an Ask
Izzie section. I promptly arrived in school the next day and placed a copy in everyone‘s mailbox in my
class. I felt incredibly proud of myself. How many 5 th graders publish a newspaper by themselves?
Apparently, two.
A few days after the first issue of the Banana Times was handed out, I soon had a rival
newspaper: the Lemonade Stand News, run by a girl in my class. Unlike my newspaper, this was a couple
pages, but only one copy that people could borrow. It wasn‘t just the fact someone else had tried to
―overthrow‖ me that set me off. On the second page there was a gossip section with gossip about yours
truly. Not to be intimidated by this other newspaper, I stepped up my act and created a website:
www.freewebs.com/thebananatimes. From that time until school ended, I had over a few hundred visits to
my website. Unfortunately, not many people visited it after that, but I had a blast doing it. Of course,
sometime after I set up my website, the same publisher of the Lemonade Stand News created a website, too,
but was quickly deleted because of hateful comments from peers who favored my website.
In sixth grade, though, was probably the greatest of my achievements in my eyes, although it took
many hours by the computer before completion. Using my sixth grade teachers as the stars, I wrote an 11-
page dramatic comedy, called Hey Bill. At my 12th birthday party my friends and I performed it. The
performance wasn‘t exactly a masterpiece, but we had the most fun doing it.
Now I occasionally write short stories in my free time, and enjoy writing scripts still. I have an
ambition of doing a sequel to Hey Bill, using some of my teachers from this year to star in it too. Writing
has always been a big part of my life, and I expect to expand my writing in the future.
Beach
By Patrick Faustino
Qui ckTi me™ and a
Delaware beach, a place that would make anyone nostalgic for it. decompresso r
are ne ede d to see thi s pi cture.
A place with a peaceful atmosphere and seductive way of making
people stare at the clouds. The birds utter their piercing cries, and
the powerful ocean roars at the beach. It is a comfy place for a 12
year old to just lay down his head on the sand and gently fall to
sleep. The sunlight makes vibrant colors dance on an ocean‘s surface. A detached sense of awe appears
inside of people when staring at the waves. Frivolous activities go on all around and each is better than the
next. The sharp smell of salt air fills the nostrils. The bitter taste of salt water will fill a mouth and burn
someone‘s nose. Ocean waves message people‘s feet as they stare into the benevolent background. This
place would make anyone completely content and joyful.
My Writing Autobiography
By Jessica Cooper
Quic kTime™ and a I was four years old and had just started Kindergarten. I stared at
decom pres sor
are needed to s ee this pic ture. the piece of paper in front of me, not quite sure what to do. I looked at the
first half of the paper. Ok, I knew what to do there. Many of the other
pieces of paper I had received for the first few weeks of kindergarten had
looked just like that. I looked around the room, and saw that every other
kid in the class was staring intently down at the sheet of paper. Right, I
thought, back to the task at hand. I had to draw a picture on the first part of the paper. Figuring out that part
was easy. The second half of the paper had looked trickier. Instead of being blank, this one had large lines,
with dotted lines in the middle of each one. Oh, I thought, I understand now. I had seen these types of lines
before. I was supposed to WRITE on them. Something was off, though. Before, there had always been
dotted lines for me to trace over. That had been hard enough. Did my teacher expect me to write a sentence
with no help? I looked at the topic we were supposed to write about. ―Things you like to do in the fall‖. I
liked to go trick-or-treating, I thought. I could write about that. So, taking a deep breath, I picked up my
pencil and wrote a sentence. ―In the fal I lik to go trik-or-treting.‖ Not exactly a grammatical masterpiece.
There would be many sentences to follow the one I had just written. My first sentence wasn‘t much, I
know, but it was the beginning of my love of writing.
Throughout the course of my life, many events have influenced my writing and made it what it is
today. However, in addition to the one above, there are three events that stand out in my mind. It is these
events that, in my opinion, have shaped my style of writing the greatest.
The first event was the year I was in kindergarten. I can remember the large lined paper, the dotted
lines, and the teacher‘s encouraging words. It was during this year that my writing really began. During that
time, I can remember tracing over the teacher‘s large and easy to read letters, watching my pencil form
words before my very eyes. It was like magic to me, and for a while, writing was all I could think about. I
even loved it enough to write my very first story. I don‘t remember what I titled it, but I was so proud of
my story that I shared it with everyone who was lucky enough to walk through the doors of my house. To
this day I sometimes pull it out to show people, although now it is more of a joke. A ―look what I did in
kindergarten‖ sort of thing. Still, the fact that I am willing to show anyone at all my not-so-ingenious story
is seriously saying something about how much I loved my writing.
The second event that shaped my writing was when I bought my first diary. Up until that point, the
only writing I had done had been for school. (besides, of course, the lovely story I just told you about)
When I got my diary, I began to write for me instead of my teachers. I went though a ―journaling phase‖,
where I would write down anything and everything. For a long time, I would come home from school,
quickly finish whatever homework my second grade teacher had decided to give me, and then lock myself
(Ok, not LOCK, since locking is forbidden at my house, but you get what I mean.) in my room with an old
notebook, writing down anything that came to mind. As I got older, and my homework load got larger, my
life became too hectic to journal. Between school, homework, and after school activities, my writing life
was forced to take a backseat and I stopped having the time to write more than anything that was required.
However, I still remember that phase where I would record my life. If you looked through my journals, you
would be able to tell what I did everyday, who my friends were, what I liked to do, etc. You would also be
able to tell when I stopped writing. My journal entries would go from every day, to three times a week, to
once a week, to once a month, to finally my last journal entry, dated November 15, 2004, four years ago. It
was during my journaling phase I really began to write creatively.
My last event happened just lat year, in 6th grade. In elementary school, most of my writing had
been to inform. It seemed everything I wrote was the dreaded BCR, also known as Brief Constructed
Response. Because the BCRs are just written to see if you understand the text, I got little or no feedback on
my work. Every time I got a BCR back, there would always be questions in my head. Why did I get this
grade? What did I do wrong? What did I do right? It seemed these questions would never be answered.
Then last year I began to do a lot more creative writing for school. It was great, because it was almost like
going back to my journaling phase. Except for now that the writing was required, it was no longer
something I could push into the background. Everything I turned in was handed back with tons of feedback,
and if I had any questions, I could always find the answers. I found out my strengths and weaknesses for
writing. Ideas and ―showing words‖? Check. Conventions? Not so much. Without the constructive criticism
I could have gone on making the same mistakes as a writer.
Many events through my life have influenced me as a writer, and although I might not have the
time to return to that journaling phase, I still enjoy writing very much. As I continue to grow, so will my
writing. Who knows what will happen in the future? I may even end up as an author! No matter what
happens, there is one thing I am sure of, I will always love to write, and the three events I just described to
you will always be important in my mind.
My Growth and Experiences as a Writer
By Rachel Cermak
QuickTime™ and a
decompressor
are needed to see this picture.
When I was a little girl in kindergarten, that paper with lines as tall as the ceiling seemed magical
to me . R-A-C-H-E-L, I carefully inscribed into the paper with my big wooden pencil, doing my best job
trying not to press too hard and rip the paper. It is hard to believe how one little sheet can help you begin
your whole writing career.
Seven years ago in Mrs. Levering‘s morning kindergarten class, I remember being fascinated by
the simple tool, that in the future could help me become a better writer: the famous lined paper. Writing,
spelling, and learning new words each class fascinated me. I looked forward to doing my kindergarten
writing homework in our journals. The teacher would give us a subject, and I would illustrate a picture and
write a sentence about it. First grade seemed so far away and exciting; however I still loved kindergarten,
where everything started.
On a higher level of writing, in Elementary school I entered the National PTA‘s Reflections
program. Every year this optional activity had a topic, which you could choose how you wished to express.
I always chose to write a paper on the subject, instead of creating movies, dances, songs, or paintings. I did
a great job in the school‘s competition, and several times advanced to the county level. I remember always
being so proud receiving my certificate at the awards party at the end of the school day, and coming home
to show my parents.
One of my best writing experiences was last year in 6th grade. We were assigned to write a
flashback story for one of our Reading class assignments. Mrs. Demaree was so impressed with my story
that she entered mine and another one of my classmate‘s stories in the Young Authors Contest. I received
an honorable mention for my short story, ―Sparkle Spectacular‖ and was invited to attend a celebration of
all the participants. An author came, and talked about his experiences as a writer, read parts of his books to
us, and encouraged us to continue to write. It was a great experience for me and influenced me to work
hard to be a better writer.
I believe that because of these experiences, I have grown as a writer throughout elementary and
middle school, and I hope to continue to progress as a writer.
The Bed
by Nick Gorey
The bed was twin-sized, only big enough for one. The
large, plump comforter hung down on each side at each
QuickTime™ and a end stood a wooden structure made of an arch with vertical
decompressor beams for support. An assortment of pillows, red , black
are needed to see this picture. and grey, dominate one end . Beneath the bed was an
endless amount of darkness, where anything could lurk.
Under the comforter lay a vast sea of red jersey sheets, as
soft as a new fallen snow, but as warm as the sun after a
spring rain .To lock in the warmth there are two blankets.
The pillow, towering above all, is a gentle cloud, fluffy and
soft. Upon departure, feelings of sadness build and a
longing to go back emerge, but it is time.
You Can’t Turn the Page Until You’ve Left Your Mark
By Mary Alice Allnutt
Reading, Writing and Speaking are all tied together by these lovely little things called words.
Everyone uses them. However, I started out at a young age able to use words well. One day, when I was a
3-year-old girl, my father had to go to the Hardware store, and my mother was at work. So he had to take
me with him. When we arrived at the store, I made my father stop to look at the flowers. Then, at my three
years of age, I said to my father, ‖Daddy, those pretty flowers make me happy.‖ Children that are three
years old are usually just beginning to talk. My father couldn‘t believe what he had heard. That was my
first sentence. And from there, I began to read long, complicated books. Not right at age three, obviously,
but as I got older. And whenever I finished reading a book, or someone else read a book to me, I would
walk downstairs to the dress-up box, and I would make my own ending to the story. Soon, I decided to just
write it down instead of going to all the trouble of going and acting it out. That is how I started to write.
Writing my own stories has always given me something to do, being the youngest, and therefore
ignored by my now 16- and 19-year-old siblings. One day, as I was looking for a book to read, I found
―Redwall‖ by Brian Jaques. I have now read the entire series. But, when I read these books, I wanted so
much to be an author, and to write as well as the author of the books that I was reading. So I began to read
even more, and as I read, I understand how to use more and more words that other people have never heard.
When I was asked to write, I could remember some of the words that I had read, and I would incorporate
them in my writing in English. My imagination would run wild, and I would think up the craziest stories
from the corners of my mind. Words run from my pencil like wildfire. Reading has given me the kindling
for the bonfire of writing.
Back in third grade, everyone had to learn how to do Brief Constructed Responses (duh-duh-duh-
DUH!). When we took tests, we had to answer BCR‘s for the first time. By now we have learned to hate
them. However, when most of my friends were struggling to write them, I was getting a perfect score on
every single one of these new-fangled Brief Constructed Responses. That feeling of self-accomplishment
was something that fueled my excitement whenever I thought about writing. I thought of it as that lovely
thing that I was so good at. I could read fast, I could answer questions with accuracy. I was good at that
schoolwork, at those silly little paragraphs that summarize a short story (that I usually read while the
teacher was talking, being one of the reasons why I was always done first). That feeling of self-
accomplishment, when I did so well on those reading tests, that was one of the greatest things that has
helped me write.
Poetry was not very interesting to me. I tried it out, wrote a couple of cute little poems. Then my
grandfather died. When my mother told me, I couldn‘t stop crying. I cried for hours. And then I decided to
write a poem, just for him. It ended up being a very long, very elaborate poem. I showed it to my father,
who read it and looked almost amazed at it. He e-mailed the poem to my aunts and uncles, who all agreed
that it was good. On the day of the funeral, or the celebration of my grandfather‘s long life, hundreds of
people came to meet at the family farm that my grandfather had run for most of his life. As I looked at the
program, I saw on the back the poem that I had written. My name was at the bottom, as one of the eight
grandchildren. How many people complemented me that day, I have no idea. All I know is that I was
stunned. My work had been published. From then on, I had the confidence that my poetry was good enough
to be published.
From that first day, so many years ago, to now, where I sit, writing up a 750- word essay, I have
used reading and speaking to enhance my writing. I have had my work seen and commented on by
hundreds of people (there were a lot of people at the funeral), I have read books by ―master storytellers‖, I
have thought of my own stories and written them down, and I have thought of stories that simply build
themselves there in my head. My writing career was based on those simple things called words, and as I
learned more and more of and about them, I found stories flourishing under my pencil. I found that there is
a story in every pencil. I have found that you can‘t turn a page without leaving a mark, without adding your
own words to those that are already there.
Dear Sharon Creech,
I was amazed at the effect your book, Walk Two Moons, had on me.
After I finished it, I found myself playing the moccasin game with myself, just
Qu i ckTi m e™ a nd a to see what other people might be feeling at any given time. I really noticed I
de co mp res so r started to think about what I could say to someone to make them feel better
a re ne ed ed to se e th is pi c tu re.
when they are troubled.
When Sal talks about her father or flashbacks to how her mother must have been feeling in different
situations, I found myself looking at my own family in a new way. Although my family and my life is very
different from Sal‘s, I noticed how Sal and I both try to ―walk in someone else‘s moccasins‖.
Sal was able to understand how both Phoebe and Phoebe‘s mother felt because of her own mother‘s
leaving. Sal was a good friend to Phoebe during her rough time, even though she was afraid that things
wouldn‘t work out. Being a middle schooler, I have many friends going through rough times, and I try to
be a good friend to them. I feel like maybe I can help them through this because of my own experiences.
The most powerful connection I felt with Sal, was that passing of her mother. I am lucky enough to
have my mother; however, many close family members of mine have passed away. When Sal went down
to see the bus and her mother‘s grave, she was letting go, which is a very important part in coping with
someone‘s death. When my grandmother died, I distinctly remember a late night of many tears that helped
me to get back on my feet. I think that finally recognizing that her mother is dead helps Sal to deal with
Gram‘s death at the end of the story. Sal needed to let go of her mother before she could even think of
letting go of Gram.
I related to so many characters in the book, Sal, Phoebe, Sal‘s father, anad Phoebe‘s mother. It
really helped me to know that I was not the only one to expiriance such pain and loss, even if Sal is a work
of fiction. She cam alive to me, and she helped me to cope with thee death of a great aunt, who died right
before I read Walk Two Moons. After your book, I was not so alone, because I had Sal to help me.
Sincerely,
Kelly Dornan
Mr. Linden’s Library
By Grace Daigle
―Are you sure you want to check out this
book?‖ Mr. Linden said as he took the old book
from Holly‘s gentle hands. ―Yeah, I‘m sure. I don‘t
believe in superstition. I want to learn more about
the book, and what lies within it. Besides, I need
QuickTime™ and a this information for science.‖ She replied. ―Well
decompressor my advice is don‘t open to page 47. I hear that on
page 47 is information on a deadly plant, and
are needed to see this picture. whoever lays their eyes on that page first, will be
punished with the penalty of death.‖ Mr. Linden
said with fright. ―Oh, you worry too much.‖ Holly
said with a sarcastic smile. ―I hear the book was
cursed 129 years ago, nobody has opened it sense.‖
He said as the receipt was printed out of the
machine. ―Pshh. Curse, Smersh.‖ Holly said as she
took the book and made her way to the door.
―Whatever. Don‘t say I didn‘t warn you.‖
Holly walked out the door and turned the
book over in her hands:
Whoever dares to lay thy eyes on the inside of this book
Shall never live again.
Not only will you read it, but also you will suffer.
CAUTION: ONLY READ ALONE.
―The author must have just written that to scare people. Wait, but why would he write that?
Wouldn‘t he want people to actually read his book?‖ Holly thought to herself. She could feel her palms
start to get clammy, and she started getting second thoughts about opening the book. ―Oh, what am I
thinking? There‘s no such thing as a curse.‖ She said to nobody in particular. She kept on walking with a
knot in her stomach.
When she got home, she ran up to her room as fast as she could, taking the stairs two by two. She
threw the book on her nightstand like it was a disgrace to her. ―I‘ll read it tonight.‖ She thought to herself,
trying not to freak out. She went downstairs to get a snack.
So when night came, Holly went upstairs. She took a deep breath, trying to be brave. ―It‘s just a
book, I‘m over the whole curse thing.‖ She thought to herself. She knew that she didn‘t have to read it, but
she was dying to know what was inside. As she was putting her pajamas on, she glanced at the book. It
stared back at her with its old cover. ―I need this for science. It‘s probably not even cursed.‖ Holly tried to
stay positive.
Holly tucked herself in, and slowly grabbed the book. She turned it over in her hands. It felt
smooth and rough at the same time. She opened the cover, revealing old and dusty pages. She heard a faint
crack. ―Wow. So the spine hasn‘t even been broken yet.‖ She whispered to herself. The first page was titled
―Animals of the Ancient World‖ There was some creepy pictures of weird dragon like things. ―Hmm. I
need the plant section. Ahh, here it is.‖ The page number was 42. The deadly plant must have been in that
section. She started reading and found it quite interesting. She kept on reading on about the different types
of plants, the Venus Fly Trap, the Kinjay, and the Umbrella Pedaled Lily.
When Holly turned the page 46, she wasn‘t being careful and watching how far she read. ―
Torunk: a deadly plant that is poisonous to sniff.‖ The book stated. Holly stopped dead in her tracks. She
felt her stomach sinking. Suddenly, she smelled something horrible. She looked back down at the book,
seeing that a plant had grown out of the book. It must have been the deadly plant. Holly felt her airways get
small and tight. There was nothing she could do. She took her last breath. Then, a lifeless body lay on the
bed. That body belonged to Holly Jenkins. He had warned her about the book. Now it was too late.
Samantha the Super Spy in: Mission California Fire
By Jessica Cooper
Samantha the Spy stood on a rotting pier in Malibu,
California as the Santa Ana winds whipped past her face. They
stung her cheeks as if someone was slapping them until they were
raw and red. ―What am I doing here?‖ she asked out loud, as if
Qu i ckTi me ™ a nd a hoping the winds would answer her. Samantha thought back to that
de co mp res so r morning. She had been relaxing on her comfy couch in her favorite
a re ne ed ed to se e th is pi ctu re. pajamas when she had received a letter. It was addressed to her, but
had no return address, or anything that indicated where it had come
from. It had been written in letters cut from newspaper, and told her
to go to the pier at the end of Madison Way at 3:00pm. Samantha
had taken this letter as a challenge, and no good spy can resist a
challenge. So here she was standing on the pier that overlooked the
Pacific Ocean, shivering against the cold winds, and checking her
watch every five seconds. It was now 3:15, and so far, nothing had
happened. Sighing, she let down her waterfall of chestnut curls
from her fur-trimmed hat, hoping it would keep her warm. Looks like whoever wrote the letter is either tied
up with other engagements, or laughing his head off right now at their successful prank thinking of
someone standing on the pier, waiting for someone who would never show. Turning around, being careful
not to step on any of the pieces of rotting wood that made up the pier, she started on her way home. That‘s
when she saw him, a tall man, wearing a hat with a large rim. The rim cast shadows on his face, making it
hard to clearly see who he was. Flicking open a green lighter, he lit the flame before dropping it on the
ground. Realizing what had happened, she lunged at him, but it was too late. The fire had already started,
creating a barrier between her and the mysterious man.
The fire crackled and burned less than two yards away from her face. Looking around, she realized
that her only escape was for the fire to burn through the wood of the pier. The wood would break, sending
the fire into the Pacific Ocean. Samantha looked at the smoke as it billowed around her. It stung her bright
green eyes and turned the sky grey. She realized that the fire would burn her before it burned the pier.
Before Samantha could decide what to do, she heard the wail of sirens. Seconds later, she was blasted off
her feet by a strong stream of water that landed directly on the fire, instantly putting it out. Samantha
struggled to her feet, pointedly ignoring the strong hand that a burly fireman had just held out to her. She
was about to walk away when the same fireman tapped her on the shoulder. ―What!?‖ she cried out,
whirling around. ― I just wanted to know if you were okay,‖ said the fireman, looking a little hurt from her
sudden outburst. Samantha almost wanted to apologize, but she couldn‘t help feeling angry at the fireman
who had stopped her from saving herself.
Homework
By Nick Green
Quic kTim e™ and a
I am a King, King of avoiding work that is. decompress or
I chose to wield the exploition of human nature. For
are needed to s ee this pic ture.
example, since I know that my parents always say
―HOMEWORK FIRST‖, I set the scene by spacing
my homework out. Then I over exaggerate on how
long I will take me to complete my assignments.
Finally, I whine and fuss about having to do so
much work on the weekends.
Even today, I used my skills to avoid stacking wood. I revved by annoyance factor by reading
Brisinger and watching T.V. from 7 to 11 o‘clock. To make a visual display of my work load and all the
chores I had to do, I made a list of my chores, stating my homework last. I told them that I had a paper due,
and that helped eliminate the wood stacking from my list. At 1:00 p.m., I took my lunch break and
scheduled to pick up something from my grandparent‘s house I needed for my 4-H meeting. Finally, they
took off the last chore. Even though I weaseled out of doing the house work, I was still stuck writing this
paper.
The Accident
By Jillian Dlugos
My devious mind dreams about how my last prank on Principal
Meyer was killer. Nancy, the secretary, calls me in to talk to
him. She gives me an evil glare, and I snap my gum, trying to
give her the idea that I could care less about the horrible
punishment I am about to receive. Detention, expulsion, maybe
even Saturday school could all be possibilities for me snatching
a cantaloupe from the cafeteria and dropping it out of a window,
nearly missing old Meyer’s head. I walk in and lie down with
my feet up on his desk. Meyer isn’t there and so my mom
suddenly appears and gives me the news. “Your little stunt killed the principal by shocking his system.” Then I
woke up, gasping in horror.
My Writing History
By Sarah Wieder
When you‘re young you have a big
QuickTime™ and a imagination. As you get older that big
decompressor imagination fades along with those big
are needed to see this picture. excited eyes that express your joy of writing.
Those eyes are sometimes replaced with
bored eyes that say you‘re tired of writing
essay after essay after essay. But sometimes
you get so excited because you‘ve written
that really long story or you aced that essay
and all those memories and joy return.
When I was younger, between the ages of three and four, I was enthralled with my
mom‘s swirly handwriting. I was definitely excited about all those really thick books that I knew
I would soon be able to read and maybe write. Deciding to start young, I grabbed paper and wrote
wavy lines all over at least 10 sheets. I always thought a pencil wrote down your ideas so when I
imagined a story I thought it was written down just because I was using the magic pencil. Being
young and excited, I ran to show my mom my masterpieces. She was excited but not as excited as
when I returned from school and showed her that wide lined paper with the two words that got me
started writing. Those words were ―Sarah Wieder‖. Excitedly, I got out more paper and then on
five huge sheets of paper I wrote my name over and over again until my mom bought me my own
special pad of lined paper.
In second grade I wrote a 50 paged book called Zelda. This was about a girl who had
magical powers. She was trying to escape a man who wanted to steal her powers which were
inside a blue diamond necklace. Grace and I both had a competition to see who could write the
most. At the end of class our teacher, Mrs. Sommer, had us read anything that we wrote. Students
in my class loved the story which was soon going to be finished. As Grace added more pages so
did I. Eventually I got tired of writing what seemed like a never ending story and stopped at 100
pages. As I got older I still loved writing.
In sixth grade, we had to write a piece about something that was happening in the world.
I chose the California fires. My two page story was about a girl trying to stop the fires and
discover if they were arson or not. That was the piece I had written and enjoyed year long
because I had let me creativity flow and let my mind think freely without hesitating. At the
beginning of this year we got to reread what we wrote. I jumped straight to that piece. Usually
when you read something that you thought was brilliant at the time you wrote it, it may sound
stupid when you read it again. Admittedly, this was one of those pieces that had very good word
choice and that I still enjoy reading.
My Writing Autobiography
By Grace Daigle
That big, thick pencil was waiting for me on the desk. Its newly
sharpened end was almost a threat to me. I was so afraid to pick
Quic kTime™ and a it up and to actually write ―grown up‖ words. I bravely started
decom pres sor to walk towards that big, round table. The paper was scary, like
are needed to s ee this picture. a nightmare, waiting to eat me up. I looked down at that
spongy, tanish paper. Its big lines stared straight back at me,
with an evil glare. I cautiously picked up the pencil. Its yellow
body stung in my hand. I thought back to all my lessons,
learning the letters G-r-a-c-e. I tried my best to make it perfect.
It turned out to be readable, but ugly. I ran to my mom when
she came to pick me up, showing her what I had done. I swear
she almost cried when she saw that I had actually written
something other than scribbles. That day in preschool was the
most amazing day of accomplishment in my life.
Then came fourth grade. My mom bought me a big 300-page notebook so that I could fill it up
with stories. I only wrote one or two stories in it, but I remember the story ―Day of the Dead.‖ It was about
10 or 11 pages, and the day I shared it with the class, they were somehow amazed. Who knew a fourth
grade version of a horror story could be good? That day was my inspiration to write. I found out that my
writing could actually be interesting. So I wrote a sequel to ―Day of the Dead,‖ and I shared it with the
class and they said that one was just as good. They wanted me to write a trilogy, but I turned the ―Day of
the Dead‖ theme down and went to another story.
In fifth grade, I decided to take my writing to a new level. I started to write a whole new story
called ―Dragon Hunter.‖ This time, it was 40 pages or so. I never shared it with the class, because it was too
long and would take too much time to read out loud. I never finished it, but so far I thought it was amazing.
I was so proud of myself. Soon I began to come very confident in my way of writing.
Earlier, in the third grade, Sarah Wieder and I worked together to write a book. We each wrote a
chapter each night, then we would come to school the next day and make them fit together and make sense.
This went on for about two or three weeks, then we finished it. The only people we shared it with were our
parents, afraid to share it at school. But overall it turned out to be good.
From my first time writing my name, to my 40 page ―Dragon Hunter‖ story, I have improved so
much in writing. Today I thank my fourth grade classmates for inspiring my interest to write. That‘s what
makes me the writer I am today.
