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| June 7 Standing there in uncomfortable shoes Twisting my hands in agony I memorize every line of your face Every detail in your icy hands I don't acknowledge her heavy arm Hanging on my Trembling shoulder It weighs me down and I struggle to Stay standing I've become weak these past few days But you wouldn't know anything about that He told me you didn't fight hard enough But I don't believe it Why are your stubborn eyes closed so tightly? Stop it, open them And see what you have done to us all |
| Kate 10th grade Grand Rapids MI, US |
| About the Author: My name is Kate and I'm almost 16. I'll be a Junior in just a little bit, a big upperclassman! I've been writing for as long as i can remember. This specific poems is about my parents divorce. It's an older poem and i really hope you like it. |
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Somewhere Out There
Somewhere in those deep blue skies |
| Caitlyn 11th grade Seattle, Washington |
| About the author of "Somewhere Out There" -- I rarely write lyrics, so sorry if these aren't exactly...Hmmmm...? Yeah, but I'm 17 and in my last week of junior year. |
| SUICIDE I stood at the brink, My mind in a daze. My thoughts were spinning Reality into a haze. The pain was so great, I could no longer stand And was ready to end it, Even with my own hand. Step by step I thought it out. I was ready to bring The end about. Ready to end it To take my own life, With all that I had; The blade of a knife. Death and I Were coming near, But then I shuttered And gasped in fear. I realized I'd gone To far on the ledge, And if someone didn't help me, I'd go over the edge. I'm only 15! My heart cried in pain. Yet already I'm going insane. I fell on my knees. What more could I do? Of fighting and trying, My strength was threw. This life I was given Is not mine to take, I realized that moment, The choice is not mine to make. With help from others And struggle and strife, I will have to keep trying And keep choosing life! |
| Rachel USA |
| I am 16, and have Social anxiety disorder. |
| Away There are times when all I want is to get away Away from everyone I know Sometimes I wish I could take off and go wherever I pleased To the lakes of Southern France or the white sand beaches of the Italian Riviera When life gets hectic all I really want to do is take off and leave my world behind To the Rainforests of the Amazon or the waterfalls of the African Jungle When no ones on your side, all the world makes you cry and you don't like where you are When all you feel is hurt and pain and never any joy All you want is to get away Maybe to the green, magical forests of Ireland or the Heather-covered hills of Celtic Scotland All you ever want is to be on your own where no one can find you hurt you or make you cry |
| Megan 12th grade Baltimore, MD USA |
| I wrote this piece when I was upset about things going on in my life. I learned the best way to deal with things is to write about them. |
| A Cry in the Darkness A cry in the darkness That no one hears A scream into silence Containing the fears A stone down the well No one heard the splash A burning matchstick No one saw the ash A tear moving slowly Evoking no stares A mountain immobile And nobody cares A ripple of water Unseen in the stream A question posed loudly Unheard in the dream |
| Claire 8th grade Boulder, CO, USA |
| About the author of A Cry in the Darkness. I enjoy writing a lot. Writing is such a way to be yourself and create things. I enjoy writing poetry and long, long stories. During my free time I play soccer and hockey, but writing is my favorite hobby. |
| Coastal Days let the fog come. these sunny days are letting me down. the ferocious blue skies, faint wisps of clouds clear with overwhelming truth. let the fog come. shade my sight, embrace my being and remit the afterglow beaming from my hidden bafflement. let the fog come. and shield the lake until the reflected sun is something i can take. |
| Yellehs San Francisco, ca |
| what can i say? I'm a genius, i know.hey, i needa poetry partner, a bud to bash.bring it on baby! let your e-mail visit me at |
| THE CATCHER IN THE RYE J. D. Salinger's The Catcher in the Rye, is a splendid novel describing a young seventeen year-old man named Holden Caulifield. The story begins with the adolescent narrator (Holden ) recovering from a nervous breakdown in a California rest home in the 1950's. He begins to tell about his life starting with the previous December on the day he was kicked out of his upper-middle-class boarding school, Pency Prep, for failing four of his five classes. Holden leaves Pency to return to his home in New York City where a psychological breakdown gradually overtakes him. Caulifield ends his story from a mental institution. Pency Prep is a well-known and acclaimed school across the nation. It's motto is "Since 1888 we have been molding boys into splendid, clear-thinking young men." Holden doesn't agree with the school's proceedings and doesn't like anyone there. After Holden is told by the headmaster that he is expelled from his third high school, he returns to his dorm where he has a brawl with his roommate, Stradlater, and an unpleasant chat with his friend, Ackley. In the middle of the night, Holden decides to leave the school for good by taking a train to New York City in hope to find solace in his disturbing evening. Before returning home to his family in Manhattan with the bad news of his expulsion, he gets well rested in a hotel for a few days, allowing time for the headmaster's letter to arrive to his parents explaining the bad news. While in the city, he has many encounters with adults and his hatred toward their world increases as he sees how hypocritical, insincere, and dishonest they are. Increasingly miserable, he goes home one night and sneaks past his parents to awaken his ten year-old sister, Phoebe, who is ecstatic to see him. Holden is overjoyed as well to be in the presence of youth and purity especially Phoebe since she is very affectionate and generous to him. She even gives Holden her Christmas savings. He promises to return the cash to her and then leaves to stay with his former English teacher, Mr. Antolini. When Holden arrives at Mr. Atolini's home, he is given a long talk and good advice concerning his future. Holden goes to sleep on the sofa and is awakened by Mr. Antolini patting his head in the middle of the night. Surprised and fearful that the former teacher is making homosexual advances towards him, Holden leaves. Holden decides that he will leave New York forever and hitchhike west. He wanders the streets of the city, observing children and talking out loud to his dead brother Allie. He meets Phoebe to return her money but she begs to travel with him. Holden is appalled and refuses her invitation but he does take her to the park where he watches her ride the marry-go-round. As he observes her amusement, he is overcome with a sense of happiness. Realizing Phoebe is uncorrupted in society he feels comfort and hopeful about accepting responsibility for his own life. Holden concludes the novel by refusing to discuss anything that happens after that. The important thing to him is that he finally accepts his life because he returns home, is sent to a rest home to find help, and will continue school next year. Throughout the book the reader develops a strong grasp as to the type of person Holden is. As I read the novel, I started to see a relationship between myself and Holden. Holden is very intelligent, perceptive and sensitive, yet he tells his story in a critical and cynical attitude. He feels alienated in the ugly, disillusioned and unbearable adult society of which he is becoming a part. He would like to identify himself as "the catcher in the rye". He would be content if he could stand at the edge of a cliff by a field full of rye where children are playing a game. As the children would come close to the edge and fall off, he would catch them. This displays Holden's want for the protection of the innocent and his great moral values. He wants to save the youth from the pain that he is presently experiencing. Holden proves to be a strong and courageous character when he realizes that he can't rely on someone else to save him from his "fall"; he must do it himself. Holden is truly concerned about people and wants to fight against the world's corruption to return morals to society. Society causes his fall downward, but he uses it to also lead his way back to reality and a new point of view. In my opinion, he is displayed as a genuinely noble character. I enjoyed reading this novel because of Holden's language. His familiar manner of speaking helped me to associate and understand the characters' personalities. As time went on, I became more accustomed to his boyish word usage and slang language. This type of writing made the story more realistic on account that it is actually a rebellious teenager telling the story. Holden's manner of speaking helps to develop his character more thoroughly. The Catcher in the Rye's theme is "growing up and coming of age". The story communicates a message that someone should not fear or reject the future (for Holden it was adulthood), rather work to make it better and more appealing. This message is very important to me because I am in a time of my life that I have to make serious decisions about my future, such as college. Holden did not look forward to or want to accept his life ahead of him, he was disgusted and appalled by it. Although, at the end of the story he does acknowledge that he needs to accept his life. This theme is derived from Holden's character. Holden represents the lost and lonely adolescents that are searching for meaning and stability in their life. There are many teenagers in today's world that can relate to Holden's frame of mind. Every teen has to face adulthood and Holden's story displays the struggle some people have making that change. High school is a time when people face many obstacles in society and still must "find themselves" somehow. Holden is a character that many people can look up to because he didn't change for society or turn his head the other way. Holden stood up for what he believed. |
| Bonnie 11th grade Bowling Green, Ky/U.S. |
| A Few Inches Away . Father A few inches away. He never fell apart, his strength never ceased to. He never was restricted. Then comes the morning, as my father goes for his business trip to Virginia, on a small 19-seater, a 19-seater plane to the afterlife. He never had an excuse. A tough survivor. But was a few inches away. His plane flies, as it was the turn of dusk, and the mountain appeared. A few inches away. Crash, boom, lights out as he moves towards the line. A few inches away. He crawled away, as the white bird turned into a giant black crow of ashes and fuselage, a crow of fate. It burns, the fire hell, torched, flames of wrath. Its mission failed. Father . a few inches away. But alive. My father fell and fractured his hip, but was not far from falling awkwardly, to be paralyzed, to be burnt to ashes, a few inches away. And still it haunts, the memory, the fear before he flies, like a malicious spirit of darkness, lurking among a forest of memories. The spirit seemed to destroy him after the accident, but a survivor did what he was to do - survived. Falling apart like a water balloon, fallen on the ground and destroyed, letting its strength, water, to disperse away from the soul. Because it was but a few inches away from the line. A warrior who came close, but revived from trauma. Although with a bad hip, unable to do the physical activities from before, he does not act so. No excuses. It was but another experience - I think it made him "unafraid to die" perhaps, for he was so close to the line. His fear he utilizes as his strength. The spirit only traces itself in his eyes once in the airport. The spirit reminding him he was a few inches away, reminding me what I could have lost. Someone who taught me how to deal. With life. With problems. Now with trauma. Who taught me to reach my dreams through whatever it takes, by telling stories of his immigration from a foreign nation, to a new country, a new life, to find something. His hardships. My hardships. I relate, and I am grateful for what I have, and the father I have. |
| Safiyy 10th grade Congers, NY, USA |
| About the author of "Blank", Safiyy is a 10th grader in High School. He participates in soccer and track, as well as other literary and math activities. He plays the viola, and enjoys playing basketball in his spare time. |
| Acid Blazing light blinded Marvin as he woke up on a smooth, hard floor that was giving him back pains. There was a sharp pain in the back of his head and Marvin had a hangover and it seemed as if a dark, rumbling thundercloud was brewing inside his head. He felt around his head and found a bump on the back of it that was quickly swelling to the size of a baseball. "Where am I?" he thought as he staggered up and rubbed his eyes. As his sea-green eyes focused, he saw that he was in the cul-de-sac of a hallway with whitewashed walls that stretched as far as his eyes could see in front of him. On the walls were paintings and other works of art. There were enough of them for the hall to look like an art gallery. "The last thing I remember is walking home. What the heck is going on?" he thought with only mild interest and not fear, which was soon to come. Curious, the sandy-haired European who was part Irish, which he knew, and part Ethiopian, which he did not know, stretched his arms to feel the texture of the wall and his fingers met with the same material that made up the floor. He looked closely at the pictures and found that all the art works were by surrealists. There were even some that he could recognize such as Dalí, and Miró. These bright, abstract paintings contrasted sharply from the white walls and made the hall seem grotesque and unreal. As he looked around with increasing curiosity and anxiety, he noticed that he couldn't see the ceiling at all. To him it seemed that the walls rose up well beyond what he could see. To infinity and beyond. Marvin, head spinning with confusion, started walking out of the cul-de-sac with greater alarm building in his chest. Soon, Marvin couldn't see the cul-de-sac anymore. He continued on in what seemed like an unending hall filled with a countless number of dream-like art. "Hello? Is there anybody out there?" yelled Marvin with the edge of panic creeping on him. "Hello?" He only heard the infinite echoing of his own voice. Abruptly, Marvin could sense the faint smell of what seemed like cheese, faintly spiced, and the corridor in front of him was suddenly now winding and curvy where before the whole hallway was straight. Strangely attracted by the smell, Marvin started trotting forward, becoming more and more intoxicated by the smell. He began jogging and soon he was running through glass-smooth corridor. Frenzied, he ran past the corners without any notice of time or space and chose random paths when forks came up. Abstract painting after painting flashed by him in brief flashes of color. The pungent odor of cheese was getting stronger with every step and soon was overwhelming all of his senses. Marvin could now tell that the cheese was spiced with peppers and garlic. He ran toward the smell until his lungs burned for air and his muscles screamed for rest. Suddenly, the hall fell dark and Marvin jerked to a stop in the utter black emptiness. "What the.? What's going on?" Then he grunted as he felt a sharp pain in the back of his head. The world went blacker still as Marvin fainted in the musty scent of spiced cheese. Marvin woke on a green, Formica table in a sterile, white room with a sharp pain in the back of his head and a hangover, once again. He groaned as he pushed himself up with his elbows and rubbed the back of his head. There seemed to be a ridiculously big lump, about the size of a grapefruit, beginning to rise on his head, which throbbed and sent pain into his body with every pulsing thump. "Where am I? Who are you?" with wary eyes like that of a tortured and panicked animal, Marvin circled the table which dominated the cavernous room. Like the hallways that he had just come through, the walls were made of a solid, white material that was smooth as glass. The only break in the monotonous white was the table, Marvin, and the other man. "I am called, Janus, the Keeper of Chronicles, by my people. Welcome to my laboratory. Please, come into my study and sit. I will explain there," said the silver-haired man as he gestured to a door that Marvin had not noticed when he woke up. The Keeper had long, silver hair that grew past his shoulder and was tied back with a golden band that went around his above his ears. His skin was a sun-tanned bronze with a look of youth that belied the silver hair. He wore a silvery gray robe, which was lined with gold. The man was of no great stature yet he dominated the room like a mountain. He dominated not with the threat of violence but with an aura of infinite knowledge and wisdom. With steely, gray eyes, he beckoned once more and strides across the room to the door. Still wary, Marvin hesitantly followed the man through the doorway and was met with a sight that astonished him. With sharply contrasting fluorescent colors, the Keeper's study was furnished with yellow and green, plastic chairs and shelves of well-polished, red plastic. The wallpaper was a mass of swirled colors punctuated by abstract paintings. It was a 70's fashion nightmare with garish paintings and sight-blinding colors. There was a merry, green fire blazing in the blue octagon-shaped fireplace on the far wall, and Marvin noticed that on the mantel of the fireplace were blue-sand hourglasses of various sizes. The sand had run out on all of them except for an immense one that was on the verge of running out. "Please sit. Make yourself comfortable." Gesturing with his hand to the yellow chair, Janus himself sat in the green armchair by the fire. "When you walked in, you asked some questions. I have answered one and now I will answer the other thoroughly. I have already said that this is my laboratory, but it is also the storage area for all my experiments. Those hourglasses on top of the mantel are timers set on each experiment and as you can see all experiments are finished except for one. That one, you see, is one of greatest importance to me and it is near time for the final stage of the experiment." "What's the experiment?" "Well, you see one of the major components of the experiment was you, Marvin." "Me?" he asked with exceedingly greater alarm, his eyes beginning to look like the eyes of a dumb, petrified deer that Marvin himself had run over that morning. "Yes, you were the main component since the whole experiment was about you. You, young Marvin, have lived for thirty-years in my artificially created environment where programmed psuedo-human beings prodded you through different stages of the experiment. They prodded you to behave well, to do well in school, to work until you became a zombie with routines like an animal. Not with gentle, guiding prods but sharp, cruel prods. They also were programmed to pile more grief, responsibility and work until you became so depressed and desperate as to become slave to money, alcohol, and drugs. This experiment was to see how far a man could be pushed until he broke like that ripe watermelon you dropped yesterday. That, Marvin, has been your life for thirty years." Slack-jawed, Marvin stared at the Keeper with disbelieving, green eyes for what seemed like an eternity but which was only about ten seconds "Really?" asked the semi-European. "Yes, I am sorry, Marvin, but it is true." Marvin stared off into space for a few more moments and then turned to look into the fire. The Keeper saw Marvin's shoulder's start shaking, slightly at first but soon harder and harder. And soon the Keeper could hear slight noise, which sounded like sobs. The Keeper's eyes began to water with terrible regret. But then suddenly, Marvin fell out of his chair and started laughing while rolling on the ground holding his stomach. "Oh, you're a riot! Oh, ha ha. You actually sounded serious!" said Marvin as he wiped his eyes and struggled to stop his laughing. The Keeper just sat and looked at the other man with sad, gray eyes. Then, suddenly, screaming profanities left and right, pigs burst into the room. The fact that they were talking amazed Marvin yet he was amazed further by the fact that the pigs were purple and were flying with wings attached to their backs. "Oh, my god! What are those things?" Marvin screamed as he hid under his seat trembling with terror. The Keeper and the pigs glared at Marvin with the expression that clearly and sharply said, "Stop being rude!" "Now, what can I do for you fellows?" said the Keeper with a congenial expression. "Yeah, well, you see, Keeper, this idiot over here just ate all of my lab samples! I need some more to carry out the experiment," said the pig with the yellow wings. "Well, how the %@$# was I supposed to know that those were your samples! You left them in the fridge!" ranted the pig with pink wings. "You, idiot! That fridge is specifically set aside for lab samples! Just because you keep your lunch in there doesn't mean everything in there is food, you greedy hog!" "Slime-sucking bacon!" " Son of a wild, uneducated boar! Mud-eating sausage!" "Sausage! I've had enough of your name-calling, you little swine! I'll teach you a lesson!" said the pig with pink wings that were beginning to turn red. The pigs flew straight at each other and began ripping into each other with hoof and mouth. With feathers flying, they were involved in a brawl so furious that individual pigs were indistinguishable and all that could be seen was a mass of writhing, purple flesh and multicolored feathers. During this whole ordeal, Marvin was crouching under his seat, still trembling, and sobbing with fear, occasionally shouting random things such as "Live in the trees!", "I'll get you, I'll get you in the end.", "Fornicator!", "Soda pop!", "James Arthur Prescott!", " Logarithms rule!", "Elephants!", and "You can't pick a flower without jiggling a star!" Just then a short Russian with a bushy, white beard rushed into the room. Waving his arms around, he said, "Ha! I've done it! Come and look what my dog can do!" "What can it do, Ivan?" asked the Keeper with an extremely disinterested expression. "If I show it a treat, it slobbers and when I ring a bell, it slobbers too! It's the greatest revelation into human and animal behavior! I'm a genius! Ha, ha, ha!" the mad white-bearded man said as he raced around the room with his stuck out in front of him. "Get out of here, would you? You're interrupting my time with a client and moreover you're an imbecile! Dogs slobber all the time! Next you'll be saying that people didn't evolve from pigs!" The enraged Keeper bodily dragged the protesting man out and slammed the door. The Keeper shook his head and clicked his tongue with exasperation as he firmly locked the door and turned around toward Marvin again. As he turned, he saw the terrified and delirious form of the young man cowering under the plastic chair. "Oh, come out from under there! No one is going to harm in any way, I assure you. Come. I need to talk to you." Marvin slowly slid out from under the seat with only occasional muscle twitches and spasms. Yet when he got to his seat, he sat hunched over and crouched like a rabbit that found itself trapped in a cave with a bear. "As I was saying, Marvin, for the past thirty years you have been living in a experiment designed to find the test the threshold of the breakdown of the human mind. However, funding has been cut from my project so I can't carry on the experiment. This means that you have no further use to me and therefore are free to depart into the free world. I have to go on with my new experiments. Oh, wait until you hear about them. In one of them, I get to make a whole planet full of people like you and carry out the exact same experiment but on a greater scale! Don't you think it's wonderful? I get a whole planet of people to mess with! I think I'll have them call me God when I occasionally drop in. Then I'll say some random stuff like, 'I offer eternal life,' and, 'Do this in memory of me.' Then I'll have crazy men preach what I say to the hoi polloi. It'll be great fun!" he said with brilliantly twinkling eyes. Marvin stared at the Keeper with a blank stare that said, "Whah?" "It means that you're a free man, Marvin. You're free to go, but I can't support anymore. You're not the equivalent of a fully evolved human being, but you're close enough to not stand out among modern humans even though your intelligence is significantly if not astronomically lower. You're free to go, Marvin. Goodbye, now." The two pigs froze in midair at this and looked over at the pair of men with deep interest. "You mean you have a free primitive-human lab sample?" said the pig with pink feathers. "Yeah.why?" replied Janus with a suspicious look in his eyes. "Get him, Pollux! I'll share him with you!" shouted the pig with pink feathers as he sped towards Marvin with carnivorous fury. "I call the brains and the heart, Castor!" shouted the pig with yellow feathers with a ferocious glint in his eyes as he flapped furiously. "How come you get the good parts? I want the heart!" "Shut up! You can get the liver and the eyes!" "Really? I can get the eyes? Cool! He has green eyes! I've never had green eyes before! Thanks, bro!" With his green eyes wide open, Marvin stood up and then he froze. He couldn't move a muscle and all he could think about was a calico cat, sadly mewling, inside a box. In his mind, Marvin saw that inside the box with the cat was a hypodermic needle on verge of injecting the cat with clear, golden fluid. Somehow in his mind, Marvin knew that the cat was dead even though it was mewling. In a matter of seconds, the pigs simultaneously reached the sandy-haired human and knocked him over the chair. As he fell over, Marvin felt something hard hit his head sharply in the exact same spot as before and room began to become dark. The last things of the crazy world he saw were the two pigs sitting on him and grunting in his face. Darkness enveloped him and he sank deep into the blackness. Vision came back slowly, blurry and fuzzed with vague figures with two bright eyes rushing past him. "Where am I?" said Marvin as he staggered up from the cold, hard cement. The first things he saw clearly were twinkling stars, which winked at him with sardonic humor from the dark cloudless sky. As he rubbed his eyes, he saw that it was the middle of the night and he was on the sidewalk five blocks away from his apartment. "Oh, not again! God, in heaven! Never again! I'm never going to mix that *#&@^%$ stuff again!" said Marvin as he staggered towards his apartment. As he passed a trash can, he threw out a brown bag that had $300 dollars worth of acid inside. Marvin, the Irish/Ethiopian bum, lurched and reeled off into the night. |
| Andrew 10th grade Glen Mills, PA, USA |
| About the author of Acid. I'm a immigrant from South Korea using English as my second language. This is my first attempt at a publication though I've had the urge to do so before. I wrote this for a class and found it to my liking and under the encouragement of friends and family decided to submit it in various places. |
| For the Love of Books From Whatever Happened to Janie, to Whirligig, there are so many books that I have read this year but only one stick's out in my mind. Yes, all of them were very good and well written, some were full of suspense, and others were heartwarming. However, one magical book inspired me to somewhat change for the better. It encouraged me to think about others and to really love life for what it is. Stargirl has been my favorite book of the whole year. Given to me by a very special person, who has also motivated me to work hard and achieve my goals, this book I will cherish for the rest of my life. As soon as I opened the book, I knew I was going to be hooked. Every sentence I read was full of detail, but also it was an account of a guys love for a girl that was different. He didn't care what she wore or how she acted, he cared for her because of her kindness and spirit. I loved this book because Stargirl is full of kindness, whether it is writing a little note to someone, or singing to them on their birthday. She cared, and that is a very rare thing. In reading such a great book, it taught me a lesson- to be true to yourself and don't change for anyone no matter what. Even when times got rough and no one liked her, she didn't change. I was really happy when she didn't because she would have lost the one true person who cared about her most, Leo. No matter what he was there for her, and he knew how special she was. In the end the magic was still there, unconditional love you would say. Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli is a well-written book, full of inspiring detail and caring. So, never change for anyone, because you may lose someone who really cares about you, stay true to yourself and that's all that matters. |
| Mollie 9th grade Windermere, Florida |
| Mollie is a ninth grader at Windermere Preparatory School. She loves to write any time and anywhere!! She started to write when she was in the 5th grade and got hooked as the years went on. She has written many stories, which at school, they are very popular to read! So go ahead, hope you like it! |
| "Dreaming of Sneaking Cookies and Asking Questions"- an excerpt from DREAMS OF LONG AGO I held my tired old body upright as the priest rambled on about how precious life was. Did he think I didn't already know that! I furiously dabbed at the tears that threatened to spill. I let my mind wander as words continued to come from the pulpit that I had learned long ago, when I was still a girl. I let myself remember the feel of his arms around my waist every morning when he came downstairs for breakfast, leaving a lingering kiss on my cheek before sitting down to pull on his boots. I would turn around and dish some food onto plates moments before all the children would come running downstairs. My eldest would be last, making sure that the youngest didn't fall down the stairs. We would all sit down together, and say grace before even sneaking a morsel. There was always a constant, happy chatter going on in our home. I thanked God for every minute of it, even when it was starting to try my nerves. When we finished eating, Nate would help me clear the table before he went outside. He would take me in his arms, every morning, and tell me he loved me. And I would say it right back. We would smile at each other, and exchange a quick look before tending to the children. Nate would take the older boys out to help with whatever, and the girls and I would open the windows, water the plants, and tend to the rather large garden that I kept. If it was winter, we would make sure that everything was closed up, to keep warmth in. I'd send them out to play, and get started on the waiting dishes. As soon as they were done, I'd have to tend to whatever odd job that was waiting before starting on lunch. By that time, the kids would have come back inside. At lunch, everyone would say one thing that they were thankful for. When they were little, the children would always be thankful for a new coat, or toy, or for a cookie that I had let them sneak. As they got older though, it changed. I would hear things like friends, family, the farm, a new book, Mom and Dad. It never failed to touch my heart, and bring a smile to my face, whatever it was. Nate and I never really participated in the ritual until our youngest was about six. I could still hear the tiny voice. "Momma, why don't you or daddy every say what you're thankful for?" I wasn't really sure how to answer that. I had told her that I was thankful for little girls asking questions all the time, and little boys who snuck cookies, and snuck out at night to avoid having to do the dishes. I told that I was thankful for husbands who always managed to mysteriously disappear whenever I needed them to fix something. Nate had cleared his throat and looked pointedly at me. I merely smiled, took a bite of my food, and asked the children what they had done that morning. Later he had snuck up behind me, and picked me up like he used to do when we were teenagers. As always, I had laughed and asked him to put me down. He kissed me, and whispered in my ear "I love you." I asked him what he wanted, laughing and really enjoying myself. He grinned, and I knew exactly what was on his mind. I had playfully punched him in the shoulder. "I love you," I had replied, and he put me down to kiss me again. I remembered that I had felt exactly like I had when I was fifteen, before I had gotten sick. My mind wandered to when I had really woken up for the first time since they had brought me home from school that day so very long ago when I had been so very sick. Daddy had been sitting by my bedside, his eyes half-closed as if he were falling asleep. His hand was laying on the bed, palm up. I slipped my hand into his, and squeezed it tight. His eyes slowly opened and looked at me. I looked back at him, not knowing what to expect. I knew that he had been there a lot while I had been sick. "'Morning," he said. I smiled, relived. He smiled back, and helped me sit up. "'Morning, Daddy." "There's someone who's been waiting to see you." "Can I take a shower and change first?" "You need to eat, too." "I know. I'm hungry." "You should be. You haven't eaten anything in over a week." "Is that how long it's been?" He nodded. "Your fever didn't start coming down until yesterday. Doc Baker doesn't want you out of bed for another day or so." "Can you help me up?" I remembered how shaky my legs were. I didn't trust them at all. Momma had to help keep me standing while I stood under the hot, soothing water. I had felt so much better after that. It had been amazing. While I had been getting cleaned up, the boys changed my sheets, and when they finally let me see Nate, Momma went downstairs to make me breakfast. He insisted on staying while I ate. Which I really hadn't minded, since I wanted company of some kind. Five years later we married, and lived with his parents until we found a place of our own, just down the road. Our first baby had been born the following spring. I had borne nine children, and only seven of them lived past their first three weeks. Those babies that hadn't made it nearly killed me. I had loved them so much, wanted them with all my heart. We agreed after that that it would be wiser not to have anymore children, as much as we both wanted them. My brothers and sisters visited us constantly, even after some of them moved to the city. Chris eventually had a family of his own, still living at home even after all those years. He inherited the farm that we'd both grown up on, and now it was his son who ran it, even though he and his wife still lived there. Charlie bought the Thomson's old farm, and he too had a family of his own. Bryan eventually moved back to Denver, never really adapting to farm life. We never really heard much from Sam, but we knew that he was a sports coach somewhere. Every fourth of July, we would have a big family reunion. I loved it. Everyone would bake and bake and bake, and we'd bring everything over to the farm we'd all grown up on. There would be dogs, kids, sheep, chickens and stories running all over the place. Joe would have come in from wherever it was that he had been training, and we would find him already up and dressed at seven after having run for an hour and a half already. Laura would turn off her cell phone, more than eager to take a break from doctoring sick patients in the city, and Greta would have her family home from the small town that had always tortured me. Momma and Daddy would sit out on the porch, greeting everyone, and giving out hugs, kisses, and pats on the back. Charlie's family would walk across the two farms, and Nate and I would bring our kids over on an ancient wagon that everyone always got a kick out of. It was funny even to us; it was also an old joke. Long ago, Joanna had told me once that she wouldn't be surprised at me if I came into town one day driving a horse and wagon. I told her that horses normally didn't pull wagons, that oxen did. She rolled her eyes, and Kate and I simply looked at each other and laughed. The reunions were always a long, loud, noisy, fun occasion, and relatives always had stayed in town for days afterwards. Joe would have dinner at our place a few times, telling the children all about the famous athletes he would meet all the time. I always made sure I told him how proud of him I was. He never really considered himself my brother, no matter how many times I told him as much. Everyone considered us all family, and grouped us together as such. Kate would show up for a while to visit and it was a tradition that she sit by Joe, and drop hints. I'm not sure if he ever realized what was going on. I thought about the day I finally told him. He smiled a goofy smile, and told me he would see me later. I found out that he went to see Kate, and they had a long talk. A few years later, they got married, and traveled around the world for years and years. Now they live in town, and Joe writes about his career as a gold medallist Olympic athlete. I have been proud of him every moment of every day since he took that first step of finding a coach all those years ago. Even then, he had his doubts about himself, although I don't think he ever really got over them. I thought back to our days in the publications lab. The short, balding teacher whose name I could not remember for the life of me anymore, and Kate and I sending 'illegal messages' using the ancient message system. Our senior year I had been senior editor, which had been a huge honor, considering most townsfolk didn't trust my ability any farther than they could throw me. Although I think for most of them that wouldn't be a problem, considering that after my illness I had never weighed very much, until our first child. And even after that, my weight had gone back down considerably. I could never figure it out. But, it never seemed to be a big deal, so we never even thought about it. I thought about when we had slept under the stars as kids. Chris and Joe would build a bit of a shelter using marbles, a cotton canvas, a few sizable sticks, and some rope. We spread a few quilts on the ground, with a few blankets in case we got cold. The last time I did that was when I was seventeen. Chris had just come home from college for summer, and Nate and I were thinking about getting engaged. We had just graduated from high school, and Bryan was about three years old. He had curled up with me, and I had been thinking about a future life while gazing at the stars. I had one arm around the small child, and he nestled closer to me, making me smile. I thought about the things that had been said to me while I was sick when people thought I hadn't been listening. I smiled, thinking of all the various confessions. My favorite was Charlie's. He'd been so small at the time that he didn't understand about being sick. He told me, in his three-year-old's slurred speech that he had climbed up on the kitchen table and eaten some cookies that I had made a few days before I had gotten so sick. He thought that because he had done something he wasn't supposed to, I had gotten sick. He never snuck cookies without asking again. Or climbed on the kitchen table. The preacher finished the sermon, and looked down at me to say a few words. I got up, and shuffled my tired old bones up into the pulpit. I looked out over the faces that were so familiar to me. I smiled, and cleared my throat. "I want to thank you for being here. It would mean a lot to Nate to know that there are so many people who have cared about him. Even if he would never admit it." I smiled. "I have to admit that I haven't been listening to much of the service this morning." I felt tears start to run down my face. "I haven't been able to keep my mind off of the wonderful life that I've had with everyone in this room, and everyone who isn't. The most wonderful memories that I have include all of you, whether you know it or not. I've been sitting here thinking. Thinking about all those years ago when we used to sleep under the stars during the summer. When we worked together in the publications lab in the same school that my grandbabies go to. I've been thinking about the time I got so sick when I was fifteen. I remember that Charlie had been so afraid that he was the reason I had gotten sick, because he had climbed on the kitchen table and snuck some cookies that I had baked a few days before. He couldn't have been more than three or four then. "I can remember when I first knew that Nate and I would spend the rest of our lives together. I can even remember a few dreams about it. In one of them, we died together. But I know now that it's just a dream. A hope that neither of us will have to live without the other. We've never really done it before. Even when we were kids, we were just twenty minutes' walk from each other." I paused again to compose myself. It just wouldn't do to break down in front of all these people. "Ninety-eight years I have lived here. And all of those ninety-eight years I have been proud of every single person in this room. Joe and his amazing career, Momma and Daddy, God rest their souls, who took care of us all no matter what. Chris, Laura, Greta, Charlie, Bryan, and even Sam who never gave us a by-your-leave when he left. I'm proud of my family for who they are, and everything they're done. I'm proud of them for who they are. I'm proud of my friends for being true friends. For being there when we needed them. Like when my sixth got so sick... You took in my older ones like they were your own until... "I trailed off. "I'm proud of you all, and Nathan was too. We love you all with all of our hearts." I paused to dab at my eyes. "I've learned something over the years. I've been searching my memory for every time he said 'I love you', and every time he did something to surprise me. It's all like a dream. I can remember some small, specific details, and in other memories I can picture everything perfect, but others are no more than a blur. A million dreams. But the one thing that is holding them all together is love. It's a love that goes beyond any distance. It's a love that endures beyond time, and beyond death. I can't quite explain it, but I'm not sure that it's meant to be explained in words." Tears were streaming down my tired old face now, but I didn't care. "Partings are never forever. Forever is a long time. I won't be without him for long. I'm an old lady. I'll have to live without him for a little while, but it's not forever." I was saying it more to comfort myself than anything else. I closed my eyes for a second. "He wouldn't have wanted any crying. And he wouldn't have wanted a big show, either. Nate was always one for simplicity. He always told me to say what I wanted to say, do what I wanted to do, and not make a big fuss over it. So I'm trying to follow his advice right now. Partly because I already miss him, and partly because I know he's right. He's been right for the past 83 years. "I've seen people die, I've seen babies enter this world, and I've seen them grow up and have their own babies. I know how quickly life can move, and I know that the Lord doesn't always let us know what He's about to do. He has said that my husband's time is up, just as He told my brother Chris and his wife. He told Momma and Daddy to join him, and He told Nate's parents that long ago. He told Nate's brother that, and He told my two babies they weren't meant to stay here. He told our friend Peter that long ago when he went on that mission trip, God rest his soul. You never know what The Lord has in store for us. So I want to tell you, while everyone is here, that I love you all. I love my children, and my grandbabies, and my great-grandbabies. I love all my nieces and nephews, and great-nieces and great-nephews, and all my cousins, and second cousins, and twice-removed cousins. I love all my children by marriage, and all my brother and sister in-laws. I love all the friends and neighbors who have been there over the years, and you will never know how much you are to me. I love you all, and I am so, so very proud of you. Everyone in this room is my life. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Not for anything in the world." As I stepped down, I felt a feeling of love in me that was characteristic of only one person. And he was so, so very proud of me. |
| Anne 10th grade Virginia Beach, Virginia |
| About the author of "Dreaming of Sneaking Cookies and Asking Questions"... Anne lives in Tidewater, Virginia, on the Chesapeake Bay. She is a high school sophomore, and in her spare time can be found either singing, running on the beach, writing, or volunteering at church or Children's Hospital in Norfolk, VA. |
|
The Doomed Romance
The cold wind blew over McPike Manor. You could feel the icy chill of the wind and the touch of warmth from the cabin fires. You could hear the slaves singing in the quarters and the horses' neighing. In the upstairs window, Mistress was telling her daughter what to wear for the evening. The sitting room was full of men talking about politics and the possibility of war. The band was warming up for the dance and the carriages creak into the carriage house. There was only one problem with this scene: these events happened more than one hundred and fifty years ago. That is because old McPike Manor is haunted with the souls belonging to the time before the Civil War. |
| Rachel 9th grade Bay Shore, New York |
| My name is Rachel. I am 14 years old and love to write. This is my first time writing a short story for others. I have, however, written 3 novels for my friends to read. I hope you all enjoy my writing. |
| Book Review on Armageddon Summer "The world will end on July 26." This is an undisputable fact for those who are true Believers. Jane Yolen and Bruce Coville have written a novel in journal format called Armageddon Summer. We see into the personal lives of two teenagers, Jed and Marina who are not sure what to think when their parents decide to join a fanatical group of people called the Believers. The Believers, led by Reverend Beelson, are getting ready for the end of the world in a great conflagration. Only one hundred and forty four people will be saved on the top of Mount Weeupcut. Reverend Beelson says that God has decided that only the Believers will be saved and will start the world anew. Marina's mom wants Marina to also believe in Armageddon, but does so through force and bitter tactics. Marina wants to believe in something, but she is not sure what. The Mother-child relationship is an important theme in this novel. The only reason Jed is on the mountain is to watch over his father, another Believer. Jed believes that his father is just there to get his life together after his wife left him. It isn't that Jed's dad told him to believe; it's that Jed wishes he could believe. While Marina's mom and Jed's dad are true Believers, Jed and Marina aren't sure what they think. Is it possible that the world will end in fire and only a few people will be saved? The main theme of this book is actually a question: Should you be forced to believe what your parents believe? That is a question you will have to answer by yourself. Yolen and Coville team up to write incredibly introspective and contemplative book. Read this paperback and find out how two people asked themselves this question and fought to find an answer. |
| Rachel 9th grade Bay Shore, NY |
| My name is Rachel. I am 14 years old. I enjoy writing and i like to play sports. I want to be a teacher when I get older. |
| A stream of consciousness Paranoia is all I can sense, Crushing me into a white picket fence. Looking over my shoulder, My feelings all getting boulder. My fear is getting smaller, My anger just stronger. I feel I'm going to explode, Into a dusty cloud of rage. My heart with slowly corrode. Into a red slimy decay. No love do I feel, Yet hatred so real. So real that makes me shake, Into a smile that is so fake. So fake that makes me cry, For every word I say is a lie. The lies that made me slaughter, The love of me to any other. The love that turned to indifference. The indifference that I recent. For I'm no longer human, I'm no longer real, I'm no longer a loving woman, And I no longer feel. |
| Vikki 9th grade D.F., Venezuela |
|
Tiny Shoe
Red and orange lights flash furiously, |
| Kaitlin 9th grade Mississauga, Ontario, Canada |
| I was inspired to write this particular poem when i was in my car one day, and spotted a tiny white shoe lying on the road, on its side. It obviously belonged to a toddler, and the image just stuck with me, and kept coming back until i eventually wrote about it...and it still inspires me to this day! I hope you like it!! Stay strong, and keep smiling! Always!!! |
| Just For You You have the most beautiful eyes, Like no eyes I've seen before, I just wish that I could see, Everything that you do, And how precious you think of me. I like to see you happy, It makes everything worthwhile, But when you don't return the love, I seem to lose my smile, I may be smiling, On the outside of me, But what is smiling on the outside If the inside isn't free? I know that you love me, You've said it plenty times, Please show it to me And it will make me feel fine. I need you so much, And you need me too, We can solve all our problems, And I'll be everything, Just for you. |
| Maryam 10th grade Sydney, Australia |
| About the author of "Just For You" I'm 15, and I live in Sydney, but I'm from New Zealand. I love to write poems, if you have any comments, then please email me at |
|
On the edge
Feet on the edge, |
| Heather 11th grade St. Pete, Florida |
| Midnight midnight finds your thoughts of death and what the world used to be. in-between the cracks of your numb beliefs you find the reminiscence of what it was like to love me and to love yourself and life even more. and in-between your hate and declarations of tragic defeat..... is your love, still residing quietly, pondering when to break into the thick, intense wave of what it used to be. |
| Irena 10th Grade Florida |
| Earth's Soul speak say it isn't so the moon glows the sun knows the grass peaks the birds greet the stars shine peace of Mine love is kind never lies God's present heaven-sent me, I'm spirit-lit sufficient grace beautiful Earth spring is reborn spring is rebirth green leaves blue skies purple violets new lives |
| Tameka 10th grade Saint Louis, Missouri, United States |
| Tameka, a 15-year-old, loves playing the piano, drawing, singing, and serving God. She hopes to become a graphic artist, and maybe later, release a book comprised of the 60 poems she has wrote since age 12. She believes poetry is best when it is used as a outlet of self-expression, and a inlet of self-healing. |
| Anger You came upon me like A big red blanket Suffocating and confining Never letting go I lose control Now you control me And my actions are not mine Never easing up Somebody please help This solitary confinement With only one visitor Is too much |
| Maura 8th grade Dover, MA, United States of America |
|
Eternity
Dancing...or so-called dancing. The bodies were crashing against each other, jumping everywhere, most were high or drunk, and the band wasn’t even good. I didn’t want to be there, but Eva, my friend, coerced me. My face was caked with Eva’s unnecessary make up and I felt naked in my halter top and leather mini skirt, I was glad I had a long black jacket on, but it was getting trampled on in the crowd. I was getting really hot, so I pulled myself out of the crowd and sat on the dirty, cold stone floor- alone. Somewhere along the line, I lost Eva in the crowd, but at this point I didn’t care. I just wanted out of the hot mass of people and into the open, semi-fresh air. Looking around, I saw only two outlets to the outside world, and both were locked! I felt the panic rise up in me, but before it could erupt I took a deep breath and told myself to be calm. I said aloud "Why are the doors locked? They’re trying to keep us in! Damn bastards!!" I was very angry at this realization. "Wait..no...They wouldn’t keep us in here. Would they? Perhaps they’re closed just keep outsiders out side..." At this, I sat back down and closed my eyes. The band stopped playing, all I heard was clapping and gibberish from the crowd. When I opened my eyes, Eva stood in front of me. Her clothes were torn, yet she looked very calm. I must have looked at her questioningly, because she said "I got tossed in the crowd." Which was to be expected as she is so very petite; 5’2’’ and 110lbs. She sat beside me. "Eva, I really don’t understand why you like coming to these things." I paused "These rave things are disgusting-unsanitary, swarming with drunken idiots. And the behavior of these people is appalling!!" Eva just laughed "You are such a granny, Aryn!! This is fun, enjoy it. I am." The conversation continued like that until Cat Eyes Lie, the band I was waiting for, came on stage. I waved at Malakai and blew him a kiss. I didn’t expect him to see me, or return the gesture...but he did. He also called us up to the stage, surprisingly, he had an Australian accent. Eva and I were elated, we practically ran up the stage. Malakai told us to go back stage and he’d see us when they were done. He kissed my cheek and sent me off. Eva and I stood side stage so we could watch the band a little longer, we didn’t know where to go once we were back stage anyhow. I don’t know how long the man behind us was there, but he got our attention when he brushed Eva’s arm. He was tall and slender, with cold gray-blue eyes and almost white hair, very pale, and wearing all black. I later found out that he was nick-named Spike. The man murmured something to Eva which I could not hear, then walked away. Eva followed the man, didn’t say a word to me, so I followed her. He led us to a room where four other people were sitting down. A shapely woman of medium height in a black and red skirt, a loose black blouse, long black hair with red streaks, very bright attentive green eyes, and full purple colored lips beckoned to us. "Sit, sit my Dears. I am Elizabeta.". We were aquatinted with the others; Eric, Seth, and Djinn. They were all dressed in garb similar Elizabeta’s. Eva, Spike, and myself sat on a medium sized red velvet couch, where Eva couldn’t take her eyes off Spike. The band came back stage, done with their performance, looking tired and hungry. That is when I remembered that the doors were locked, but I didn’t say anything. Malakai sat next to me, and put his arm around me, "You don’t mind do you, Love?" Of course I didn’t. Elizabeta, Seth, Djinn, and Eric left, with out saying anything. Eva and I were left with Spike and Malakai. "Where are they all going?" I asked. Malakai responded "They’re going to get something to eat." He smiled. I realized that they were going to the stage, and the crowd hadn’t left yet.....Very strange. Spike and Malakai got up at about the same time. "Will you come with us?" asked Spike, mostly to Eva. Malakai tugged light on my arm. "Yes, come with us..." He dragged the ‘S’ out. Spike and Eva were already walking away, but I went along, against my better judgment. "Where are we going?" I asked. "Some place a little more private." "Oh...I...never mind" that’s all I said. Why am I doing this? I thought This isn’t like me..WHAT am I doing? Aryn STOP...! Something pulled inside of me, telling me not to go, yet I ignored it. Malakai pulled me closer to him, I didn’t resist. I looked into his face, but what I saw scared me. His eyes glowed yellow, like cat eyes. He smiled and his teeth were sharply elongated. For the second time that evening I began to panic, then Malakai placed his lips upon mine and a certain calm fell over me and all was well. I looked into his eyes again and they were normal, as were his teeth. Maybe I am seeing things. The others had gone into a room with high ceilings, scarcely decorated, with several velvet couches. What’s with the velvet couches everywhere? Looking back into Malakai’s eyes, I was completely entranced and words were no longer needed.
I snapped back into consciousness in bed, not my bed, not my room. Where was I? Despite not knowing where I was, I was not scared because the room, for some reason, seemed oddly familiar. I pulled the sheets down, sat up and threw my legs off the bed to see that I had a black silk night gown on. "Ugh...How did...? I don’t have one of these!!" I murmured aloud. Looking around the room, I walked around the bed to the door, to see a mirror. My eyes, seeming to glow, stared back at me, for the first time in my life I thought I was beautiful. I opened the door slowly, cautiously. AHHH!!! Ow, it’s so bright in here! My mind screamed. The windows to this room were all open, as were the glass doors leading to a balcony. A cool breeze swept through the room. Squinting, I saw Eva stick her head through the open doors. "HEY!!" she exclaimed and turned to her right, telling someone else that I had awoken. Not saying anything, I glided through the doors to see Elizabeta, Spike, and Malakai sitting at a table, under a purple umbrella. Angrily I demanded to know where I was, what they had done to me, and what day it was. Elizabeta smiled at me, "It’s Sunday." Two days after the concert. "You are in Spike and Malakai’s home. And we have made you better. You are evolved." I growled, "What? Evolved? What do you mean?" For the first time I heard Spike speak, "My dearest, you are no longer an average human. No longer pitiful. You are special, that is why we chose you." I was even more confused than before. "You’re crazy!! What’s wrong with you??!!" Eva spoke, "Aryn, look at me. Watch what they have enabled me to do..." All of her features began to change. Fur sprouted from every follicle, her hands turned into paws, her face was the likeness of a cat’s and her eyes fluoresced. I closed my eyes, hoping I was seeing things, but I wasn’t. When I opened my eyes, the transformation was complete- she was a very large, sinewy but strong looking cat. I felt as if I were about to faint. Malakai was quickly by my side, holding me up. "Oh, my.." I sighed. "How did...." I trailed off, my voice very soft. "You can do that too. All of us can." Malakai’s voice came from behind. I steadied myself, "Um..How though? How is that possible? I thought stuff like this was only on TV." "TV shows come from reality." Elizabeta chimed in, grinning widely. There was what seemed like an eternity of silence. "Ok..How? How can I make myself into a cat??" They explained that if I just concentrated on it, I could do it, but it would take practice. Meanwhile Eva had turned herself back. Once again, there was silence. I sighed "Why am I special? You said I was special." No one said anything, so I continued "Eva, how long have you been a..um...cat-thing?" She replied quietly, "Three years." My jaw dropped "And why didn’t you tell me? I thought...Damn..why couldn’t you tell me?" I was angry again. "You planned to turn me?!!!" I slapped her. That angered her and she turned into a cat again. I tried to imitate the action and succeeded. In my cat form, as in human form, I was larger and stronger. I was very surprised I was able to transform easily, so was everyone else. She hissed, and the fight was on. I swiped at her face, and again at her throat. Eva tried to do the same to mine, only it had little effect on me. Eva, who was injured badly, reverted to human form, nude and bleeding. She bled to near death before I let my cat-self melt away to my "humanness". Spike, her lover apparently, had a cloth of sorts and tied it around her neck to stop the bleeding. Elizabeta took blood in her hands and smeared it on a sharp metal ledge. She was going to tell the paramedics that Eva tripped and fell, cutting herself. Malakai called 911. And I, her best friend, just sat there staring blankly at my hands, and did so until the ambulance got there.
I sat beside Eva’s hospital bed, watching her carefully, painfully slurp down liquids. I tried to apologize, but I could not force the words from my throat. She looked up at me and said hoarsely, through her almost ripped-out vocal chords, "Aryn, I am sorry. I am sorry for not telling you the truth." Through my tears I ignored her apology, "I have so many questions, Eva." She replied shortly "We have eternity to sort that out." "Eternity?"... |
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| Nicole 9th grade Bpt, Connecticut, USA |
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| I wrote this story in May, then handed it in as an English assignment. (I got an "A+") I'm a 14 year old girl and I aspire to be a pathologist. Writing poetry, stories, and reading are my favorite pass-times. I don't know what else I'm Supposed to say. *peace* |
| Amber's Eyes Her eyes are full of tenderness of love of grace and bliss Her eyes are full of kindness all Heaven must miss They shine the caring of an angel filled with love A silent inspiration painted by the Lord above They whisper silent graces upon people of the land They wash away the darkness and restore us to His hand Her eyes offer such comfort they're a wonder and delight Her eyes defy the shadows to allow us see dawn's light They guard against the precious earth from evil they defend My Lord above bless Amber's Eye's forevermore. Amen. |
| Uzoma 12th grade Washington DC, 20001 |
| About the author of Amber's Eyes My name is Uzoma . I am a dedicated helper and poet. I use my inteligence to pursue research into various issues collecting information to help others with. In the past my poems have worn awards and the plaudits of my friends and family. |
| Completely Useless fading endlessly are the words - symbolic and holy how long will it take for the world to be completely absolved by imperfect gods and meaningless idols? so many paths to supposed "instant salvation" lure us into cults and disillusionment rituals and chants so repetitive and misleading dreams are to be given up, wasted on pointless mockery of spirituality - a lifetime commitment to a dormant statue tortured souls are waiting to be released deep within their hearts they search never to find the mercy and grace of the Tried and True. |
| Roxanna Graduate Phoenix, AZ, USA |
| Roxanna is an 18 year old poet, who is aiming towards being published in the near future. She writes mostly of spirituality and her outlook on life. Soon, Roxanna will be starting school at Arizona State University West to pursue a Bachelor's in Social Work/Psychology. She welcomes comments. You can write to her at |
| What Is Left After Love What is left after love Love for her Not for me You live for her You breathe for her But nothing for me Misery of being in the dark In the shadows of others love It takes two in love to make it You loving her And me loving you It doesn't count Love doesn't count for anything Anything but the heartbreak in the end Love is only worth the pain You receive in the end And that is what is left after love The pain The hurt The memories The deep down feeling That you know there has to be Something there Yet you know there isn't and never will be There isn't any room for mistakes In love. No room for regrets or sorrow. Just room for the pain in the end. |
| Mackenzie 10th grade PA |
| About the author of What Is Left After Love~ This poem was written for anyone who has given their heart to someone who has given their heart to someone else. |
| Asphyxiation darkness envelops me when I need light to thrive chills embrace me sun disappears deprived of necessity I feel empty within waiting for nothing to whisk me away to a parallel universe where opposites truly attract everything I do is reversed with a snap whatever I need is in my hands life rides high in my own world soaring on eagles as I ride rainbows to ends of the universe music washes sleep from my eyes as I fly higher rounded angles hold secrets my world close at hand |
| Elaine 9th grade CA |
| Lost Again That couldn't be my life. How could it have gotten there? It seemed just a moment ago I sat it down To take a break from the chaos. When did it grow? When did it change? When did you leave from it? I could've sworn you were just there. Can you tell me when I lost you amongst the rubble? How did I get to where I'm going? What path brought me here, and what thorny bush Covered my way back? I'm lost-- No one left to cry to, You disappeared in the nonsense that I ignored. Can you tell me Where it all went? When we changed directions? When i spun around so many times i lost sight of you? Or perhaps-- You could just help me find me- Where and when and how I lost myself. And then maybe it would be easier for me to find you again. |
| Wilde 10th grade Eastlake, OH |
| i write poetry and stories to vent. its part of who i am to express myself through it. |
|
Grandfather
I sit beside the window |
| Danielle 9th grade OH |
| Hey.. My Name Is Danielle... Yeah.. well.. This is a poem of mine about my grandfather.. I'm 14 going into 9th grade and i enjoy writing and drawing.. yeah so that's about it. |
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Dynamic Music of the storm
The rain falls and so do my tears. Both mingling with each other in a complex rhythm beaten out by the thunder. The lightning carves out complex designs in the sky as the energy of the night changes. The weather fits my mood and I feel almost like an ancient goddess who has the mortal realm at my feet. My eyes light up more and more as the lightning increases. The cool drops of rain slide down my skin. I feel the energy rise until I know that something must give. The cool night air whips about me, causing a slight shiver to run up my back. The storm gradually slows down and moves on while I remain. The heavens seal up and eventually I am left alone. |
| Cyfarwydd Graduate CA |
| I also have been known to post things on poetryboard.com. Come see for yourself. |
| Apologies The spark is extinguished as the soul dies The heart is removed still beating yet broken and throughout it all the eyes watch tears fall yet are caught by the hands as the mouth moves in vain to speak the words of apology yet the sounds are not heard for the ears have stopped listening the memories fade and soon all is forgotten As it should be |
| Cyfarwydd Graduate CA |
| The Candlebox the lid, engraved with memories past attached to the clasp of rusted brass opens ever so gently. the sound the hinges make bring back the memory of a million different lives, screaming in one voice. the contents, waxen and melted, are as souls, easily, but slowly melted away. HE lifts HIS hand in hesitation, selectively passing it over each waxen member, searching for the purest. having found that ONE, HE removes IT and places IT on an archaic candlestick, alone save two smaller, impure candles. HE grasps the match, feeling it along his fingers, and strikes it, allowing it to burn only momentarily before bringing it to the wick of THE CANDLE. at that very moment, when the wick catches, all voices screaming from the candlebox stop, and silence is once again deafening. the safety of the candlebox and all contained within is assured, and the sacrifice of that ONE candle means the everlasting salvation of those left alone in the candlebox. THAT IS TRUE LOVE. |
| B-ryce 10th grade Oklahoma |
| About the author of the candlebox My name is B-ryce and I live in Lawton, Oklahoma. I am 16 years old am pretty much your average teen. I am studying web design and even though it was asked that I not share my personal web page with you, this I do not feel to be personal, so come and tell me what you think! <removed> |
| The Loral Tree The Land of Eilidh was in mourning for their king who had just died. According to tradition, a mortal queen could not rule a kingdom alone, so Queen Eiger was expected to re-marry a prince from a kingdom nearby. One prince, Prince Lugaid of the Land of Penllyn, came to the court and won the Queen's heart instantly. Even though the Queen was twice his age, the Prince offered to wed her. This was because Prince Lugaid had made a promise to his father, who was on his deathbed back home, that he would unite the two lands. The Queen, now having her future secured, introduced the Prince to her children. The oldest daughter stunned the Prince with her beauty. Her name was Princess Catriona, and as her blue eyes met the Prince's green eyes, the pair fell in love, but the prince wished to honor his dying father, and the princess wished to honor her mother, so the secret lovers hid their feelings from the world. Princess Catriona did tell her younger brother, however, about her deep feelings towards Prince Lugaid. Her brother, Prince Keli, hated Prince Lugaid, and in hopes to rid the kingdom of him, Keli told his mother about the secret relationship. Queen Eiger was furious with her daughter and her lover, but longing for the power the marriage would bring her, she decided to get her daughter out of the way until Prince Lugaid was her husband. So The Queen went to the Pool of Iddaiec, home of the powerful Ereshkegal Spirit. This spririt was Queen of the Dead, and a great favorite with Queen Eiger. She summoned the Spirit from the pool, and as the slender figure of Ereshkegal arose from the clear misty waters, the Queen Eiger said, "O Ereshkegal, Queen of the Eastern Dead and the Setting of Suns, I come before thee with hopes that you will grant me a wish." "Queen Eiger, your husband's soul has been offered to me in the week past. Name that as your offering, and I shall grant you any wish." replied Ereshkegal. "As you wish," Queen Eiger agreed, "I want a spell cast on my eldest daughter, Princess Catriona, so that she will not interfere with my marriage to Prince Lugaid. I want her out of my way until the wedding." "Are you sure this is exactly what you wish, for no wish can be unwished by the same person as who wished it into existance," hissed the Queen of the Dead. "Yes, of course! I am certain!" "Then so be it!" and Ereshkegal sunk back into the waters of her pool. When the Queen Eigal returned home, she watched her eldest daughter closely. Nothing seemed different, until Catriona stepped outside in the gardens. Suddenly she turned into a Loral Tree bowing in the breeze. Queen Eigal was overjoyed to see her plan had worked! On the eve of the Royal wedding, a week or two later, a Royal musician was searching for a strong bough to repair his harp with. He saw the Loral Tree and it's fine branches, and cut one off to use on his harp. As he broke the tree, Catriona's spirit was freed, and suddenly she stood before the musician. "Princess! Forgive me, I did not see you! I needed a bough to use to mend my harp for to play at the wedding, so I cut one from this tree. Forgive me if I should not have!" and the musician went to his knees. "My kind sir, fear not for you have freed me from an awful spell my mother put on me. I thank you and honor you. Will you take me to Prince Lugaid?" the kindly princess asked. "Why of course!" and the musician led her to the Prince. The Prince was being dressed by his men, but when the musician told him that it was Catriona who called for him, the lovers fell into eacother's arms and Catriona wept as she explained all that happened. The Prince and Princess went to Ereshkegal and asked how they might undo the wrong done by the Queen Eiger. As an offering, the musician gave the Spirit the bough of the Loral Tree he was going to use to repair his harp. "Tell to the entire land what the Queen has done before sunset, and her wish will be reversed." proclaimed Ereshkegal. So as there was but half of an hour before sunset, the lovers and their faithful musician ran to where the wedding merriment was. The prince announced to all the cruelty of the Queen Eiger, and said that he would not marry her, but instead her daughter. With this the Queen let out an awful scream, and transformed into a Loral Tree. Prince Lugaid and Princess Catriona ruled the kingdom with an iron fist of justice and fairness. |
| Gynniver 11th grade Fort Myers, FL |
| Gynniver is obsessed with Celtic Mythology and Gaelic stories - however, she is a devoted Christian. As you might have guessed, she simply changed the spelling of her name, Jennifer, to Gynniver so that it sounded and looked a bit more Celtic itself. She created THE LORAL TREE with inspiration from her friend Meghan, and a guide of Celtic names. |
| The Numbers Game "Mi Dio." was all she could bring herself to utter. Again and again her mouth would quiver, tracing the words before stumbling with the thought and falling back into a dumb stupor. Something in her hand fell to the grass as her gaze reached upward to the pale outline of the gray mountains against the cool steel sky. Her brown eyes searched the dim granite peaks above as her body, stiff with arthritis, hunched over the oak cane. Occasionally, you could catch the sweet scent of lavender that clung about her in the damp air as she wandered aimlessly about the grass. Stoic from the shock, I approached the wrinkled, thick-skinned woman, took hold of her hand and fell to my knees in the bloody clay. My side ached and my throat felt knotted and dry. It'd been some ten years since I last allowed myself to let go of the cold apathetic lifelessness. For as much as I tried, tears still descended my cheeks and fell delicately to her feet. I'd deliberately forgotten how to cry; now I choked with the sobs, trying to find appropriate rhythm, alternating between each tear and every breath. All around the bitter wind, harsh with the northern chill of a late spring morning, lashed out at the new buds clinging to the thin trees nearby. Life. it is the epitome of the incomprehensible the impossibly vague the ironic the tragic and every other no name adjective in between. It seems as though life is the cumulative and lasting effect of each detail, experience, story, and gray morose morning we face in our narrowly numbered life span. There always exists a tinge of uncertainty and inevitability in life that is born anew the very moment the sun breaches the eastern horizon and begins to gently caress the spruce forests, low plains, and suburban sprawls of America. Yet, with careless apathy and ignorance, we step into each day, arrogantly believing we own it. The true travesties of life are set aside, rather brushed out of our path as not to disturb the pleasant idealistic illusion we prefer to surround ourselves with. But there always comes a day. Years ago there existed, somewhere, in between the dust-covered junipers and low walls of Tijeras Canyon, a tiny mountain community of a population no bigger than most grade schools. Lined with old cottonwoods that shaded the slow stream just below, the canyon curled and undulated for a couple miles east before falling wide open into a long green pasture at some unnamed break between the distant peaks. Caught in the past and fraught with the nostalgia that accompanies the mystique of Historic Route 66, the township, though it was never referred to as such, was a dormant relic of a city, mixed full of aging hippies, quiet cowboys, and local third generation residents from Mexico. So quiet were the people that modernization, for most, meant replacing the solitary four way stop with a full-blown set of traffic lights to help govern the rush hour standstill of five cars or so. Little more than run down churches and a couple of old shacks really comprised the town's center. T! here was a feed store and a couple small restaurants nearby, all of which were actually small sheds with old weather-beaten wooden menus hanging from a low roof. Should the afternoon invite you to take a short walk towards Eddies, you'd run into a worn down bed and breakfast to the south off State Road 341. Yet, just within in the village's tired city limits, in the middle of all the worn elegance and skeleton like specters of the past, was Los Vicinos. Los Vicinos, was, at it's worst, a perfectly ordinary baseball field of the most emerald green grass that one had ever seen. At it's best, it was an outfield of flawlessly flat, green, vistas that stretched forever, lush from the cool virgin rain that fell almost every afternoon. The infield was a near crimson colored clay, marked out in perfect geometric accuracy that eventually yielded to the green sea that lay behind its bases. On the whole, the field was surrounded by a couple stands of low oaks, a slight river to the south, and a covering of wild squash towards the end of the left center. Many a day, both in the humidity of summer and the biting sting of winter, fantastic dreams were played out in the field. Countless games, sometimes, with invisible players and silent crowds, carried on throughout the gentle twilight of August and into September. The jade grass and azure sky became Fenway, Shae, Ebbets and even Wembley. Sometimes, the east breeze picked up and bro! ught in the stir of some far off cheer as the runner rounded third or scored the Golden Goal. For three years, fifteen of us, each traveling anywhere from three to thirty miles, stepped onto the field at four o'clock sharp for practice. Bare feet on the moist turf, shirts strewn by the goals, a couple last jokes, two slow laps around the grass and the ritualistic warm-up commenced. From the long shadows and heavy afternoon air, so thick with verve it clung to your brow, came scattered yells, a couple hard sprints, and a goal as the scrimmage began anew. The pattern repeated itself, beginning to end, practice after practice, until the dark hush of night fell upon the field. Mystified, their gaze unable to stray from the intoxicating rhythm unfolding before them on the field, unwelcome visitors, anonymous passerby's, and especially tourists often stood on. Lined up, they watched the practice, almost in awe, metaphorically stealing a piece of our own green serenity from just beyond the chain link fence. Though just a number on the pitch, beyond each jersey was an identity and, for a few, a story. Some were silent, solemn, and serious; examining each play, deciding the next move in Fisher-like fashion. Others, equally ardent about the game, merely less cerebral, just got to the ball, made the play, and waited anxiously for the next pass. Some saw practice as a time to embrace the warm youthfulness of summer, some saw practice as a means for escaping the blows of a switch from an abusive father at home, the rest of us. well, it was just the painful distance that accompanied the wait between one game and the next. For us, cleats were shared, jerseys, red with blood, some of it our own, were past on, stitched up, and reused season after season. There was no element of separation among us except for the literal mileage that existed between farm and shanty, shanty and field. His boots, black calf skin Adidas when new, were by now a dusty white; taped, heel to toe and baring scuff marks, grass stains, and eighteen different kinds of dirt from a four state area. From a quiet region just a mile or two away and nestled in a deep cove cut into the rock, he showed up to practice in the light blue Cadillac five minutes late every day. Stepping onto the field, already wielding a wide grin as a few of us turned around, he trotted over, removed the indigo rosary and small gold crucifix from around his neck, and so began practice. His graceful lope and boisterous bellows somehow didn't fit the personality and stature of an otherwise outwardly modest and humble 5'6 frame. "That's four-three, us" he would say, the grin breaking once more. and so it went. By six, the presence of gray smoke and the pulsating roar of the old Cadi heralded the end of a another long practice. The lights of the rusty 412 slowly contoured the last bend before Dockin's Meats and eventually found their way to the field before making the shallow turn into the long dirt lot. Luis would pull off his shirt, wipe the mud from his face, pull a couple strands of grass from his black coffee hair, and take in a few last remarks before hopping into the white vinyl interior where his grandmother and two nieces awaited his presence for journey back up the canyon. The field of our youth, so far separated from that day, is by now, overrun in sickening stands of wild milkweed. Uneven patches of lifeless dirt fill the once pristine outfield like some consuming plague of remorseless design. Forgotten and left behind, the green seas now exist only as memories we become too stubborn or emotional to recall. No longer vibrant and remembered, the field is mere a gap between fallen churches and a collapsing rail station. Anymore, the pitch, what's left of it, remains empty and unnoticed by those who pass by. It's void is a testament to the memorial past that can never be reclaimed in the short breadth of the present. The indigo and turquoise rosary fell to the grass and the old woman clamored with her cane, suddenly struck by the reality that lingered about in the violent morning air. She grasped my hand, squeezing harder, indeed exceeding the grip of a woman who'd seen more decades than most vintage cars. So much stronger than I, she failed to let the gentle ageless tears depart her eyes; still defiant and angry, she refused to respect time's claim on the deed. Her brown deep-sunk eyes searched about the distant peaks then fell once more to the field, somehow grasping perhaps for his silhouette among the morning gray. |
| Justin Graduate Tijeras, New Mexico |
| "...the important thing is not to live, but to live well." -Socrates from Plato's APOLOGY. This work was based on a true account of friendship. One of my best friends was shot nineteen times in drive-by two years ago... the killers have never been found despite a reward topping more than $110,000. Writing was my way of dealing. We played soccer together for three years going to the New Mexico State Championship twice... we won it the year he died. |
| Alone Placed alone forever on this merciless Earth This is not an existence but a long slow death. I scream for help from the bottom of my soul Why do you choose not to listen? How can you stand by and watch me die? As my world falls apart For reality's walls are thin. Please release me from my cage For I have done no wrong And committed no sin. Please don't forget me As I die alone from within. |
| Jennie 10th grade United Kingdom |
| About the author of Alone. I live in England, UK. I'm 15 and I have been releasing writing to various websites for a while, although this is my first time with this one. I hope my poem makes you think. I am trying to voice the thoughts of many unhappy people around the world. |