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Poetry
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Essay/Prose
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Short Story
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A walk in the clouds
When I used to think about falling in love I used to think it would be like the movies. You know some guy would come and sweep me off my feet and we would live happily ever after the whole Cinderella type thing. But I later figured out that isn't how life goes and more than likely finding my true love wouldn't be like that. When I entered high school I was determined to find my so called "true love". Little did I know he'd been there my whole life just a few blocks down the street. Mark Bell had been my best friend since we were babies, and it had never went past that. Sure I had a crush on him when I was seven but lately he'd just been somebody I talked to when ever I had a problem.
One night that all changed. We were coming home from a movie with two of our other friends Cieara and Doug. They had a little something going on then too but we didn't know about that. Any way Doug and Cieara were in the front and Mark and I were in the back. We were just sitting there talking about stuff as we always did. Then suddenly he kissed me. He'd caught me completely off guard and I wasn't sure what to think of it. We went on kissing for about ten minutes until Cieara suddenly turned around. She about had a heart attack.
Later that night when Doug dropped Cieara and I off at my house she was asking me all these questions. Like "Are you guys dating", and questions like that. That got me thinking I stayed up nearly the whole night trying to figure out what this all meant. Then I realized I'd fallen for him.
The next day Cieara, Doug, Mark and I went to play basketball. The park was only about a mile from my house so the four of us walked. Cieara took Doug and walked in front of us. She insisted that we had to talk. It felt kind of strange, but after a few seconds of silence I finally asked him.
"Mark, about last night what did that all mean", I had never been so terrified talking to him before.
"I sorry I really am I just couldn't help myself", he sounded as scared as I was. It amazes me how two people can go from telling each other every thing one day. Then the next not hardly being able to say anything.
"No, its not that I didn't like it if I didn't want you to kiss me I would've stopped you. I just want to know something", I paused for a few seconds.
"What do you want to ask me", he said his voice still trembling.
"Do you like me as more than just a friend", I said finally?
He paused for what seemed like forever then said, "Yes, these last few weeks have been different for me. I've seen you in a way I never seen you before, do you have any feelings for me.
"I'm beginning too", I replied.
"Well what do you want to do", he asked.
"Maybe we should try being a couple for a while. If it doesn't work we have to promise to stay friends okay", I said.
"Okay", he answered. The next three months were the greatest of my life. I had never felt this way about any body before. It seemed to good to be true. Then I realized it was.
Exactly three months after we became a couple Mark started to get these horrible head aches at least three times a week. They became so bad sometimes he would just break down and start crying. In all the time I had known Mark I had never seen him cry. Finally his mom took him to the doctor.
That night when he got home I got the worst phone call I could possibly ever receive. The doctors had told Mark he had a brain tumor and it was malignant. It was also in the center of is brain which would make it almost impossible to remove by surgery. They immediately started him on radiation and chemotherapy to try to kill the cancer or maybe just to reduce the size of the tumor but nothing helped. The doctor told Mark he would have between 9 months and 1 year to live. Mark was determined to live his last days being happy.
He told me that meant being with me. So I spent every moment I could with Mark trying to hold back my tears for his sake. 6 months went by very quickly and Mark was getting worse every day and it killed me to see him. It hurt me so much wanting to do something for him but knowing I couldn't do anything. The night before he died I sat beside his bed. This was the last time we talked.
"I don't think I'm going to make it much longer, and there is something I have to tell you", he said I a weak voice that had come to familiar.
"What is it", I replied.
"I love you, I always have", he said as a single tear dropped down his face.
"I love you too", I replied tears also began to fall down my face too.
"Just remember I'm always with you. Any time you need some one to talk to just close your eyes and we will take a walk in the clouds and talk about every thing okay", he said. I could tell he wasn't going to make it much longer but I think it put him a little at ease after he got that out.
"Always I love you", I said as I closed my eyes and grabbed his hand. When I opened my eyes his eyes were closed I knew from that moment that he was dead. I just sat there crying for hours and hours.
Its been five years since Mark died, and now I am married but I will still never forget about him, and I'll always consider him my first true love. Even now I still keep my promise every time I have a problem I just close my eyes and there he is walking in the clouds.
-Ashley When I used to think about falling in love I used to think it would be like the movies. You know some guy would come and sweep me off my feet and we would live happily ever after the whole Cinderella type thing. But I later figured out that isn't how life goes and more than likely finding my true love wouldn't be like that. When I entered high school I was determined to find my so called "true love". Little did I know he'd been there my whole life just a few blocks down the street. Mark Bell had been my best friend since we were babies, and it had never went past that. Sure I had a crush on him when I was seven but lately he'd just been somebody I talked to when ever I had a problem.
One night that all changed. We were coming home from a movie with two of our other friends Cieara and Doug. They had a little something going on then too but we didn't know about that. Any way Doug and Cieara were in the front and Mark and I were in the back. We were just sitting there talking about stuff as we always did. Then suddenly he kissed me. He'd caught me completely off guard and I wasn't sure what to think of it. We went on kissing for about ten minutes until Cieara suddenly turned around. She about had a heart attack.
Later that night when Doug dropped Cieara and I off at my house she was asking me all these questions. Like "Are you guys dating", and questions like that. That got me thinking I stayed up nearly the whole night trying to figure out what this all meant. Then I realized I'd fallen for him.
The next day Cieara, Doug, Mark and I went to play basketball. The park was only about a mile from my house so the four of us walked. Cieara took Doug and walked in front of us. She insisted that we had to talk. It felt kind of strange, but after a few seconds of silence I finally asked him.
"Mark, about last night what did that all mean", I had never been so terrified talking to him before.
"I sorry I really am I just couldn't help myself", he sounded as scared as I was. It amazes me how two people can go from telling each other every thing one day. Then the next not hardly being able to say anything.
"No, its not that I didn't like it if I didn't want you to kiss me I would've stopped you. I just want to know something", I paused for a few seconds.
"What do you want to ask me", he said his voice still trembling.
"Do you like me as more than just a friend", I said finally?
He paused for what seemed like forever then said, "Yes, these last few weeks have been different for me. I've seen you in a way I never seen you before, do you have any feelings for me.
"I'm beginning too", I replied.
"Well what do you want to do", he asked.
"Maybe we should try being a couple for a while. If it doesn't work we have to promise to stay friends okay", I said.
"Okay", he answered. The next three months were the greatest of my life. I had never felt this way about any body before. It seemed to good to be true. Then I realized it was.
Exactly three months after we became a couple Mark started to get these horrible head aches at least three times a week. They became so bad sometimes he would just break down and start crying. In all the time I had known Mark I had never seen him cry. Finally his mom took him to the doctor.
That night when he got home I got the worst phone call I could possibly ever receive. The doctors had told Mark he had a brain tumor and it was malignant. It was also in the center of is brain which would make it almost impossible to remove by surgery. They immediately started him on radiation and chemotherapy to try to kill the cancer or maybe just to reduce the size of the tumor but nothing helped. The doctor told Mark he would have between 9 months and 1 year to live. Mark was determined to live his last days being happy.
He told me that meant being with me. So I spent every moment I could with Mark trying to hold back my tears for his sake. 6 months went by very quickly and Mark was getting worse every day and it killed me to see him. It hurt me so much wanting to do something for him but knowing I couldn't do anything. The night before he died I sat beside his bed. This was the last time we talked.
"I don't think I'm going to make it much longer, and there is something I have to tell you", he said I a weak voice that had come to familiar.
"What is it", I replied.
"I love you, I always have", he said as a single tear dropped down his face.
"I love you too", I replied tears also began to fall down my face too.
"Just remember I'm always with you. Any time you need some one to talk to just close your eyes and we will take a walk in the clouds and talk about every thing okay", he said. I could tell he wasn't going to make it much longer but I think it put him a little at ease after he got that out.
"Always I love you", I said as I closed my eyes and grabbed his hand. When I opened my eyes his eyes were closed I knew from that moment that he was dead. I just sat there crying for hours and hours.
Its been five years since Mark died, and now I am married but I will still never forget about him, and I'll always consider him my first true love. Even now I still keep my promise every time I have a problem I just close my eyes and there he is walking in the clouds.
-Ashley
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Ashley
9th grader
WV |
Try it on For Size
We have all heard of sweatshops. These are unpleasant places where the workers are extremely exploited with the absence of a living wage or even benefits. The employees have poor, unsanitary working conditions, safety hazards and arbitrary discipline. There are blocked fire exits, unsanitary bathrooms, and poor ventilation. Most sweatshop workers are immigrant women who work 60-80 hours a week in front of their machines, without minimum wage or overtime pay. They are afraid to speak out, for they fear the consequences might be deportation. The U.S. Department of Labor estimates that over half of the country's 22,000 sewing shops violate minimum wage and overtime laws. Garment workers in Los Angeles, California are paid an average of only 7,200 dollars a year, less than 3/4 of the poverty level income for a three person family.
Of course, you might be thinking about how there are more important issues, but this is happening in America, a country rumored to be land of the free, the highly accredited democratic nation. The people that are working in sweatshops could be your mothers, or your daughters. These are ordinary people, only trying to make ends meet, attempting to feed their children, provide decent lives for them... and becoming exhausted in the process. No one should have to work 60-80 hours a week and not get fully compensated for it. It is completely unnecessary and unfair to the workers, the producers, the ones that are making the clothes to be sold for ridiculous amounts of money. Think about it. A pair of Gap jeans not on sale costs about 68 dollars. Who made these jeans? Do you think that people were paid decent wages for to produce these? Do you think they will be reimbursed for the pair of jeans that you will only wear a couple of times and rotate between your 25 other pairs? We al!
l know about the Gap company and its violation of labor laws in it's factories but do we do anything about it? Do we write letters to these companies, or to our congressmen, the people who can make a difference?
People are under the impression that they cannot make an alteration in the sweatshop industry when really, they can. I don't think that Michael Jordan needs that extra one million dollars he gets when he endorses Nike products to survive. I don't believe that The Gap needs to spend thousands upon thousands of dollars on their advertising campaign. The employees of the retail shops get paid more and are treated with more respect than the people who produce the clothes. The people who sell the clothes get benefits and paid vacations...the sweatshop workers get disgusting bathrooms. Can't the C.E.O.'s, the Vice Presidents or the Chairmen of these companies have respect for human kind, and pay their workers a decent wage?
Money from a 100 dollar garment is typically divided up into four parts: 50 dollars to the retailer, 35 dollars to the manufacturer, 10 dollars to the contractor, and a measly 5 dollars to the garment worker. Why do we let these things go on behind closed doors? We all know about it, we know when we look at the tag of our Banana Republic jackets that we are seeing something that was made in a third world country by people working under horrible conditions. Do we let this go on because of our own selfishness? We don't want the prices to go down? You mean to say that major retailers like Guess, Banana Republic, Gap, and Nike cannot afford to pay their worker's decent wages when in the Guess store a shirt can go as high as 80 dollars?
We cannot let this go on any longer, people must be treated better and with more respect. The big executives employed by the companies that use sweatshops should live a day in an average sweatshop worker's life. See how they like it. Their Gucci suit might get a wrinkle in it, or even worse...they might consider raising the wage?
So next time you walk into the Gap or Old Navy, take a second and think of who made your clothes. Think about whether you want to contribute your 68 dollars to companies who use sweatshops. Research the brands you purchase, or try to make a difference. Show some compassion to others.
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Nicole
10th grader
Tucson, Arizona |
| About the Author of "Try it On For Size." Nicole is an avid reader and writer, and someday hopes to become a professional commercial photographer. |
The Fall
It had been raining that morning. The air was hot and heavy, damp against my skin. The grass was shiny, slipping under our shoes, as Alex and I struggled to the top of the hill, Alex's green bike by my side. A cool, welcoming wind blew my hair back into my face. I was 11, and Alex was 8. We were in Treloar Park.
Treloar Park, in those days, consisted of 11 tennis courts, a clubhouse, a winding path, a public toilet, a bridge, two valleys, two tunnels, many trees, and various hills scattered around the place. The hill we were climbing ended at the main valley. This valley ran from the middle of the top of the park to the bottom left hand corner, where a tunnel swept it away.
Finally we reached the top, and stood there for a moment, looking down. It was, I suppose, about ten meters to the bottom, where a tree, a huge, dead, rotting tree, stood in the path. The hill itself was quite dangerous, filled with rocks and hidden holes, just waiting for the unsuspecting bike rider. It was also the steepest, on about a 45 degree angle.
'You should wear a helmet,' said Alex in his little boy voice, breaking through my thoughts. He was at the stage where he still looked up to me. I knew it would not last, though, and within a matter of months he would be doing things on his own. I must make the most of this time.
'Ha,' I laughed contemptuously. I was the big sister, the 11-year-old, the one who knew everything. 'Helmets just get in the way. I can do this without a helmet.'
I caught the look skepticism on his face, and sighed inside. It was beginning.
I mounted the bike, and rode it slowly to the edge. It was a pretty good view, and I could see across Tamworth, to the blue hills beyond, where the sun was slowly setting, spreading stunning colors of orange and gold across the sky. Soon we would have to go home.
I peddled forward, and the front wheel fell over the edge. For a second I hung there, neither on the hill nor off it, knowing that the next second I would be rushing down it. And then, with a slow grinding noise, the back wheel was pulled over.
Down I went, the wind rushing across my face, my ears. I could not hear anything but the rushing sound, and the wheels cutting through the long grass. The handlebars shook and jolted under my fingers. The seat bumped up and down.
Then I saw the rock.
It just lay there, a light brown rock like any other you would find around the park. This one was average, about 10 by 5. It was a totally normal, inconspicuous rock. And it was just a meter in front of me. I knew in that instant that I could not avoid it, and what was going to happen. Everything seemed to go into slow motion, which was stupid because everything was normal, completely normal. I was going to hit a rock and I was going to die and it was totally normal. It got closer and closer.
And then it hit. The bike stopped with a sudden jerk, but I kept going forward, clear over the handlebars, over the front wheel. And then everything went from slow motion to pause, as I hung in the air. My arms were flailing, desperately reaching for something to stop the fall. My legs were kicking around. My eyes were bulging.
And then time unpaused and the ground rose up to meet me.
I hit suddenly, with a sickening crunch, my arm going numb under me. I bounced once, twice, down the hill, and then started to roll. I stopped as suddenly as I had started, sprawled at the bottom of the hill, a bruised and broken rag doll.
My arm was throbbing under me - was it broken? I wasn't sure. My nose was stinging, blood pouring down, across my chin, splashing onto the grass. My face was meshed into the ground and I could smell the grass and the blood. Then I heard footsteps - Alex - and relief rushed through me. From the corner of my eye I could see the bike, the handlebars bent at an odd angle, the back tire spinning lazily. Alex arrived.
'Jesus,' he swore, the word short and sharp, exploding from his mouth like a bullet from a gun. 'What've you done to my bike?'
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Bridget
9th grader
Tamworth, NSW, Australia |
| ive just stared writing. im 14. |
Looking Away
She said she liked to smell the rain
Liked the way it felt on her skin
Sliding
She said it calmed her and made the world
Seem ok through her pale brown eyes
And he said he wouldn't stop her
But when she came inside
With her face full of the rain
Her eyes stared past nothing into
His
It was too much
And he looked away
She said "I think I'll go sit
in the rain a while."
Lying on her back
Eyes open
And came in quickly
With her face full of the rain
While he busied himself in the sunshine
And sometimes she'd say nothing
Rare nights when he'd wake up to find himself by the window
Watching her crouched under the tree
Eyes closed
He knew she wouldn't be back until morning
He returned to his slumber
And he waited not for her
She told him once she liked the rain
She said "I think I'll go sit
In the rain a while."
She lay on her back with her mouth wide open
And drowned
And he could not look away
From the girl beneath the tree
Staring down at her, those pale brown eyes
Closed
To the rain
That fell on her
Closed
To the rain
That falls from his eyes.
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Kelly
11th grader
Vernon, CT |
About the author of "Looking Away"
I submitted this because I orginally posted it as a diary entry on opendiary.com and someone stole it from me without giving me the credit due. So. Here I am.
IT'S SO SYMBOLIC, is it not? Hah. |
Mystery
Stolen away
Miles between
A tear is shed
A river is running
An ocean is created
Two worlds connected
Many obstacles to over come
So much stress is made
Aroma of sweet citrus
Future is for told
By a mysterious woman
Candles are burning
Your mind is open
Heart is torn
Burst into bits
Body is glass
Shattered by knowledge
Eternal death
Spirits float to the sky
Horrid angels sing
Peaceful demons scream
Soul ran away
Black rose petals fall
Silent cries that roll
So different
yet so the same
Immortality forever
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Bonnie
9th grader
IL |
| About the author of Mystery. I'm in a band called Nova Sunday. I have a great Boyfriend named Vern. |
When it's Chilly Outside
I always like the Fall Season
Best
You can watch the Vikings play
With your family
And go mighty musky fishing
And deer hunting with a bow
And pluck red apples from trees
And cook orange pumpkin seeds
And Scare many little
Children
At Halloween
And go to the cabin with
Your friends
And go walking
In the leafy trails
And admire the trees paint themselves
Not only in the sky
But the ground below
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Ryan
9th grader
USA |
| About the author of When its chilly outside. My website is: |
The Dedicated Life of a Beaten Servant
The little gray animal sits motionless and sterile in a room full of its own kind. Like a broken and beaten dog, it seems to look up and beg for even the slightest bit of mercy. Years of constant destruction have left it dull and lifeless. But it lived its glory day already, the little thing did. Before the old boy was forgotten about, he lived such a beautiful life.
He was born some 20 years ago, in a cold and lifeless factory. He existed for many purposes. He was to educate, to perform, to amaze, and to brighten lives. Born bright silver in hue, with a head so clean and innocent and a body so brilliant and lustrous, he brought instant joy to the youth he met at his first home. After he was tamed and fine-tuned, he went into work. He was beaten on and pounded to no avail, but he knew his duty. Like the ox that plows the fields in the farmlands, he understood what his life was to undertake, and he knew what his purpose was. Throughout his life, he was moved from place to place. Bought and sold every 4 or 5 years, going from schools, to homes, to stores, serving a similar purpose at each. He served his duties honorably, asking for only a tune-up and a new piece of hardware on the random occasion.
Now he sits alone. Unused, under worked, and lifeless.
"It's dead," says the owner, who bought it years ago, in it's prime.
"We can scavenge it," says the vulture of a man, looking for parts to save his own old friend.
He now rests, in a small room, filled with others just like him. Put out to pasture by his final owner. Scavenged for parts, saving the life of another of his kind through his death. The old creature meets its final resting place. It spent years educating people both young and old, entertaining people from all over, and doing it with so much dignity. But he died like most of his species do, left with nothing but his skin sitting on the ground in a back room of an old store. The snare drum is dead.
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Andy
11th grader
USA |
About the author of "The Dedicated Life of a Beaten Servant"
Andy is a snare drummer in the Capital Sound Drum and Bugle Corps, and is also a member of the Percussion In Motion Project, and the Romeoville HS drumline.
He has authored a very short collection of poems and short essays entitled "A Brief Description In Hopeless Romanticism." |
The Hue of Poison
the rain slides against a thickly forested air:
its plastic wrap is slathered on the skin like a contained heat.
but interweaved with the mouth, a spider's bite
begins to bleed the logic of the machine; its lyrical jumps
of electricity burning like acid.
and the rings of an extraordinary blue dilate
in wild convulsions, splintering into
the glass diamonds of a yellow horizon. ripping
its fury from the pages of the eyes,
a hungry scream punctures through the humidity
and it flickers sharp cuts of violet tones.
they pierce through the sky like broken shards of porcelain
and they shower into the body as fantastic visual
constructions of purification.
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Irena
10th grader
Florida |
| i like color ; ) |
Left Behind
With one last look at life,
With one last gasp for air,
The everlasting memory,
Of the stars at which I stare.
The world around starts spinning,
My heart begins to break.
A bitter chill crawls up my spine,
My hands begin to shake.
With one last shooting star,
My tears begin to fall.
Looking up at life,
Was it really worth it all?
The search must never end,
For the life I could not find,
But I see myself today,
As the girl God left behind.
|
Jillian
10th grader
Rush, NY USA |
| Ive been writing for less then a year, but my poems come from the heart. Ive had a lot happen in my life, and I guess my way to get it all out is to write. |
The Tapes of My Life
"You know, Julia, I’ve been thinking…"
After this traditional opening line, songs that have been partially stuck in my head all week come into full volume. I see my mother’s mouth moving, and every few seconds it matches with the tune I am thinking about and this makes me smile to myself. I force the songs to stop so I can listen for a second, just so I know what her theme is for tonight. It’s another college selection lecture. As the music resumes its course in my head and I swallow my chicken, I think about what I could do to make her understand that what she is saying is nothing new. In fact, from what I recall, she mentioned this topic just a few nights ago in the same manner.
I remember that once during a similar situation when I was an angry freshman, I gave her a silent, dull stare as she talked to me to let her know I was not interested. She called it a "stoned glaze". I did not appreciate her terminology, so I stopped using that method. Since that failed attempt, I just try to think about other things and nod agreeably while she blabbers.
As I watch her, the deep brown hair on her head going gray in a few places, though it was recently colored, her glasses hiding the dark circles under her mahogany eyes, the left one with a cataract that is progressively intensifying, so that now when she drives she occasionally gawks at street signs and presses her glasses closer to her face for assistance. Her olive skin, once so firm and sure, sagging now and with deepening crows feet. Her forehead is gouged with perfectly spaced horizontal lines that are present even when she is still, mouth closed. I feel a strike of pain and sadness for her; how did things get this bad, Mom? Also, with my mounting frustration, ‘Why must you constantly talk at length on the same subjects?’
I remember at this moment to blink because I realize I have been staring at her while those thoughts sped through my head. I do not want her to think that I am uninterested in her opinions and bored with her advice, but sometimes she is so redundant that I just want to scream, ‘I get it, Mom! I really do! Just leave me alone!’
"Also, Jules, women’s colleges offer excellent educations…"
I glance at my father so we can roll our eyes at her transition to a topic that I originally introduced her to. She has since adopted it as her own theory and proclaims it as often as she talks about colleges. He sits in his chair and calmly shifts salad, his least favorite addition to meals, around on his blue square plate: sliced carrots to one corner, romaine lettuce to another, tomatoes to the third and spinach to the last one. I have to wait a few seconds because he is intent on finishing this delicate ritual. When he finally meets my glance, his blue eyes flash behind his gold-rimmed bifocals. This time, instead of his typical musing camaraderie, he just purses his lips together and raises his eyebrows. I realize, suddenly, what this look offers me. It conveys our trapped state, how my father and I are caught in the midst of my mother’s rambling with no realistic escape and his new resignation to it.
I try to recall the first time I felt irritated at my mom because of her repetition habit and remember the summer I turned six. The night before my first day at a camp in Center City, she helped me pack my bag. As I placed my bathing suit inside, she said, "Now remember to wear your flip-flops to the pool because you don’t want athlete’s foot, right?" "I know, Mommy," I recall wailing in response, "Why do you keep telling me?" "I’m sorry, honey. I just want to make sure you don’t forget."
No, I realize now, you want to vent your worries and preoccupations onto whoever is available, generally dad and me, so we can share them. We are used as her forum as she voices her concerns and dilemmas, but not as a way to actually communicate with us at all. Her talking to us is for personal relief. She can feel better because she knows other people are aware of what she is distraught over. ‘But she can’t possibly expect me to listen to this forever, can she? What will happen when I finally do move away to college?’ I wonder. And then I see that yes, she will do this as often and for as long as I allow her to.
Before I can even realize what I am doing, I pile my utensils on my plate and place it, along with my glass on the edge of the sink. I walk evenly and silently out of the kitchen, listening at last only to the songs from before that return, and drone out any thoughts of apology or regret as my parents look up at me in silent shock.
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Julia
12th grader
Jenkintown, PA, USA |
By The Light Of Her Wings
Her wings from God were received on this day
As an angel on Earth was sent to Heaven.
Her radiant eyes filled with the love that
melts in the memories that inspired her to live
Her heart sings a melody that rings in our ears
While the beauty of her presence brings us near
She speaks to us with soothing words
As her unforgettable smile rains across our hearts
But we know she is forever by our side
Being the friend, daughter and sister
she was when she was alive
So when you ever feel emptiness look in your heart
And you will find the light of her wings to guide you
With faith and love!
|
Ashley
10th grader
|
| I enjoy to write poetry I have been writing since I was 10 I was published in a book when I was 12 and this is a passion I love. |
Waves Speak
I waved as the corroded car,
Began to disappear.
I didn't know what to do.
Should I cry,
Like a diminutive bear cub,
Suffering from the pains of a tiny bullet,
Lodged deep inside it's
Idle perishing body?
All I could do was wave.
What does every other boy do when he's
Loosing his father,
When his role model is
Vanishing from his life.
I'm the man of the house now.
"You just have to be tough," my mother tells me
Like a firefighter,
Entering a blazing sky scraper,
Knowing that at any second it could collapse.
At that point I felt like that firefighter.
I felt hot.
My heart was beating hastily.
I was being engulfed by an inferno of flames.
Every wall around me was crumbling down,
Upon my throbbing body.
Causing my skin to bubble and blister.
As he drives over the hill,
I grasp that he's really gone.
Is Dad engulfed by the same flames as me,
Meeting affliction as a bare autumn plant
In the harsh winter?
If so,
Why didn't he wave?
|
Brian
10th grader
Clarkston, MI USA |
| My name is Brian. i am a sophomore at Clarkston High School. I like writing poems much more than any other type of writing. i find them a lot more fun and easier to write. You have a little more freedom in poems for creativity. That is why i entered "Waves Speak" my feature poem. |
Silence
My favorite word in the English language needs no parents, no brother, no sister, and no friend to define it. The mere sound of the word affects me both internally and externally, enabling my being to just relax. The word "silence" is the key to my sanctuary.
I explore my thoughts through silence. My mind creates its own sounds through dreams, memory, and thought. When I envision Lady Liberty standing tall and proud, representing power and democracy, I see her standing in silence, untouchable, and no spoken words are needed to describe her.
The external world calls to me through the silence. Pictures, books, and sculptures all can be interpreted without noise. Analyzing Tanner's strokes, browsing through books at the library, and modeling a block of clay into art are all done in silence.
It is said, "A picture is worth a thousand words." To me, this is a way of life. So when I hear the honk of a car, a screaming pedestrian, and my brother and sister fighting. I don't respond with screams and noise, but stay secure in a blanket of silence. Allowing myself to travel to the recesses of my mind, where silence can once again become me.
|
Thomas
12th grader
Philadelphia |
About the author of Silence.
I am a senior in high school. This essay was insprid by my neighborhood. Which has a calmness to it due to its quiet atmosphere. |
|
Twisted
move baby move
and you'll see
what i'm all about
i'm hidden in a shadow
but here
only here
is a place I can come out
you'll still be you
in a different position
but me, oh me
i'll be different
flash baby flash
the light on
my figure
will let you see
who I am
i'm moving now
and not even you,
big, great, wonderful,
you
can stop me
slide baby slide
all around me
you'll see
that's the way
I know it's gonna be
for now
i'll be in the middle
and you might feel
off-center
twist baby twist
off into my shadow
and you'll see what it's like
because now i'm me
and i've got it all
and you
are
stunned
alarmed
betrayed
while I stay in the spotlight
smiling at you
shake baby shake
keep your eyes on me
i'm good
real good
and you won't admit it
i've got it
you don't know what to do
so now we've changed
places that is
and for now I like it
but later
twirl baby twirl
right back into place
|
Lindsay
9th grader
Readfield, Maine, USA |
About the author of twisted
Yeah, my name is Lindsay and I can't tell you what this one is about. I just angry or something and I need to write and... there it is. Thanks, Cassy and Willy, you guys are the best! "it's a beautiful day!" And maybe some day you'll see a book with my name on it... keep looking! |
My Mistake
I hate him.
His whiny, annoying voice
Resembles that of a six year olds,
Begging for candy at the wrong time.
His persistent calls,
The insults that he shoots at me,
Aimed for the heart,
Miss their target
And only intensify my loathing.
His attempts to make me jealous,
To show off,
Trying to prove
That he is better
And yet,
He always loses.
His demented, yellowing teeth,
Misshapen head;
Rage builds inside of me
Every time I look at him.
Fire of volcanoes,
Hurling their hot lava
At his monkey face.
I go crazy at first sight of him.
Why did I waste such precious time on him?
The sick and selfish,
Self-centered and slug-like
Creature that I cannot stand.
I want him to leave me alone
To move far, far away.
To get out of my life
Forever.
|
Juliz
11th grader
Tucson |
Fallen
You have taken a fall,
Now you get up and crawl,
But all you see is the pain
That is driving you insane
The words of hate
Are getting easier to create
Again you fall
But get up and crawl
Now all you feel is the rage
Like you are locked up in a cage
With out a doubt
You know there is no way out
Still you fall
And get up and crawl
The anger is flowing
And it is now showing
The looks in your eyes
It tells me the lies
The things you are not saying
And the games you are playing
Again you fall
But get up and crawl
You see the light
It is looking so bright
And to it you go
And with it I flow
|
Erin
12th grader
Pitt Meadows B.C. Canada |
| Poetry is my way of dealing with the problems I hae been dealt |
"Just One"
Just one touch from you
Would make my problems flow free
Just one kiss from you
Nothing would ever bother me
Just one look from you
Would make me melt inside
Just one hug from you
Forget my stubborness and pride
Just one sigh from you
Would make me sigh in despair
Just one disappointment from you
Well, that just wouldn't be there
Just one tear from you
Would make me sob for days
Just one smile from you
And mine would never go away
Just one leave from you
Would make me feel alone
Just one glare from you
That I couldn't bear so
Just one grin from you
Would make me giggle with glee
Just one moment with you
That's how much I love you
You set me free.
|
Myhi
9th grader
St. Louis, MO/USA |
| About the author of "Myhi." I am a fifteen year old freshman girl from the center states and i love to write. i currently enrolled into honors english for next semester because my teacher wanted me to be in it (though i didn't want all that extra work). I can't hide from it, because it's my passion. Writing is the only way i can express myself. |
"Who Am I?"
Who am I?
Why, Me?
I am a queen, from my brown skin to my light brown eyes and my black hair
I am a queen
Who am I?
I am a young adolescent black girl destined to be a beautiful successful black woman
So when you ask me
Who am I?
I will say that I am a beautiful black queen
With goals, morals and destined dreams
To be any and everything I can be
|
Jennifer
10th grader
Saint Louis |
| I enjoying writing poetry about numerous subjects or anything that comes to mind |
The True Meaning of Jealousy
I am jealousy. I define jealousy. I take over your day and put you through some of the most depressing times of all. I'm at my worst when someone undeserving takes what you so much should be given. Though I am unliked by my peers, forgiveness and acceptance, you can't help but have respect for my determination to bring you down. And you know I'm always around. I'm also kind of the black sheep of the emotion pack. Already you might be denying my existence, but I'm there. I'm there when you're not first. I'm there when you don't win. I'm there when you know I shouldn't be. My torments will always surround you and your failures, because you know you're not as perfect as you'd like to believe. See, I'm back again! You're feeling the negativity and the pessimism right now, aren't you? But only the brave can accept me, for I am probably the main feeling you have, and the only one that won't go away, and no matter how hard you try, I ain't leaving. I'm the glare !
in your eyes, the sarcasm in your voice, the unenthusiasm in your everyday activities. Like it or not, you can't control me. I'm just a measly weed that keeps growing back even if you tear out my roots. Don't deny my presence, take as much advantage of it as you can. After all, I'm not that bad.
|
Amy
8th grader
Barrington, IL |
| My name is Amy, 14 years old. Fan of Rock music, and Mariah Carey(Nice mix, huh?) I'm from Illinois but I wanna go to Berkeley for college! Booyah! Anyway, I wrote this essay as a means of expression, because I seem to come off as a very jealous natured person. |
If I knew:
V1
I'd love to live a million lives
do a million things
if I knew that it would make you happy
truely make you sing
I'd love to see lot's of places
travel to afar
if I knew that it would make you happy
I'd go to the stars
Chorus
tell me all the things to do
all the things to say
show me what it is you want
what you need eachday
'cuz if I could make you happy
I want to know
if it would make you happy
please let it show
V2
I'd love to live forever
watch the world go by
if I knew that it would make you happy
never make you cry
I'd love to speak every language
talk to every man
if I knew that it would make you happy
i'd do it if I can
chorus
|
Jess
12th grader
Berkley, MI |
| this song was written in procrastination of doing homework assigned by DOC. K ;-) |
Peggy Shippen Arnold
In September 1780, Peggy and Benedict Arnold attempted to capture George Washington and turn West Point over to the British. On that day, Benedict Arnold became the most hated man in America while Peggy became a footnote. Peggy Shippen was portrayed as either a shallow loyalist or a beautiful, innocent girl who had no idea her husband was a British Spy. No one suspected that Peggy had played an important role in this treason.
Margaret Shippen, called Peggy, was born on June 11, 1760. Her parents, Edward and Margaret Shippen, were upper-class Philadelphians with considerable wealth and real estate holdings. Although Peggy was their fourth daughter, the Shippens once said she was ³entirely welcome despite being of the worst sex.² Her 4 other siblings included Betsy, Sarah, Honey and Edward, her only brother. Her eldest sister. Betsy was engaged to be married to their cousin, Neddy Burd. Peggy was considered to be her father¹s favorite child. This was because of her practical mind and logic that helped her to understand and discuss politics, unlike her other siblings.
Peggy was a gorgeous girl. She had blonde hair and dazzling blue eyes. She did not need the corsets or large hoop skirts to make her waist acceptably tiny. She was slim, tall and absolutely captured the hearts of all the men at the social events she attended. One of her many suitors, Captain John Andre, once wrote, ³Peggy is considered a great beauty and a favorite amongst the gentlemen. All the young men are in love with Peggy, including myself²
Peggy¹s education went far beyond most girls of her time and extensive as that of most young men. She was always eager to learn and quick to catch on to new concepts. By age 16, Peggy was fluent in Greek, Latin and French. She was reading classic novels written in Latin, years before her older brother. In addition to her regular education, she learned a social education. She learned needlework, drawing, music and dance. By the time, young Peggy was 15, she had been studying her sister¹s manners and social behavior for years.
Philadelphia girls with money and family connections, such as the Shippens, were invited to join the city¹s social centerpiece, the Dancing Assembly. At the Dancing Assembly, balls were held weekly. Before the dances, the newest members of the Assembly would gather to learn how to be a successful hostess and proper debutante. The young girls and their mothers filled the Assembly Hall with excitement of trying on new gowns, learning how to dance the minuet, sing famous ballads, powdering wigs, applying make up and preparing traditional dishes such as pepper- pot soup, gammon, roast suckling pigs, duck, syllabub and heavy cream covered trifle. In one of Peggy¹s surviving letters to her friend, she wrote that the Assembly hall preparations were always a favorite childhood memory of herself.
Peggy Shippen¹s closest friend was the sharp- tongues Rebecca Franks, whose father¹s enormous importing business to America including the Liberty Bell itself. Another one of Peggy¹s friends was the excitable Becky Redman, daughter of a rich Loyalist merchant. Also, there was the envious Peg Chew. She was in love with John Andre but Peggy had stolen his heart before Peg Chew could. Peg Chew was so envious of Andre¹s love for Peggy Shippen that she stole this love poem John Andre had written for Peggy and claimed it to be her own:
A German Air
Return enreptur¹d Hours,
When Delia¹s heart was mine;
When she, with wreaths of flowers,
My temples wou¹d entwine.
When jealousy nor care
Corroded in my breast,
But visions, light as air,
Presided o¹er my rest--
Now nightly round my bed,
No airy visions play;
No flowers crown my head,
Each Vernal Holyday--
For far from those sad plains,
My lovely Delia flies,
And rack¹d with jealous pains,
Her wretched lover dies.
Edward Shippen held important positions as admiralty judge and recorder of deeds. Peggy¹s father was a loyalist and had to enforce the unpopular British laws. Growing up, Peggy often heard him talk about his fear that social anarchy and chaos would destroy the colonies.
In 1774, Peggy was looking forward to becoming a high-society belle. her sisters assured her that her China-doll features, petite figure, and flirtatious charm would win her man handsome, wealthy-and marriageable- suitors. The next year, Peggy expected to make her debut in Philadelphia¹s social season. Her expectations were dashed, however, when her family was forced to move to the country due to conflict with Britain.
The family lived in various farm houses in both New Jersey and Pennsylvania. Peggy and her sisters hated these farm houses dreadfully because there was such a difference between the boring farm life and the social, fashionable life they were so use to. On September 25, 1777, the Shippens returned home and three thousand British soldiers marched into Philadelphia after Washington¹s army failed to stop the British at Brandywine and retreated to spend winter at Valley Forge.
When the Shippens returned home, Judge Shippen found himself unable to pay for the fancy dresses, hairstylists and entertainment his daughters required and considered leaving the city again. When Peggy found this out, she put herself into a fit of crying and screaming until her father gave in and sold a large piece of real estate to help pay for her neccesities.
The winter came and the dancing social season began. Peggy finally made her debut and became the most popular belle in Philadelphia. Some of her escort included her dear friend, George Washington, John Adams, Captain Hammond and Captain John Andre. John Andre threw the grandest ball in Philadelphia in honor of Miss Shippen. It was called the Mechianza, wherein all the women dressed in Turkish costumes made from Spanish material, mostly satin and lace and the men dressed in similar suits modeled after medieval jousting armor. The Mechianza is where Peggy Shippen first met Benedict Arnold. He immediately fell in love with her beauty. Although he was a thirty-eight year old widower, he was completely infatuated with the eighteen year old Peggy Shippen. Her first thoughts of Arnold, as written in her diary, were that he was an old ugly man with a battle wound and children older than herself. However, when Arnold spoke, Peggy fell in love with him and his vast knowledge of every!
thing from dining to politics.
On April 15, 1779, Benedict Arnold and Peggy Shippen were wed in Judge Shippen¹s dining hall. Because this was such a controversial wedding, it took much prodding and begging of Judge Shippen to allow his youngest daughter to marry this patriot. In March of 1780, George Washington wrote to the newly wed Arnolds to congratulate them on the birth of their first son, Charles, and to offer Benedict Arnold a place as his number two general. After a few weeks of work, the Arnolds began to realize that congress would not being paying them what the government owed them anytime soon. They became deeper and deeper into debt. Soon after the couple began spying for the British.
Peggy got in touch with John Andre, now a major in charge of the British Intelligence at New York headquarters. Benedict supplied military information, while Peggy encoded, decoded, delivered and received letters. In her upstairs bedroom, she created an elaborate code based on numbers and words from the dictionary. Using invisible ink, she wrote down the information. When Major Andre rinsed the letter with lemon juice or acid, the ink appeared. The Arnolds also provided Major Andre with information that helped the British take Charleston, South Carolina. After a year of spying, Peggy hatched an ambitious plot to turn the New York fortress of West Point over to the British. Peggy and her Husband would receive a twenty thousand pound reward if they succeeded. if they failed, they were promised half that. Not only that, but, if they were successful, they were expected to be made a Duke and Duchess in Britain.
On September 23, a mud- splattered messenger rushed in and announced that Major Andre had been captured just south of New York that morning. A group of American soldiers had stopped and stripped Andre. In his socks, they found the papers revealing the plot and arrested him. Benedict Arnold told Peggy that the evidence against him would soon be in Washington¹s hands but the papers Major Andre carried did not reveal Peggy¹s guilt. As soon as Benedict had fled from West Point, Peggy went into a pretend screaming and sobbing fit. She cried out how they would kill her baby and herself because of her husband. She made everyone feel that she was innocent in this treason. When George Washington arrived at West Point, he stopped to comfort his abiding love, Peggy Shippen. This gave Benedict Arnold just enough time to flee into the New York headquarters of
the British.
Peggy was sent back to her home in Philadelphia by Washington in pity. Peggy hid in her parent¹s home while people carted an effigy of her husband through the streets. It was a dummy of Arnold holding a letter from the devil ,which said Benedict must hang himself. Behind the dummy was the devil, dressed in black, holding a pitchfork, driving Benedict to hell. Days later, John Andre was tried, found guilty and hanged for spying.
On October 27, 1781, Peggy Arnold was ordered to leave the states and join her husband in New York. From there, they sailed to London. General Arnold was awarded a onetime payment of 6,350 pounds. Peggy Arnold was awarded 500 pounds a year, which was later doubled after her husband¹s death. Each of her 5 children also received 100 pounds a year for life.
With the exception of a few years in Canada, the Arnolds lived in London for the rest of their lives. As Peggy grew older, her children became her main concern. Her success served them well because her four boys became British officers and her daughter married one.
On June 14, 1801, Benedict Arnold died. Three years later, on August 24, 1804, Peggy died of cancer. Shortly before her death, the 44 year old widow wrote, ³Years of unhappiness have passed. I had cast my lot, complaints were unavailing and my friends and family are ignorant of the many causes of uneasiness I have had.²
Peggy Shippen Arnold¹s actions proved women could be as dangerous as men. ³It was a mistake not to act as if female opinions are of no consequence in public matters. Behold the consequences!² was the last entry in Peggy¹s journal before her death.
This is my original work. It does not contain the words of anyone else without proper credit.
|
Nikki
8th grader
Palatine, IL |
Hey, What's up? I'm Nikki and I'm in eight grade at
Sundling (Palatine, IL) I love playing all sports, mainly volleyball, weight
lifting, surfing and rugby. In my spare time, I write, work on articles for
our school newspaper and I love you read, chill with my friends, go to the movies, play football, shop (especially for shoes!) and just be as wild, crazy and controversial as possible! |
Dreaming
Climbing into bed she lets
the tears roll down her face,
shuts her eyes and sends herself
to her secret place.
A place where no one picks on you,
where no one makes you cry,
where peace is always welcome
and no one asks why.
Everyone is together here,
everyone acts as one,
this place is known for kindness,
it's always second to none.
She has read about this place in schoolbooks
and hears it is quite grand,
she hears women get to wear pants there,
and are able to show their hands.
Before she falls asleep she lets
a smile cross her face,
and whispers very softly
"America must be a wonderful place".
|
Shelia
12th grader
Cleveland, Mississippi |
About the author of "Dreaming"
I'm the average seventeen year old girl. I love to hang out with my friends and watch TV. I love to
write. Ever since I was a little girl, I have always taken an interest in literature. I work in the public
library in my town and one day hope to become a great writer. |
See Me
Do you know who I am?
Do you even care?
You don't know what's inside.
You don't understand.
Sometimes I feel alone.
I hate the world.
It makes me cry.
I even, sometimes,
wish I could die.
Other times, I'm happy.
Filled with joy.
Most of the time, it's because of a boy.
I get scared a lot too.
I wonder.
What will happen next?
What am I gonna do?
I think about love.
I think about him.
I think about bad things.
I think about good things.
Sometimes I get sad.
I wonder where God is when the tragedy strikes.
I wonder why he's not helping, why my life is such hell.
True, I'm not starving, not cold in the streets.
But sometimes I think that would be better than the
emotional pain I often must suffer.
I have family. I have friends,
but neither know me well.
I keep things deep inside, way under my shell.
So to all of you, all of you who I wish knew me like you
think you do:
This is for you.
Open your eyes and look inside. See me for who I am.
Just...See me.
|
Madison
9th grader
CT |
©Master of Tears
I am the Master of Tears
I've been through them all
Sweet, sour, hot and bitter
Proud, I am
Of all the things I've been through
Happy, I am not
Of all the things I had to go through
Of all this years I've live
Of my whole life
Where the sweet tears were so rare
I ceased to believe they exist
That happened when I turned into something called a "teenage angst"
The hot tears came often
Accompanied by its dear friend," anger"
Uninvited and unwelcome as they were
They came flowing out of me
Shameless things-these couple
But not as shameless as "sour and bitter"
The longer life dread on
The more frequent came their visits
"Sour and bitter" stick with me
Until the name "Bitter Old Hag" stuck
Life went on
Bitter Old hag was gone
Along came Master of Tears
And she swears to you
She doesn't want another Master of Tears
No apprentice for her
So, go home
And practice the art of smile
This, she begs of you.
|
Booi
9th grader
Malaysia |
Lost Innocence
The gleaming red St. Louis Cardinal baseball cap, a red cap that had an embroidered S, T and L, which fused together in the middle, lay on the soggy grass in front of the tombstone while the overcast sky freed delicate drizzle onto it. There was a solemn, somber aura in the air. With his dark clothes dampening, standing sixty-eight inches tall, with a somewhat lean body he stood there contemplating the End with his slender fingers lounged into his deep black pockets. After noticing the baseball cap he gently picked it up. He examined it for a few seconds and wondered who had placed it here and why.
"I never knew my father was a Cardinals fan," he thought to himself. He adjusted the size of the baseball cap and placed it on, at the time, his unkempt hair. He peered down at the concrete tombstone and realized, one day, whether it is tomorrow or seventy-five years from now, an indistinguishable tombstone will be erected next to this, holding the engraving, Matthew David.
There he sat, uncomfortably, awkwardly, and almost painfully across from her. She gazed into his pale green-eyes with her varnished sky blue-eyes examining him.
"So tell me something about yourself," she ruptured the silence with her soft, delicate voice.
Matthew nervously positioned his hidden right elbow on the tablecloth in front of the dinner plate, placing his sweaty palm on the fresh stubble of his cheek creating a foundation for his head to rest upon.
"Well, my father just recently passed away," he idiotically responded.
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."
Sweat began to form on his head underneath the shaggy dark hair, which covered most of his forehead and the top of his ears. He arbitrarily began to ponder topics to talk about, attempting to change the subject. Then she continued.
"How did he die, if you don't mind me asking?"
"A heart attack," he uneasily said. "Well, that's what the doctor told me."
Again, the contemplation of random thoughts transpired. The absence of sound surrounded them. In an attempt to disregard the awkwardness Matthew peered beyond the table and saw a man with short, ash blonde hair and glasses sitting alone.
Matthew began to think the perturbed thought that "if the date continues to go this way, perhaps I'll have to go to a restaurant alone."
The silence persisted for a few seconds.
"Okay, here's a joke. It is called Impressing Women," he shattered the silence.
She gently flipped her blonde wavy hair over her shoulder as she prepared herself.
He continued. "A man was sitting next to a very attractive woman on an airplane. To start conversation, he asked her what kind of men she was interested in. Her first choice was American Indian men, since they're so rugged. After that she said that Jewish men were pretty attractive too. Not belonging to either of those categories, the man asked if there were any other kinds of men she liked to date. She thought for a moment and then said Southern men, because they're so gentlemanly. At this point, she realized she didn't know the man's name. He said, 'Well, my name's Geronimo Bernstein, but my friends call me Bubba.'"
Matthew tautly released a giggle. He sensed the same from her.
"What are you?" She asked.
"Jewish," he apprehensively answered, not knowing exactly what she meant.
"I'm Christian. But not religious."
"Either am I."
The conversation continued the same way- with sporadic discussion accompanied with uncomfortable silence, which was expected prior to the date. The dreaded end-of-night awkwardness arrived. Although, Matthew was quite fond of her, they only shook hands, and then said their good-byes. The night then came to a conclusion.
The world continued its perpetual spin, forcing the sun to go down. Thick dense clouds draped most of the sun. But with its magnificent force the sun was able to penetrate and puncture through the crevices of the clouds, creating rays of light resembling spotlights, which excelled on parts of the earth. This was the scene being witnessed as Matthew arrived home from work. The relieving cool breeze brushed his hair as he opened the mailbox. Inside, there was a brown package, the size of a videotape. With his tired hand he slid the package out of the box. He examined it. It was sent by an unknown entity, by the name of Steven Taye Louis. Without thinking twice he staggered to the door of his house.
It was one of those nights where one's head is consumed in un-accomplishable thoughts. The "what if" type of events and things. What one could have said or done differently to stifle any unintelligent, inelegant things that may have been said to a lady whom you went to dinner with the night before. The only other thing that deeply consumed Matthew's thoughts was the package he received today. It was still laying by its forlorn self on the kitchen table. Knowing sleep would be unfeasible without deciphering what the package was, he decided to ascertain the means of the unfamiliar enclosure.
The pale green-eyes and rumpled hair reflected off of the videotape that was held in front of him. On the smooth face of the tape there was a title that read: "Lost Innocence." Still, perplexed, baffled and eager for an answer, he placed the tape in the VCR.
A little girl, in all probability six years old, comfortably sat in front of the hand-held video camera. Dressed in a white sheep-printed, soft cotton pajama suit she anxiously unwrapped a gift, which would reveal a doll. Her light curly blonde hair was put up in a ponytail, revealing her sparkling blue eyes, her soft, pure skin and a smile accompanied with dimples, which took over her face. Then a deep polite voice of a man in the background erupted.
"What do you say honey?"
The little innocent girl looked straight at the camera lens.
"Thank you daddy." She said this with an overly cute, naive voice, still holding the bright smile. She said this the way a young child would talk, not quite capable of pronouncing words entirely.
Those three words, "thank you daddy," hit Matthew like a ton of bricks. A tear formed to his eye as the static took place on the television, suggesting the conclusion of the package.
He could not sleep for the remainder of the night. He began to think of the future that lay in front of him. Now, he so desperately wanted to experience that kind of innocence and to observe it. These, essentially, are the things life presents. In addition, he began to reflect upon his youth. He realized that he never had the chance to get to know his father well, for he was often at work at the hospital. Because they lacked in communication with each other, Matthew frequently speculated what his father was thinking. Often, towards the end of his father's life, Matthew noticed that he was unusually quiet; perhaps he was cheerless, sad, and/or incomplete.
There he was, unexpectedly, sitting in the chair at the dinner table staring into the varnished sky blue eyes once again. The awkwardness was gone this evening, he felt totally at ease.
"I really did have a good time the other night," she explained.
"Me too. And I'm sorry if I made you feel awkward with anything I said or didn't say," Matthew explained, redeeming himself.
They enjoyed each other's delightful presence as they sipped their wine and conversed about irrelevant topics. For a few seconds, there was a comfortable silence.
"You know someone is really special when you can sit there and say nothing and still be completely comfortable. You know? Not feeling the requirement to talk about pointless scenarios," she naively elucidated
Matthew noticed the man with ash blonde hair and glasses sitting by himself at the table again, as he smiled and nodded beginning to comprehend what she had just said. A few seconds later her cellular phone rang, disrupting the dinner. She dug the phone out of her black purse and looked at it.
"Hey, I need to take this. Be right back, okay?"
"Okay."
She left the table. He sat there alone. A waitress, directly to the left of Matthew, was gracefully walking by with a tray of water glasses, when a few seconds later the tray lost its balance and fell to the ground, creating a strident, acute crash. Grabbing Matthew's attention, he turned and attempted to help the waitress. There was no need for his assistance, for she hurriedly undamaged her mess. When Matthew turned back around, the man with the glasses, who was reclaiming his hand to his pocket, was sitting at the table.
"May I help you?" Matthew attentively asked.
Without saying anything the man slid a small wallet-sized picture across the smooth, glazed wooden table alongside the chilled, wineglass with swaying burgundy-colored liquid and condensation dripping from it. Matthew took a glance at the picture and recognized it was the same innocent girl he saw in the videotape the previous night.
"That's my daughter," the man calmly said.
"Oh really? She's a beautiful girl. I'm happy for you."
"She's dead," he abruptly, serenely said.
Matthew could say nothing. He felt paralyzed from the newly exposed bewilderment. Not knowing what to do, he took a sip of the drink. Matthew tenderly picked up the condensation-covered glass and sipped the burgundy liquid as the man stared and faintly produced a smile.
"You don't have a daughter, do you Matthew?"
"No. I don't," how did he know his name?
"So you wouldn't know how it feels to lose someone like that, would you?"
Matthew said nothing, only waited for an explanation.
"I'll never be able to feel the gratitude I felt when giving my daughter a gift again. I'll never be able to see the look on her face when picking her up from school again. And, among numerous other things, I'll never be able to say goodnight to her again." The man paused as he regained his composure. "Your father didn't die of a heart attack. I killed him. He took my daughter away from me."
Matthew did not move. He was utterly paralyzed and frozen with astonishment and disbelief. "What are you talking about?" He forcefully made himself ask, bursting with incomprehension. "My father wouldn't do such a thing." Matthew softly pulled the watery glass towards himself leaving a streak of condensation on the glazed table. He took another swallow, waiting for the man's response, whom again gave a faint smirk at the spectacle of Matthew consuming the drink.
"I took my daughter, who was suffering from an asthma attack to St. John's hospital where your father worked. It was just a routine procedure. She died the next morning."
"That's completely unfortunate, but I wouldn't say it's my father's fault."
The man's eyes flared with tears as he began to shiver compulsively. Tears began to roll down his face. Without adding anything, he wrote something on a napkin and quietly left the table. Matthew sat dumbfounded for a few seconds. Everything, all at once, seemed to blend together. Perhaps, the cheerless quietness his father underwent during his last days alive was consequential of the death of one of his patients.
He reached over and read what the man wrote on the napkin. He simply wrote down the message, "For my daughter." Then his initials, "S, T, L." He put aside the napkin and sat motionless as his date returned. She looked down at him with innocent eyes and obviously sensed that something was wrong. He looked up at her and could only make out a vague impression, but smiled at her purity. Then dizziness and vertigo took over, then black.
The sun, once again, like every other day began to sink behind the mountains. It looked like a beautiful splatter arose from a great bowl of transparent orange paint splashing over the mountains of the west, uniting it with a cerulean blue sky with bright, feathery clouds slightly concealing it. The graceful, charming sun tenderly sparkled on the indistinguishable standing block, which stood on the untainted green, vigorous grass. The concrete headstone, standing erect directly to the left of his father's, held the engraving, Matthew David. In between the two stones, the St. Louis Cardinal baseball cap with the embroidered S, T and L, rested.
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Kane
12th grader
Arvada, Colorado |
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filthy Cell
The whole world is filthy. I come home and wash myself of the worldly stink for five minutes in an attempt to cleanse myself of the dirt I have accumulated. I return to the sink every hour. One washing does not clean me. While I am not obsessing over my hygienic state, I am sorting CD's alphabetically or fixing the fringes at the end of my parents' oriental rug. This is the life I lead. This is a life interrupted by obsessive-compulsive disorder.
Doctors would say this stems from some kind of chemical imbalance, but I say it comes from the filth and malodorous conditions of the world around me. I cannot eat, sleep, or work if I can sense anything around me that is not normal -- especially smells. When I get home from school I get a whiff of eight hours of filth on my arms. I try and wash it off, but soon it comes back. I wash again. This vicious cycle is eventually ended with a shower. The smell that accumulates through the day is that of my natural body odors combining with the dust and dirt that covers everything around me. This stench is unbearable by the end of the day. Even my best efforts to keep clean in school are defeated by this mighty foe. It is as though I am a slave, and this compulsion is my master.
Some would call me lucky; it could be worse. At least my room is impeccably neat. I know where every thing I have ever owned is, and can recount its exact location at any moment in time. So would you if you lived in a cell. But this does not make up for the feel I have on a daily basis. A constant uneasy feeling, the same feeling one gets in history class -- watching war videos. The feeling that something is not right, but you cannot fix it.
I take special measures after I go certain places. At school, the computer lab and library are just such places. The filth on the keyboards is nearly debilitating. After I go into the lab I have to rush to the bathroom to wash off the dust from the keyboards. The library has one corner, near the copier, that reeks. It almost smells like mildew or some other foul odor. I rush to the safe clean water of the nearest sink after my retreat from that wasteland. I come into the computer room at home and see papers sticking out of the desk drawer. I tear the entire desk apart; throwing away every paper I deem unimportant, or too wrinkled to be saved. A wrinkled paper is the source of all desk messes. Soon this obsession spreads to the entire room, and it ends only when I come to the "fringy blanket." This blanket has fringes at the ends, and my cleaning soon comes to make every one of the hundreds of strings hang perpendicular to the ground and parallel to every other string.
I sit in school taking notes. Every underline, every highlight, every letter must be perfect. When I study my notes I cannot look at a page in disorder. Someone once told me that I take "the best notes," and my only wish in life is that this was by choice. While I was reviewing for a midterm in Chemistry last year I noticed the highlights in my notes had begun to fade. I went out, bought a new highlighter, and re-highlighted it all. I knew I would not need the notes for the rest of the year; I had to make them perfect before I could study.
If I was made to sit in the filth of school, disarray of a messy room and study sloppy notes, I would go crazy. I simply would not be able to do anything. I would look for some way to either escape this hell, or fashion some device to wash myself in. I would use the condensation on the side of a cold drink, as I have done many times before. Perhaps I would try and dig a well to reach water -- anything to become clean. Then I could clean the room, fix the notes, and all would be well once again.
People see me in public and do not see the obsessive whose olfactory anxiety takes over at home. I know that in the outside world I will only continue to get dirty. I know that the liquid soap in school can only mask the filth, not get rid of it like a nice bar of soap can. People do not see me for what I am in school because they do not look for the signs. But look closely, and you will not find a "free man," but rather you will be prying into the mind of a caged one.
I would give anything to be normal like other people. If only to now what it is like to live without a never-ending feeling that things need to be cleaned up. My greatest wish in this world is to not have this compulsion, to be able to go from the computer lab to my next class and not have to stop in the bathroom to "wash-up." I would not stray from having a football catch during a free period, or playing a game of pickup basketball just because I know how dirty the ball is. I would be free.
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Ben
12th grader
Abington, PA |
| My name is Ben, and I am 17. I wrote this piece for a Senior Writing Workshop course at my high school. It took a lot for me to be serious and put my story down on paper. I love to write light-hearted pieces, and this was a major shift for me. I would also like to give a shout-out to Kristine, my teacher, thanks for all the help revising this piece. |
Big Helper
I must be really important. I'm only five and I'm "helping" my mom bake a huge cake for some party. I looked at all the ingredients on the kitchen counter. Wow, it was going to be gigantic! I got up onto my stool so I could reach the top on the counter. We were all ready to start!
My mom started pouring some flour (which I thought was some kind of white "flower" grown somewhere since we put it in a white container with a picture of a flower on it). She asked if I could put the flour in after she scooped it up. Oh yeah, I could easily do that. After I added about ten cups, we went on. I was such a good helper, without me she probably wouldn't be half as far. I realize now that without my help she would have most likely been done.
All was going great until my three-year-old brother came waddling up to the counter. He
jumped up on my stool like I wasn't even there. "I wanna help," he announced.
Oh no, my mom never turns down an offer for help. I was furious; I was going to pound his little head in. He always has to do the same activities as me. He can't do anything, he's only three, and I'm the big helper! We got into a small scuffle and my mom separated us and said we both could help. I agreed, but I was determined to do better than him. As a youngster I was always competitive. I had to be the best, especially better than my little brother. As I look back I can recall many little fights with my brother. It was almost like a daily ritual. Complain, argue, fight over and over again. Though it wasn't really a waste of time, more like a sport. Heck, to this day we still get into our little scuffles, except now I can beat him up during school too. Just kidding.
We got into the pouring of ingredients again, but now we had to take turns. He cut
my effectiveness in half, which really pissed me off. I watched him carefully, if he screwed up I would make sure my mom saw. He was pouring some milk into the bowl and spilled it off the side a little.
"Ha, ha," I laughed. Who was winning now?
The bowl was pretty filled. It looked like a pile of mud with chunks, definitely not edible yet. A few minutes later I caught my brother in the act of picking his nose; I asked him if he was adding a secret ingredient. I made sure my mom heard my remark so he could be dealt with appropriately. For only a five-year-old I was fairly witty. My mom told him to wash his hands. Man, I was so ahead now.
I gladly got the carton of eggs out of the fridge when my mom asked me to. I got out all twelve eggs from the carton and placed them on the table. My mom began to crack them and separate the clear and the yellow. It looked easy enough; I told her I could do that. She gave me an egg with hesitance and said I had to crack it very lightly. I tapped it on the edge of the counter several times, nothing. She told me I had to hit it harder against the counter. SMASH! Heh, not a good idea to tell a kid to hit it harder. All I got from that was a hand full of shells and a floor covered in egg. That incident dropped me back even with my brother in screw-ups. Since that day I've never broken an egg in my hand again. I'm on a twelve-year perfect egg-cracking streak.
My mom finished off the rest of the egg part by herself. I needed to think of something for redemption. Then I noticed the two bowls with the two different parts of the egg. One bowl was full of the yellow part, and the other full of the clear part. I had no idea why the two egg parts were in separate bowls. We always cook eggs together. Oh, of course! It just hit me that the next thing my mom was going to do was mix them together, (why she separated them in the first place didn't occur to me until a few years later) she just hadn't gotten around to it. So I helped her out. While she was getting something out of the fridge I put the clear with the yellow to surprise her. This would really impress my mom.
"AIYEEEEE, Derek!" Exclaimed my mom. Whoa, wait a sec, that wasn't the reaction I was looking for. I gave her my confused face, the one with the raised eyebrow.
"Why did you do that for?" she asked. The only explanation I could come up with was, "I mixed da egg with. da egg."
She rolled her eyes and went back to the eggs, putting them in different bowls again. I still didn't understand, but I was done for the day. I accepted my defeat to my brother. He won this time.
I learned a couple lessons that day. One, to know when to give up. Two, eggs are separated for a reason. It was an interesting introduction into cooking. I still attempt to make dishes once in awhile, as long as the recipe doesn't call for eggs.
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Derek
11th grader
Tucson, AZ |
| I am a Junior in High School in Tucson, AZ. This is for an Honors writing class. |
What I Have On My Heart
There's a few things I have on my heart I have to keep,
Go to school, get an education, graduate, and stay sweet,
And do what my mother tells me to do,
Most of all stop trying to follow a thuged out crew,
Be a leader not a follower that's what people keep telling me,
But one day I asked "God" who was I to be,
He said a young black beautiful girl,
Who one day wants to see the world,
As I sit here and write this I think,
Will I still be living at the end of this week,
My mind and heart tells me yes,
Just to think of all the things I have I got to be blessed,
I've learned a lot of things in life,
One of those things are put all trust in "Jesus Christ".
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Tar'neisha
8th grader
Beulah, MS (United States) |
| Well as you can see my name is Tar'neisha . My hobbies are playing basketball and writing poerty. I'm a young black female who enjoy writing. |
Untitled Poem
One more time we'll go in this circle
spinning madly, out of control
I can't see an end
unless I make this the end
what you're feeling matters no more
arrow through the heart and down to the core
no more laughs, love, no joyful sinning
just stop this god-awful spinning
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Tori
12th grader
AZ, USA |
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