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Body Of Mine
Dear Body of Mine,
I hate saying that, because more than anything I wish that you weren't my
body. I wish you belonged to a criminal, or some horrible person who's
done something terrible; somebody who understandably deserves such a
horrible physical appearance such as you. Every few hours I look into a
mirror, hoping that what I always see has changed, faltered in any way.
And every few hours I cringe, shiver in disgust, or look away before I
have a chance to react. How could you betray me like this? Every particle
of you is fat, cholesterol and sugar and I can't stand it! Why can't you
get my message? Why can't you be like all those other bodies, who follow
what you tell them to do and get smaller with less fuel? Why is it that
everyday I find you've grown larger, an inch more around the stomach, an
extra layer of fat encircling the thigh. What did I do that was so
horrible as to allow my body to disobey me?
I won't deny that I haven't done things wrong, body, because I'm at fault
every second of the day, but why is it that you must put my life on stand
by to pay me back for it? I'm sorry I've been so horrible, but why can't
you just shrink! I'm sick of being the elephants in every room. What I
wouldn't give for just ONE moment where I could see myself equal to
everyone else, and not gargantuan. I don't understand what you've done to
me. First piling on pounds, then purging them up with no success, and now,
no matter how much a diet, you grow larger? What am I supposed to do to
make up for what I've done wrong? Just tell me and I'll fix it; I'm good
at that.
Everybody else says that I'm hurting you. They say your getting skeletal.
The girls in class are whispering about how much smaller your thighs are
than they used to be. I have two problems with that; one, that would mean
that our thighs used to be even larger then they are now! And for another
thing, why are people saying all these things? It obviously isn't true! I
can look in the mirror and see that! We are enormous! Doesn't that make
you uncomfortable? Why are people going to such extreme measures to make
us gain weight when we are already so large? I'm so scared, so confused,
so lost. And I know that it's almost entirely my fault, but you have
some cause in it too, you must! So I guess, even though I'm not hurting
you in my vision, it would be alright with me if I was, because you
betrayed me, went behind my back, and ruined my life. And I need to fix
you, to make you small, so I can have my life back. So please just stop
fighting! Stop tainting whoever's vision you are !
and show the truth. Please. I promise I'll never be bad again.
Sincerely,
Janaine
A reminder of how much fashion is ruling teenage girls' lives
|
Glenna
8th grade
Needham, Massachusetts |
About the author of Body Of Mine;
Glenna has been writing since she was four years old. She's been published
in books and won contests. she is 13 years old and is looking forward to
more writing |
Restart
You see him walking down the road,
that poor and lonely, dirty soul.
He has no children, lover, or friend,
but still you see him walk the road.
The road of heartache, pain, and death.
The road of virtue, moral, and success.
You know the soul I'm speaking of.
The one that lives in all of us.
The one we all try to hide.
To keep him bottled up inside.
He stands for something in everyone.
For me it's getting out of this place.
Hit the road to outer space.
Just leave with a big old smile on my face.
Never look back, to erase.
Erase the memories of the past.
The ones that crippled my heart.
Run away from an old broken heart.
Restart. |
Kelly
10th grade
Wallace, Michigan |
About the author of:
Restart. I'm a 16 year old 10th grader attending
Stephenson High School way out in the boonies of Upper Michigan |
"Me and My
Anger"
My Anger burns like a fire
And your hatred consumes me till I'm tired.
My Thoughts begin to jumble
And I start to loose control
My fists clinch tight
As I begin to feel the tears scream across my face
My mouth opens
And my feelings start pouring out.
My eyes get cloudier and cloudier
And my voice gets deeper with demands
My body begins to shake
Because my sanity I can no longer fake.
My heart begins to race
As you yell in my face.
My feelings are overflowing my soul
As I loose control
My ears hear get it together
When all I want is to let it fall all to pieces
My tears begin to stop
And my feet begin to stomp
My crying voice turns into fiery screams
And I feel as if my heart starts to bleed
You begin to laugh as if it's funny-
When I know all you care for is the money.
But when the money stops where is my spot?
Out the door-Yes, I have seen this scene once before.
You say you care
And that life is never fair
You with your liquor
Me and my pictures
It will Never work.
So I am left alone with my tears
And fears of what will become of my Anger |
Brittny
10th grade
Cleveland,TN |
| Yo- my name is Brittny- and I usually write the most when i
can't contain my feelings-- My Anger- was written about my mom-- |
Dark Side
Come into the dark side.
I'll welcome you here with open arms.
Watch and wait to see the dark side unfold.
The dark side is where I stay.
Leashed up and all.
Unleash me and watch me go,
Free me and watch me soar like an eagle through the sky
Feel my pain.
Listen to my heartbeat.
Welcome to the dark side.
See what I see.
Feel what I feel.
Welcome to the dark side. |
Jazmine
7th grade
Crosby, TX. United States |
| About the author of "Dark Side": I am 13 y/o and
in the seventh grade. On my free time I am a cheerleader, I play sports,
and I love to write. I write poetry and stories because it helps me to
express myself |
Sadness
Sadness smells like ashes and mud and stale bread. It sounds like a
whimpering child, glass breaking, and the screeching halt of a car's tires
as they try to stop before crashing into an oncoming car. Sadness
looks like the contorted face of a crying infant, a wilted rose in a dark
room, and an uninhabited frozen tundra. If sadness could be tasted,
it would be very salty and coarse in the mouth. To touch it would be
like sand slipping through your fingers, spilling all over the floor; it's
not possible to gather it all together without leaving a few grains of it
behind. |
Kathryn
12th grade
Midland, Michigan, USA |
| Kathryn is a 12th grade student who enjoys writing and
music. She is going to pursue a degree next year in public
relations. |
Fear
Fear is something that can be different in every person. You can fear a
sound , an image, or an emotion. Fear smells like sweat on the top of your
lip, fear feels like an enclosure with no way out, or an integration light
shining on your head. Fear sounds like nails on a chalkboard or screeching
tires on dry pavement. Fear looks like a hurricane destroying the
seashore. The taste of fear is dry and moistureless like a barren desert.
The feeling of fear can be provoked in any situation, depends on what YOUR
fear is... |
Dan
12th grade
Midland, MI, USA |
Love
What is love? Oh, it is many feelings bundled into one emotion.
Love is happiness wrapping around me like a warm winter afghan. It
feels soft and prickly at the same time: soft being the happiness and
prickly being the new and exciting feeling. Love sounds like a river
flowing smoothly, or a soft breeze bristling through my hair. It has
a certain presence that charms the one I love and myself. Love looks
like a rainbow, many colors brightening each time I take a peak at
something new. Love is like looking through rose-colored glasses and
allows me to see everything in a new light. |
Amanda S.
12th grade
Midland, MI |
Anxiety
ANXIETY welled with in me, A churning puce sickness.
Bringing angry fearful sounds, Yet no reason to fear.
I could hear and not hear ,
the sound of my brother crying.
A thousand alarm clocks ticking and beeping
To a final crescendo of massive alarm,
All urging me to hurry, hurry, hurry.
Urgent footsteps
Made by unknown assailant
Walk through unknown corridors.
I stand wringing my hands,
Soul filled with the smell of sour sweat
And wet dirty dog.
I want to gag, to something. Anything.
But I cant.
All I can do is stand as the
footsteps, vomit, and sticky sour sweat
cloud my mind.
And make it impossible to exist past my ANXIETY.. |
Amanda B.
12th grade
Midland, MI |
| I write... what else is there to know? |
| Love and Hurt
To love is to hurt
The greatest pain of all
To see the one you love
Loving someone other than yourself
Knowing that the only one who can stop those tears from falling
Is the one who caused them
To see that smile implanted on his face
While you, your heart, your soul...
They always have a reason to frown
To live everyday knowing
That they belong to you no longer
To walk those cold abandoned streets alone
Even as other come and go
His indelible image stays fresh in your mind
The world,
Always so beautiful and bright,
Will forever remain dim and incomplete
A whirlwind of dejection colliding in the depths of you heart |
Deeder
11th grade
Colorado |
Chaotic Mind
Brimstone and fire, just words of thought.
Pours down like rain, Casts a flood that will form
the land of blood.
I sit here and wonder, ponder, and think.
Time, Space, Reason has no existence in my subtle
mind.
Flashing light, stormy nights all combine
to form the hollow world of mine. My mind attempts
to take comfort, take control but my mental sight fails
me, If I could only find my way.
The chaos, confusion, and pain which cannot be ignored.
Sorrow does not come from the darkness but radiates from the
lack of light.
Even in this world of mine, there must be a way.
I take hold of a feeling, a slight tingle of hope.
Painful but possible, the cage will fall away.
Surface out from the land of blood, fly in the sky of
light. This too can be my world, The world of life. |
Sam
9th grade
Anchorage, AK, USA |
Lost
I wander around
searching
for some people I can never find,
for they are long gone,
they are above in the sky.
I look at other children
and look back once again.
Their happy faces show me,
the love of parents I never had. |
Isabel
7th grade
Singapore |
About the author of Lost
Hi, I am Isabel and I am currently studying in Anglican High School,
secondary One this year. I started learning E.lit this year, and so far it
s' my favorite subject besides art. I love reading and drawing. |
| Untitled
The thoughts travel laggingly through my clouded mind,
Like a lonely boat across a never-ending sea.
Is this a dream?
Could this really be?
A blurred face I cannot see,
Faded from my hazy mind.
Love has finally caught me,
Grasped me deep down inside.
The faded face awaits me,
As the dreaded future comes more near.
I can see it coming now,
The long lost love that I've long feared.
Now the time has come,
The face is clear as day.
The is here forever,
Never to go away. |
Jessica
8th grade
Inverness, IL, U.S.A. |
| February First
i remember you crossed your arms
over your chest and looked at me.
your eyes had dark rings under them
and seemed overwhelmed with a
slumped sadness.
i remember i couldn't tell if
you were high or just tired.
it didn't matter.
i'm always sad you said.
i thought you were happy.
i should've known.
you and me shared more similarities
than we ever gave credit to.
we both dwelled in the shadows of hurt
and lingered on pain.
we both covered our unhappy face
to hide it away from the world around us.
we both searched for a stormy atmosphere
in the sky or
sometimes just in the other.
i wondered what you were looking for
in me at the moment.
i wondered more what i was looking for
in you.
i remember you stared at me
for a very long time.
and all i did was stare back. |
Irena
10th grade
Florida |
The Way
The way you laugh
The way you smile
The way you hold me like a child
The way you look deep into my eyes
The way I know you'll tell me no lies
The way I know you'll always care
The way I know you'll always be there
The way you love me for me
The way you apologize on your knees
The way your not afraid to cry
The way we'll be together 'till we die
The way you always hold me tight
The way you make everything right
The way you don't judge me like others do
Instead you turn and say "I Love You" |
Cristen
7th grade
New Port Richey, Florida, Unites States |
| I have been writing seriously for a few months. This is my
second publication. I was also published in the 1999 edition of Anthology
of poetry For Young Adults. I was published in that because of a poem I
wrote in fourth grade. |
Jasmine is
the Most Beautiful Flower
Jeremy
The fear and terror in my throat and stomach froze me with its icy
clutches. When I first saw her and I first realized what was really
happening, what was really going to happen, the fear strengthened,
intensifying into a swirling mass of terror, fear, doubt and hope, but I
kept it under control. I took a deep breath.
I have always thought jasmine is the most beautiful flower. Again,
my tastes remained the same. I had first seen this girl, Jasmine, in
an English class I'd taken a year before but she never really stuck out.
She was like that. Her eyes, her appearance, her voice and her
mannerisms were all like that. Unless you really stared closely, it
was difficult to really notice her. She had the quiet beauty of a
breeze dancing along unnoticed and unhampered.
While quiet and peaceful, I did notice her later, and then she became like
an infection. No, infection is the wrong word, parasite might be apt
as well, but the relationship, my feelings alone for her, were more
symbiotic. Of course I never spoke to her. Of course I didn't
really know her, but I wanted to. Oh, God, how I wanted to.
Jasmine's visage will always be burned into my mind. She had long,
light brown hair that stretched to the mid section of her back. She
wasn't unusually tall or short. Her eyes were soft, like the rest of
her. Jasmine's voice was melodic, and gentle. Everything about
her seemed to be melodic. Her movements were fluid and unobtrusive.
Once she had taken root in my mind I felt a little bit of anguish.
It was strange, a smile would spread across my face whenever I thought of
her, and yet, yet I knew, somewhere in the back of my consciousness that
chances were something would go wrong. I knew it; I could feel it,
just as I always did. Perhaps I would get the "let's just be
friends," line or something akin to it, but something would go wrong.
Call me a pessimist.
So, I shoved those thoughts away. I fought them back like angry
demons that wanted to consume my joy, my pleasure at thinking of her.
Sometimes I could lock the creatures of darkness, doubt and despair down
somewhere, but sometimes they would rush me at once and pierce my defenses
sending waves of doubt throughout my soul.
There were so many reasons for her not to say yes, when and if I asked her
out. Perhaps she had a boyfriend, which was much, much, more
depressingly, likely. More likely, and more painfully, she probably
just wouldn't like me. I talk loudly, but rarely do I truly say
anything. She wouldn't know me by hearing my arrogant comments or
answers anymore than I could know her as I craved to understand her.
Sometimes I would just stare off into the vastness of space wherever I
was, and think about her. I'd wonder about what she liked, what
kinds of movies she enjoyed, what books she liked to read. At times
I would imagine her middle name, or her birthday. Maybe it was
stupid, I probably should have just spoken with her, and got to know her
that way, but I didn't.
The year after I first met her in my old English class I'd made up my mind
to ask her out. By that point I could drive, so there seemed no
reason for me not to ask her out. It seemed to me that a movie would
be the best option. Granted we wouldn't be able to speak or get to
know each other, but I could show her that I wasn't really what I can
often appear to be: arrogant, calloused, self-absorbed, or simply cold.
I made my mind to ask her when she came out of her new English class.
My friend had the same class so I'd often meet him there. Whenever I
met him there I saw her come out of class alone.
Alone, that was the key to my fragile confidence. I wanted to know
that I wouldn't have to deal with her friends. It would have been
very embarrassing to get shot down in front of anyone. No, I'm not
nearly as arrogant as some might think.
"Hey," I called to my friend, James, as he came out of the
class. "I need to take care of something so can I catch up with
you later?"
He shrugged, "Sure."
With speed and efficiency he marched off.
Jasmine came out of the class a few heartbeats later. Looking back
on it, that couldn't have been many. Visages of my shaking and
sweaty hands along with the rapid breaths and faster heartbeats filling my
chest are still fresh. There are very few things I have ever been
afraid of, but asking Jasmine out, is definite high up there on the
terrifying chart.
As she strolled closer towards me and wherever she ate lunch I swallowed
hard and moved closer towards her. Each step was a tiny, hard fought
war. I tried to calm myself. Tests had never done anything
like this to me, nor had staring competitions with dozens of instructors;
fear, of rejection, this one time filled me like a jug of water with
absolute fear and apprehension.
Finally the tiny wars were done and I was only a foot or two away from
her. I fought back the fear. Doubt took the fear's place.
Appearing in my mind were thoughts of: she'll never say yes to any date
you'd ever ask her to, don't bother, give up, you'll fail. They beat at my
resolve. For the briefest of moments, even faster than a beat of my
heart, I wondered if I'd give up.
No.
The answer came easily when I looked at her. Just seeing her gave me
strength and confidence. The doubt was beat back by a blundering
wave of hope.
I did the bravest thing I can ever remember. "Jasmine, are you
busy Friday?"
At one point in my life I had a revelation. I'm an extremist.
This is especially true with those of the fairer sex. With Jasmine
it was even more so. No matter what she said, I'm glad that I had
been able to get over that fear, and doubt, and ask the question that, at
that time, seemed to be a key to the future. |
Jeremy
10th grade
Rio Linda, California, United States |
| My name is Jeremy . I dedicate this piece to the
memory and hope I had with Jasmine. |
| I though you'd like
to know
Pen in one hand.. Gin in the other.
Wasting my life away.
you thought you didn't hurt me,
You thought we were okay
Bottle up my feelings,
Throw away my soul.
measure up my moments.
take the voting poll.
Look in to my eyes.
Not the Veins you see.
Notice that there is,
Much more hurt than me.
We were suppose to be together
Ending crawling on the wall.
I've lost more than health.
Now there is nothing to me at all.
Now I sit alone.
Just the pain and me.
Wondering what I did wrong.
and how we use to be
How Could I be so stupid?
Allowing you to treat me this way
Making me your door mat
At your mercy I lay
So I just hope you are happy
I hope her smile is white
Soon she wont be happy
and she'll be the one who writes |
Megan
8th grade
Oklahoma |
| About the author of "I though you'd like to know'
enjoys long walks on the beach and thinking of ways to make her life more
interesting. |
Helpless [and on my
knees]
Once again I'm on my back;
Feeble and vulnerable; trailing more slack
I scan the base; and notice the crack
Don't know why it is still in tact
My very point has me taken aback
And always against me piled this infinite stack
Seek clues to change this disturbing fact
But every time I look, I miss what I lack
|
Gary
11th grade
West Bend |
Chances
Life-the meaning lost in my feelings
Understandings don't exist
Blurred vision of the future
Knowledge I need can't be found
But I know what I need
It's what will never be
So close to my desire
So far from opportunity
Opportunities for happiness or joy
But - sorrow fills me
My life is empty and without purpose
The change I need isn't in sight
The future I hope for can't be taken
It's invisible, it has no form,
Can't be seen or touched or ever found
But I can't stop looking, life's too short,
Future's too grim,
And reality is too oppressive
I need the hope, need the dream
The future's mine
I can find it
I will take it
You will not stop me
Nothing can
This is what I need
This is all I have left
The rest is broken
It can't be mended
This is it, my only hope
No matter what, I will make it
I will survive
This is my chance
This is me
This is me |
Mike
Graduate
Columbia, MD |
About the author of "Chances"
My name is Mike and I'm an 18 year old student at UMBC. I like to
play the guitar and hang out with my girlfriend. That's about it. |
Running Away
The road ahead leads nowhere,
But I have to go somewhere.
Anywhere is better than here.
I'm leaving home without a tear.
Running away there is no regret.
Happy to be leaving but yet,
Thinking of the good times I'd had.
But then recalling when it went bad.
I took a chance when I caught this ride.
Now fears and tears rise up inside.
My life from now on will be inside out.
But I know now without a doubt
That I was right to take this chance
To leave this place without a glance.
There's nothing back here but an endless wall
Of poverty, that destroys us all.
There's dirt and disease and moral decay.
I had to get out, be on my way.
I'll never get this chance again I know.
That is why I chose today to go. |
Susan
9th grade
Washington |
| I write poems just for fun. Basically the only time that I
can actually write any good poems are when I am depressed or very excited
or something like that if I am just bored than I can't write any poems.
But all the poems that I do write when I am in any of these moods I let
people read and they think that they are really good I hope that you
understand this poem. |
Image of Love
When the Light abandons you,
You are not alone.
The solitude that mourns you still
Shall be purged from your very soul.
Once again the cry that craves
Dignity and Love
Will be heard echoing through
Empty halls and resound above.
Shallow tears and meager dreams
Will come forth nevermore.
Fear of yourself
Lays forgotten, washed upon the shore.
Tomorrow is our fear.
What it will bring strikes terror in all
Yet a silver shining light
It yields, guiding our inevitable fall.
But if we are not prepared,
And still shrink into the darkness that makes us bold,
Grip your fingers around empty dreams.
Enjoy your failing hold. |
Morgan
10th grade
Norristown, Pa |
Sequel To The Out Out
Poem
I knew that supper could have so much power.
As soon as I said it he died, my baby brother died.
It was at the fault of the doctor's and the pain came from my own guilt.
Guilt had blanketed my thoughts like a morning fog.
His blood had dried off the Reaper's scythe.
Curse upon you! I cried.
The words echoed through the wind and stayed permanent though all these
years.
I prayed fervently so as my own son would not be like my own brother.
My heart echoed thousands of his memories where his empty place used to
be.
The pain was numbing to my soul, anything to get away from the clutches of
Guilt's hand.
I looked outside one day and I saw an ethereal appearance of my brother
cutting wood that day.
I walked outside, horror awoke out of its grave and sifted into my eyes.
I screamed as the incident repeated again.
It was like a replay of that certain death.
I rushed to my baby brother and turned his body over.
I cried bitterly for it was my own son who the Fates and their cousins
had taken my child into another guilty hand. |
Natasha
11th grade
St. Louis, Mo |
About the author of this poem.
She is 17 and is a junior of Webster groves High and is one of three main
editors of their literary magazine.
She is also a sci-fi writer, a musician, and a "short" story
writer. She is currently taking a creative writing
and has published poems in a contest that once invited her to Washington
D.C. to win an award for her prized
possessions. She has a dog named Lucci and lives with her mother and two
sisters. |
The
Legend and the Wolf
THE RUNAWAY SERVANT
He was a runaway now. Fleeing from the King of Nein, who wished that
he was in the dungeon of his castle. His shoes padded on the dirt streets
of Sirean, the city in which the castle of the King and Queen of Nein had
been built, the capital. It was found in the flatlands of Nein and was
surrounded by forests that were visible from the city.
He weaved in and out of the people, thankful that no one even gave him a
second glance. The city was always crowded everywhere, except in the dark
alleys that lay between houses and buildings. Only thieves dared venture
there. They were the reasons no one went into the alley in the first
place.
The boy glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see a whole army
chasing after him. Sighing with relief to find no one there, he looked
ahead barely sidestepping in time to miss running into a young boy holding
tightly onto his mother's apron.
"Sorry... umpf!" He landed face first onto the
street. He got up, coughing from the dirt all about him that had been
pushed into the air by his fall. The dirt clung to his clothes and to his
dark brown hair.
"Who did that?" he demanded, getting to his feet,
he wiped the dirt from his green eyes so that he could see straight.
"Where are ya running from? The palace is what I'm
guessin'." A boy, dressed in baggy, tan trousers and a tunic, came
out from the shadows of the dark alley. He had black, scraggily hair and
curious blue eyes. He was about just as tall as Verden, which wasn't very
tall. But, he would probably grow, unlike Verden who had gotten sick at a
young age. He looked about his own age too, thirteen.
"Like that is any of your business," Verden
snapped, turning away from the boy, scowling because he knew how timid he
must have sounded.
"Yer the one that punched the Prince square in the face,
aren't ya," the boy accused. Verden's mouth dropped open. How did he
know that? The boy pulled him into the shadows of the alley, while Verden
was too stunned to protest.
"Who... who told you that?" he asked, voicing his
thoughts.
"For one thing your robe gave ya away," the boy
said, his voice had a certain street accent to it. Verden looked down at
his red robe, it was a symbol for the servants of the royal family. He
self-consciously pulled at the small badge on the left sleeve. Stamped on
the badge was the seal of the King so that all would know he was the one
of the King's many servants. It had always made him feel like he was a
piece of property instead of a human being. "And what other reason
would a servant from the King be runnin' through the streets? You gotta
be... I think it was.... er.... Verden?"
"Has word traveled that fast? I couldn't have left the
castle more then an hour ago," Verden said, remembering his daring
escape, well it was more a frantic escape then daring. He wiped some sweat
off of his forehead with the back of his sleeve, the summer day was at its
worst. The boy just stared at him thoughtfully. Verden looked away
uncomfortably, the boy's eyes seemed to pierce right through as if reading
his mind.
"Word always travels fast among thieves," the
boy said grinning widely.
"You're a thief?" Verden asked. Thieves could be
mean, even if they were young. They were most of the time bad news and
trouble, Verden had learned, though he had never really met one before.
"The name's Brem, no wise cracks about the name either,
I get too many of them already."
"Why are you talking to me anyway?" Verden asked.
"Thieves don't think too highly of those who serve the King. I have
heard many stories about it."
"Yeah, but ya aren't a servant no more are ya?"
Brem had him there. "Besides I can hear a cry of help when I sees
one." Verden chose not to correct him on his mistake.
"Since when did thieves help anyone but
themselves," Verden blurted out instead. He put his hand over his
mouth, his face turning crimson. He couldn't believe he just said that.
Was he that thickheaded? His mouth was faster then his mind in most
circumstances. "I mean..."
"Depends on the thief. You have just never met
half-thieves before," Brem said, acting like he didn't even care what
Verden had just said. Maybe he really didn't care. Suddenly they heard
shouts coming from the streets. Brem looked past Verden at the streets. He
licked his lips thoughtfully. "Guards, I'll bet me next meal on
it."
"Are you sure its guards?" Verden asked, trying to
see past the people in the streets. He stood up on his tiptoes, but it did
not help him much.
"I've been a thief almost all my life, I think that I
would know," Brem said in a matter of fact tone. Verden turned toward
him, rolling his eyes, but he knew that Brem couldn't see them in the
dark. "Ya have a choice. Come with me or get caught by them
guards."
"I'll go with you," Verden said surely, but
inside he wasn't as sure as he knew he sounded. If he went with him he
could maybe become a thief. That would be quite an adventuress life,
always having to trust on your first instinct, not having anyone tell you
what to do. "Do you think maybe I could become a thief like
you?" he asked quietly.
"If yer good enough. You sound as though its a sorta
good thing... most don't think so. They think that we are juss problems
that should had never been born."
"But most haven't worked for the Prince, I bet that is
worst," Verden pointed out. Brem bent down and pulled up on a round,
metal object from the dirt road. Verden leaned closer to the dark hole,
that looked like it led to a bottomless pit. He knew it led to the sewers,
Sirean was one of the few cities that had them.
"Stay close, it can get quite dark down there and ya
wouldn't wanna get lost," Brem said before jumping down and
disappearing from sight. Verden looked down the dark tunnel. He heard the
guards getting closer. He looked back frantically just as one guard ran
past the alley. He looked back at the hole, wishing that he had some time
to think about what he was going to do. A life as a thief would indeed be
full of adventure, but there was also having to steal from others.
"This is no time to be a coward," he scolded
himself. Closing his eyes, he jumped into the black depths below.
Splash! Verden whipped the disgusting sewer water from his
eyes. An awful stink drifted to his nose. He felt someone grab his hand
and followed behind the dark shadow in front of him, not sure if the
figure was real or just part of the endless darkness all around him. He
slopped along in the sewer water, wondering how far it was going to be.
The darkness seemed to be getting darker and darker if it were even
possible. His eyes screamed out, trying to find even a glimpse of light.
"Ah!" Verden yelled, his feet slipping out from
under him and fell to his knees in the gross water, his robe immediately
began to soak up the water like a wet sponge. He got up, feeling weighted
down by the water. He miserably followed Brem, who had only laughed.
Glancing up, he saw a small candle burning brightly, making a small path
of light form about it.
"We are almost there." He heard Brem say, but he
could not pick him out in the darkness. He splashed up to the light and
climbed up onto a ledge. Looking all about him, he saw that he was in a
hole in the sewer wall. It looked like builders had accidentally forgotten
to fill it in with stones. There was a small bedroll lying out on the
ledge along with a few clothes piled up in the corner.
Verden pulled at his shoe trying to get them off, but because of the water
they stuck horribly to his feet. After a few tugs he was able to get the
shoe off and tipped it over, disgusted by the contents that had come out
of them.
"Why do ya wear shoes? They'll just be trouble fer
ya," Brem asked, sitting up beside him.
"Because I had to. Believe me, I would have much rather
gone barefoot then wear these uncomfortable things," Verden said,
throwing the shoe aside. It knocked over the candle. Verden jumped
up to catch it but missed. The candle fell to the ground, but yet
the fire did not go out. Verden's mouth just about dropped open at the
sight.
"What's the matter? Haven't you ever seen magic
afore?" Brem asked, grabbing the candle roughly and putting it back
up. It still burned just as brightly as ever.
"No," Verden admitted. Brem looked at him as if he
were crazy. "What? I was never able to see the few Mages that came to
the palace."
"You are going to need some different clothes if ya
wanna be a thief. Lets see if I've got anything fer ya to wear." He
got up and began looking about. Verden was wondering why Brem hadn't
commented about what he had said about the mages, he seemed uneasy about
his talking about the palace so much. Brem threw a pair of trousers at
Verden, who wasn't expecting it and it him in the face.
"First lesson of a thief. Always keep yer eyes open and
no daydreaming or else ya will get caught easy," Brem said. He threw
him a tunic, but this time Verden caught it.
"You mean you have lessons?" Verden groaned.
"I thought I wouldn't have to have any of them anymore." He
remembered the long nights he had to stay up to do the Prince's homework
for him because he wasn't feeling 'up to it'. He never thought that Verden
might have his own homework to do. But, you could not argue with the
Prince, unless you wanted a punishment to go along with it.
"Don't worry yer pretty lil' head off, ya don't have to
memorize them if ya don't want to. They are for yer own protection. Now
hurry up and get dressed so that you can meet the others."
"Others?" Verden asked, pulling the tunic over his
head. It was about three sizes too big for him. The sleeves hung over his
hands and the hem was down to his knees. He rolled up the sleeves, but it
didn't help to much. He felt like he was wearing a tent or something very
close to it.
"Five others in the group. You will make our group up ta
six."
"Seven," Verden corrected absentmindedly. "And
you are all half-thieves?"
"Unlike normal thieves we don't steal fer our own
pleasure. We steal only what we need ta survive. We all couldn't live with
ourselves if we stole just so we could be as rich as nobles," Brem
explained. "That is why there are very few of us. Most aren't like
us."
"I see," Verden said, pulling on his trousers.
"The world has become to greedy, I think. Even royalty is greedy for
more then what they have." Brem looked at him curiously. Verden
didn't understand the look on his face. "What?"
"Hasn't royalty always been as greedy as everyone
else?" Brem asked, stepping into the water. Verden stepped in beside.
The bottom of the sewers were slimier then he thought they would be. Slime
squished between his toes, he wrinkled his nose.
"The King, who rules now, is in no way greedy. But, his
son, now that is a totally different story. He lives for greed. I should
know." They walked along, Verden was beginning to get used to the
darkness and even the sliminess, almost.
"What did ya do for the Prince? Didn't he have other
servants that would be better then some kid?"
"I was suppose to be his 'friend' type. It was more like
'slave'. 'Verden do this. Do my homework, Verden," Verden mimicked,
getting angry. He clenched his fists. Brem began laughing, it was a little
weird sounding and sort of like cackling. "You wouldn't be laughing
if you were in my place." Now Verden's anger turned towards Brem.
"I don't doubt ya one bit. You gotta learn to hold that
temper of yers." Verden blushed slightly, his temper had always
gotten away with him. He was in more trouble at the castle then he was out
of trouble all because of his temper and quick tongue, and that was no
exaggeration in the least.
"Sorry," Verden muttered. "It sure does echo
in here. Hello!" he yelled eager to change the subject. It echoed
down the tunnel. Brem started laughing, and the laughter echoed as well.
"What?" Verden asked in mock surprise. "I'm
just enjoying myself, and you laugh at me." He searched the darkness
for Brem and playfully shoved him.
"So, ya do gotta sense of humor," Brem replied.
"I try, but sometimes its hard to be happy when at times
life is so sad."
"You'll never be that sad again," Brem promised.
Secretly, Verden hoped that he was right. He heard chattering coming from
up ahead. There were five sitting in a deep den, that was about four times
as big as Brem's own little den in the wall.
"This is the meeting place," Brem whispered to him.
Verden bit his lip, hoping that they would accept him as one of them. If
they didn't he didn't know where he could go. He probably had a price on
his head, and only these half-thieves wouldn't turn him in for the money.
"Brem, hey buddy," one of the thieves called as
they came closer. "Whose yer friend?" Verden finally got a close
look at the bunch. There was a boy with red hair that looked to be older
then himself, possibly fourteen years old. There were two boys both with
light brown hair each. They looked like they could be ten year old twins.
There was another boy with sandy blond hair. He looked a little older then
himself, but he was extremely tall and slim. And much to his surprise
there was a girl with red hair and a few freckles across her nose.
"This is Verden. He is gonna join our group if he is
good 'nough," Brem said, sitting by one of the twins. Verden sat down
beside him, feeling extremely uncomfortable and out of place.
"Our home is yers, Verden," the boy with the red
hair said. "I am Jem, well it is Jeremy but that name suits me
better... that is my sister Atrina... those twins are Gred, not greed so
don't try ta mistake it, and Gert, and he is Demin," he said,
pointing to the sandy blond.
"It is nice to meet you all," Verden said barely
above a whisper.
"Are ya not the boy from the castle?" Atrina asked,
with the same accent of all the other thieves. She smiled at him. Her
smile was sincere and friendly. Her face was thin with high cheek bones,
she was average in looks, but her friendliness made her prettier to
Verden. There was a light, black circle that encircled her eye like a
shadow. It was fading away but was not totally invisible. Verden had
noticed a few bruises and cuts on the others as well.
"I am," Verden said, feeling a bit ashamed. He knew
he sounded like a person from the castle by the way that he talked, but he
couldn't help it.
"That is nothing ta be ashamed of. You punched his
majesty the Prince. That took a whole lot of guts," Demin said.
"Or a really bad temper," Verden muttered.
"It doesn't matter as long as ya did it," Jem said.
"Here's a bedroll for you to sleep on." He tossed him a bundle.
Verden caught it.
"You don't have to give me yours," Verden said,
offering it back to him. Jem laughed, his laugh was smooth and musical,
even for a boy's.
"It's not mine, I am not charitable." Verden
blushed a deep red. "This belonged to another half-thief, but she's
gone now."
"What happened to him?" Verden asked. Immediately
he wished he hadn't asked. They all looked away sadly, even the small
twins. "Oh, I didn't mean to say something wrong..." Brem
silenced him with a hand, Verden quickly shut his mouth.
"She broke the only law we really have," Jem said
quietly. "She was greedy and stole fer herself. A small ring that she
did not need." Verden gulped and held on to the bedroll a little
tighter. All had he to do to get kicked out was to steal something like
that. He had better be careful, he didn't think he was greedy, but he had
to be careful none the less.
"This meeting is done fer." Brem motioned for
Verden to follow him. Verden waved to them and then followed him. His mind
was racing with the thoughts of the whole thief thing.
"You aren't thinkin' about changing your mind now, are
ya?" Brem asked, when they had reached his small den. Verden rolled
out the bedroll on the small ledge.
"No, where else do I have to go? Besides I think that I
am going to like it here. Why do you think otherwise?"
"You do talk like the servant of the King," Brem
said, shaking his head slowly as a smile crept up on his lips. "You
were so quiet on the way here, I just figured you were thinkin' 'bout
things."
"I did. That boy who stole the ring..."
"It was a girl," Brem interrupted, settling down in
his own bedroll. That surprised him even more. Girls seemed more faithful
to Verden, but Verden didn't have much contact with anyone else but the
Prince himself. There was a lot of things he needed to learn about life.
He had missed out on so much.
"Well, was she nice even though she was greedy?"
Verden asked.
"She was. I knew her very well," Brem said, his
voice quivering. Verden got into his bedroll, laying his head down on a
tunic. It felt just as if he were lying on the concrete floor itself, the
tunic did little to cushion his head. There was an odd moment of silence.
Verden was debating whether to ask another question. He didn't want to get
Brem mad at him. A few more moments passed by, but Verden could not seem
to make a decision. Drops of water echoed through the sewers along with
the occasional chirping of a cricket.
"Ya want ta ask a question?" Brem asked. Verden
must have been as surprised as he looked because he added, "You were
thoughtful again, I figured ya had a question for me." His voice was
still quivering, which alarmed Verden even more then ever. There seemed to
be something wrong about the half-thief that had gotten sent away,
something that made Brem so sad.
"If you promise that you will not be made with me,"
Verden said.
"Depends on the question," Brem said. Verden was
losing his temper already.
"Then I am not going to ask any question. I don't want
to say something wrong," Verden said. Brem sighed deeply.
"You have been at the palace too long, mate. You are too
stubborn for your own good," Brem said smiling.
"I didn't get that from the castle. I have always been
that way," Verden muttered. He was mad that Brem was being so
difficult. Maybe that was the ways of the castle, but at least Brem could
respect that for what it was.
"Ask away, I promise that I won't get mad."
"Why were you so sad when you talked of the girl
thief?" Verden asked. Brem choked a bit. Verden sat up. There seemed
to be tears in his eyes. Brem seemed so much tougher then Verden, but now
he was actually crying. "Did I say something wrong again?"
"No, palace boy," Brem said, quivering more
then ever. "She was me twin sister." Verden gasped and scolded
himself for doing so in front of Brem.
"I'm sorry," Verden whispered. "I should keep
my personal questions to myself next time." He turned over.
"No," Brem croaked. "It is fine. It was her
choice to be greedy not mine." Verden still thought that it was a bit
harsh. It was his own sister, and they had made her go. Verden wondered
how many nights Brem had grieved of her departure. Verden didn't have any
siblings, or any close friends for that matter, but the sorrow in Brem's
eyes, and the tears falling down his face made him realize that he would
never want to loose someone so close especially because that person had
been forced to leave. "How are ya with the sword, Verden?" Brem
asked, changing the subject.
"As good as the Prince himself, if not better. I had to
be a good enough sparring partner for him," Verden said. "I
worked hard to be as good as him, too."
"That is good. I have a strange feeling about you,
Verden. Some weird feeling like yer an important person or
something." He turned over and soon Verden heard him snoring. Yet,
sleep would not come to him. He had too many questions he dare not ask
about the half-thieves. He figured he would learn them all in due time,
but his curiosity was getting the best of him. He felt so sorry for Brem's
sister. They were strict about being greedy, but why was that? There had
to be some reason that they chose not to steal for their own personal
self. He himself didn't like stealing so that he could be rich, but he had
lived in the castle for a long time and the teachers had repeatingly
taught right and wrong, but they seemed to have been thieves their whole
life. Where did they get their values from?
Verden sighed, figuring he would soon learn all about it later. Pulling
his blanket closer about him, a sudden warmth came over him, one he had
not felt too many nights. He didn't know much about his childhood, it was
all a blur in his memory. One thing he remembered was love and feeling
wanted, but he didn't even know who had loved him so much. He felt
friendship from Brem and was glad to have it, not having many of them in
his lifetime. He finally fell asleep in the depths of the darkness of the
sewers. |
Nicole
10th grade
CA, USA |
Losing My Friend
I took a drink
And stepped in
And drove away
Just me and my friend
As I
drove and drank some more
I've found there is no door
I've fallen deep
So fast asleep
My sight I cannot keep
I've
lost control of my body now
I'm not sure I know how
Something's taken over
I
was sure that I was sober
But then I woke up in a
hospital bed
And
found my friend was dead.
|
Jessica
graduate
Ada, OK, USA |
| My name is Jessica.....I'm an 18 year old high school
graduate.....i love to write poetry. |
A Visit from My Past
-Addie's story-
I sit here in my room all day and all night/
I rock back and forth in my rocking chair./
I hear the mindless chatter of a woman who lives here with me/
And sometimes it is more bearable knowing that there are people out there/
They come to visit me, even if they are only doing it for the brownie
points./
Sometimes they remind me of myself./
Afraid of the unusual, of the bizarre- and I am a tad unusual/
A bit bizarre/
But a human, nonetheless./
I wish others could understand that a pat on the head is not enough to
make me feel/
Wanted/
Loved/
Or of any consequence whatsoever./
That's the way it is./
We old people are left to the dust/
Ready to crumble/
Left on the shelf like/
An old antique doll left because it is too fragile to play with./
But I would rather enjoy my life than save it and spend it in a creaky old
rocking chair/
Or lying in bed looking at the ceiling/
Crying inside my heart to think/
My one son/
My only son/
My child would leave me to rot in a place like this./
Waiting for my inheritance./
While I wait to die in a block of ice. |
J
9th grade
USA |
About the author of "A Visit From My Past"
I wrote this piece for English class. It was inspired by "A Visit of
Charity", a short story from a compilation of short stories in a book
called _Coming of Age_.
This book is really worth taking a peek at, as it has so many varied views
of adolescence.
Reading it would definitely enhance your understanding of this poem.
I am 14 years old and I love to write.
Hope you enjoyed- or a least found interesting- my work. |
His Perception of Weight
Naylor Kirby died on a Tuesday. He was fished out of the Potomac
several weeks later, and his parents planned the memorial service for that
Saturday.
I had been wondering all week whether I should go. I didn't really
know Naylor, but his girlfriend Gracie was in my math class; the question
was whether my company would comfort her any. Thursday evening, I
asked my mom, who is and always will be the last word on etiquette.
"Go ahead," she said. "At least, to show some support
for your classmates. Numbers do count for something."
"You don't think I'd be...I dunno. Mocking something?"
I leaned against my doorjamb and chewed on a hangnail. She propped
the laundry basket on her hip and shifted her weight. Cleverly, I
deduced that she was irritated by the interruption.
"Mocking what, Nora? You're not going to be laughing and
pointing in the middle of the ceremony, are you?" Her chunky
mommy-sweater, with its neat row of huge wooden buttons, looked warm and
fuzzy. I resisted the urge to run over and bury my face in the
coarse wool knit. I was seventeen years old - old enough to make
decisions like this on my own.
"No." I watched her go downstairs.
Parminedes, the philosopher, wrote that the world is organized into polar
opposites, and functions by pitting one against the other. Wrong or
right, dark or bright, heavy or light - a person lives by making a series
of choices between the two.
How simple, I thought. How true. I just had to consider each
decision in terms of heaviness or lightness. But the choices I've
had to make have never presented themselves in such clear terms.
Sometimes heaviness is better, and at other times lightness, and sometimes
the difference between the two is so hard to define that my choice might
as well have been made by chance.
"I'm going to the service," I told my friend Shannon at lunch on
Friday. "Want to come?" Shannon looked at me, then
took a very deliberate bite out of her sandwich.
Her dark hair curled over her shoulders, and her eyes shone. She sat
there, serene and supernally lovely, then chewed, swallowed and spewed
venom. "They're saying it was because of drugs." She
swiped at the corner of her mouth with her fingers, then looked at me
expectantly.
"Well, duh," I said. "Of course. The guy was a
druggie. What did you expect?" Her air of mature wisdom
irritated me. "What difference does it make?"
"If you go," she insisted, "they'll think that you're a
druggie. Pushers will find you. They won't leave you alone!
It's dangerous, Nora. I wouldn't go, if I were you. It's just
the wrong crowd."
I addressed my comment to the wall. "Here we are, living in a
world where teenagers can die on a Tuesday afternoon, and she's thinking
that the social climate of the memorial service is inappropriate."
Several freshmen turned to stare at me; I ignored them. "God,
Shannon. It's not as if we have to be best friends with them, or
anything."
"But what if we have to sit next to them?" She looked
panicky. I deduced that some soothing words were in order, before
she rushed, screaming, out of the cafeteria.
"You don't have to go. I'll just go, and sit, and say something
to Gracie. It's just not cool, yo. He died. The same
thing could happen to any one of us."
"Yeah," she said, contemptuously. "If we were
morons."
I've heard many words used to describe Naylor, but "moron" was
never one of them. He was the kind of boy that you couldn't miss -
tall, lanky, impossibly beautiful, with several piercings and a
disgruntled, dignified air. Rumors ran like water around him, about
him; stories of drugs and squalor, but somehow it was hard to believe them
once you looked him in the eye.
One time Lynn and I were talking in the hall between classes. I was
agonizing over whether I had the time to go to work that evening. On
one hand, I had a lot of homework; on the other, one more absence could
get me fired. After prolonged debate with both myself and with Lynn,
I flung myself against a locker. "Oh God," I moaned, and
slumped to the floor.
At that moment, Lynn turned and spotted Naylor's lanky form sauntering
towards us. "Hey," she said.
"Hey." He looked at me, lying in a crumpled heap on the
floor, and arched a brow. Her eyes wide and melting, Lynn explained,
while I lay there and wished that I had never been born.
"You could always just slam yourself against the lockers some
more," he said finally. Lynn laughed. I hated her.
"Yeah," I said, throwing my arm over my face. "Great
excuse. 'Sorry, I can't come in - I'm suffering from self-inflicted
injuries.' Massive internal hemorrhaging, bleeding from the head, et
cetera. Thanks."
He shrugged and walked off.
From then on, I had viewed Naylor with a measure of skepticism.
Lynn's easy and shameless capitulation had stiffened my resolve - I was
not going to succumb to those angelic features so easily. He asked
Gracie out three weeks later.
I only spoke to him once after that. It was about a month ago.
He was sitting in the hall, staring at nothing, and I asked him why he was
so depressed. He said it was because he had spent a lifetime almost
being "Taylor" and never quite making it. Before I could
decide whether he was making a joke or not, he got up, smiled at me, and
then walked away.
"They're saying his girlfriend's pregnant," Jane told me on our
way to government that afternoon. I stopped in the hall and stared
at her. Several people collided with me from the back, and with
difficulty I started moving forward again.
"No way!" I thought about Gracie, whom I'd just left in
math. Her eyes were swollen and her face glum, but she didn't look
any different other than that. "She doesn't look
pregnant."
"Marissa just found out, in chemistry." Jane's face was
glowing, almost triumphant; she delivered the news as if it was something
else, something more than a vicious piece of gossip. Her ponytail
waved behind her like a herald's banner. "That's why he killed
himself. Because she was going to make him marry her and take care
of their kid."
"That's retarded," I said, with as much horrified disgust in my
voice as I could muster. "No one would kill himself because of
that. If anyone was going to kill themselves over a pregnancy, it
would've been her."
"No, because she's a Catholic and she doesn't believe in suicide.
Or in abortion, either," Jane said, smugly. Then I remembered.
"Shannon told me it was drugs," I said.
Jane's step faltered for a minute. Then she recovered her stride.
"Who knows? Maybe it was both."
"Maybe it was neither," I said, but under my breath, so that she
couldn't hear me.
Naylor's mom had managed to wrangle a room under City Hall for Naylor's
memorial. Metal folding chairs were lined in front of the coffin,
which was closed. People swirled in small grieving circles around
the room. I was by myself; I picked a seat near the back, arranged
my skirt, and did my best to ignore the orange fluorescent lighting.
At my mom's insistence, I wore black pantyhose, the opaque fuzzy kind,
that itched horribly through the entire service. Only a few people
were from our school, and they were the kind that were marked up.
Covered in track marks and piercings, their leather jackets napping at the
elbows, they sat in the back and slouched in their chairs.
Remembering Shannon's warning, I did my best to avoid looking them in the
eye.
The priest was balding, and sweat shone greasily at his temples. His
hands around the Bible were shaking, and his voice stumbled. I
wondered whether he was terrified, or just stoned. He droned on and
on about how Naylor had such potential, had so much to contribute to the
community, and I wanted to stand up and shout that I'd heard he killed
himself in a drug frenzy. Anything, to stop the nauseating flow of
Nutrasweetened hypocrisy. I hoped that someone would fart, or
scream, or that the priest's greasy temples would catch on fire. But
nothing happened. I sat there in my dark skirt and opaque pantyhose
and did my best to keep from squirming.
At the very end, I caught sight of Gracie, sitting in the front row.
She was wearing a neat black cardigan, and her hair shone golden over her
shoulders - she looked so sweet that I wondered how she had met Naylor in
the first place. That's not the kind of thing you ask at a memorial
service, though. I waited until the priest had finished, and enough
silent mourning time had elapsed, and then I made my way towards her.
"Hey," I said.
"Hey," she said, thickly. Her nose was red.
"Oh, Gracie," I said, and put my arms awkwardly around her.
"I'm so sorry." Then I pulled away, discreetly, and
studied her face. "How are you?"
She shrugged. "I'm all right." We both laughed,
nervously, and then she sighed. "I'm terrible, actually.
But what can anyone expect?" We surveyed the crowd for a
minute. It was mostly parents and faculty. The druggies were
drifting quietly away, and I watched them for a moment.
"There's a reception afterwards," she added.
"Are you going?" I asked.
"I guess. My parents are going. They don't want
to..." I turned and found her staring intently at my face.
I almost flinched. "No. I mean, I don't want to go,
though. Do you want to get away from here?" When I
hesitated, she added, "I'll drive."
"Sure," I said.
We drove for almost thirty minutes, by which time I had gone crazy
thinking of things to talk about. The silence was so thick that I
could barely breathe, but there wasn't much to say to someone who I knew
only from math class. "So, how about those definite integrals,
eh?" I almost wanted to say, just to see her reaction, but out of
respect for the newly dead I restrained myself.
At the entrance to Great Falls Park, she paid the ticket before driving
into the parking lot. Then she got out and motioned for me to follow
her.
Great Falls Park is shaped like an éclair, with a narrow strip of grass
and rocks that ease the transition from parking lot to rushing water; the
Great Falls for which the park is named. An early thaw had soaked
the ground, turning it wet and spongy under my dress shoes, and the chill
winter air cut through my sweater - navy blue, since I didn't own very
many black things - but I didn't say anything. We walked in silence,
following the signposts to the overlooks.
There we scrambled over the giant stones for a while, until we came to a
broad flat rock that jutted out over the white and swirling water.
Gracie sat, squatted rather, her skirt stretched tight over her legs.
She perched there for a long time, while I stared at Maryland on the other
side, and at the kayakers braving the rushing roar below. "They
told me that this is where he did it," she said, finally. She
stood up and stretched her arms wide, to encompass the falls - the blue
winter sky, the rocks, the water, the trees. Among the dank grayness
of the tumbled boulders, her bright hair and reddened nose stood out like
gems in a dark frame. She didn't look at me. "Just stood
here and jumped. Good-bye, Naylor," she said. The wind
carried her voice away from us and bounced it over the rocks.
Naylor, I thought. That's a terrible name. Like
"nasal." I stifled a giggle. Suddenly, I desperately
wanted to find him and tell him that I had finally gotten the joke.
"Not that 'Taylor' would have been any better," I said, before I
could stop myself.
But she wasn't listening to me.
She stood there for a long time and wrapped her arms around herself.
I debated whether I should hug her, but I didn't want to. So
instead, I waited until my hands and my feet got numb. "At
least I know he wasn't afraid," she whispered, finally, very quietly.
I wanted to ask her what she meant by that, but was afraid that she would
tell me something I wasn't supposed to know. So, for lack of
anything better to do, I stood there and waited. I listened while
she talked, pouring out stories of a Naylor that I never knew. Some
were touching, and some so ridiculous that I could barely keep from
gagging, but I controlled myself. Her stories weren't any more
unbelievable than the others that I'd heard, this past week.
We all make decisions between one thing and the other. But our
perception of weight is never the same as someone else's. I
remembered the time I had this terrible fever, and I swallowed thirteen
Advil in three hours. It had hurt, those aspirin burning their way
into my stomach, and I imagined that this was what death must have felt
like, to Naylor - a burning heaviness in his insides. I thought that
this weight, his fear of the future, was what drove him here and sunk him
like a stone in the water.
But I watched Gracie talk. And I thought about her and Naylor, whom
I hadn't known at all. Maybe it was drugs. Maybe Gracie had a
baby that drove him here, and now she had her own heaviness to conceal.
No one, except maybe Gracie, knew the real reason. I could have, if
I asked, but it was none of my business.
The decision to jump had been made somewhere else, far away from here.
From then on, it was simple. Easy as one-two-three, along the paved
path down the overlooks to the rocks, where the turbulent water beckoned.
"He wasn't afraid," I said. Gracie looked at me.
"To fall, I mean." She nodded. And I imagined what
it must have been like for him - to walk down these paths to the rocks,
knowing he'd never walk back. I imagined his calm and unblinking
certainty, the measured tread of every step. And I imagined what it
must have been like to fall - free, finally, of the burdens that brought
him here. It must have felt wonderful, I thought suddenly; to be so
unbearably light. |
Adrienne
12th grade
Herndon, VA, USA |
About the author of His Perception of Weight:
I've had stuff published before, but never in a forum where a wide
audience gave me feedback. I'm interested in what you guys have to
say, so say it!
And none of this story is true: except the suicide part.
comments: I've submitted this to a contest; a vanity publisher, in an
agreement w/ my creative writing class, has also agreed to publish this
story in a book in late April, May. If this is a problem, please let
me know. |
| Dreams
My eyes closed
and reality collapsed
I began to dream. . .
I ran
and my heart beat
like a thousand bombs
detonating in rhythm
until I thought I myself
might explode.
But it would be okay
because I was searching
for You
in a field of roses
without thorns
because that's the way you'd have it.
I danced in the roses
like the way You smile at me
rushing upon Heaven
closing in on that escape.
They are envious
and They wish
They should only be worthy
of You
and Your grin.
You smiled again and again
and You tapped
the shoulder of splendor.
I breathed and waited
but my eyes once dry as sand
are now as wet as sea.
I longed to get a glimpse
of the one true thing
I was sure of anymore-
You.
in your field of roses.
I waited, I longed
I hoped and felt
When nothing is real
how could I be certain?
When hope is so far away
how would I find it?
When everything seems twice as long
just to drag me through
signs of no hope
Just to upset
Just to destroy
The sky splits
and I listen for what I see
Did you know that hope flies?
I rode the angel's back
until we found You.
You had stumbled upon a single rose
with a single thorn
and were
screaming
crying
ripping
stomping
but You saw my angel
and climbed on too.
And we rode out of the field
For it was not pure anymore
And we need nothing of the sort
to stain us.
The angel took us to the sea
where she told us to
begin our next voyage
But we were tired
So we closed our eyes
Imagination collapsed
And I awoke. |
Laura
10th grade
Oklahoma City, OK |
| About the author of Dreams.. I'm a sophomore from Oklahoma.
I love writing poems about anything, everything, or nothing at all.
I hate picking stories and poems apart (like in English class!) because I
like to find the meaning that means something to me. I hope you do
too. :) |
Young German Soldier
Young German soldier
You are put to the test
Young German soldier
Put them to rest
You are expected to
Murder, make them bleed
You are expected to
Go out and do the deed
You are to help a crazed man
Make this world one land
In the palm of his hand
Young German Soldier
Look at us all joined
Young German soldier
Make sure you disappoint
Young German soldier
Let your morals contradict
Young German soldier
Try to help solve this conflict
If we stand together
We can achieve peace
If we stand together
The world will be at ease
Do not stay in the same sickly skin
United, you know we can win
Do not let him make you sin
Young German soldier
We'll be safe and sound
Young German soldier
If you just let him down
|
Mill
9th grade
Oslo, Norway |
| About the author of Young German Soldier: My name is
Milla, I'm 14, and I'm from Norway. I wrote this poem because I was
inspired while learning about the Holocaust in school. Hope you like it! |
Little League
I was up. I stepped in the box, sweating like the coke can sitting
on the hot gravel nearby. I Looked to the coach for signals; he gave
me none. I slowly stepped up to the plate, breathing heavily. I
lined up the end of my bat with the far edge of the plate, shuffled my
feet far back from it , bent over, and stuck my rear out into the space
behind me. My body was now as far away from the line of fire as humanly
possible, while still staying within the boundaries of the batters box. I
was ready; kind of.
The pitcher started his wind up, and I held my breath; praying that the
hard object soon to be flying toward me, would not crush my face.
I t left his hand and came lightly sailing in my direction. As it neared
the plate, I saw my life flash before my eyes. I jumped back and swung the
bat at the same time, hitting nothing but air.
I was a little ball shy.
" Sttteeeerrrike!!"
Isn't baseball great? At the time I thought so, and it didn't dawn
on me until years later, that I wasn't really having fun.
It started out just as something to do. Something that every kid
did. 'Baseball, America's game.'
At first it was fun, everybody was just learning. But after a few
years, most of my friends joined the majors. I decided to stay
behind in the minors and " perfect my skills" before joining the
upper class. Finally, I decided it was time to tryout for the big
leagues in Little League baseball, and hopefully join my friends and amaze
them with my acquired talent. I made it.
I'm sure the fact that my best friends dad was the coach, had anything to
do with me making the team.
Apparently, my talent went unrecognized, for I sat on the bench more often
than not during the games. The few innings I did play, my position
was right field; the position where the weakest balls were hit.
Nevertheless, somebody had to play it.
In the first few games snagged a couple grounders, and had to chase
after a ball that went over my head; but not once had a pop fly been hit
in my direction. This was something I was sure was bound to happen
eventually, although some of my teammates probably hoped otherwise.
This wonderful moment had gone through my head a half dozen times:
" Bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded. We're up by one,
and a big hitter steps up to the plate. He knocks the dust off of
his shoes with his bat, and gazes coolly out to the field before him.
Our eyes meet. He smirks at me, spits in the dirt, and slowly lifts his
bat in my direction. I stare right back, motionless.
The pitcher starts his wind up, and then sends a bullet, straight down the
middle.
-Crack!! -
The ball flew high in the air, and with unbelievable speed, it sails
higher and higher, almost out of sight, it looks like it's going over.
But then, from out of no-where flies a human like figure, who leaps into
the air, leans over the fence, and snatches the ball from the sky, saving
the game---look! It's Josh!
A version of this moment did in fact happen, although , a few minor
details were changed.
There were two outs, and two men on base in the bottom of the last inning.
With the crack of the bat, I looked up. It was my moment of glory. My day
of redemption. It flew high, and I ran up a few steps.
Too many. I had to jog backwards to get under the ball, and in the
process, I tripped. As I was falling backwards, I reached out my
glove, a last vain attempt, to make the catch. I missed the ball
completely. It sailed past my glove, and collided with my chin.
I laid sprawled on the ground, crying my eyes out, as the batter rounded
the bases. I felt like dying. The center fielder ran up beside
me and threw in the ball, which was within an arms length away from where
I was resting.
Although at the time, I was completely humiliated, I can look back now and
laugh. Embarrassment is temporary, and I've found that it is better to try
new things and risk being embarrassed, than it is to never be embarrassed,
but also never gaining anything from life. |
Josh
9th grade
Wisconsin |
The Street
Lawyer
by John Grisham
The Street Lawyer is an intense legal thriller; however, it addresses a
very serious social issue-homelessness-a topic that the author approaches
with bona fide sympathy and compassion.
The Street Lawyer is written in 1st person through the eyes of Michael
Brock, a once antitrust turned poverty lawyer. Michael Brock is an
associate working for the 800+ law firm of Drake and Sweeney stationed in
Washington, D.C.
The novel starts with Michael Brock as well as eight hard-nosed litigators
taken hostage by a homeless man, who lectures about his living conditions,
or lack thereof, and his sadness for people who pass by him on the street
and that have so much but give so little. The hostage situation lasts for
hours and Michael Brock would have gone on with his life if it wasn't for
something the homeless man had asked, which at the time seemed rather
irrelevant to the situation, "Who are the evictors?"
Michael Brock soon meets up with Mordecai Green, a poverty attorney after
reading about him in a Washington Post article dealing with the hostage
situation and the man responsible. (Mordecai Green was the homeless man's
attorney.) Michael Brook realizes that he could be giving up millions of
dollars a year, but after much deliberation, he decides to quit Drake and
Sweeney and join the 14th Street Legal Clinic, Mordecai Green's
self-proclaimed law firm. Michael Brock soon learns the answer to the
homeless man's burning question: Drake and Sweeney.
The vibrant action as well as the fresh dialogue, that only Grisham can
write, combines to form the perfect novel-from beginning to end. A novel
that will surely keep you hooked with the pages turning a mile-a-minute. |
Justin
9th grade
Florida |
| The author of this book review is 14 years old and
currently resides in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. He is also writing a novel
titled, THE IMMORTAL DESIRE. |
Don't Slow Down
Time flying
flying too fast.
I run
faster
and faster
to catch it.
But I am slowed,
by the weight of my life,
my problems,
holding me back.
Swimming,
school,
family
and friends.
I watch
with frustration in my eyes
as it flies away.
Running
with the weight of life,
with seemingly no progress
to the goal.
What is the goal?
What am I running for?
Where am I going?
How do I get there?
With no map
and no direction.
Time
will not slow down.
I
cannot slow down.
|
Lindsay
9th grade
Eau Claire, WI, United States |
Untitled Poem
Some have lived their lives blind
Like they have looked at the sun for too long
Not seeing their minds and the time wasted-
Completely, unquestionably
But I have swam in love's waves
And wish that today would be of yesterday
So that we won't have to walk away
So that I won't have to dwell in the past
and in my memories to feel your beauty and presence
which seems to fade away and never last
This feeling is and always will be the truth
Despite the pain, I have no regrets
Because it has set me free
I know that I will speak this truth to my kids-
someday
I hope that my friends will dance in its rays
in every way during everyday
Only then will they know what their living for...
And never question why
But now, I am the only one who can see
That this is a dream come true
And I never want to wake up |
Trent
12th grade
Wisconsin |
Dying Light
A candle burns with brilliance,
Lighting the path to another person's life.
They hold the candle boldly in front of the winding road we call life,
Taking step after step, turning with the walkway as time passes.
Most candles shine light on beautiful things,
Their family, their friends, the things they are passionate about, and
most of all, it lights up the one they love.
But the light reflecting off my candle show's none of these,
The illumination shows that my carefully laid road has quickly been
cracked and stained by broken promises, and false feelings.
I look back at the stone lying behind me, and think about the happy times
I had,
But I know there is no going back to the way it used to be.
So I venture past the dead end road, and into the bitter cold and
loneliness of the thick dark forest that lies before me,
Totally lost, nobody to help me, nobody to hold me, nobody to heed my call
for help.
One tree after another falls around me,
The people I thought were my friends, turn against me,
The things I loved, become no more than rotting memories.
My candle quickly fades with the sadness in my soul,
The wonderful things that used to be are now out of sight,
And pass by my mind as if they never existed.
The once fascinating light becomes nothing but a mere twinkle of hope.
A cold wind passes,
The barely burning flame flickers, almost smothered by one more thing gone
wrong,
I try to tend the candle, and hold on to what is left of my dreams, and
what guides me to my goals.
But I do I care if it goes out?
Do I care if what leads me way fades away?
I look back one more time, but see nothing but the blackness that lives
within my heart,
Holding the candle up, I squint at what is in before me,
Looking for hope, but seeing none.
I blow the candle out, and sit in the loneliness that isolates me.
Laying down, and shriveling away with the rest of my past.
Seeing my future dissipate with the dying light. |
Sean
9th grade
USA |
| About the author of Dying Light For anyone who reads
this poem and likes it i would liked to be commented and wrote to at *removed*
and plz title the subject as: Dying Light |
The Andromeda Strain
The Andromeda Strain, by Michael Crichton, is a work of science fiction
that is accurate and honest about science. The author obviously did
extensive research on the topics discussed to make this book seem real.
Crichton had strong opinions and ideas that he incorporated into his story
and transformed this piece into one of a persuasive nature. His
novel creates many opportunities for discussion and debate through the
scientific approach to a devastating disaster.
Michael Crichton begins his book as a suspense novel (which, in all truth,
it partly is), but quickly and smoothly changes direction and focuses on
the scientific aspect of the story. He is apparently a well-educated
man in this field and considers science of great importance and interest.
Through his telling of the story of a space craft which lands in a small
town in Arizona and spreads an alien organism that instantly kills almost
everyone in its path, Crichton introduces a world of technologically
advanced science, which, in the end, could either be the death of the
organism or the cause of the organism to spread and become even more
harmful. Crichton shows that there are things that not even
the smartest of our species understands or can deal with. The author
indirectly explains that humans can't control everything; there are living
entities in the universe that are bigger (not necessarily physically) than
we are. People can not be expected to understand something !
they have come in contact with for the first time and react to it
appropriately with out undergoing the necessary procedures. Some
people have expectations that are too high for those involved in such a
situation.
Taking into consideration the issues presented in this book, I believe
that humans should be concerned about and aware of science and all of it's
different areas. I don't believe, however, that humans should act
unwisely just for the sake of science. Taking risks is
understandable, but knowingly endangering many lives (human or other
animal) is intolerable. In the case of The Andromeda Strain, science was
the culprit all along. The space craft was launched to try to find
alien life forms; but at that point nobody knew that it could have wiped
out the world's population. Later in the story, the scientists were
going to attempt to destroy the alien organism by destroying Piedmont,
Arizona (they were going to bomb it, basically). However, the
government was hesitant and did not drop the explosive. In the end,
it turns out that if they had dropped the bomb, the organism would have
thrived and spread quickly to the surrounding areas, but since they
didn't, it became ineffect!
ive. Near the conclusion of the novel, when Hall climbs through the
central core safeguards while being shot at with darts filled with a gas
that could eventually kill him, it is sheer physical strength and heroism
that saves the lives of the scientists and many others; neither science
nor mental ability had anything to do with it. The main protagonists in
the story make several scientific mistakes, overlooking the obvious many
times. They were worried about how the organism worked and what it
did, and not about the consequences of their actions, when it should have
been the opposite.
After reading and analyzing this novel, I have come to the conclusion that
the human race is not ready to perform the action of human cloning.
There are too many risks, too many things that could possibly go wrong.
In our technologically advanced world, we are usually ready to embrace the
latest trend. Because of this, I predict that if we begin human
cloning now, when there are still so many unanswered questions, it will
rapidly spread throughout society and become as accessible and common as
plastic surgery or some other technological trend. As it spreads, I
believe it will become more dangerous, for people will try to make it
fast, cheap, and easy, like many things in our culture. Another
pressing issue against human cloning is that of already increasing
population rates. Many are at the present worried that in later
years we will not be able to support the growing number of children born.
Adding cloning to this already messy situation is unwise and will,
undoubtedl!
y, cause more harm than good in the long run.
Michael Crichton's The Andromeda Strain gives the public a glance into the
complicated world of science. Through his imaginative, yet very
real, account of five terrorizing days, Crichton expresses his opinions
very articulately about our technological world. The novel leaves
the reader thinking about how science affects our culture. This is
an important issue in a time when almost everything we do is connected to
technology. |
Kris
8th grade
Meridian, ID, USA |
About the author of The Andromeda Strain essay:
I'm 13, I live in Idaho, and I play the French horn. I love reading,
writing, soccer, and playing with my dog, Lily. |
|
