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Archive for the ‘Creative Writing’ Category

A piece of fan fiction by Beth M., 8th Grade

 

MFile:Leafy suburban street - geograph.org.uk - 170142.jpgonotonous. Tiring. Exasperating. This is how I would describe my life before everything changed. Before my life turned upside down. Before I met him.

 

It was a typical Monday, or at least that’s how it started. I was forced to wake up at 6:15. I dread mornings. I rolled out of bed and my feet thumped against the wooden floor. As I slowly trudged down the hallway and into the kitchen, I tried to rub the sleep out of my tired eyes. I plunked myself in front of the kitchen table and wearily glanced at my breakfast. Nothing. I sighed and realized that my parents weren’t home. They were already tackling their busy schedules and were probably driving off to work. I slowly rose out of my seat, and made my way back to my room to get ready for school.

 

I got my backpack and left my normal, boring blue house, made my way down the driveway and walked to school. I was walking to prison. As I walked, I kept thinking, “Is this really my life? Is every day gonna be the same?” I was an outsider, I was alone, I wanted to escape.

 

I arrived to school at 7:40, right on time. I tried to pass the time during each class sketching in the margins of my notebooks. I had always loved to draw, and drawing was my only escape from my formerly tedious lifestyle. I would fish out my favorite red pen from my pencil case and stare into the margins of my paper, pondering on what to create. I would start off with eyes. First making them human, but as I got more comfortable, I would make them look more imaginary and surreal. Sometimes I would draw characters from my favorite childhood shows. They had always reminded me of a simpler, happier time. My favorite things to draw in my notebook were shapes. Elaborate, never ending shapes that would curl and zigzag and straighten and then curve back again. After I created the unique shapes, I would try to find objects in them and make them stand out. Sometimes I saw puppies, or goats, sometimes I even saw faces. I would have pages and pages of doodles and sketches in my binders, sometimes I would turn to a fresh page for notes and found drawing that I did weeks ago. These always made me smile. After three solid hours of doodling to my heart’s content, I left class for lunch.

 

I entered the cafeteria and my nose automatically cringed at the acrid odor that filled the room. It was fish taco day, and knowing that if it was being served at my school, it would be nowhere close to edible. Have you ever seen multicolored chicken nuggets or hot dogs that bounce if you drop them? That’s what my school calls “lunch”. I’m pretty sure any kid would rather eat prison food than eat our school lunches. I sat by myself like always, and I felt like a nobody. Little did I know that that would soon change.

 

After lunch, we were all corralled outside. Even though I was in high school, they still insisted on having a short break outdoors. The field where we were forced to kill 15 minutes was wide open, right next to the road. Someone could literally walk away. I always wondered why nobody ever thought to leave. The teachers were never attentive, so you could just walk down the street and go into town. It would be a perfect way to get out of class. Yet, everybody just stood in their groups and passed the time with their friends. Not one person was near the edge of the street. I kept gazing past the boundary of the field, and saw the open road. It would only take me 15 minutes to get to my house, and I doubted the people would figure out where I had gone.

 

That’s what I decided to do. I needed a change in my life. I couldn’t just be stuck here for the rest of my life. I ventured over to the edge where the sidewalk met the grass, and I looked back. Everyone was minding their own business, and the teachers were preoccupied. I stepped over the line, and my heart started racing. I couldn’t believe what I was doing, I was always a good student, but something about me had changed. I suddenly didn’t care about any of these people. My teachers can only get me so far in life, and I was old enough to have the information and skills to be out on my own. As for the students here, well, they never cared much for me. I started to take my first steps to freedom, but suddenly I felt a hand on my shoulder. I froze.

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The Lady

by Olivia, 7th Grade – An excerpt from her short story.

They say that the old woman who told me this was an eccentric.  I am not so certain, for I, and I alone, saw a stranger go into the woods outside our village in the autumn of my eighth year, and not come out.  I know this because I waited for him for hours.   (Strangers are a rarity in our village, and I wanted the privilege of being the first to greet our guest).  I did not go into the forest after him, because, even if no one else believed the old woman’s story, (Hag, they call her), we have been taught to dread the creatures that make their home in the woods.  Wolves the size of men.  Bears the size of small cottages.  We call these things Killers.

File:Eugen Kampf Flämische Dorfstraße.jpgI told my account of the stranger to my mum, and she told me that “one of them Killers must’ve gotten him, poor feller,” but the Killers attack the feeble-minded who decide to venture into the fringes of the forest, and I heard no screams.  The man must have been farther in.

The Hag is the closest thing that I have to a friend.  I protect her from what the Vagrants would do to her and her home, and, in return, she tells me legends forgotten by everyone but her.  The half-magic people that make their homes in the moors to the west, who live in the shape of Men, and the corpses that rise from the unmarked graves once every hundred years, and the fiery bird that, it is said, will ride in with the end of time, setting the sky to fire.

I listen to her in awe, shivers running up and down my spine.  I had heard my parents discussing me, how it was not natural for me not to be playing with other boys my age, and instead listening to an old, half-insane woman tell ‘dark magyk stories’.  They think that it is because of her that I am “turning out strange.”

I do not know the Hag’s name, and have never asked it, and never will.  She is Hag.  No name would suit her better.

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The Corridor

-by Kathryn M., 8th Grade

 

Photo Courtesy of WikiMedia Commons

Photo Courtesy of WikiMedia Commons

She looked down the dark passage, eerie and unending. Swallowing hard, as though she might swallow her tongue, she stepped forward. The floorboards creaked under her as if daring to give way. She walked farther. And the creaks sounding like laughter, mocking and scorning her as she continued. And the walls seemed to grow faces for the laughter.

 
Such horrible faces, jeering and glowering at her. She began to run, to sprint. She had to get away, away from the faces and the laughter echoing forever in her ears. Tears streaming down her face, her heart pounding as though she was running a marathon. The laughter grew louder and the walls more gruesome. She had to get away, far away. The laughter was so loud she couldn’t hear herself breath or the blood pounding in her ears.

And she hated it, all of it. She hated being so scared. She hated the faces and the laughter. She wanted to hit and punch and kick in every direction. She wanted to punch the faces and scream at the laughter.

She suddenly realized she had stopped. Then, without thinking, she threw her head back.

” Shut up!” she screamed.

Her yell echoed all around her, seeming to shake the walls and the floor. And the
laughter died away. The faces disappeared. She listened. Nothing but her own
breathing, which was shaky. Straightening up, she walked on. Nothing echoing,
around her but the sounds of her own footsteps.

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by Linda L. – 8th Grade

“Deshi! Come back!”

Deshi stormed outside, fuming. Why did they have to stay here, of all places? At my house, with my family. Stupid lawyer and his stupid wife, coming here from Russia to “assess the situation here for an upcoming trial”. Idiots. She strode through the maze of tents in the refugee camp and ducked through the forest to a quiet, moonlit clearing. It was a place she cherished, a place where she could be by herself to think and rest, or to just be able to do her homework in peace.

“Hey, are you ok?” A voice sounded behind her.

Who’s that? She spun around, expecting to see one of the other refugee kids.

“Who are you?” she asked. He wasn’t anyone she recognized.

“My name’s Nicolai. What’s yours?” Nicolai. A Russian name. I should’ve known. I know almost everyone here. He must be the lawyer’s kid.

“Deshi.” She studied the Russian boy. He had short black hair and a pale face, with pale eyes the color of the sky on a clear winter day. He’s pretty handsome. For a Russian. “What’re you doing here?”

“I’m trying to find my cat. Have you seen her? She ran off as soon as we arrived. I’ve been looking for her ever since.” Nicolai watched the girl closely and took in her second-hand clothes, her scraggly hair, and her dirty face. She’s beautiful.

“She’s not here.” Talking in complete, perfect sentences? Definitely educated. Private school, of course.

“Are you sure? I could’ve sworn I saw her come in here.” He peered into the shadows at the bases of the trees, almost as though he expected his cat to magically appear out of nowhere. “Tsarina? Are you here? Tsarrrinnnaaaa!”

Suddenly, a streak of gray fur leaped into his arms. He caught the cat neatly, tucking her into his chest. He snuggled the cat in his arms and glanced over in time to catch Deshi roll her eyes minutely.

Deshi was unimpressed. Definitely rehearsed. Probably showing off. She could hear the cat–What was her name? Tsarina?–purring up a storm. Well, if his cat likes him that much, he can’t be that bad.

“Well, now that you have your cat, will you leave?” She crossed her arms and stared at him with piercing green eyes. The sooner he gets out of here, the better.

“Only if you come back with me. You’re mother’s worried about you.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Nicolai realized the mistake he’d just made and grinned sheepishly at her.

“How do you know my mom’s worried?” she asked.

“It was just a guess. You’re here all alone, and you look mad, so you probably didn’t ask your parents to come out here.” He avoided looking her in the eye and suddenly had a keen interest in his cat’s silver tabby fur. Liar.

He raised his eyes. “So… are you coming?” She stared at him for a few seconds more. He didn’t budge. Obviously, he wouldn’t leave unless she went with him.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

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by Grace S. – 8th Grade

When I was little I wanted to become a writer. It wasn’t so much the “writing” part that I loved but the idea used for a story. There were so many crazy, infinite ideas to use for stories. Playing with my plastic animals and dinosaurs, I would pretend they were characters acting out each roll like puppets. As I grew older and learned more about the English language my interest in writing grew. I didn’t enjoy writing essays, but I dived right in to short stories and poems.

Recently Kathleen Benner Duble, an author, came to speak to our school. Having a love for words myself I found some of her main points were helpful to a young writer and student like me. This past Friday I was fortunate enough to see her share at W.S. Parker Middle School and take notes for my next article. She covered many areas from how to get ideas for stories to finding an editor.

Duble was very well spoken and is one of those people that can motivate middle school kids! One of her main points in the assembly was how to transform an experience into a book. She showed the audience a slide show of each book she had written and published. For each book she described the story behind it that motivated her to write the book. I found this very interesting. She used stories from her sibling, parents, friends, family members, and hobbies.

After the assembly I noticed that my hearing became more acute. Probably because Duble told the students to keep their ears open in case they heard an interesting story. Duble also told the students that the most inspiring stories are usually the short and simple kind. Overall the assembly was very inspiring and unique. After the assembly I found that Kathleen Benner Duble’s words were still echoing in my head. Being a journalist myself, I was fond of the assembly because Duble’s main points are important to students and young writers. By explaining the story behind each book she made, I realizes how anyone can use that experience as the foundation of their novel.

For some reason I always thought that authors just wrote books from their imagination, not based on their real experiences. Now students understand that the idea for a book or school essay can begin from anywhere. From a cheesy, funny story told by your grandmother when she was a kid, to when your father served in the war. Duble’s idea is important to a writer, because now they are inspired to write and create a story from the little things that happen in their life. Kathleen Benner Duble is an amazing author and teacher.

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by Justin Y. – 8th Grade

It was his third day here. His third day as an invader. And it didn’t seem like there would be many more days, the way things were going. Night had fallen in war-torn South Ossetia, and the streets resembled a ghost town; a ghost town where the ghosts were launching missile strikes into highly populated buildings. He’d snuck out of camp and was now wandering the eerie city streets. Through the quietly haunting destruction around him, Adrik spotted the remains of a building. Like a fly, helplessly attracted to a lamp, he strolled zombie-like through a massive hole in the building’s wall.

Upon entry he recognized the building to be a concert hall of sorts. Past torn up chairs and crumbling pillars, he made his way to the piano stool at the back of the stage, where a single lamp illuminated the dusty, yellow air around him. Once at the piano, he softly played a slow chord progression. How long he’d been there he didn’t know – time itself no longer had a grip on him. Through the dimly lit concert hall, a woman of about 19 or 20 slowly walked. The woman was clean, dressed in an expensive looking dress. Delicate feet carried her through the musty air. Without so much as an upward glance, she made her way to a guitar. Gradually she lifted her head, finally meeting his gaze. Adrik continued to play the piano as they gaped at each other across the stage of the concert hall. The moment was so surreal that neither of them believed the other was really there.

Finally the girl managed to snap out of her trance, and mustered the words, “What are you doing here? You’re a soldier.”

The statement was obvious. Grimy and covered in mud, he donned a camouflage-patterned Georgian military uniform. His sidearm rested coolly atop the piano, its barrel gleaming menacingly in the faint radiance of the lamp. After a while he responded coldly, “I don’t fight for them-I fight because it’s what I have to do. Not all of us are able to buy our way through life.”

By now he had stopped playing the piano. The woman sat at a concert chair and rested the guitar in her lap. “You think because of my shoes, or my clothes, that my life is so effortless? You live your entire life as the biggest disappointment of your widowed father’s life, and then tell me how you feel. He needed a son. I can never be that son.”

She spoke in a certain way. He could tell she had been keeping that in for a while. Adrik bowed his head, feeling a twinge of regret for being so aggressive. Still, she was definitely Russian, definitely upper class. “Some people have all the luck,” he replied slowly. “How about you tell me how it feels when your mom walks out on you and all you have left is an alcoholic, silhouette of a father.”

Neither of them spoke. Cold air penetrated the crumbling building and sent a sharp chill down Adrik’s spine. He could tell that he was not the only one in the room with problems. There was something in her eyes – it was pain. He had come here to escape the pain of this war. It was possible she had come here to flee whatever was hurting her. Adrik again played the piano. A slow, sad song. Staring at the guitar in her hands, the girl strummed along, quickly picking up his little tune. For a while they continued playing, pouring their souls into the music. Silence again overtook the room. The woman looked at him strangely for a second.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to be an author. I’ve thought about it often, but you’re the first person I’ve told.” Adrik thought for a moment. He realized he wanted to see her again, and immediately had a plan. “So that’s what you have to do. Write a book – become famous. Tell me your name. If you succeed I’ll be able to find you, and maybe we can play again together someday.”

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by Rayna P. – 8th Grade

I leap
I spin
I twirl
In a complicated dance that is
My protection

Your pen
Leaps
Spins
Twirls
As it scribbles the
Mindless instinct
That is
Its purpose

My legs
Snap
From the knee
Power
From the hip
To throw the invisible attacker

Your pen
Snaps
And
Scratches
Its way across the page
Powered
By your mind
Reaching out to touch
Your imagined reader

At first
I fell
I was ungraceful
Unprofessional

At first
You stumbled
Your writing was choppy
Unprofessional

I am
Weightless
As I fly
Through the air

You are
No longer here
As your brain
Sightlessly scrolls
Instinct
Upon the page
To capture
Something unseen
Unfelt
Untouched

In a way
They are,
We are
The same

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