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Archive for the ‘Creative Writing’ Category

 by Maria G. – 8th Grade

 March 12th, 2010.  Annabelle’s beloved elderly sister will be boarding the plane on a two-week trip to Mexico.  Afraid of the earthquake hotspots, poisonous insects, flues and more, she constantly begs her sister not to leave.  Annabelle is not surprised to hear “why wouldn’t I?,” her sister’s nonchalant reply, as she has received this answer many times before.  One day before the departure, Annabelle slips some insect repellent, vaccines, and a survival kit into the over-packed duffle bag by the front door.  Annabelle spends this last night dreading the day to come.

          Beep, beep, beep, beep. Slam.  Annabelle’s alarm clock is on the ground.  6:40, it reads.  She springs from her bed and runs down the stairs. However, she is too late. Her older sister has already left for Mexico. File:Ulyanovsk-2008-an-124 flight.jpgConvincing herself that everything will go fine, she worriedly gulps down breakfast and slips into old clothes.  She hurries off to school where her French teacher is, yet again, teaching some pointless lesson.  J’ai, Tu as, and every other French possessive noun are carelessly slipping from Annabelle’s mouth as she clicks her pen and thinks about her sister.  Next period, in Mr. James’ English class, the phone rings.  “Annabelle Brown, your mother is on the phone for you.”  She jumps from her seat, hoping it is news about her older sister’s safe landing to Mexico.  She throws the phone to her ear and immediately hears the sobs of her mom.  “Ann-annabelle, your sister… she’s been in a plane crash.”  Tears swell up in her eyes, as she is trying to put the pieces together.  Tybalt and Romeo are battling one minute, and she is receiving her own tragic news the next. 

          Annabelle’s mother picked her up from school early that day, and they mourned over their loss together.  Spending the rest of the day in her room, she throws out everything that would remind her of her sister.  Pictures, books, cards and clothes are rocketing out of her room and into the trash.  Annabelle is positive everything is gone, and she returns downstairs to her mother. On her way down the stairs, she spots a small, neon yellow sticky-note, isolated from the rest of the junk on the staircase.  Annabelle picks it up and begins to read it.

Annabelle,

Thanks for the survival kit.

Don’t worry about me!

“Why wouldn’t I?” Annabelle thinks.

Photo Courtesy of WikiMedia Commons

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by Elaina S. – 8th Grade

Gentle hearts are the garden

Gentle deeds are the fruits

Gentle words are the flowers

Gentle thoughts are the roots

My great aunt Leontine made me a pillow and stitched those exact words on it. Each sentence means something different, but they all relate to each other.

Gentle hearts are the garden. What happens in a garden? Things grow. Plants are grown and nurtured. When those seeds are put into the soil, they don’t all grow the same. Some may sprout up fast then slow, while others may grow a little bit larger each day. People with gentle hearts allow seeds to grow. Gentle hearts allow people to grow the way they are designed to grow. Gentle hearts understand that seeds and people all grow differently.

Gentle deeds are the fruits. A good deed is something person does out of the goodness of their heart. It is the fruit of the gentle heart. The fruits grow because they have been nurtured in the garden. The deeds are nurtured from the gentle heart. A good deed is the thing someone will remember. They may not remember the person who did the good deed, but they will remember the deed itself. The deed itself speaks volumes.

Gentle words are the flowers. Flowers are pretty and they are appealing. Flowers are nice to look at, and gentle words are nice to hear. You could say something extremely nice and that could make someone’s day.

Gentle thoughts are roots. The roots are the base of any plant. Roots are the invisible strength. You don’t see the roots, but they are there, supporting the plant, feeding the plant, and allowing the plant to survive. There would be no fruits or flowers without the roots. The garden would be dead. Thoughts are the invisible strength behind the gentle deeds, the gentle words, and the gentle heart. Without gentle thoughts, there would be no gentle words, gentle deeds, and there would be no gentle hearts. There would be no garden.

Photo Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

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by Anna G. – 8th Grade

Why write fiction?  It’s funny how such a simple question can have such a complicated answer.  “All the time I wonder why I never wrote fantasy, authors like Stephanie Meyer and J.K. Rowling were very successful after writing the Harry Potter and Twilight books,”  explains visiting author Doug Wilhelm,  “…but I don’t write fantasy, because it doesn’t click with me.  I write stories that are realistic but still have a plot that keeps you reading, because that is the kind of story that I like to read myself.”  Wilhelm has written many books that are considered realistic fiction including Falling, The Revealers, and Raising the Shades.   Once these three books were mentioned, the curiosity of those who had read them was stirred, and many more questions surfaced. 

One student asked the question that many of us were wondering, “What is easier to write, fiction or non-fiction?”  Wilhelm explained that, “…with non-fiction, you have a story that you just need to add details to through research.”  And that, “With fiction, not only do you have to create your own characters, but you also have to create a plot for them to follow and obstacles for them to encounter along that plot.”    Other students asked Wilhelm about his personal writing style with questions like, “Do themes or characters re-occur in any of your books?”  To which he responded, “…none of my books have repetitive themes or characters except for the sequel to the Revealers that I’m writing, which is the first sequel I’ve ever written.”

After Wilhelm finished reminiscing about his personal experiences as a writer, he began to elaborate on the creative writing process.  One common question which led to others was, “How long does it take you to publish a book?”  Wilhelm explained to his audience that, “…one of my books was rejected many times, and was still never published,” and, “The publishers have much more power than the writer when it comes to publishing a book.”  Sometimes we don’t realize what kind of valuable insight we can get from authors that may not be as well-known.  Doug Wilhelm inspired me and hopefully many of those interested in writing here at Parker.

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Migration

by Claire W. – 6th Grade

 

 

A bird flying south

Through the dimming sky

 Has really no choice

But to fly or to die.

 

 

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by Anna G.- 8th Grade

When our car reached the end of the street, my attention was caught by a makeshift sign hanging off of an old oak tree.  Words snaked across the old beam of wood in curly black letters; they read File:Wintry scenery.jpg“Oak Ridge Golf Course.” Paint peeled on the sign’s edges and icicles were hanging off of the bottom.  I stepped out of our old red Subaru Outback, my eyes passing over the familiar scratch near the back that looked like a fish.  I paused to look ahead of me at the breathtaking scene of untouched snow that seemed to go on for miles. 

The hill was menacing next to my timid five-year-old body.  Snow covered trees who had lost their leaves in late fall glistened in the early morning sunlight.  For a second I had a feeling of fear, which was soon replaced by excitement.  I turned to my mom and dad who were unloading the sleds out of the back of the car.  We were all bundled up in coats, hats, mittens, and boots because it was getting colder each day now.  I could even see my breath in a foggy cloud before me, staying suspended in the air for a few seconds, and then disappearing as I drew in a new breath. 

For a few moments, it was so quiet and peaceful that when my little brother’s footsteps crunched up next to me, I jumped.  He turned and pointed to a dark blue Honda Pilot pulling up next to us.  Its thick black wheels on the icy snow made a sound that imitates gravel crunching on a dirt road.  “Looks like we’re not the only ones here,” my mom noted, and I have to admit that I was a little disappointed.  When we had first arrived, the idea of having the hill all to ourselves was delightful.  I turned and took my brother Joe by the hand and whispered in his ear, “I guess we have to share.”  He looked up at me puzzled, and obviously hadn’t understood anything I had said, but still trudged along next to me, eager for the fun to start.

I hoisted my brand new sled from the trunk with help from my dad and started to pull it towards the hill.  I was so proud of that sled; it was top of the line and was black with red racing stripes.  It was large enough so that my body could fit in it lying down, so more than one person could sit in it at a time.  On the box it had even said that it was the fastest sled around, which added to the childish excitement that consumed me.  As I guided it towards the hill it made a quiet scraping sound on the icy snow.  I looked back, noticing my family starting to follow me and the faint marks that the runners of my sled left in the snow.  I sped up, making sure I got there first.

I reached the top of the hill and was reminded of its astonishing size.  I felt like a pebble next to a boulder.  I wasn’t one to pass on any kind of challenge, even at age five, so this was just another adventure to me.  I wanted to throw a snowball and see how far down it would go, so that maybe I wouldn’t feel as small.  The first handful of snow that I took from the ground crumbled between my gloved fingers.  I was wearing my favorite gloves; they were fuzzy and pink, had Mickey Mouse on the top, and had little grips in the shape of hearts on the inside of each hand.  I reached down and picked up a new handful of snow, which I hurled as hard as I could.  When it became airborne it was hit by a huge gust of wind, which blew a mound of snow back into my face. 

I flinched, impatiently brushing the snow off of my face and opened my mouth to take in a deep breath of chilly air.  I could feel snowflakes melting on my tongue.  Snowflakes are just as fun to catch on your tongue the 15th time as it is the 1st, especially when you’re five.  Soon my family walked up beside me.  Joe turned and pointed at the other group of people on the other edge of the hill.  “Friends?” he questioned, being two and a half years old and not knowing many words.  “Maybe,” my mom replied, glancing at me with a look that read ‘go along with it’.  I put down my sled and held onto the string.  “I want to go with Mom this time” I said, looking up with a hopeful smile. 

As I turned to face the hill again my mom bent down next to me so that she was just about at eye level with me.  “You sure you want to go down this big hill Anna honey?” She looked into my eyes, knowing how I ignored when she called me honey at just the right times.  “Yes!” I almost yelled. I made certain not to look the least bit scared despite the uneasy feeling in my stomach.  We got onto our sleds with Joe and I in the front and Mom and Dad in the back.  My mom’s strong arms around my little waist were reassuring, and I was more than ready to conquer this hill.  “Okay, let’s go!” my dad exclaimed, and we pushed off. 

File:Sparkling-snow.fairytale.jpgIt was an amazing feeling.  The cold air whipped against my face and blurred the quickly moving scenery around me.  The once crisp clear trees and snow covered sheds around the golf course now looked like ones in a watercolor painting.    As we glided down the hill I was aware of myself laughing, and of the vague sensation that I was flying.  This went on until we were near the bottom of the hill, and almost too soon, it was over.  My heightened senses and heady feeling of thrill was replaced by a desire to do it all over again.  We trudged back up the hill and were all flushed a light shade of pink when we reached the top.  “I want to go by myself this time,” I said and looked up at my parents with the eyes I knew always got to them.  My dad smiled warmly.  “Really?”  He laughed.  “Already?  You’ve only been down once!” his voice showed amusement even though his face showed fatherly concern.  “Don’t worry, I can do it.” I said, which brought on another quiet bout of laughter which I knew wasn’t intended to be insulting, but always made me a little mad.  I grabbed my sled and jumped on. 

This ride was twice as good as the first.  I swerved left and right, feeling the sled move easily with my silent commands.  When I reached the bottom, I raced back up the hill, trying not to slip on the icy mounds of snow that were around every corner. As I looked around I saw the lines that traced the path that I had taken down the hill, which would be covered up by new snow in a few hours.  I dragged my sled over to a tree and carefully draped the string around its base.  My mom and dad were talking over by the car, so I sat down next to my brother who was playing with the snow around him.  When I reached him, he turned to me and looked at me with the face that always made me laugh, when he narrows his eyes and one eyebrow is higher than the other.  I tried not to laugh, and didn’t succeed when he looked at me and said two words with a completely solemn expression.  “Show off.”

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by Jen T. – 8th Grade

The Devils howled and cheered. The buzzer beeped, the crowd roared, and the game was over. The Devils were hooting with excitement, giving each other high fives. But not the Breakers, the losing team. The Breakers swore. The Devils were too busy being interviewed by reporters to hear. It was unusual for the Breakers to have such poor sportsmanship. Even in a rare loss, they had a good team spirit. So why this time? Why did it have to be this now, the time that my dad took me to my first real basketball game?

I was eleven, one of five children, and after months of planning I was especially looking forward to this night. My dad is a reporter, constantly at sporting events, typing away at his pencil-thin Macbook, posting the scores and the results of the games. Somehow, he squeezed a night off and two tickets to the Devils/ Breakers game. As we sat courtside we took it all in. The people, the smells, the music pounding in the big, black speakers – most importantly, my dad sitting next to me.

I will never forget that night, spent with two of my favorite things: My father and basketball. Though there is one thing I wish I could forget. At the end of the game, when the Breakers had lost, I heard them swearing, using words that I had heard older kids say and of which Mom and Dad weren’t too fond. I couldn’t believe how distraught and immature they were acting. The Devils, who were celebrating, tried to shake the hands of the Breakers, but the Breakers furiously stormed away. As things started to get worse, Dad and I quickly hurried out of the stuffy court and walked outside in the chilly, late night air.

The next morning, I walked into the kitchen, yawning. My dad sat at the table, in his robe and slippers, drinking his morning coffee. His brow furrowed as he looked at the paper, sliding it across the table to show me.“BREAKERS GONE WILD!” the headline screamed. Below, was a huge picture of the team captain giving a rude hand gesture to the coach of the Devils.

Why couldn’t they just accept a loss? Whenever my basketball team loses, we shake hands with the other team and say “Good game!” Across the room, the tv was filled with more snapshots of last night’s game appear on the screen. At first, I was wondering why my father was so upset. Didn’t he see these things weekly?

Then it hit me.

It was because I was with him, and this was supposed to be our special time. I don’t think he wanted me to see the other team get so upset. The thought that he felt this way because of me made me guilty and unsettled, I wanted him to know that it was ok. I got up, put my arm around him, and told him that these things happen, and we’ll get over it.

Photo Courtesy of: Wikimedia Commons

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