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Posts Tagged ‘8th Grade’

By Regan L., 8th Grade

The stage lights shine on the actors, bringing life to the characters inside of them.  No longer do the insecurities and pressures of middle school exist; they melt away when your feet hit the stage.  TheaterImage is an escape for me, a place where I can express myself, be myself, and invigorate my passion and dreams.  This year’s production of Aladdin Jr. is the best performance I have ever been a part of, and I am proud to say that I was involved in such an amazing show, with such a talented, inspiring group of people.  Although it is bittersweet that the show has ended, the memories we’ve made will last forever.

From the moment I walked into the first rehearsal this year, I knew that this year’s production of Aladdin Jr. would be one of the most rewarding, remarkable experiences ever.  I opened the creaky, wooden auditorium doors, the sound of singing, laughter, and the chit-chat of friends filled my ears, and I knew I was at home.  Every day I would sit in school and imagine going to rehearsal, the slow ticking of the clock hands moving along like a snail.  All day all I looked forward to was rehearsal, seeing my new friends, and thriving in an environment with no pressure to be the same as everyone else.  Rehearsal and all of Aladdin Jr. cultivated an environment of creativity and acceptance.  No matter what I did, I always knew that I would never be judged, and that I could be myself no matter what.  Aladdin Jr. was an opposite environment from middle school: a bubble of judgment, harsh opinions, and conforming to others’ expectations.

When I step onstage, I transform into another person.  I can commit to my character, and in an environment of love and imagination, I am able to achieve that easily.  You never feel unapproved of or insecure when you forget a line or don’t sound perfect, because everyone involved in the cast and crew is so kind and understanding.  This year’s production was the first lead role I ever received, so I know I made many mistakes, but I always felt proud of my work, and I always knew that everyone else appreciated the hard work I put in, rather than dwelling on the errors.

As I sat crouched behind the side of the stage on opening night, I couldn’t help but start beaming as the curtains opened, revealing the narrators, colorful set, and the tune of Arabian Nights.  I couldn’t believe that all our hard work had finally paid off.  After long days, hours running lines, scenes, and songs, I couldn’t believe that my journey was coming to an end.  Playing the role of Princess Jasmine, and being able to co-star alongside some of the most creative people I know was awe-inspiring, and I will never forget the memories I have shared with all of them.  The very experience of being involved in such an amazing production was something I will always treasure.  So, wherever my journey in life and theater takes me, I will always hold the city of Agrabah and its citizens in my heart.

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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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White Lightning

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Photo Courtesy of WikiMedia Commons

by Ryan V., 8th Grade

The cold, smooth-feeling ice and fresh fumes in the air almost makes you shiver while sending chills down your spine.  I look down and see my reflection, which sometimes does not seem to mirror me. If I was angry or sad I would slowly skate across the ice talking deep breaths, and when I close my eyes a new feeling of happiness would take the place of the bad things I want out of my head. Without ice I would be lost.

When I touch the ice I feel like I am a god looking over Antarctica.  The sweet music the ice makes when your cut you blades into it.  Sometimes I think about what it would be like to look up through the icy surface from below.  I can image seeing silver dashes of lightning glide across the surface. I could hear the sticks banging on the ice and the bodies smashing against the hard, cold surface.

When I look at the ice I see myself standing face to face and see little pieces of crystal being set free by the wind.  I visualize the cracks in the ice acting like tiny little canyons.  I see friends having the time of their lives playing pond hockey. “Puck, Puck!” the kids say as they dash across the ice.”GOAL!” Suddenly their gloves are like birds in the air.

The ice can clear your mind and set you free when you step on it with skates to play before a game.  I feel like nothing can stop me from being the best I can be. When I get on the ice I feel like the only thing controlling me are my legs. I look up and see a giant cloud in front of my face. I close my eyes and I feel like I am in a whole different world. I think to myself, if I die, I want to be playing hockey.

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-by Kelcey H., 8th Grade

It was then my eyes gazed upon a magnificent monument, all lit up under the night sky. I was swiped into history as I stood back to see. It hit me. This inner feeling that I cannot explain filled my stomach. It towered over us in its beauty and the message of freedom.

Above the statue, the monument states; “In this temple as in the hearts of the people for whom he saved the union the memory of Abraham Lincoln is enshrined forever.” All inside the walls of the Lincoln memorial.

Despite our fascinated faces, I could only pay attention to the words held inside. “Fourscore and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation, conceived in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.” The powerful words out of one man’s mouth took me over as I found myself having to read every word on the wall. The speeches about freedom and justice made me feel like America is our home and our country.

To climb those stairs up to the monument seemed like a journey through time. Just to climb up to the top seemed to have the feeling of freedom. Faces lit up as people marveled over the statue of our former president. And even though I have already seen it years ago, I don’t think I was old enough to really understand how he effected America so greatly. To have a president full of ambition and fearlessness was what America needed to strive to move forward.

The statue itself is simply stunning and inspirational. Just by looking at it, sitting up high in its chair, shows the importance of this historical figure. The breathtaking view is absolutely incredible, but to actually experience seeing it yourself is much more rewarding.

Going to Washington broadened my understanding of how much has changed in America. And after going there I often find myself rethinking what had happened before our time.

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-by Walter G., 8th Grade

courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Have Boston’s streets ever hit you at the heart? Have they ever made you cry? Millions of people struggle in the streets of our cities. Homelessness is everywhere; it’s not an uncommon thing to see. Boston is where I live and I am not proud of what the economy and the world has done to most people. Lost jobs, incredible amounts of debt and when it’s all been said… no one volunteers to step in and help.

At the Holocaust Memorial I noticed a man sleeping on a bench in ragged clothing and I felt sorry and helpless towards him. This is where we live. And this is the place we call home. What is home? The clear definition is not as easy for those like the man sleeping on the bench. In their mind they simply need to survive.

The next time you feel pity amongst your existence or feel the world is falling down onto your shoulders, think about the ones who actually have the world on their shoulders. You could be one of those on the streets with a tin can, looking in the eyes of the people who throw you quarters or pennies. Think about your life and how lucky you are to be in the position you are in. Think about their lives. Who is there for them to reach out to?

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-by Grace T., 8th Grade

I took a deep breath and stepped forward into what felt like an entirely different world.

The rumble of cars and chattering of the crowd around me faded away, until the very air was still. A solemn hush settled over us. Although people pushed by me on all sides, some still whispering, I felt completely alone. Elegant glass towers stretched skyward; their transparent walls glinting. A calm garden of smooth stones surrounded us. Sunlight filtered through the glass, and below our feet there twinkled a thousand tiny lights; like stars in a midnight sky. There was a sense of serenity and fragility in the air; impossible to ignore and unthinkable to break. It was a beautiful and sacred place.

The walls of each tower were lined with chilling descriptions of the Concentration Camps, as well as millions upon millions of tiny numbers; one for each person whose life was claimed in that time of fear and chaos that we have come to know as the German Holocaust. My gaze fell upon a quote engraved in the glass: “My younger sister went up to a Nazi soldier with one of her friends. Standing naked, embracing each other, she asked to be spared. He looked into her eyes and shot the two of them. They fell together in their embrace- my sister and her young friend.” Upon reading this, I paused for a moment, and closed my eyes. People continued walking around me, the gentle summer breeze worked its way through my hair, and I was surprised to feel a tear slip down my cheek.

I am not Jewish. These were not my people. And still, I cried. I cried for the millions of people who lost their lives; victims of cruelty and injustice. I cried for the children who never lived to see adulthood. I cried for the families, friends, and lovers torn apart by the Nazi movement. And I even cried for the Nazis themselves; whose minds had been twisted and warped by the lies of Adolf Hitler. But tears of joy mingled with tears of sorrow, because I realized, as I stood there alone in the silence, that this beautiful memorial was concrete evidence that false truths and tragedy are always overshadowed by triumph, compassion, and love. And when I opened my eyes again, and felt a final tear trickle down my face, I didn’t wipe it away. I let it stay there, sparkling in the light of the sun.

Let it serve as a reminder to those who would otherwise forget.

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A Response to John Donne’s “No Man is an Island”

by Willy D., 8th Grade

No man is a bagel
all made of wheat
bagels have no eyes
bagels can’t tell lies
and have no feet

No bagel you’ll meet
has ever stole a dollar
or a thousand or two
from the bank down the street
like us people do

A bagel is tasty
as long as it’s smothered
with a very thick layer
with some condiment or another
like a creamy white cover

I like all my bagels
with some kind of addition
like chocolate or raisins
lain out with precision
inside of its breading
where my mouth is heading

People aren’t like bagels
you can’t cut inside them
with a small plastic knife
and see what comprises them

You can’t take a life
and put cream cheese inside of it
you can’t take a man apart
and look at his heart
and see what resides in it
like a raisin or poppy seed
no one’s that easy to read.
Or at least I hope so.

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