pendragon

Pendragon is a publication of the Greens Farms Academy Middle School, 35 Beachside Avenue, Greens Farms, CT 06838.

Front cover: Liz Hogan, 8th gradeBack cover: Kallie Fellows, 7th grade Design & Layout: Mr. Ben GottPrinting: Granville Printing, Fairfield, CT

Pendragon Board Members(* denotes a student in 8th grade)

Maggie Boudreau*

Macy Lawton Christine Ruhe* Darcy Whitman

Eva Hafner Jules Becker* Julia McGonagle*

Kate Bundy* Lauren Telesz* Maeve Flaherty*

Sam Agnew* Shira Friedson Ali Tritschler*

Faculty Advisors: Thanks to:

Mr. Ben Gott Ms. Elizabeth Cleary Mrs. Robbi Hartt Mr. Drew Meyer Mr. Griffen Stabler Mr. Matt Norko

http://www.gfacademy.org | pendragon@gfacademy.org

All submissions were reviewed anonymously and chosen on merit alone.

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“Write what should not be forgotten.”

—Isabel Allende

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Table of Contents

!........................................................................The School Room 5

.............................................................................What Is Love? 6............................................................................................Stevik 7

...............................................................Snowfall in the Woods 8.....................................................................................What Was 9....................................................................................East Berlin 10

.........................................................................Phoenix Floating 11.............................................Out of sight, but not out of Mind 13............................................Looking Back from a Photograph 14

.............................................................The Bench of Memories 15.......................................................................................New Toy 16

...........................................................................Transformation 17............................................................................Him and Them 18

.....................................................................Last Man Standing 19.................................................................................Plane Views 21

...............................................Goodbye and a New Beginning 22......................................................................................Snapshot 23

.............................................................................................Crow 24....................................................................................Every Day 25

.........................................................................Gaining Altitude 26..........................................................................Do You Realize? 27

...............................................................The Shelves of History 28.........................................................................................Melony 29

...................................................................The Source of Death 31......................................................................................The Slide 32

...................................................................................The Haven 33.................................................................................True Friends 34

..........................................................................Letter from War 36

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.........................................................................................A Cycle 38.............................................................................................Sense 39

................................................................................................Kite 40.................................................................................Hint Fiction 41

..........................................................................................Sonnet 43............................................................................Just After Dark 44

..................................................................................A Little Kid 46..........................................................................Framing the Sea 47

.............................................................When It’s Dark Outside 49..................................................................Where I’m From (#1) 50..................................................................Where I’m From (#2) 51..................................................................Where I’m From (#3) 53................................................................A Chilling Experience 54

Photograph by Ingrid Backe, 8th grade

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The School Room

Bits of blue abandoned Expo marker are scattered across the board.School books lie on the dull wooden table.Bits of loose paper lie tattered, ripped, crumpled and marked across the table and floor.

Wires and plugs bunch up in twisted knots, loops and twirls along the ground, searching for an outlet. The sun pours through the window,staining marks on the wooden table with bright lines,covering the schoolbooks with warm glaze and bringing them to life.

Soft ripples of chatter from the hallway seep through dense walls.The bell rings, and the room comes to life once again, like a flower blooming in late spring.The books rise up into childrens’ soft handsand are hugged tightly to their chestsas they dash out the door.

—Tatiana Crawford, 8th grade

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What Is Love?

Is love walking on the beach,holding hands together, while the palm trees sway in the distance?

Or is love something you can pick out of a store window,Say, “I want the tiny blue one, next to the red striped one in the middle,”and then display it on the table and let it collect dust?

Is love a disposable apparatus,used once and then thrown away, sitting on a curb with a glum look on its face?

Or is love a rose that sits in a clear vaseon the table next to the chocolatesin a heart-shaped box?

Is love a pretty facegazing warmly into your ownwith a smile that sets your heart on fire?

Or is love something more than that?

—Bryan Matte, 8th grade

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Stevik

The wind is an ice cube in a drink that is already too cold.Her hands rub against me as if they will magically warm me up.The man’s voice is like fingernails on a chalkboard.I can barely hear as he says:“Three! Two! One! Hut!”Suddenly, the hands are gone, and I’m in the bumps.The cold pierces my skin like a knife.I’m in the air, my heart racinglike the engine of a car.I spread my arms out—a spread eagle.When I land, the cold piles of snow fly toward me.I’m in the air again.I think:Pop! Maneuver! Landing!I throw out the double twister spread.The force of the landing is immense.

I cross the finish line.

—Griffin Segalla, 6th grade

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Snowfall in the Woods

Winter’s tears lie down in a sheet of snow.The clouds hang low beneath the atmosphere.The snowflakes fall gently and descend below,erasing the color from the leaves and branches.Winter’s cool breath swirls around the pool of white,immersing the fauna in a cold blanket.It seems there is no escaping the snowy night.The moon, as well, is no longer apparent,lost forever in a dark, blank picture—erased by the beauty of snowfall in the woods.

-Kate Bundy, 8th grade

Photograph by LuLu Foster, 8th grade

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What Was

I’m sitting in a chair staring across the table at an empty seatreminding me of the empty hole in my heart.Then I see the door opening and she walks in,so beautiful there are no words that could possibly describe her.Her eyes twinkle like the stars in the night skyand her hair is a color so perfect it doesn’t need a label.Every step she takes, my heart skips a beat,for without her, my heart would not beat at all.I am afraid to reveal my feelingsfor fear that she would not feel the same way.I see her taking the empty seatknowing she was the one for me—the one to fix the hole in my heart.I’ve made attempts only to see them thwarted,so I sit, watching and waiting.

—Cristian Rivera, 8th grade

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East Berlin

My brain whirred with the scenery and surroundings.I was absorbing every little detail around me like they were my last breaths.The environment was dull and dark.East Berlin welcomed me with bullet-holed wallsthat looked like they were going to take their last blow within the next few heartbeats.Even the skies seemed unhappy and gloomy,anxious to escape the box and boundaries that they had been limited to for so long.My nose immediately filled with the smell of fear;it was all around me, edging into my body.Walking around the streets,I felt like I was a prisoner,isolated from the rest of the world.I suddenly knew the feeling of longing—longing to leave—but there were so many mysteries that the bridges, museums, and old buildings held,urging me to stay; holding me back for a few more hours. I was becoming exhausted from hearingthe same irritating sound of shuffling feet on the bumpy stone roadover and over and over again,the sound ringing in my ears.It felt like I was going to be walking forever,roaming only the alleys of my imagination, trying to picture a happier place—a destination that I could get to.But instead, I was trudging on the faded blue streets of East Berlin,going in one direction that led to nowhere—the same as everybody else.

—Giselle Briand, 7th grade

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Phoenix Floating

By the second day on the boat, Phuong’s skin had been whitened by the salt ingrained in her pores. It was painful in an odd way, itchy, and so she was a frozen statue, no longer attempting to move at all. Her knees were curled up against her chest, her back leaning against the women behind her. She was surrounded on all sides by a mass of humanity, stuffed and sweltering on the deck of the boat. There were more than one and a half people for every square foot of deck space, and even more stuffed into the dark, dank hold—stuffed together like sardines in a can, 178 people on an 80-square-foot boat. They were united by fear and a dream—a dream of money, freedom, of anything other than Communist Vietnam. Every now and then Phuong imagined that she heard her mother’s voice crying out to her, but then it would fade, another voice in the groaning, crying, whispering cacophony of sound that was this boat. Even the sound was starting to fade now, though. There had been no fresh water for the past three days, and the slightest groaning took an energy that few possessed. Phuong, in particular, was silent and had been since that first night. There was nothing to say that anyone would listen to, no prayers that the gods would answer. She was just a fifteen-year-old girl, forced onto a ship floating (their en-gine had long since broken) in search of freedom. It had been a dark night when the man told them it was time to leave, but she shouldn’t have been the one leaving. They had only enough money to send one, and that one was supposed to be her brother, but he had been out running around with his friends, and the boat waited for nobody. So her mother had packed the valuables and sent her off with barely a kiss. Her brother and her father hadn’t been there to say goodbye. Phuong was fifteen and utterly alone. She had taken her last step on Vietnamese soil without being able to see it, had been unable to watch her mother waving from the shore. The moon was not out; it refused to shine on such a hopeless endeavor. Phuong had not made a sound then, but as their boat slid away from shore,

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she panicked. Phuong cried, screamed, and pleaded, hoping that they might get caught; that she might get to go home. She was in the midst of a long, drawn-out scream when sud-denly she was forced over the railing. Some of the stars had come out, and she watched them twinkling as her hair slowly dipped into the unforgiving ocean. The man who was pushing her was calm and col-lected as he said in an even, measured tone, “You have three seconds to shut up, or I will kill you. You won’t get the rest of us caught.” He dangled her over the side until she was silent, and then dumped her in the middle of the deck. “Good girl,” he said. “Stay quiet and you might actually survive.” Phuong had not made a sound since. She did not make a sound when all of her belongings were thrown overboard to appease the ocean gods. She did not make a sound when her food was snatched away from her by the mother next to her, a woman made brutal by the needs of her child. She did not make a sound when the water stopped coming; when the engine broke; when her tiny deck space started to shrink. She did not make a sound when she fell ill; when she became delirious; when nothing felt real anymore. Phuong means “phoenix” in Vietnamese, and a phoenix must die to be reborn. Phuong died, and out of the ashes rose Phyllis, a good American girl. English replaced Vietnamese; chicken noodle soup replaced pho. She became a true, legal American, with a husband and children in the land of the free. But Phyllis never forgot Vietnam. Every now and then, Phyllis returns home, and Phuong flies again. Except now, Phuong flies free.

—Maeve Flaherty, 8th grade

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Out of sight, but not out of Mind

A bookshelf filledwith books he read when he was younger.Scattered picture framesjumbled around:snapshots of past adventures.

A Batman poster, a canoe paddleengraved with the words “Kieve-2011.”An empty guitar case.

Old bedspreads featuring small yellow islands.A plaid pillow, a half unwrapped lollypop;a game of Eagles Monopoly still open,the dice splayed across the board;a small cheerleader figurine poised on the “Andy Reid” space,her pom-poms raised.

Next to a book by John Feinstien,frayed sailing gloves once saturated in saltglazed with a thin layer of dust.

Small blazers, muddy sneakers, a green sleeping bag.A sharp-edged crayon drawingdepicted a wobbly drawn figure.Scrawled words below: “ILU Alec, love Brookie!”A shaky exclamation point.

—Brookie McIlvaine, 8th grade

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Looking Back from a Photograph

The smiles of young girls and boys fill my eyes,red from the winter air.I see bruised knees and snowy feet.

My two big snow pants leave huge prints in the dirty snow.

The smile was genuine. The lips were pale and dry. The hands were cold, yet still always clammyand full of Play-Doh.

My laugh, both annoying and too loud,echoed through the school halls.

The aroma of innocence.The feeling of happiness.

—Kay Maloney, 8th grade

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The Bench of Memories

A little girl and boy sit together hand in handThe same dimple on the right cheekThe same sea green eyes, electrifying in the sunlightThe same smileAn inseparable bond is intertwined between themLike a piece of thread, woven into an ornate tapestryThey are there for each other all the timeA fallA fight in schoolYesterday at the toy shop, not getting the bright red ball

No matter what the circumstances areThat bond will never breakEach handClutching the other oneFingers wrapped aroundA tear rolls down the girl’s faceA reminder of the pastFights over the blue choo choo train Punches being thrownWailing and screaming filling the airTeasingName-callingJust being plain annoyingNot being left aloneSomeone always there Disrupting you and your thoughtsNot having the whole chocolate cake to yourselfThe one mom specially makes every Sunday

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But sometimes all the tormenting and fights are alrightBecause you know

That at the end of the dayThere will always be someone there for youWho understands you

And loves you. —Lucy Ferry, 8th grade

New Toy

I walk in to the sounds of screamsthat sound like mine.I see a newborn—red face,eyelashes like spider webs,eyes crunched in determination—wrapped in a pink blanket.

She opens her brown eyesas she is placed on the hospital bed.I lie beside her next to my reward:a toy Astromech with blinking lightsand a dozen features.

“Who chose this?” I ask.

“She did,” they say.

—Jack Murray, 6th grade

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Transformation(inspired by Athol Fugard’s “Master Harold”...and the boys)

Those words are yours.They emerge from your lips as a dove,humanity bleached from its white wings.Seeing me, they disfigure themselves,so they spring forward,and a jaguar's clamped jaw pierces the sole of my foot.Ammonia stings more thanthe malice that is absent from your voice. I will not scream because help will not come and help will not care.I know what to do with jaguars:strike your only match,waste your only chance for dignityand the monster will shirk away into the depths of the forest,yellow eyes still, unmoved,haunting me patiently, waiting for smoke to stop and for the chance to wound again. Little do you know:fangs will not purge my soul's darkness.You may see me bleed, but you will never see me clean.

—Christine Ruhe, 8th grade

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Him and Them

He entered a white room.A thin mattress was lyingon a blank slate.Deep lines pressed into his skin.Under thick white strands,a distant voicesaid it was infection.They said it would spreadfrom one cell to another,that it would slowly overtake his mind.Others watchedin a somber awe.When it began,he forgot where he left his briefcase.Then the pictures that filled it,forgetting who they were.He lost them.They begged for a cure, they hadn’t forgotten.They longed for their memories,the memories of what once was.Until one fateful daywhen memories were all that was leftHe forgot.And in his last moment,He stillCouldn’t grasp why.

—Carmen Martin, 8th grade

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Last Man Standing

“Come on, Segalla, let’s go!” I screamed at Griffin, grabbing his shoulders and hoisting him up. I turned, pulled the trigger, and watched as a score of paintballs spat towards the oncoming enemy team. He did the same, and then turned rapidly, doubled over as he ran. He jumped straight into the trench, and I, the lieutenant of the team, followed with a headfirst dive. “Durkin, you got eyes?” shouted Sam over the din of guns bang-ing. He looked towards me with a panicked look, and his voice was cracking with anxiety. “On the left, on the left! Maclear, Danny, give covering fire!” I shouted as a paintball flew past my face and almost simultaneously another hit the dirt, covering me with a large explosion of pink goo. The splatter covered my mask, blocking all visibility. “Move it, come on!” I screamed as I wiped the paint from my mask. “God, they’re everywhere!” shouted John, diving down. I leaned against the side of the trench and poked my head above the main line. As multiple paintballs jumped past, I ducked down, devising a plan. Reassuring myself that it was complete, I leaned towards my team. As I turned, I saw Sam’s large body double up, spin around, and fall. Realizing he was hit, I jumped into command of the team. “Alright, Segalla, on me! John, Danny, take the left flank! Ma-clear, Robinson, on the right! Hooah!” I shouted, receiving a reply sec-onds later. “HOOAH!” screamed the rest of the team in unison. Jumping out of the trench, we pushed forward until we reached a second trench, slipping through the mud on our way. Three paintballs landed straight ahead of me, causing me to flip over them and into the trench. “On our six! They’re moving behind us!” I shouted. “I got ‘em! I got ‘em!” screamed Danny over the spitting guns. I watched as one of the enemy team members spun over, followed by a second coming down on top of him. I whirled my gun round towards the front, firing blindly into a mass of enemy soldiers.

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Looking out the corner of my eye, I saw Danny fall. He crawled off the battlefield, leaving John, Griffin, and me. The firing stopped, and we slowly advanced towards a house, barricaded by a trench and logs. We knew that there were only two enemy members left on the battlefield and that they had to be in this area. At that moment, the first of the two flew out of the trench but was quickly put down after being sprayed with paintballs. We crept towards the trench in a “V Formation.” Upon reaching the edge of the trench, the last enemy soldier jumped out, holding down his trigger. As bullets sprayed wildly passed us, we saw Griffin spin to the left on the impact of a bullet and then right himself as a second hit him in the side, three more sprayed against his chest, and a sixth hit him square in the head. “Keep moving!” I shouted. Griffin, now moaning on the ground, didn’t move. John, on the opposite side of me, fell back into my arms, knocking me to the ground. Sliding into the trench underneath John, I fired my gun around his side. After using the last of my paintballs, I got up to sur-vey the landscape. I was the only person on the field standing. We had won.

—Drew Durkin, 6th grade

Photograph by Avery Vanacore, 8th grade

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Plane Views

I look outside,It’s different,It’s beautiful,The kids are sleeping.Wait until they see this!The sapphire shadesAnd green grounds,No more Russian russet, rays of rust.Waves of blue hovering over the ground,Hope fills the air,I can smell it inside the air-concealing windows.In Russia I was strangled and trapped,But now in the land of America,The land that is foreign to me,I feel at home.I just stare at the life I have ahead.Green leaves that give me air,That give me freedomand opportunities to fulfill my desires.I am home.But no matter how much I try, I do not forget.I remember those horrible moments in Russia.The days that I wondered what would become of my kids.I almost lost my job.I could have lost my family.But I still do not erase these memories.I cherish them,Hold on to them,Because in those horrible times there were amazing moments.My two beautiful children being born,Marrying my wife,Remembering friends, family, and my dear mother.Will I ever see her again?I carry these memories in my pocket like loose coins.

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They teach me lessons,And they each have a different face on the surface.I will not take my new life for granted.I will not call it my new lifeBecause I have one life.I will remember my old home,But I will not call it my old homeBecause it is still my home.A home is a place where you belong.I once belonged in Russia and I still do.I do not have a new home or an old home,I have two homes,One life, And I will embrace them all. —Michaela Cohen, 7th grade

Goodbye and a New Beginning

The stun of the sun in my face.Goodbye.Tears on the ground, a puddle of sadness.Staying strong.

What next?My mind wanders like a dog in a park.My thoughts and I are alone,six months living on this ship.

A letter is hope, a light shining at the end of the tunnel.Hope gets me through the hardest days—the hope of getting home safely to my family.

—Devon Wolfe, 7th grade

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Snapshot

It’s a snapshot of timeAn image of a simplistic action It may only be a dusty photoReprinted hundreds of timesBut it means much more than that

It may not depict bravery within itselfBut the drawn, war-weary men depicted withinHave bravery that goes beyond our understandingThey were willing to give so muchSo that we could be called the “land of the freeand the home of the brave”

It’s a black-and-white testament to timeBut it appears in vivid color to anyone who was thereThe memories of death, bravery, and sacrifice burned into their mindsuntil the day they die.

—Ryan Petschek, 8th grade

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Crow

A majestic, curious bird.An uncontrolled creature,blessed by the hand of God.

A hooded figure stands at watch.

As I see it loop in the azure sky above,I wonder:

Where must you be going?Where will you go now?

Come back.

Come back, Grandpa.

—Maddy Abrahamson, 6th grade

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Every Day

Every day is like a brand new startForget about the yesterday that tore you apartBe thankful for all you have big or smallBecause some people don’t have anything at all

When life gives you a hundred reasons to be sadGive it back a million reasons to be gladEven though everyday it seems to rainAnd you go through so much pain

Turn that temporary frown into a lasting grinEven though it might be easier just to give inIt’s never the best to take the easy way outIt’s worth the hard work to realize what life’s really about.

—Carmen Martin, 8th grade

Painting by Maeve Flaherty, 8th grade

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Gaining Altitude

The sun was beating from above the clouds just as muchAs my heart was beating under the pressure of gravityThere was nothing as exhilarating as the freedom of flightYet it is unreachable for all but those with the wings and the want to ride the wind.Why choose the confinements of the ground when you can rideThrough the wind?Friends by my side,I could soar as high as the bright stars and never complain about the life I lead.No matter what people think,My ability is more powerful than any.You just need to know how to use it.You just need to spread your wings,and you could reach the goals that soar alongside your mind.

—Kallie Fellows, 7th grade

Photograph by Caroline Lewis, 8th grade

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Do You Realize?

All my childhood, I wanted to be grown-up:to talk like adultsto walk like adultsto be an adult.

Wearing pink plastic high heels. carrying a sparkly red purse,talking into a purple Barbie cell phone, with a business partner on the other end.

I was mesmerized by howadults had so much power, so much responsibility. And they got to stay up late every night of the week, while I got shipped off to bedin my shimmery Princess nightgownhours before the grown-ups did.

Five, six, seven, eight,still wanting to be grown-up.

Soon I realized. Life goes by so fast,the spinning earth causing days,

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months, years,to whizz by.

Thirteen, and I realized that childhood must be preservedin a little glass bottle, of pink plastic high heels, sparkly red purses, shimmery Princess nightgowns and purple Barbie cell phones.

—Celia Bottger, 8th grade

The Shelves of History

Two souls meant to be together,joined amongst the shelves of history.A brief connection of expanded heartsto dream of light and wonder,only to be stunned by unfair forcesresulting in an abrupt detour.

Another soul enlists to guard the shelves of history.

After the stillness of time,a shining light cuts through the darkness,once again delivering the warrior to open arms.

—Georgia Ferris, 6th grade

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Melony

Last summer, I met Melony. She was beautiful and young, and her green-striped shirt was the most gorgeous thing I had ever seen. All that summer, we swam and played in my pool. I grew to know and love Melony. We were great friends, but, when it began to dawn on me that she was getting old, she began to get boring. The time had come for us to part. I tried to talk with Melony, but she just wouldn’t listen. I had to be harsh. I had to get rid of her. That night, Melony and I were together when I invited her to the cliff side to watch the sunset. When we arrived, we sat down at the edge. I held Melony in my lap. The sunset was beautiful, but the time had come to end it. I went in for the kiss and then boom! My hand slipped off her back and I pushed her. She flew forward towards the edge of the cliff. As she sailed through the air and hit the tree, I heard a smash. I looked over the side and saw a pile of red chunks. I turned away and thought to myself, How could I have done it? How could I have killed the love of my life? How could I have destroyed my favorite watermelon?

—Henry Corroon, 6th grade

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Kites

Kites fly through the air,They circulate my every thought. Vibrant colors burst through the canvas,Soaking my mind into the painting.

My grandpa is an optimist,My grandma is a realist. Beach waves crash on the sand,Leaving their minds synchronized for once.

The scent of seaweed flows through my mindAs it loops it in a never-ending trainTo nowhere.

Sandy feet, Sun-kissed skin, Flip-flops.

It’s raining.Branches without leaves. And only this paintingReminds me of sweet summer dreams.

—Molly Dolan, 8th grade

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The Source of Death

He cried out, with the voice crack of all voice cracks, one last failed attempt at phony bravado before his head was separated from the rest of his young body. As his mother walked away from his com-pleted execution, she mocked her own son, restating his last words in the monotonous voice she always used to imitate him. “But, but, but…Mrs. Schlosser told me it was a reliable source!” she said insolently, cackling at his final attempts at redemption. In fact, she was the one who turned him in. Marching up the marble steps to the Office of Technology, past the turrets and parapets housing the Tech Brigade, she was mesmerized at what she saw. To her right was the Temple of Dell. It was filled with plastic, cheap look-ing monuments, an eyesore only excused by the fact they were pro-tected by an accidental damage warranty. To her left was the Lair of the Technician. The sole job of these men and woman, and the seemingly simple act that made the Office of Technology so revolutionary, was the re-imaging of computers. Other tech repair services looked ramshackle compared to this place of innovation. While the others took your computer and spent an hour or less fixing the specific problem, the Technicians did one simple job. They took your computer and simply re-imaged it, a process that had a fifty percent chance of working ten percent of the time. This amazingly accurate procedure involved wip-ing the computer of all its worries and then reinstalling the robust Windows XP onto it. “If only my son was more like them,” she thought. The Burning of the Mac, which took place at 5:30, was approaching, even though her phone said 1:30. This was because of the great new feature in all of their ostensibly-perfect Dells, which allowed the clock to glitch and constantly read two hours fast. She hurried up, so as not to upset the Barracudas the Tech Brigade kept close by. As she reached the chair of Chancellor Norko, she flipped out her Android, and after waiting twenty minutes for the document to load, began to read off the offense of her soon-to-be desecrated son.

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“It is today, the twelfth of Microsoftober, 2011, that I poignantly admit the derisive act of my son. After he handed in his Capstone Re-search Paper, the history department informed me of his wrongdoing. He…he…I can’t say it,” she said, “I’ll text it to you.” After taking the next forty minutes to send the text to the Chancellor and waiting an-other twenty for him to open it, he gasped: “He used Wikipedia as a source in his bibliography!”

—Jules Becker, 8th grade

The Slide

I hear the yells of the other kids. I see the huge pool. It looks really far away, I think. I am having second thoughts. I am next in line. Why is it is scaring me this year? I wonder. I have done this every year since I was nine years old. The boy in front of me jumps. I hear his scream echoing down the slide like he’s inside a cave. I look down. It doesn’t look that bad, I say to myself, trying to give myself false hope. I step into the slide. Not sliding down yet, I feel the water, cold like an ice cube melting in my hand. I sit down, still feeling the metal bar on the top of the slide. I let go and feel like my stomach has dropped ten feet. I do not even yell. I just open my eyes. I see myself slowing down. I turn, then I drop. I finally slide through to the light, which blinds me at first, but, when I can see, I swim to the ladder, ready to go again.

—Henry Holzinger, 6th grade

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The Haven

Far away and to other landsThe sea extends its icy handsTo light upon that distant shoreWhere, in time, will I dwell fore'er more.

Winding, twisting, ever turningAlways leading to waters churningDown into valley, up over mountainAnd finally to the sacred youth's fountainI follow the road laid 'neath weary feetBut all paths lead to a harbour with waters sweetWhere a silver-white ship in waiting liesTo take me to the land where today never dies. Where fate and life and death all meetAt the edge of the sea where great waves beatSits an eternal land of peace's mightA glorious land, far out of sight. When my path no longer lies belowSoon gone will be my days of woeFor in the golden lands will I soon be—That haven that waits across the sea.

—Maggie Boudreau, 8th grade

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True Friends

I stand next them.

We’ve been through a lot,we hold each other closesaying, “I love you guys.”

In the background is our pastwith a mixture of tears, sunshine, fun, and laughs.“You girls have always been there for me.”

We face tomorrow, together,as we say goodbye to yesterday.

We are smiling,together, saying,“This is the best day ever!”

Every day I get to spend with you is the best day ever.

We don’t look alike, but you can tell we aren’t just friends;we are all sisters.

The picture is wrinkled from tears. Whenever I cry I say,“I wish I was with them now!”They are always with me, all the timeAlways there for me, all the time

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The times that we hadI’ll keep like thisphotograph. We’ll neverfade away.

We’ve always got the memories,I’ll hold you in my heartforever; I will always remember you.

I always knowthey are with mewherever I go. —Lydia Picoli, 8th grade

Photograph by Stella Martindale, 8th grade

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Letter from War

It was a forgotten letter, I assumed.A letter at the bottom of a pile of many,sitting there, unread, unimportant.It was a letter like any other.

It became special when I got a reply.

The red, white, and blue border;the orange “Airmail” mark in the corner;the approved signature at the bottom;and then the name: General Stilwell.

My hands shook as I tore it open.My smile widened as I read it.I imagined the tall, important generalwho had written to metwo long years later.

I always wondered if he knewhow much it meant to me;if he knew how happy it made me,that simple act of writing back,of spelling out my name on the envelope,of reading my letter, my simple little letter,and writing one back.

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I looked down at the letter one more time:the letter from the four-star generalfrom my town, Yonkers,“the city of gracious living.”He had written me back.

I hoped that, when he signed “Sincerely, General Stilwell,”he meant it.

—Abby Comey, 6th grade

Photograph by Madison Reynertson, 6th grade

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A Cycle

Inside, it is dark.The shadows win the battle as the light slowly retreats over the hills.Inside, the creatures have gone and returned to their nestsas the sun creeps lower.Outside, the trees are resting, the day’s wind at last at rest.Outside, the sky has finished another half of the perpetual cycle.The warmness gives way to the coolness, the night’s cousin.But the coldness is still nonexistent, even in the chilly winter months of a calendar.The silence is liftedas droplets infiltrate the peaceful dusk.A smell of moisture invades the senses and condenses on the greenery.The glowing village below tosses light rays through the water,casting a veiled rainbow across the heavensas if grabbing at the moon—as if it wants to reach over the skyline and pull the sun back up.

—Anders Bottger, 8th grade

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Sense

As the cold sun falls down in the sky,So does the temperature,And I feel the coldness slice through my skin like a knifeI smell a fire in the distance, but it is not mineI hear the sound of light snow falling all around meBut since there is no moon, I only see darkness.

Back in the good days, when I slept in a warm bedWhere I felt the warmth, but did not care,Instead, I told my mother that I was cold.Now I know what real cold is,When I have nothing to protect me.

I drift into a restless dream,But I am awakened by the feel of a coin being dropped into my cup.As I look up, I find a small family crowded around me,I quickly thank the man that gave me hope.He tells me to buy myself some foodAnd gives me another dollar.

I thank God for him and struggle up.I am so used to the feeling of the cold hard concreteThat it is hard for me to get up.I smell his cleanlinessAnd am embarrassed by my smell.

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When I go into the closest store,Everyone stares at me in disgust,And they wrinkle their noses at my smell.They tell one another that I do not belong,But I go and get some food andTaste the delicacy of something that I miss dearly.

I can see the man smile at me.I feel that smile wherever I goAnd hear the words that gave me hope.I smell his cleanlinessAnd taste the delicacy of that food. —Daria Locher, 8th grade

Kite

Some think that liberty is like beinga bird and flying freely inplaces where a calm breeze is heard. Under the petals of acrane flower or moistened by a cloud. Where a dreamis crafted with wrinkled hands aboutto fall, exhausted. Working solely for astar that whispers that the worldwill be equal, one day. You’ll find seeds of hope inhearts if you peek. Planted without knowing for whichgeneration, just that these are not mistakes or accidentsthat have budded in their cores, knowing that flowers don’tgrow in a day, but meteor showers still happen.

—Ingrid Backe, 8th grade

(This is “golden-shovel”poem based on Athol Fugard’s “Master Harold”...and the boys. The italicized words at the end of each line combine to form a passage from the play.)

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Hint Fiction

hint fiction (n.): A story of 25 words or fewer that suggests a larger, more complex story.

All “hint fiction” pieces were written by students in 6th grade.

“Secrets”

I turn my back for a second, and the word is out.

—Quinn Schneider

“Hope”

Amongst the chaos and fires, the wars and struggles, a small tree grew. There was hope.

—Carter Melnick

“Dead”

Not again, he thought.

—Charlie Courtemanche

“Haiti”

I stood on the chair and drove the last nail into the roof above me. I jumped off to look at our accomplishment.

—Bella Litt

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“Harsh Life”

“Go do some work, you stupid brat!” she yelled at her. She wished she had anyone else’s life but her own.

—Simmy Sidhu

“Mine”

This is mine. You can’t have it. I’m not even sure I can.

—Caroline Telesz

“Barbie”

Behind the shiny outfits, a life of crime.

—Macy Lawton

“October 31st”

“It’s snowing,” I told my dad. “In October.”

—Arman Ozgen

“Suspension”

I was seven.

—Chuck Li

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Sonnet

A kiss, a beginning that led to loveA love so full of hate that killéd themJuliet was Romeo’s sweet doveIt was their families that brought mayhemThe Capulets and Montagues were fullOf a hatred that drove their kids to deathFor living apart was way too painful,Next to each other they took their last breathThis feud was a killer that was unkindTo many poor souls, leaving them aloneThe importance of love was left behindReplacéd with desire for the throneOnly fixed when the Friar impliedThat they were the reason their children died.

—Avery Vanacore, 8th grade

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Just After Dark

The twinkling of the stars outside dances around the illuminated moon.The coops, painted barn red, are barely visible in the dark.The nearly immaculate window smudged with hopeful fingerprints and hot breath marks from dazzled eyes.

The dancing colors of the TV screen project on the tall windows behind the red couch cushions.Scratches coat the wooden floor from years of scuffling shoes and furniture.Bubble-wrap scattered on the table forms new furniture.

Cut-up sweaters of all colors lie neatly in rows on every table in sight,their unwanted scraps littering the floor.

On the cleaned coffee table, carpet fresh spray.The cap, fallen on the floor.Notes and white boards scribbled with reminders.

Chicken figures stand on every open space.Dozens of cookbooks are tucked neatly onto shelveswith jars and cans nestled like children in bed.

Flames dance around burning logs.A wooden pitchfork hangs fancily above old farmyard curtains.

Cabinets with glass doors reveal baskets of cloth and fabric,decorative labels swaying with uneven string.

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By the door, a happy dog, ears up, bounces on his heels, staring out the windowsat the reflection of the moon in the koi pondwhere fish swim in unfrozen water.

—India Carpenter, 8th grade

Photograph by India Carpenter, 8th grade

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A Little Kid

Her father turns her dream catcher over when she wakes up crying. She had a bad dream, but she is safe now. She sits outside and watches the leaves fall. She doesn’t know why, so she starts to cry. “The tree is sick!” she cries. She doesn’t understand, but the tree gets better. She is on the swing set, giggling like she should. She laughs and laughs until she falls off the swing. Then she stops laughing. She bawls her eyes out until the neighbor hears her. “Here is a cookie, now run along,” the kind neighbor says. The girl smiles and runs away. All better. She gets a cold. She thinks the germ monsters will eat her. “How foolish,” her mother thinks, but she stays quiet. She made a mess with her markers. “Uh oh!” she cries, and every-thing is fine. Five years go by, and she falls off the swing again. Nobody hears her cry and nobody comes to help her. She cries at night when she has a bad dream, but nobody comes to flip her dream catcher. The leaves fall down, but nobody tries to cure the tree. She comes home sick, and her parents scold her for thinking about nonsense such as monsters. She makes a mess with her markers, and she feels ashamed. She is lonely. Four years go by, and she is all grown up. She doesn’t cry about germ monsters. Her tree is just going through autumn, and her swing set is not broken after all. Her nightmares are about homework, and nobody needs to worry about lending her a hand. Yet she has a wish. The girl has a wish to believe in monsters, fall off swing sets, and turn her dream catcher. She still wants to make messes with her markers and have her mother clean them up. She turns on the television and puts in a home video. She sees her mother smile and her father reach toward the purple moon hanging over her bed. She looks in the mirror and laughs. She laughs and laughs and laughs. She is not grown up. She is still a kid inside. Twelve years go by, and she gets out a video camera. She presses the play button and watches her own daughter laugh at the monsters. She can still laugh. Fifty years go by. Her daughter is grown up, but she still laughs. She is still a little kid.

—Shira Friedson, 7th grade

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Framing the Sea

It is fall. Summer is a distant memory; winter is a looming prospect. ! It is windy here at the beach.! There is a patio, constructed of stone and concrete, jutting out proudly into the sand, yet protected by a small, slightly chipped white wall, ready to withstand the forces of mighty Nep-tune.  Behind the white wall, sitting on the gray and sandy stone floor, there are plants in sun-baked terracotta pots, the dirt damp from the dawn dew. Their stems stretch to the blank and ashen sky, and their petals embrace the clouds. The plants stand tilted, strong and sturdy from growing against the wind and waves. They are green soldiers.! A weathered and well-used table and chairs sit still and soli-tary in the middle of the deck, observing all that has to be seen from the ledge. Heavy and trusted, old and wise, they know they will forever belong on the beach, smelling the salt-scented breeze.! A covered grill sulks in the corner. Shiny and new, it hovers in its black cloak. It is mysterious and out of place, delicate and metallic in a windswept world. A fear of forgetting sits atop the smooth iron lid. It fears the crisp fall air and what it brings. A sudden splash of shiny, artificial, cherry red in the corner, a hint of...

...the little smooth plastic pail. ...the cracked yellow handle of a shovel. ...the lame, sandy rubber of a deflated beach ball.

In the safety of the porch: white wicker rockers, plush cush-ions, pillows, a faded blue woven welcome mat, the glimmer of glass door panels, a screen slightly ajar; everything painted in a

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gentle shadow of morning gray. The windows bounce back a picture of the sea.! The sea: speckled sand slowly descends onto a patch of rocks. Out by the wet stones and silky shells, the water gently laps and strokes the sand, a length of luscious velvet in a tattered, ragged, sharp world, while reflecting the gray sky. It is so big, it stretches out of the picture and into everything and everyone. It is life—so powerful, it is never the same. “Inconstant” is its name.  ! The sea: so beautiful and unique, yet impossible to frame; to contain; to hold; to own. Never can you frame the sea.

—Lauren Telesz, 8th grade

Photograph by Greg Preiser, 7th grade

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When It’s Dark Outside

Light. Cast on the wall by the newly risen moon. Stars emerging one by one. Twinkling, twinkling, gone.

The bluish glow of the alarm clock, piercing the dark like a dagger. Changing. Minutes pass. Total silence. It's all too quiet.

Shadows lurk in corners, waiting to pounce. They overwhelm you, blanketing your eyes and tucking you in bed.

The covers are rustling. You try to find just the right spot. Nope, not that one. You turn over. Still not comfortable.

An occasional car passes by. You wonder where they are headed. Lights flash. Going, going, gone.

Finally, sleep overwhelms you like a tidal wave. As you lull off to sleep, your worries melt away. Drip, drip, drip. Sweet dreams.

—Eliza Davenport, 8th grade

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Where I’m From (#1)

I am from the palm trees that shade me from the sweltering heatI am from the wet marketFrom its cacophony of noises and the symphony of tastesI am from the mischievous monkeys From their eagerness to rob an item of interestI am from the coarse, copious coconutsI am from the DurianA fruit that muddles one’s perception with a sickly smell of decay and a prickly countenanceBut under the layers of the rotten stench and deception lies a sweet and velvety fleshI am from the howling winds and the impulsive flash of lightningI am from the bustling streets and the occasional blare of a hornI am from the tall skyscrapers reaching for the heavensFrom the jungle canopy with buildings protruding from itI am from a city of innovation, increase, and infinityA city that has brought the meaning of growth to an unprece-dented level A city that once was an isolated fishing village but now is a city booming with hope and prosperity I’m from the lazy Sunday afternoons and the empty streetsI’m from the life an uncle lost to mishap I am from a proud family that stands by its beliefs with dignityI am from a sheltered past like a Joey in its mother’s pouch I am from the memories of what seems to be a previous life.

—Oliver Ferry, 7th grade

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Where I’m From (#2)

I am from a new generationOf hip hop and rapTechnology taking over the worldFrom electronic cars To holograms From one burning candleTo a whole lighting system

I’m from good days To bad moodsFrom “Hi Mom, lovely day”To “Mom, you’re embarrassing me” And “I’m not a little kid any more” I am from family timeTo alone timeMovies and booksTo video games and instant messaging

I am from breaking the rules And taking chargeFrom staying up late after lights outTo not following dress codeFrom plaid skirts two inches to many above knee level And hiding my non-collared shirt behind a scarfLeggings to jeggings Zip! As I run past Mr. Meyer so I don’t get caught with stripes on

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I am from Uggs and sweatpantsFrom dresses and skirtsI am from jeansFrom sneakersAnd high heelsI am from old t-shirtsAnd cute new blouses

I am from sportsFrom kicking the ballTo running laps,From the pitcher’s moundTo slamming a home runFrom scoring a goal And hearing the pat on my field hockey stick from the ball.

I am from exploring From one country to the nextAnd seeing a new placeA new faceFrom seeing sights you can only dream ofA picture so breathtaking you think it is off a postcardYou feel dumbfounded

I am from sunny, hilly GeorgiaTo cold, icy ConnecticutFrom a preppy Fairfield County familyTo then casual weekends.This is where I am from.

—Lauren Ritchey, 7th grade

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Where I’m From (#3)

I am from the violet crocuses popping up out of the groundFrom the soft new green grassThe bright, brand new, blossomsOn each growing branchEach day growing warmerThe light lasting longer.

I am from the bright sun, with its rays beating down on my backThe warm white sand, stuck between my toesPretty pink shells sitting in my pocketWhere the aquamarine water laps against the shoreSparkling with lightI am from the dripping in the heat cotton candy ice cream conesThe waves crashing ashore at nightThe dark starry sky is silver glitter on a black velvet blanket.

I am from the slight chill in the airPicking perfectly orange pumpkinsThe tornados of bright colored leaves swirling in the windFalling off of skeleton treesThe warm apple ciderThe first frost on the groundGlistening beads of dew, frozen in their tracksThe silent still airWhispering leaves are the only sound.

I am from the soft glittery snowThe steaming hot chocolateMaking snow angels in the yardThe icicles on the roofThe words “It’s a snow day”The cloudy car windowsThe dogs’ paw prints in the snow.

—Aine Collins, 7th grade

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A Chilling Experience

The aching in my legs grew with every foot I traveled, while the cramping in my arms intensified every time the bottom of my poles sunk into the ground. A snowflake landed on my goggles as my skis glided over the packed snow on the traverse. To my right, the snow-glazed tips of mountains stood above a cloudy mass of snow. I should have worn my neck warmer, I thought while I fumbled with the top of my jacket’s zipper. My skis tottered and I was jerked back into focus. I stared ahead at the steep incline that was about 30 feet ahead of me. I had heard about it before. It was called “Sea Rock” because in the summer, when there is no snow, there are visible fossils of fish. I had heard stories of people getting injured attempting to ski over it. There is no way I can ski over that, a voice inside of me doubted. I had four choices at that point, and my decision had to be quick. The first choice was to drop off into the traverse before the steep incline. The only problem with that was that there were exposed rocks and ice sheets stretching the whole way down. People had done it be-fore, but this season there was very little snow to cover the slope. That choice was diffidently out of the question. I might be able to hike the half mile at a slightly upward angle back to the lift, I proposed to my-self. That involved a great deal of work that I was not willing to do. The third choice was to slow down before I came upon Sea Rock. I would have to sidestep my whole way up the rock, which was about a story tall. I strongly opposed that idea because of the amount of exer-tion it would take. The last choice frightened me. I would have to gather up as much speed as possible in these next 30 feet so I would be able to make it all the way up the rock. If I could do this, I would not have to go through as much labor as the other possibilities and would be rewarded with foot high powder. Afraid of what might happen, I chose this one. I bent my knees so I was as low as possible and tucked my poles between my arms and the side of my body. Tak-ing a deep breath, I started to slowly gather up speed. The intimida-tion of Sea Rock grew with every inch I traveled. My hands trembled as my heart leaped off of the mountain. There was about five feet left

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until I would reach the vertical leap when my emotions took hold of me. I jabbed my poles into the snow and, at that very moment, came to a grinding halt. There is no way in heck I can actually do this, I thought to myself. How stupid was I to think that it’s possible to make this. One ski came after the other on the steep slope up. My legs throbbed and were barely able to move by the time I was only halfway up. My eyes slowly closed and my back rested on the snow-covered rock. The tips of my fingers and toes were numb from the cold. The world started to feel unreal, like this was just a dream. I could have sworn my head spun in a full circle. I was at home now, in my room. My cat purred on my bed but suddenly turned into Zayn Malik. “Are you okay?” he asked. “How long have you been laying here? Are you unconscious?” Something lifted up my head from be-hind. My eyes jolted open and I could see an older looking man in large orange goggles and a helmet staring at me. His jacket was red with a white square surrounding a red cross on his shoulder. “What time is it?” I asked, confused. “Half past two,” he answered. “When was the last time you re-member being awake?” “Umm…” I muttered. “I remember checking my phone on the lift when it was ten ‘til two, so that means I couldn’t have been out that long.” “Are you okay?” the man asked. “Do you need anything? I’m about to radio the others for help. If you want them to bring anything other than the rescue sled and a first-aid kit, just let me know.” “Actually I’m fine,” I lied. It felt like I had been run over by an 18-wheeler carrying rocks. “I think I can just ski the rest of this by my-self. I was just taking a quick rest and I guess I fell asleep.” Another lie. I certainly did not want to make a big ordeal out of this. How em-barrassing would that be? I hope this guy is gullible enough to believe me. “Are you injured in any way?” Gosh, he wouldn’t stop with the questions, would he? “Did you fall?” “Nope,” I tried to say nonchalantly. “Like I said earlier, I’m com-pletely fine.” I mustered a smile, despite the fact that the bottom half of my face was frozen.

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“Okay,” he finally gave in, “Just ski safely now. Don’t do any-thing crazy.” The ski patrolman started to ski away, when he stopped and asked, “Wait, how could I forget? Where are your parents?” He looked quizzically at me. “My mom’s in a lesson and my dad’s with his friend,” I said, remembering my dad’s exact request not to go into this part of the mountain alone. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Next time, make sure one of them is with you,” he insisted. With that, he was off. The thing that worried me was not the pain in my body but rather the encounter with the ski patrolman. If my parents had found out, they would have been steaming mad at me. This might have been one of the only times that I did not get away with something like this. If I had not held myself back, I would have made it. I know that be-cause once I skied back down, I headed straight up to the same trail, and sped up, my skies and adrenaline carrying me over the rock. I was grateful to find powder and the best skiing conditions I had this whole year.

—Sidney Swearingen, 7th grade

Photograph by Kate Flicker, 6th grade

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