Click here for Student Writing Showcase 2008.

That's not much fanfare! Well, I could tell you about all the great student writers we have showcased this year. I could discuss the wonderful authors who have leant their voices and commentary (like M.T. Anderson, Karen Cushman, and Cynthia Leitich Smith). I could describe the way neat-o video version of 1,000 Words. I could tell you all about the Letter To Self article and writing prompt. I could write up a super-duper self-promotion that shows in detail how each one of these things makes for a really cool place to chill out, read some excellent student writing, get inspired, and moves you to write whatever your heart desires! I could... and I kind of just did... but I think I'll just pipe down and let you check it out for yourself.

AND if you do get inspired and DO write something. Send it to us at word@weeklyreader.com. We're always looking for the best student writers to publish right here on WORD!

Cheers mates! Enjoy!

In a recent Animals issue of READ, we asked you what you thought about the play, Babylon's Ark. Here are a few 9th graders' responses from Bourgade Catholic High School in Phoenix, Ariz.

The Babylon's Ark story was harsh. What they did to the animals was mean and not healthy. The people trying to help them were very kind and respectful but the owner of the zoo didn't care.
     Animals should just be treated as humans. Be kind to them because they have a life too. They live on earth not just to be treated as a pet that you can kick around. They are here to bring life to us and joy, and they are friends.
     -- Jennifer Guzman

The animals are sick, hungry, and dehydrated. The Iraqis took over the zoo and they are making it a base. This was all caused by war. Now with the Iraqis out of the zoo there are people from the U.S. that are trying to help out the animals. They are having a tough time because most of the animals are really sick.
     I think that it is a great thing that people are helping out the animals at the zoo. Now with the troops helping them out there will be no more Iraqis able to enter the zoo and kill the remaining animals. I still think it is dangerous for the people at the zoo. They hear a lot of guns and one of those bullets can hit you and you can die.
     If it was my zoo I would have bulletproof walls and it would be blocked off so no Iraqis can come in and use it for a base. I would also put bombs where there are no animals because that is were the Iraqis would hide and it will blow them up.
     -- Blake Comella

If it was my zoo I would never abandon my animals. I would always care to them and make sure they are getting the same requirements as other zoos or better. So if someone tried to take over my zoo and turn it into a base. I would do everything in my power to stop them and make sure all the animals are safe.
     -- Vince Fielder

I would set a zoo up by, first hiring people that love animals and are not scared of them. Second, they have to be cheap And third, they have to know what there doing... if not, get out of here. I would set up some crazy electric fence so no animals can get out and no one can get in and steal any either. 
     -- Kristopher Verdugo

If I had a zoo I would separate the animals into groups and give the animals a theme I would pick the theme depending on the animal. I would keep the birds in one big cage so they can fly around. I would also have timers for the food so every three hours the food will fall on the floor.
     I would put the fish in a clear tank and make it look like the ocean, and I would also clean the tank every three days.
     I would clean the zoo every Sunday and clean the cages every day. I am going to give the animals a good meal and feed them lunch and dinner.
     I would hire trainers to train the animals so they can not attack the people. I would throw toys in the cages for the animals so they can play with them. I would give the animals a bath and dry them. I would also hire veterinarians to check the animals health, and make sure they have all there shots.
     -- A.J. Magdaleno

- by Katherine Xie, Grade 11

Glittering frost upon the windows; glistening streams down the concrete. The morning rises to a beautiful day: a soft chill, a swift breeze, a glowing sunray. Stand still and watch this brilliant phenomenon. There is no need to remember last night's tears, or think about today's deadlines.

A setting sensation is so common that walkers keep on trudging, eyes fixed forward, mind fixed on the future. How about now? Yes that's what matters.

A moment of stillness and nothingness - think nothing - is nice. Those gathered dreams, scattered and surrendered one after another, fly away into the lighted air; they are impossible. But those don't matter right now. Those confrontations of faults and reasons, yet to come, tauntingly run in the mind. But those don't matter right now. Fantasy is nice. To think no obligations is to think freedom. Just for one moment, reality is unreal, because it doesn't matter. Spread the wings and bathe in sunlight; feel the air tinkle, hear the leaves rustle. For a moment, this is all that matters; this melody is the life of this second.

We're all singers, so sing in your heart. We're all sleepers, so sleep in your mind. We're all achievers, so achieve in your dream. We're all inhabitants, so live.

In the January 4th issue of READ, we presented a Charles Dickens classic called The Child's Story. The ending was a little difficult and we asked you to tell us what you thought of it. The following is an interpretation by student READer Maggie Smith.

In Charles Dickens's short piece titled The Child's Story, a lone traveler walks along a road and interacts with characters that represent stages in his life. Each of these characters call to the walking man, and invite him to join them in whatever activity or occurrence sets apart that particular age, such as learning as a child or teenager, or being in love like a young adult. At the end of the short story, the narrator speaks directly to the traveler as a grandchild to his grandfather. This surprising point of view makes the piece take on new meaning.

For example, the clever narrative explains the grandchild's understanding of the grandfather's life, and how he or she knows that their grandfather loves to remember and to enjoy simply being with his family, and they love him back. When I read this passage, I envision a grandchild telling the story to his beloved grandfather as their happy relatives look on. The line "because this is what you do to us, and what we do to you" explains the close relationship this family has.

Also, the grandchild narrator mentions several events that explain the grandfather's life. The mention of the young man falling in love just as "somebody I won't mention did with Fanny" is clearly the child hinting shyly at his grandfather's wife, presumably named Fanny. In addition, all of the children of the middle-aged "always busy" gentleman leave to go to sea, India, abroad to seek riches, and Heaven. These specific examples are probably the grandchild's way of mentioning his aunts and uncles.

Lastly, the narration in Charles Dickens's story sheds light on how young children view life in simple stages that seem vastly far away. The grandchild uses simple language and foreshadowing, while never exactly stating what is going on. The reader must deduce the meaning of each character and event by themselves. Also, the child's mention of the journey as "magic, and very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through" emphasizes the simple, sparse viewpoint of the child.

In conclusion, this revealing and surprising narration in The Child's Story is bright, beautifully simple, and uses small clues to illustrate both the child's and the grandfather's lives. Charles Dickens used this to his advantage, and this story still rings true even today.

If you haven't yet read Dickens's story, you can find it on page 14 of the January 4th issue of READ... or here.

In the January 4th issue of READ, we presented a Charles Dickens classic called The Child's Story. The ending was a little difficult and we asked you to tell us what you thought of it. Here are just a few of your responses.

Jack Spahr
The last line of the story titled The Child's Story was: And I think the traveler must be yourself, dear Grandfather, because this is what you do to us, and what we do to you. The traveler was one who went on his way along the path seeing as a young boy grew from a boy to a grandfather. I suppose that the traveler would be the grandfather as he travels through life. As he travels he follows a path almost like a time line until he comes to the end. Unfortunately I did not understand the "because this is what you do to us, and what we do to you" part of the final sentence. Perhaps it has some meaning relating to what he and the child did as they both went through the path. As he walked and met the boy time and time again they did many things together. I'm not too sure about what it does mean although the sentence does hold some significant meaning.

Abby Johnston
The Child's Story seems like it was written by someone older than a child. This story seems like some kind of life story wound into something interesting to keep a child amused. The last line surprised me, but after I thought about it, it made more sense. These children were either dying or going far off to somewhere, just like a grandfather would, yet the parents weren't terribly sad, they knew it would happen and they accepted it. I think this story helps the grandfather accept dying.

Chris Covert
The last line in The Child's Story was very well-written by Charles Dickens. It was easily comprehended and sent a large message. It was very powerful. It did not surprise me because that title stated that it was a story from a child. I understood it. The last line states that the boy thinks his grandpa is the travelling man because he watches people change as they grow up until they leave and all he can do is remember them, as the boy can watch his granpa get older and pass away, leaving the boy to remember him.

Connor Fitzgerald
It did not surprise me much to know that the speaker was talking to the grandfather. The last sentence told that the speaker was speaking to the grandfather, and as the story progressed from the beginning I began to know that. Thankfully the story was easy enough to understand, and I began to figure out its deeper meaning once I was finished. I already explained what its basic tale was. The traveler goes on his travels and meets along the way multiple people. He's simply meeting the same person after an amount of time and doing things with him. All in all it was a fine story though with a good deal of meaning to it.

The last line of the sstory did surprise me a little because it sounds like one of those stories that tells you a lesson, and usually someone older tells you something like that. I think that I understand some parts of it. One part I believe I understand is throughout the story it is telling you what is important to people at each age. For example, it was important for the child to play, and for the young boy to learn, and so on. The child could be telling the story of how they thought their grandfather watched them grow up, and watched them go through those phases in life. Plus, he won't be able to find them becouse they grew up, and are "gone" forever. Only when he wants to remember them, is when he can see everyone again. I hope that explanation made sense, because it did to me. :)

Later today... come back to WORD to read Maggie Sullivan's extremely thought out and insightful explanation of Charles Dickens's The Child's Story...

In the meantime, if you haven't yet read Dickens's story, you can find it on page 14 of the January 4th issue of READ... or here.

 

Ladies and Gentlemen!

Boys and girls!

Children of all ages!

READ Magazine is proud to present...

THE ONE...

THE ONLY...

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE!!!

(See this is where you applaud madly and scream with glee.)

Click here for Willie's goodness.

Really? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. That's a shame. I'll tell you what though... why don't you check out Issue One of Writing. The entire issue is devoted to helping you through your angst. And if you don't already receive Writing in your classroom, ask... no... beg your teacher to click this link and order it for you! In the meantime, read how Tommy Angelopoulous feels about the subject.

Why I Hate Writing

by Tommy Angelopoulous, Grade 11

 

"I used to think I could write good." That one sentence is the backbone of why I find the idea of writing so absurd and pointless. It would be one thing if I were to be free to express myself in any writing form...

 

Like this!!!!!

Or this.

oR tHiS.

 

But that is incorrect. "The formatting is all wrong!" My teachers say, yet I find myself asking, why? Why are there rules that we have to follow when trying to express ourselves? Why is it improper grammar to be able to "write good?" I say if you have understood what I am trying to say, then I have wrote right.

 

If you asked someone if a certain action went "good," no one would reply, "What, I don't understand the question, what do you mean 'good?'"  If they have any common sense they would let the grammar mistake slide, because they know what you're talking about. However, if said person is brainwashed by the incoherent idea of "grammar," they will most likely reply in a condescending attitude, "WELL."  And you now feel stupid because this person has beat into you their knowledge of grammar.  By the way I'm talking in first and second person to be ironic, because this, as well, is taboo in the writing world.

 

The concept of grammar does make sense to me, don't get me wrong, I understand grammar completely. It is the idea behind the invention of grammar that makes me question our values as a society. I don't understand why we need it. Why put rules on something as pure and as open as writing? Writing should be a way of expressing yourself in whatever way you want. I bet before the invention of grammar, writing was intelligent, well thought out, and creative, because writers didn't have to worry about someone criticizing their lack of  grammar skills. What bothers me most is that as I am writing this, I am thinking of all the ways I should (will) be corrected according to the almighty rules for writing, because I too have been indoctrinated by that which they call, "grammar."

 

Now you've reached my conclusion, and no, I am not going to restate my thesis. I don't even remember what my thesis is at this moment but I will tell you this: I do not care for writing. I do not care for the way it has been ruined. I do not care for the way teachers grade my essays. I do not care for how we are "supposed" to write. I do not care for how we are graded on our writing, when it is the teachers who have taught us how to do so. I do not care for the past present participle. I do not care for the indicative. I do not care for anything I read anymore, because I'll have to write about it later in the semester. I do not care for repetition. I do not care for footnotes. I do not care for indentation. I care for creativity.

The following work of non-fiction was originally going to be included in our latest electronic issue, Student Writing Showcase. Unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, we had to cut it from the project. However, we are pleased to present The Music of Love, here on WORD. It is a wonderful piece of student writing that should be read and celebrated by as many people as possible. After you have finished reading it, talk to your grandparents and find out their true love story. Then write about it and share it with us. You can send your work to word@weeklyreader.com.

 

The Music of Love

by Polina Senderova

 

I glance up at my grandmother.  She is staring at the passenger seat, though I don't see anything very interesting on it, or in it.  She bends forward and mutters something to my mother.  Something about my grandfather. 

 

I pull on her sleeve, and she turns to me. "Grandma, how did you and Grandpa meet?" It was a random thought, though I admit I had been interested in it in the past.

 

She sighs.  "It was long ago."  She looks back to the front seat and gazes at it for a second.  But I am already too curious to let it go.

 

"But how?" I plead. "Tell me!"

 

"It will be hard. The memories are harder to remember than to forget." But I knew by her tone that she would try, that she was glad I asked.  "It seems like only yesterday," she begins.  "I was young, new, fresh. Alive." She has a distant, far-away look in her wrinkled, cerulean eyes as her story begins.

  

-----------------

 

She was 16 years old when her violin instructor told her that she was ready for what was perhaps the most thrilling voyage of her life.  She was to journey to America to attend a music festival in New York City.  It was the experience of a lifetime and one she knew she'd never forget.

 

She arrived at her room in the dormitories. She had no roommate, and she was in a large room, big enough to fit a football team in, all by herself.

 

Her first day there was the first in the country, and, of course, a lot went wrong. She had several near-vomiting experiences of the strange American food, and a few conflicts with some complicated technology she did not know how to use. 

 

The year was 1938, and the small village in Russia from which she came was completely behind in the development of society, especially in comparison to the U.S. Her first day, she had a private lesson and signed up for recitals, competitions, and master classes. She survived breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and heard a few concerts. Once, she thought she heard someone else conversing in Russian, in the cafeteria. It was during lunch, and she got so excited that she spilled her glass of water on the floor and did not get a chance to say anything. Her teacher, however, did speak Russian so she was able to communicate with her.

 

"Maria," she told her, "your hands are too tense to play."

 

It was fine to play with tense hands in Russia, she thought.  The tension was what kept her in tune and in rhythm. 

 

After a long and tiring day she dropped on her soft, high throne of a bed and fell fast asleep, with dreams full of memories of the friends she missed and of the little everyday traditions America just did not seem to hold.

 

The second day she had chamber for the first time, which is where she first met him.

 

"I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on your grandfather.  He was--" she paused dramatically, "--he was shy, out of place, and lonely.  Just like me."

 

He played first violin, and she was second. They also had a violist, a cellist, and a pianist, but she didn't get to know them nearly as well. It was a flea of a room, disproportionately small in a large building, in which the six of them were forced to squeeze like freckles on an otherwise pale face. 

 

Their teacher was a short, stump woman with a large suitcase full of scores for them all, which obviously weighed her down even more than her enormous glasses.  She handed out a Dvorák quintet, a very quick-paced piece full of tricky rhythms and very high positions, especially in the first violin part. 

 

"Richard, Maria, Cathy, Jordan, Anna," she called out, addressing all of them in position order in her strong, conspicuous Korean accent.  "In this class you will learn to play together, in tune, in tempo, in time. There are five of you here and only one of me, so please try to cooperate and this will be easier for us all."

 

My grandmother, however, had not understood a word of what she said and had a Russian translator later clarify it. But at that time, she merely smiled and nodded, deciding not to give herself away.

 

As they began to play, she looked around, observing the others. She was not the only nervous one; the first violinist, my grandfather, was also quite flustered, (although he still played exceptionally well, whereas my grandmother's insecurities tangled with her performance.)

 

After they sight-read through the piece once, the teacher provided them all with comments, but Maria, of course, couldn't understand them, and it seemed that Richard didn't either.

 

They went on to the next movement, where the two violinists played a solo together.  Maria felt the bond between them, through their violins and the music they played.  He felt it too, and he gave her a timid smile when they ceased.  Their teacher let them conclude and the others left while Maria and Richard walked to the cafeteria together. 

 

"You--you like play?" Maria struggled to say something he might understand.

 

He looked at her for a moment--straight into her eyes while his own scrunched up like a napkin--then nodded his head and exhaled.  "I like play."

 

She beamed and he led her to the cafeteria where they sat and ate lunch together.  They did not say a word the whole time.  Maria often considered other things that she could try to say, but eventually gave up in despair.

 

When they were finished eating, they walked outside and both sat on the steps with their cases.  "Play?" one of them said.

 

Five minutes later, they were both in Maria's room, practicing their instruments. It was their only common language--the song they played.  They played it over and over again, each time feeling closer to each other.  Before they knew it, it was late and they found themselves running to the cafeteria again before it closed.  They each consumed one small piece of bread and half a drumstick. They implicitly decided to go to a recital playing that night, with a guest musician from northern Europe. They both enjoyed his repertoire and his interpretation of the song.

 

The next day they sat together on the bus to the school in which their orchestra rehearsals took place. She stared out her window at the windmill they passed and sighed. Two days in America, and she already had a friend.  She turned around to look at him and he smiled. 

 

They arrived at orchestra and she opened her case, putting aside the Russian flag she used to cover her violin. To her surprise, he opened his case and she saw a German flag sticking out of it. She stared at it for a moment, mesmerized, until she blinked and returned to her own instrument. 

 

They played Schubert's infamous Unfinished Symphony, along with a Mozart concerto in which they were accompanying a girl who won first place in the previous year's competition.  

 

And so it went on for the next few days, which turned into weeks, as both their concerts loomed closer and closer.  Before they knew it, they were all dressed up and standing backstage, silently wishing each other good luck for their final concerts, in both chamber and orchestra. 

 

The orchestra performance went smoothly, and no mistakes were heard, at least not by the audience. Then came chamber, and the five artists were waiting backstage for the previous group to end. Finally, the anticipated applause came, and four small girls exited the stage, beaming at the world and wishing Maria's group good luck.

 

They walked out onto the spotlight: Richard, followed by Maria, and then the others in their order. My grandparents exchanged a look before they started to play. It was part of the plan, they were supposed to, but there was something more in that look than was required. It lasted forever, seconds broadened into weeks, into years. Richard took a quick breath, their cue for an upbeat, and they began...

 

They began to play, and Maria, at that moment, saw and heard nothing more than him as her violin expressed how she felt: vibrating as she tore through the strings with her bow. 

 

The concert ended (they closed it) and the crowd went wild with applause.  They all bowed synchronously, grinning at each other in triumph, and exited the stage. 

 

That night, all of the other children threw a party, but Maria and Richard decided not to go, and opted instead to spend their last night on the continent together. They walked outside, where it was getting dark and the stars were just coming out and winking upon the couple. They looked at each other, joyful, yet still miserable deep inside that they could not use words to tell each other how they felt.  They couldn’t make a promise to come back to America next summer or even to visit each other. They weren't even able to express their love to one another.  Not with words, anyway.

 

That night was when my grandparents shared their first kiss. It was a spontaneous kiss, with no warning or words before it. They both simply bent in after walking a distance and connected.

 

It was their last day before a year of no contact, for they had no way of keeping in touch.

 

-----------------

 

"Those were hard times for us all." My grandmother tells me. "After we parted ways, I had no way of knowing if he was even alive." Her voice turns forlorn, and I realize how hard the memories must be. "But then, finally, after a long, presumably endless year, we met again."

 

-----------------

 

Maria was split right in half trying to decide what to do.  Half of her wanted to race to that camp faster than the swiftest bullet on Earth and waste no time in trying to find him. But the other half was more cautious, more hesitant, more afraid of disappointment. During that year, she had taught herself a bit of German with every hope of being able to speak to him. She wanted nothing more than to surprise him with his familiar language, a feat she knew he would love.

 

She breathed slowly and impatiently as her train came closer and closer to her destination. She stared out her window as she passed animals, farms, and people, living their own lives. As she came even closer, the familiar windmill which she so acutely remembered welcomed her back. 

 

She couldn't help jumping off the train when it came to a halt, regardless of the heavy bags that weighed her down. When she arrived at the campus (she had to walk), she stepped inside the office to check in. 

 

The receptionist recognized her from the preceding summer.  She received the key to her new room, and made her way upstairs until she saw her door. Suddenly, she heard someone say something, and she could have sworn that it was in Russian. She turned around, hoping perhaps her roommate was able to speak it, but instead, she saw another. 

 

As her head turned, she realized something, and her eyes widened. She knew that voice--as little as she had heard it, she had dreamed of it every night for a year. She turned fully around and nearly banged heads with Richard. Her heart danced around in her chest, full of life, harmony, and completion. Her eyebrows camouflaged into her copper-colored hair as she desperately tried to think of something to say. 

 

What was the word she had memorized on the train ride? What was that phrase her German acquaintance had told her to say, should the need arise? She could not remember a single word of the language which she spent every waking moment of the past school year memorizing. She stuttered something in gibberish as she looked up at him. He, however, was smiling, as he repeated, perfectly and clearly in Russian possibly better than her own. 

 

"Welcome back," he had said, "I missed you."

 

Absolutely perfect Russian! Better than even mine, she thought. "Me, too," she answered in her native Russian, then shook her head blinking and repeated the phrase in German: "Me, too."

 

-----------------

 

"I doubt anybody was more surprised than I was," my grandmother tells me. "All the obstacles were put aside and we were able to truly communicate. In my whole life, there was never anything nearly as magical."

 

- Essay by Traci Harms

It was a gorgeous morning in June that I was spending at my grandparent's house. All of my little cousins did not understand the concept of a peaceful morning and it seemed like they just kept getting louder and louder. There was no way I was going to be able to take the unbearable noise that kept coming from their large mouths. I needed some time to myself to sit and enjoy the amazing day. I decided to step outside and bask in the sunlight and just get lost in my dreams where nobody would have the chance to bother me.

As I opened the huge patio door, I knew I was entering my throne of solitude. The first step out the door proved to me that this was going to be a place where I could spend my morning in peace. Everything was perfect and it was comparable to a utopia that I could only imagine to find in my dreams. The bright yellow sun was beating down on me like I was the only person it had to please. There was a slight, fresh breeze that combined with the sun to make it the perfect temperature for any person. With each step that I took I got deeper and deeper into the fairyland that I was creating.

As I walked toward the hammock with my bare feet, all I could feel was the cold, wet dew that splattered from the lush green grass to my body. A cute little bunny surrounded by fluff scurried right in front of me just as I was passing the fountain. I reached the hammock and plopped down suddenly, just to get lost in my thoughts. I thought about how sensational it was to be alone and not have to worry about anyone or anything else.

As I was laying there staring at the clear blue sky I could hear the trickle of the fountain and the neighbor's dog whimpering for food. I rolled over on my side to watch all the different critters go on with their part in nature. I saw a small, gray spider spinning his web between two branches of one of the broad oaks holding up my hammock. I could see a colorful butterfly fluttering gracefully around without a care in the world. There was also a busy little bee collecting pollen from a nearby lilac.

The fragrance of the assortment of flowers was so sweet I could almost taste it. My grandma meticulously put each flower in its correct place so she could make her backyard the best in town. I could hear all the birds in the neighborhood chirping in their own little language. I was starting to get lulled to sleep by the peaceful buzz of somebody mowing their lawn in the distance but the smell of my dad starting the grill kept me awake. Just as I took a sip of the tangy lemonade that my grandma had brought out to me moments before, my cousins figured out where I was. They came outside into my grandma's backyard pounding on drums as if they were the drum line in a parade, interrupting my fantasy. The best of my day was coming to a close and it was time for me to face what the world had to throw at me.

It was the best morning I had experienced in months. It was so surreal and there was nothing else that could have made it better. It was if I was in my own fantasyland and everything was just as I would have it. Everything pleased me and I was as happy as a three year old on their birthday.

That was one of the best days of my life and if I ever need to go to a happy place I just put my mind in my grandmother's backyard where I know everything will be just like paradise.

Today, February 12th, is Abraham Lincoln's Birthday.

The following story of historical fiction was written by 17 year old Sarah Solomon. Excerpts of Sarah's story were published in the February/March 2007 issue of Writing Magazine. Today, we give you the complete and unabridged version of...

John Wilkes Booth
- By Sarah Solomon

April 14, 1865

The sun was a dull yellow against the tops of the buildings across the street, sifting into the hotel room on the sixth floor of the National Hotel. John Wilkes Booth snapped his eyes open and adjusted them against the morning blur as the image of Lucy Lambert Hale arranged itself in front of the half-illuminated window. She stood to the left of the window, slightly behind the plush red armchair which was subtly covered in cigarette burns and tears, and lightly brushing the white curtain in such a way that it swayed every few seconds at her touch. John instinctively ran his fingers through his mustache and let his feet hit the floor.

"You're up I see," said Lucy, as John approached the glass and peered outside.

"Up and ready. What a beautiful day," said John. He took a step closer, took one glance at her back and put his hands on her waist. "Beautiful day."

"I thought we'd go get some tea at the Whitefield's down the street. Then I've got to get going… father said he wanted me home by two o'clock, and I've still got to buy a train ticket down at the station. But we have time for some breakfast."

"Tell Mr. Hale you're stuck in Washington D.C. doing business. What did you tell him you were doing again?"

"Picking up paper work. The other senator from New Hampshire is giving him some trouble."

"I would be too if my partner was preaching abolition left and right, like it had any worth or actual merit."

"Choose your words wisely, John. One day the whole world will turn its back and set on a completely new path, and you and your morals will be left behind, with no one watching but yourself, stranded in flames."

"No need to be so histrionic, darling."

"Speak for yourself."

The sun had fully risen by the time they found themselves on the northeast corner of Sixth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Whitefield's was down the street, located directly center in the sun's glare, as if it had been transformed into a stricken target of light. To its left was Booker and Stewart's barbershop, and to its right an empty store front window, with dust gathering in the corners and a stray black cat scratching its back against the door.

They sat down for tea. Lucy dangled her tea bag in and out of her mug, mindlessly watching the ripples expand and break at the gray ceramic. Her train was due in twenty-five minutes. They sat in the silent hum of the café, one or two men setting tables for the hopeful day's work.

John said, "Michael O'Laughlen is in town."

Lucy dipped her tea bag back into the murky depths. "He said he might stop by."  She took it out again, a soggy bag dripping steadily onto her saucer.

"Well I said he could. He's going to be at the National Hotel in a couple hours. I wanted to get my hair cut before then so I'd better get a move on."

"I'll walk myself to the train station."

"Are you sure? I've got a couple minutes."

"Yeah I'm fine. I have quite a headache anyhow."

They said their goodbyes outside the café, not knowing they would be the last, and Lucy hurried off downtown. John felt movement at his feet, and looked down. The black cat was weaving its way around his legs, staring up at him with huge neon eyes. He peeled his eyes away from the creature and headed toward Booker and Stewart's.

"Until today nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our country's wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture, but our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done"

***

After a brief cup of coffee, Michael O'Laughlen left John's hotel room just as the maid walked in, wearing a crisp white apron that looked like it would crunch if folded.

John took a good look in the mirror; his eyes rolled over his black shirt, how the unfastened top button glimmered in the glare from the morning sun. He hastily flattened his mustache. He reached over to the mahogany closet and took out his tall black silk hat he had bought up in New Hampshire the last time he had visited Lucy. He carefully balanced it on his head, artfully flattening down a cluster of dark curls onto his forehead.

As he headed for the door, he slipped on his beige gloves, and snuck one more glance in the mirror.

John Wilkes Booth: the illustrious American actor.

He walked the few blocks down to Ford's Theater, a mysterious new spring in his step, as if something wonderful and unforeseen awaited him just around the next corner. In the shadows. Hiding. He walked through the back door of the theater and headed toward the mail room. He placed his bony hand on the iron cast doorknob just as someone opened the door from within. It was Henry Clay Ford.

"Hello Mr. Booth. Good morning?"

"Yes, thank you Henry."

Ford seemed to balancing on tiptoe, rocking back in forth in what was obviously a weak attempt at concealed excitement.

"Are you alright, Henry?"

"Oh yes, yes. Yes, definitely." His cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. "We've got quite some company tonight! Yes. Quite some company!"

John had a sneaking feeling. It has finally happened...

"Anyone I would know, Henry?"

"Yes, yes, quite! Now I know he's not a favorite of yours, Mr. Booth, and for god's sake don't try any funny business! But it's Mr. Lincoln, you see, Mr. And Mrs. Lincoln!"

John felt like his stomach had unleashed writhing snakes into his body, filling him with an excitement too deep to measure, a delusional feeling, now so infused in his blood, too hard to pinpoint.

"Ah, the Lincolns."

John Wilkes Booth: the imminent future of America.

He said a hasty goodbye to Henry Ford, and waited in a dark corner until he was sure of Ford's departure. He then made his way into the theater.

The crimson curtains hung down ominously, spanning the entire back wall of the theater. The seats were sorted into balconies, staggered slightly so that everyone would have an appropriate view of the stage. To the right of the stage was the President's box, draped with white linen, trimmed with regal gold stitching.

So it's "Our American Cousin" tonight. So the best time to get him would be when Harry Hawk is alone on stage, receiving all the laughter. That will be at approximately 10:15 tonight...

He scanned the room again. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit.

With a swish of his coat he walked back up the aisle to the doors, which he clicked shut with a bang.

"Though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when, if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness. Tonight I try to escape these bloodhounds once more."

Click the image of President Abraham Lincoln's assassination above to read the entire story.

- Essay by Lauren Walton, Grade 8

Monopoly. Who doesn't love the game? But have you ever thought about the game pieces? Or asked yourself, "Now why do I always choose that old top hat?" Probably not. But I did.

I was in the middle of an intense game of Monopoly. I could either use my remaining $200 to buy the B&O Railroad, giving me a close to finished set (I would need only one more, the Pennsylvania Railroad). Or I could save my money and use it in the future for property. As I sat there, weighing my decision, I looked at all of the odd game pieces I could have chosen from. I could have been a speedy car or a powerful ship. Or perhaps a fashionable purse. But no, I chose a dorky and childish little rocking horse, the old fashioned kind children in the '40s played with. Why had I made such a selection? One can only hope I was choosing at random, for if I truly wanted that piece, it would display a certain speck of insanity. Yes, I am insane! I didn't choose at random, I was the first to get my piece! I had chosen that rocking horse! But why?

Perhaps it was because I longed for my childhood again, where I was allowed to cheat in the game of Monopoly. But that wouldn't make much sense, for when I was little I always chose the iron and set up a random business of my own where the other players (my family of course) could pay me to iron their pink, blue, green, and yellow Monopoly cash. So it couldn't be a desire for memories to be woken up and remembered.

Well, I have always loved horses. Maybe I chose the silly rocking horse so I could pretend I was riding all over the ritzy areas of Boardwalk and Park Place, with the wind whipping at my face, and a sense of freedom flowing through my veins. What am I talking about? I hate horses! Well, not hate, as my mother always says, "Hate is a strong word." But ever since that mangy buckskin sent me flying into the cow patties piled up out in the pasture after bucking me straight and hard, I guess I've never cared for them much. The stench took days to scrub off. No, that can't be it.

Maybe, just maybe, it was to connect on a deeper level with my redneck past. After all, I was born in Arkansas. But wait! I don't really care for rednecks at all! I have grown up in Chicago my whole life, and the only time I've even stepped on a farm in my life was when I was seven! I'll never forget the smell.

After much contemplation, I think I finally discovered my motive for selecting the rocking horse! It wasn't because I wanted to connect with my redneck heritage, or that I love horses, or that I longed for my childhood. It was because it is the one piece that I personally took to biting as a baby, and no one has ever trusted me with any other piece since. Oh, the tragedies in life!

- Essay by Meghan Chamberlin

I can't remember the color of his eyes. Does that make me a bad great-granddaughter? The harder I reach into my memory the more difficult it becomes to recall. It makes me wonder, did I ever pay enough attention to him to notice the color well enough? As a little girl I sat on his lap thousands of times, glaring into them, like a child glares into an empty cookie jar, searching for something. I know that whatever color they were it must have been a soft, sweet shade inside his eyes like almonds. Still, I cannot recall the color and it breaks my heart. I know that I could just ask a relative but it wouldn't be the same as if I had remembered myself. It is strange how the brain works. Choosing to forever grab hold of certain memories and at the same time letting others fade away into the background. The dull, lifeless background of what we want so badly to hold onto but just can't.

Perched on top of his skinny legs as he scratches his rough white beard, I am five years old again. The world is one big candy coated dream and I will forever be the princess that sits on top of the grand King's lap. I gaze at his face and examine the wrinkles that sit patiently around his eyes and mouth, knowing that they will only deepen in time. I am still very young and I know that he will get older each year but I never believe that he will fade away from me. He will never drift from my sight and I will always be resting on top of his lap. He wraps his arms around me and it is as if he is pouring a big pitcher of love into my tiny body. He tells me I am his little treasure and I picture myself hiding in a golden chest at the bottom of the deep sea. Looking up from the bottom, I can see the sun glaring down on me illuminating everything. I am at home sitting on his lap in the crowded living room. His wool trousers scratch against my pale legs and make them itch. That doesn't matter though because I am here with him and not even a giant cookie could slew me away from sitting here. I look down at his signature suspenders that he puts on every morning over his thin white t-shirt and flannel polo. They have tiny roses on them and green vines wrapping around each tiny flower bud. The roses float up to his face, bringing me back to the eyes which I cannot recall the color of.

I am no longer five and I no longer sit on his lap in that same crowded living room. When I visit my Nonny I look at the room with its cold emptiness. His spot on the couch still sits there, looking miserable and empty. It makes me think. Is he looking down on me from heaven? Is he proud of his little treasure? Does he know that when I think of him I sometimes cry from missing him so badly? Can he recall the color of my eyes?

 

I try not to acknowledge the emptiness I feel when I sit down in his usual spot. It has been empty for many years now but I can still feel a little piece of him, a bit of his warmth. He is always with me and I will always remember the hours spent, sitting on his lap, waiting for our legs to go numb. I just can't remember the color of his eyes.

This is the 7th piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing!

Check back every single day 'til Christmas to see if your writing gets posted!

- Essay by Zara Fishkin, Grade 10

 

Hey, my name is Zara Fishkin, and my toothbrush is purple. Right now, I am talking to you from my computer during my writer's workshop period. I just want to speek to you about the beauty of the arts. Most people would tell me not to include myself in this piece, but I think that it is as much about where the opinions are coming from as it is about the topic. So while you, the reader, might not normally care what color I see when I brush my teeth every morning and night, this is my way of communicating to you what it's like in my world. 

 

Interestingly enough, that is what I feel the essence of art really is. No, it is not about my toothbrush. It is about how the composer is able to communicate a message, a feeling, or a sense of understanding. In the same way that a successful writer expresses these things, so can a painter, sculptor, musician, dancer, or even an athlete. As the late, great runner Steve Prefontaine once said, "A race is a work of art that people can look at and be affected in as many ways they're capable of understanding." Running was what he was good at, and so that was the art form that he chose. 

 

The whole meaning of the work is what the reader will most likely be affected by. For example, while you may not remember word for word, everything that I am sharing with you, or that I spelled "speak" wrong in sentence three, it is my hope that you will comprehend and understand some of the same thoughts that I'm sharing. In the case of a musician, a person may not recall whether the "B" was flat or sharp, but the feeling the composer was trying to convey when the work was created, the listener most likely received. This is how I think that all the forms of art are connected: they are what make us not alone with our thoughts, but part of a community. I believe that a truly skilled artist is one who gives the clearest idea of what he or she is thinking, whether it be a thoughtful message, or simply a whim of the imagination.

 

This is the second piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing!

Check back every single day 'til Christmas to see if your writing gets posted!

Essay by Tasha Fisher, Grade 11

I can remember as a child tossing and turning in bed for hours and hours praying to God I would fall asleep. "Please God, let me fall asleep, I have a big day at school tomorrow, and I need some sleep. I promise I'll be a good girl for mommy." Every minute I would check the clock and hope I would fall asleep that minute. Minutes turned into hours, hours turned into morning, and then it was time to get up.

In my family falling asleep was not an issue. My dad could fall asleep instantly; in a movie, in church, in a graduation ceremony, you name it, he's snored up a storm there. My mom well she's just exhausted by the end of the day. Once her head hits that off white temperpedic pillow she's asleep. Then my sister, she doesn't have any problem sleeping either. In fact in pre-school she would fall asleep on that uncomfortable hard as rock no support, pokey "carpet" during story time. Me, on the other hand, sleep has and will be a problem I battle my entire life.