By Larry Perth

Is Writing magazine thinking of expanding its target audience to the elderly? Rumors are flying all over the publishing world. Is it possible that Weekly Reader sees a need for writing instruction among America's greatest generation? I'm here to set the record straight.

When I first heard the curious buzz, I was sitting quietly in a park in Stamford. I was tearing through the pages of Gregory Maguire's masterpiece Wicked. (When I say "tearing through", I mean of course that I was reading hungrily, voraciously, as if my eyes couldn't take the words in fast enough... not that I was weeping or, God forbid, actually ripping up the pages.) Two old ladies were approaching me at a snail's pace. I noticed them reluctantly, as I was deeply immersed in the evil doings of the Wicked Witch of the West, and was more than a tad bit vexed. But how could one not call attention to bright fluorescent orange matching suede pants?

They were just out among the rest of us, enjoying the prettiness of the day and taking their sweet, old time doing nothing, simply happy to be alive. In my mind, I forgave them for their unintentional intrusion and smiled behind my book at the peculiar way they shuffled.

Finally they reached me and I was attentive to their talk. They were speaking of writing to their grandchildren. It was sweet.

"My son says I write like an angel. When he reads my letters to Billy at night, the lad is swept away."

"I write my grandkids fairy tales. Ever since I subscribed to Writing magazine... oh my stars! It seems like I've become a regular Antoine de Saint-Exupéry!"

I couldn't believe my ears! I knew the magazine well and I was shocked to hear that anyone over the age of 17 had even heard of it, let alone subscribed to it! Even though it was not in my nature, I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by.

"Excuse me," I mentioned softly, standing up and facing them. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but did you just say that you subscribe to Writing magazine?"

"Yes, that's right handsome."

"Judy!" She hit her friend playfully with her purse and I did my best to stifle a laugh at their adorable camaraderie.

"What? He's handsome! What do you want from me?"

"Show some decorum, for Pete's sake!"

"Oh decorum de-shmor-um! You don't mind me calling you handsome, do you handsome?"

"No ma'am. And might I add that you're quite the dashing lady yourself." Suddenly, I had somehow turned into a geriatric Bogie. I even went so far as to lean in and kiss her hand! She blushed like a schoolgirl and I left them feeling wonderful.

A week or so went by and I just couldn't get the thought out of my head. I drove over to the Weekly Reader Headquarters and did a bit of investigative reporting. I had no affiliations so it took a bit of prying to get past the security guard at the front desk. He called up to the Writing editor and, to my ecstatic surprise, she was happy to see me!

She told me that she "didn't usually do this sort of thing" but that my story was "a fascinating one." I got straight to the point.

The following poem was received as part of Writing's Take Five Contest. Although it did not win, we enjoyed it very much and wanted to share it with you. Check back throughout the rest of April and May to read more excellent poems and stories from Take Five.

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Poem by Alina Ott, Grade 11

Chicken noodle soup on a cloudy April day
Wayward leaves are recklessly twisted by gusts
   Shoving umbrellas and newspapers inside out.

Suddenly on the wind raindrops appear
Moodily defying upward glances and muttered prayers
   Spreading shadows and pinning helpless litter.

Dark figures hurry by, heads down, collars up
Grumpy, caught wet and unaware
   Buffeted by puddles from the street

Wheels creak as a small unlucky man
Rides precariously by on a red bicycle
   Weaving through raindrops.

The rain slowls to a constant patter
An orchestra of drumming rooftops
   Dripping pipes and spattering lakes.

Only I cross the slick pavement
Eyelashes working like windshield wipers
   Braving the wind and rain.

The way sparkles with shattering droplets
Though the beauty is lost in the battle
   Fighting a lock with curses and keys.

Poem by Mitchell Krasney, Grade 8

Between twilight and dawn my two dogs rest in their kennel dreaming of adventures to come.
With the sounds of the morning, they eagerly awake to start their daily routine.
By my side in the bathroom they wag their tails against my legs and lick my toes until they're numb.

After a while, they bark at the back door to announce their need to be part of the exterior scene.
Outside the house, they escape from the porch to explore our expansive grounds.
Without a care, they chase a butterfly with speed too great that they run into a window screen.

Through the newly planted garden they trudge over the petunias and marigolds while my mom frowns.
Beyond the white picket fence they see a deer frolicking in front of an old rock wall.
Despite their stumpy paws, they race with all their might to catch their prey like typical hunting hounds.

Near the woods, they stop beneath a weeping willow finding more interest in a slimy tennis ball.
Above their heads a bright red cardinal swiftly flies by and gracefully lands on a wooden bird feeder.
Up the steep hill in an attempt to slip behind the unaware bird the two mutts crawl.

Past a thorny rose bush and a patch of daylillies, they finally freeze underneath a northern white cedar.
Toward the feeder they dart without delay, but soon the bird simply soars away into the afternoon sky.
Before sunset with their tails tucked under their bodies they return home neither one wanting to be the leader.