Wednesday, December 20, 2006
A Bug's Point of View

- Story by Abbie Dinowitz

 

As I crawled out of the anthill early yesterday morning, I was happy to see the enormous yellow sun shining brightly over the park. The sight was a huge relief, since the previous day it had rained and my friends and I had experienced several near-death experiences in puddles.

 

I reentered the hill quietly, careful not to bother my relatives who were still sleeping. There are more than a hundred of us who reside in the hill; we are the biggest ant family in the area.

 

My favorite older brother was awake, so I invited him to join me for breakfast.

 

"Let me relax for a little while, Sammy!" he grunted at me. Josh never wants to do anything with me anymore.  We used to have picnic-searching adventures and relay races all summer long. But this summer is different. Now all he cares about is journeying across the street every day so he can visit his girlfriend, Lisa. 

 

I sighed and went back outside alone.

 

I found some crumbs from a chocolate chip cookie near the big oak tree, but I didn't have much of an appetite. I wandered aimlessly for a little while, waiting for everybody to wake up. Soon, a group of small, giggly ants emerged from the hole at the top of the hill.

 

"Morning, Sammy!"  they shouted cheerfully. 

 

I greeted my cousins with a grin. Although they are girls, Jamie, Jill, Jessica, and Joanne are always ready to cheer me up when I'm upset. As I shared my cookie crumbs with them, I updated them on the Josh situation. It was old news though; I had been complaining to them about my brother daily. They knew that the best solution was to change the subject.

 

Click HERE to read the rest of the story...

 

This is the 10th piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing!



# #
StudentWriter    Posted by
StudentWriter
on 12/20/2006
3:30 PM
 Tuesday, December 19, 2006
I Am

- Poem by Katharine Larson, Grade 6

 

I am happy and excited

I wonder why we can't have everything for free

I hear my grandfather's voice

I see Broadway

I want a Golden Retriever

 

I believe we all make mistakes

I ask why some people are nice and some people aren't

 

I am happy and excited

I pretend to be the best dancer

I feel rocks at my feet

I touch silk that is not there

I worry what luck I am going to have

I cry when my friends are mean

 

I believe we are equal

I ask who invented people

 

I am happy and excited

I understand we can't do everything we want

I say people should help out the poor

I dream I will live happily for the rest of my life

I try to be the best person I can be

I hope to get a scholarship

I believe we all have a good quality

 

I ask why dogs can not talk

I am happy and excited 

This is the 9th 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!


# (1)#
StudentWriter    Posted by
StudentWriter
on 12/19/2006
12:20 PM
 Monday, December 18, 2006
A Vapor

- Poem by Michael Schwendeman, Grade 8

Seems like a vapor that you just can't see
Something surrounding, puzzling me
The ideal perfection you can't wait to receive
One beautifully glorious mystery

Something like a vapor carried on by the breeze
Its splendor unknown due to its secrecy
It is always around and watching with care
Attempting to cast away all known despair

Kind of like a vapor, fluent and free
Drifting this way and that, wherever it will please
Desiring only to live with tranquility
The core importance is its humility

And as this vapor waits for the faithful and true
Wishing only that somehow we knew
That along the horizon, the future in store
Heaven was waiting through the open door

 

This is the 8th 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!


# (1)#
StudentWriter    Posted by
StudentWriter
on 12/18/2006
11:21 AM
 Sunday, December 17, 2006
His Eyes

- 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!


# #
StudentWriter    Posted by
StudentWriter
on 12/17/2006
2:18 PM


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