by Devon Fonville

I had something I treasured but didn't cherish.
It was given by a person who got the same from me.
The treasure wasn't round or bounced.
It wasn't fluffy with cotton in it.
It wasn't nothing that can be written on
but it could be torn up,
it also could be broken,
but I don't think people wanted it
to brake or tear apart.
They wanted it to stay together,
but my gift began to crumble,
and tear time by time.
It never occurred to me that it would be taken away
so I had no worry.
But it left.

PS The thing I treasure so much was a thing called love.

An eyelash fell off yesterday, and I made a few wishes. World peace. To be a millionaire. To wake up and realize I'm actually married to Brad Pitt (and I look like Angelina). An end to the writers' strike.

Well, one out of four ain't bad.

That's right! The strike is over! Woo-hoo!

Television shows will start to come back pretty soon. We can catch up on all of our favorite shows. No longer is there a need to watch Rock of Love 7: Tommy Tutone Edition (Jenny, Jenny, I Really Want Your Number!) or Who Wants to Buy My Baby? or America's Next Top Paperweight Quality Control Assistant General Manager or whatever other reality show they come out with next. There will be scripted shows!

Say it with me. "Scripted." It sounds so nice rolling off the tongue.

Who would have thought the strike would have lasted three months? Who would have thought we'd miss new TV so much?

I mean, yeah, don't become a couch potato. You should still go out and see natural light once in awhile. And, of course, don't start slacking on your reading. But at least there will be options.

Now, if only my other three wishes would come true...

OK, this is really random. And no, for once this isn't going to be an entry about the on-going writers' strike. (Although, I did read that the strike might be ending soon. Yay!) But I was doing some writing today--as is required in my line of work--and I thought I did a pretty good job, if I do say so myself. But writing is so subjective. What if all my adoring fans don't like it?

Remember that scene in A Christmas Story (I'm sure you've seen it--they practically play it 24/7 in December. Not that I'm complaining, because it is a hilarious movie.) where Ralphie has to write a theme for his teacher on what he wants for Christmas?  He writes this empassioned essay about how he wants "a Red Ryder BB gun with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time." Then he imagines his teacher saying, "Poetry. Sheer poetry, Ralph! An A+!" Well, when he gets the paper back, there is no A+. Instead, scrawled across the top, it says "You'll shoot your eye out!"

Sigh.

Sometimes, doesn't it just feel like that? You put your heart and soul into a piece of writing, and all you get back is the proverbial "You'll shoot your eye out."

Anyway, my point (I do have one) is that it shouldn't matter what you write. OK, yes, for school, if you're assigned an essay, please follow your teacher's requirements, and do the studying and all the preperation and all that. I don't want any angry letters, please. But anyway, I really feel that it's most important to write about something you care about. And enjoy doing it. It's not the subject that matters.

So write on. Don't worry what people think about it. As they say, you can't please everyone. As long as you enjoy writing, that's all that matters. And the more you do it, the more confident you'll get with your writing, and the better you'll get.

And if you do write about how you want a BB gun, be careful.

After all, you don't want to shoot your eye out.

- by Laura Markert, age 15.

She was born many years ago
In the early days of spring
When the blossoms where just blooming,
and the river returning to life.

She has seen many times when the earth changes forms
When the days grow colder and the nights are long
When the hottness of the day makes her grow weary,
But still, she awaits her most favorite of times.

She silently waits. Waits for when the birds in the sky
fly to the south
For when the leaves atop her head change to the hundreds
of different colors.

The leaves are her friends, her companions, her children
They flutter in the breeze as they change their shades
From dull and wrinkeled to bright and smooth
From brown and dark green to firery red and golden yellow.

But soon the wind will come and take her children.
It rips them from their branches and takes them far,
far away.

Yet she is not sad nor is she mad
She is exited and exuberant.
Yes, the turbulent winds have taken her friends
But still, she is happy.

She waves goodbye to her children as the
cold sets in her bark.
And she thinks of how happy she will
be next year when she will have more.

She falls into a deep sleep and dreams
of the year to come
When her children will be born again and she
will live once more.