The following story is an interpretation of the 1,000 Words image in the September, 2006 issue of Writing Magazine.

 

Sammy

- Story by Alex Lindstrom, Grade 7

 

"Ouch, my head hurts now," said Redeye, as the drop of water slammed into his tiny head. It was torture for Redeye and his brother and his sister (Hopper and Sticky), as they tried to make their way in the pouring rain to the massive leaf hanging from the tree. The slithering boa constrictor, Sammy, was close behind. His goal was to finish what he had started ...

 

Once, there were twenty-eight little tadpoles swimming happily in a crystal clear pond, fed by a bubbling waterfall in the middle of the Amazon Rain Forest. The pond was full of water, piranhas, and lots of redeye tadpoles. The parents of the redeye tadpoles lived in the beautiful pond too, making sure all the babies were well fed and out of danger. Every one of the tadpoles had a perfect, carefree life.

 

Every day the young tadpoles swam and played wonderful games of chase and hide-and-go-seek in the warm water. They were then fed by their mother, who caught buzzing insects with her long, sticky, pink tongue as they flew by. After they were fed and had swam and played, they would take a nap in a secluded area of the pond behind a giant rock under the lily pad. They loved every aspect of their simple life.

 

One day, while the babies were out chasing each other around, playing under the rushing waterfall, and hiding behind rocks, they heard a piercing cry from their mother, begging and pleading for them to swim under the rock as fast as they could. All of the babies, both startled and afraid, slowly went over to their mother by the rock ... all except three. Then they saw it, the image forever imprinted in their minds, a boa constrictor, with three of their siblings, Lucy, Leaf, and Mudpie in its coils. It opened up its massive mouth, and swallowed them whole.

In honor of Banned Books Week, we give you a poem about book burning. For more information about the freedom to read, you can check out the current issue of READ Magazine.

FIRE
Poem by Lydia Warters, Grade 8

I am the fire
Crackling heat burning strongly
As I take in paper
I am the heat
Warming
The house of Mystery
For I am the fire

I feel sorry
As I eat up books
Burning the amazing world of a story
I will take away its magic words
Page by page
A book never read again
I am sorry for I am the fire

I see the words
In the pages of a book
Melting away
A path of black smoke
Trails silently behind me
Two girls stand deep in thought
They speak no words
I burn on
For I am the fire

I hear the crackling pop
Of myself
As I burn on
The silent noise
Of a page turning
In the last book remaining
I hear for I am the fire

I wish the best
For the house
In which
I once so strongly burned
I will soon be gone
So
I hope for the best
For everyone
I wish this for I was the fire

 

The Call of the Wild

Posthumous publication? What's that, you say? Well, posthumous means something that happens after someone's death ... so a posthumous publication is a work printed after a person's death.

Now that we have this straight, you'll be happy to know that a posthumous book by J.R.R. Tolkien (1892-1973), author of The Lord of the Rings, is going to be published in the Spring of 2007. The Children of Hurin is an epic tale about the elves and dwarves featured in many of Tolkien's stories. 

Tolkien began the saga in 1918, but never finished it. For the past 30 years, his son Christopher Tolkien, has been working on finishing the tale, using his father's manuscript and notes.

"It has seemed to me for a long time that there was a good case for presenting my father's long version of the legend of The Children of Hurin as an independent work, between its own covers," Christopher Tolkien said in a statement. (Bits and pieces have been published in the past.)

We're sharing this good news with you on what turns out to be the anniversary of the day in 1937 when Tolkien published his first novel, The Hobbit.

The back story of his novel is pretty interesting--while working as a professor at Oxford, Tolkien used to work an extra job grading exams during the summer. One day, he was so bored that he wrote the following line on a blank page of a student's exam: "In a hole in the ground lived a hobbit."

From The Writer's Almanac:

"Tolkien later said that he had no idea where the word "hobbit" came from. It had just popped into his head, out of nowhere. He was intrigued by it and decided to write a story to find out what a hobbit might be. In the story that resulted, he wrote a description of hobbits that said, in part, "[Hobbits] are (or were) a little people, about half our height, and smaller than the bearded Dwarves. ... They are inclined to be fat in the stomach; they dress in bright colours (chiefly green and yellow); wear no shoes, because their feet grow naturally leathery soles and thick warm brown hair like the stuff on their heads (which is curly); have long clever brown fingers, good-natured faces, and laugh deep fruity laughs (especially after dinner, which they have twice a day when they can get it)."

Tolkien had been thinking for years about an imaginary place he called Middle-Earth full of dwarves, elves, and wizards. He decided that his story would concern a hobbit in this world named Bilbo Baggins who goes on an adventure to help steal a treasure from a dragon named Smaug, and along the way discovers a magical ring that turns him invisible. Tolkien wrote the book by hand, sitting on a tiny bed in his attic, finishing it sometime around the mid-1930s.

He showed it to a few friends, but he had no intention of publishing it until a former student of his got a job at a publishing house and began pestering him to give her the manuscript. He finally relented, and it came out on this day in 1937."

I told you it was a neat back story!

According to a well-worn proverb, a picture is worth a thousand words. In the September 2006 issue of Writing, we published a photograph of a red-eyed tree frog (Agalychnis callidryas) which was taken on a rainy day by photographer Michael Durham. We asked you to write a story about this frog -- to give it a name, describe its surroundings, and imagine the events that brought it to this moment. Your story could be 50 words, 100 words, the proverbial 1,000 words--or more. Here is one of our favorite submissions.

Croaky The Frog

- Story by Andrea Nielsen-George, Grade 7

It was a great day in the Amazon until Croaky the rain forest frog came into the trees and told everyone the bad news. "Everyone, everyone! The weather has just been announced!"

 

"Well, Croaky what is the news?" asked all the animals of the forest. 

 

Trying to catch his breath, Croaky answered, "King Lion said that there is to be some rain today!"

 

Everyone looked at him as their faces dropped.

 

Sally Spider said sarcastically, "Croaky, if you haven't noticed, this is a rainforest.”

 

Mary Moth said, "Yeah, it rains here everyday."

 

All the animals turned around and left Croaky by himself. Croaky thought that everyone would thank him, but instead they were aggravated with him.

 

Croaky went to go find a leaf big enough to cover him. "Ah-ha," he said to himself. "This is a huge leaf. It will do for the storm."

Today is Talk Like a Pirate Day! Invented in 1995 by two friends, John Baur and Mark Summers, this day celebrates “the spirit of adventure and the human need to engage in the act of discovery.” It also provides a painless way of expanding your vocabulary. Aye, really!

 

Here are a few handy expressions you may want to use today:

 

If you want to agree with someone: Aye!

In other words: Yes. 

 

If you want to say hello to your buddy: Ahoy matey!

Editor's note - Recent news has come out that states that this man is not the man in the famous photo. More to come in a future blog post.

Do you know this man?

Sure you do! His name is Carl Muscarello. Carl was the sailor in 1945 who celebrated VJ Day by planting one on a nurse named Edith Shain in the middle of Times Square. The photo, taken by Alfred Eisenstaedt became an instant classic when Life Magazine published it.

That was over 60 years ago. Today, Carl is 80 years old, but he's still as full of energy as he was back then!

Recently, two men broke into Carl's Florida home. One of the burglars ran away while the other one started swinging a golf club at Carl's son. Carl grabbed the intruder and put a chokehold on him. He then brought the man to the floor and held him down until the police came.

"I often happen to be at a strange place at a strange time," Muscarello said.

Once a hero, always a hero.

The following blog entry was written by Meredith Matthews, an editor on Current Health magazine.

Like her boy-wizard Harry Potter, author J.K. Rowling recently faced a seemingly insurmountable obstacle, and worked a bit of magic to get past it. In Rowling's case, the challenge was simply getting on board an airplane without being separated from the latest (and last) Harry Potter manuscript.

 

Last month, British police arrested a number of people who they said were planning to blow up airplanes. The plot involved using explosive materials smuggled in through normal-looking containers, like sports-drink bottles. After this incident, U.K. security officials banned all carry-on luggage on airplanes for a few weeks.

 

During this time, Rowling was returning from the United States, where she had read part of the new manuscript at a charity event. On her website, she tells how she had to convince security staff at a New York airport to let her take the manuscript on board. Since "a large part of it was handwritten," according to Rowling, it's no wonder she didn't want to check it with the rest of her luggage!

 

To Rowling's relief and that of Harry Potter fans everywhere, the quibbling worked. "They let me take it on, thankfully, bound up in elastic bands," she writes on her website. "I don't know what I would have done if they hadn't; sailed home, probably."

- Essay by Rachael DeMartino, Grade 10

I was 10 years old on that late summer day in 2001. It seemed to be just another school day. Nothing seemed too out of the ordinary, that is until around the end of the lunch period. I was about to throw away my garbage when my friend Amber came up to me and said, "A plane just crashed into the Twin Towers and now one is headed for the White House, I think." I suddenly felt sick to my stomach. I could not eat another bite.

- Essay by Paul Swinehart, Grade 8

On September 11th, 2001, I was awakened from bed early by my Mom. On the television, I saw two skyscrapers in New York on fire. They had been hit by airplanes.

Of course, I was very sad, but I was mostly very angry. I was only 8 years old. I didn't know what to think. I didn't know who could have done such a terrible thing. When we found out that it was the Taliban, people from Afghanistan, I was wondering where the country was. I finally found it on a map. My immediate reaction was anger! I was prejudiced - I thought that everything and everyone that came from that region was bad. I realize now that you can't label an entire group or race of people as being evil. Still ... I can't help wondering where the masterminds are right now and when they will be caught. I can't wait until that day comes, because I will know that justice has finally been served.

- Essay by Jackie Kimmel, Grade 10

This day was like no other; a day of unforgettable feats and unbelievable sadness. The day of September 11, 2001 is one of the many pages in the book of America's history that will never be lost, just like the days of Pearl Harbor and even back to the civil war. These events are all remembered and known clearly just as the day of September 11th is to me.

Coming from the mind of a 5th grader, nothing seemed worse than having to sit through a full day of school, but little did I know I was about to find out how wrong I was. Sitting in my homeroom class I suddenly realized that many of my classmates were being mysteriously dismissed from school. I secretly envied them, wishing that I could leave also. From the time of the first dismissed student to the unveiling of what was actually happening, is a time I regard as one of dumbfounded and complete mystery. To me it seemed as if everyone knew a secret and was intentionally keeping me out of the loop. I can remember hushed whispers in the hall from one teacher to another. As more and more students started being picked up by their parents, I became more and more worried, what exactly had happened and what was going to happen to the rest of us students that were still at school?

- Essay by Gretchen Smith, Grade 10



September 11th, 2001 started out like any other day. I was in 5th grade. I woke up, went to school, and talked to my friends. Later that day, a little after lunch, things started getting a little suspicious. Teachers were talking quietly, parents were coming to the school and pulling kids out of class to take them home. Then rumors of attacks started going around the lunch area. We had all heard that we were getting out early. I remember I was really worried. Since my Mom is a teacher I went to her room and asked her what was going on. When she told me, I was very shocked. Shanksville is only about five miles away from us. 

This is not a story of heroes or of courage. This story does not have any bells or whistles. It is not meant to entertain or inspire. It is not a story of personal loss or global understanding. All it is is an account of how the terrible events unfolded to me on September 11, 2001.

Click on the "comments" link at the bottom of the entry to read more of what students around the country have to say about 9/11, or, to share your own thoughts.

One Tuesday in New York
- Essay by Bryon Cahill

Now first off, I acknowledge that the retelling of events as they happened through my eyes is as wildly arrogant as it is unimportant. The entire world witnessed the horror of that terrible day. I am certainly not here to ignore or lessen anyone's tale or emotions. But here, at the 5 year anniversary of 9/11, I feel the overwhelming need to try to say something.

I was living in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn at the time. I was working as an Editorial Assistant at a children's publishing company in New York City. It was what I considered to be my first "real" job in the "real" world. And I was quite content with everything. I was young and living in the Big Apple! When I called it that, people gave me a look as if to say, "Don't be a tourist. If you're gonna be a New Yorker, be a New Yorker." But I couldn't help it. Every day as I walked through the city streets, I gazed up at the buildings that went on forever. How was it possible that I could be a part of something so huge?

Bay Ridge is about as far away from midtown Manhattan that you can get and still be a part of it all. Every morning, I would walk the five blocks from my apartment to the subway station. Bay Ridge was the very last stop on the R line, so when the train came, the doors opened, the people got out, and then it sat there. Along with other Bay Ridgers, I would find myself a seat and plant myself down, waiting patiently for the conductor to start it up again and head out in the opposite direction.

It was an hour ride to midtown. I didn't mind it much. I always had a seat and a book and I got a lot of my reading done in that two hour commute back and forth. In the fall of 2001, I was reading Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand, a mammoth of a book if you ever saw one. It called for every ounce of my concentration.

September 11th was a gorgeous Tuesday morning. A slave to my routine, I was on the R train around 8:00. As the train started up, I was glued to my book. The people around me became shadows.

Back then, the R train passed right under the World Trade Center. It was an incredibly busy stop and one that I never got off at. That morning, my train stopped at Cortlandt Street, under the Twin Towers, as it always did. The doors did not open immediately.

"We are only picking up passengers at Cortlandt," the train conductor said over the loudspeaker. "Please remain on the train." I hardly heard him. I was buried in my book.

Only two or three people got on and I only looked up when I heard a woman farther down say something like, "A plane just hit the World Trade Center." What? What did she say? I must have misheard her. I went back into my book as the train pulled out of the station. The loudness of the train blurred the crazy woman's words and zoned out her wild, made up tall tales.

In retrospect, I was on one of the last trains to ever pass under the Twin Towers. They stopped service through very shortly after.

Six stops later, I got off the train. With my book stowed away in my backpack, I walked through the station and up the stairs. When I reached daylight, I immediately knew something was seriously wrong.

In New York City, every hour is rush hour, but at five minutes to nine, people are whizzing by you in every direction. They weren't. Not this day. On this day, traffic was either slowed or stopped. On this day, every single person was staring up at something. They were all looking at something behind me.

The following is a piece of my catalog of travels from the great state of Virginia to the great state of California, up the coast to Washington (also great), and then back east, back home. Nothing in this account has been embellished and/or fabricated. It all really and truly happened. For real. Seriously. I would not lie to you.

Thursday, June 22 2006

NEW YORK

Niagra Falls
What's up, New York?!? Did you miss us? It's good to be back this close to home. I'm saddened that the trip is ending but reality awaits back at home.

We woke up early this morning in Michigan and headed to Buffalo. Dan and I had both seen Niagra Falls as Freshmen in High School. It was on a school trip and we traveled to the Canadian side. I remember there being a lot of water.

This time, we drove to the New York side and guess what? There was a lot of water.

We observed the Falls from the observation deck for awhile. They thundered and crashed about 400 feet below us. An elevator took us lower and we walked a path up to the side and middle of Niagra Falls. The intense splashing of the waters against the cliff rocks got us soaked. If any part of that was undesirable (I didn't necessarily appreciate the drenching of my socks), it was surely made up for by the euphoria brought on by being a part of the overall scene.

Six Flags
The very last thing on the agenda was to enjoy ourselves at Six Flags. My favorite ride of all has always been (and still is) the antique cars. We went on all the rollercoasters (except Dan backed away from the Superman ride ... wuss), and enjoyed the beautiful day. Although, as nice as it was to let out two weeks worth of travelling steam at a fun-filled amusement park. I have to say that I felt just a tad bit old there. At the end of the day, I had a headache and an upset stomach from being tossed and turned violently in every possible direction. The place was bursting with middle school and high school age students. They ran from ride to ride, we sauntered.

Friday, June 23, 2006

CONNECTICUT

Home Reflections
Home again, home again, jiggity jog. We got back very late last night. Dan stayed briefly. Just long enough to clean out his car and grab a bite to eat. I was sad to see him go. Not because we won't see each other soon, we will—but because he had become a permanent fixture in my life over the past two weeks. When you spend that much time and conquer that many miles with someone, you either want to kill him or hug him at the end of the road. I opted for the latter.

I am now thoroughly exhausted and looking forward to a nice, long weekend as I slowly assimilate back into reality.

I bought The Lewis and Clark Journals somewhere along the way and I intend to take a good look at it in the coming days. Lewis and Clark were great pioneers of this country 200 years ago. Today, we take it for granted. After my extensive trip to the west and back again, I have a much greater sense of history and country. I'm so glad we made the trip and I look forward to taking the southern route somewhere in the distant future.

In the meantime, I'm just happy to be home. Although the driving was at times arduous, although Dan and I experienced brief (and trivial) arguments, although we nearly died in Fulford (and I'm still not convinced we didn't), it was a trip for the ages. Everyone should do it when they get a chance. America is out there, everywhere. It's a great place to visit and you gotta love living here!

Did we drive by your town? Click on any state below to find out.

Connecticut
New York
Pennsylvania
Ohio
Illinois
Wisconsin
Minnesota
South Dakota
Wyoming
Montana
Idaho
Washington
Oregon
California
Nevada
Utah
Colorado
Nebraska
Iowa
Missouri
Illinois
Indiana
Kentucky
West Virginia
Virginia

- by Quin Cullen, Grade 5

Tony Cullen, my father, was a great person. He and my mom grew up together in Ithaca, New York. My father was the youngest of six children, two girls and three other boys. He attended Ithaca High School, where he got straight A's. He went to Hobart College, just like all of his siblings did, but transferred to Duke University after one year.

My father had played lacrosse his whole life, and he was good. He had a lot of moves that couldn't be beat. He brought lacrosse to Duke University, played on the team he created and coached it once he had graduated. He made the team good enough for the school to be able to afford. Slowly, they got better, won games, and, eventually, offered scholarships.

When the team was set, Dad decided to resign. He came home to stay with his family: my mom, Megan, Eamon, Rory, Kaity Shea, me, and Ainslie--the six Cullen kids. He was one of six, so it was only natural that we ended up with six.

The summer Dad was diagnosed with cancer, I was six years old. I didn't understand that it was life-threatening. Everything seems so surreal when you're six.

Dad didn't get better. In fact, because of his Crones, he got worse. He would get a rash from Crones that only the sun could cure, but the sun was what was killing him. Dad's melanoma got worse and worse, and eventually he couldn't get out of bed. I still went to school, but I didn't talk much, not even to Gracie, my best friend.

My dad passed away on Cinco de Mayo 2001, the Mexican celebration of freedom. The next school day, I went to my first-grade classroom trying to pretend nothing was different. I knew it was. I knew I would never see my dad again in real life, only in dreams and pictures.

Before he left us, Dad gave us all one more present. We moved in on May 3rd. Dad lived in that house for two days before he left. For the next three years, we took every Cinco de Mayo off from school, until I was in fifth grade and Megan, Eamon, and Rory were freshmen in college. I felt sorry for myself for a while, but then I realized: I'm not the one who had my life cut short. I probably won't leave my family 45 years into life. Dad's the one who labored his whole life and never had the time to have a break.

Today, I remember Dad. I know he watched the Carolina Hurricanes win the Stanley Cup and I know he watches us. He's not on Earth, but he keeps us safe.

One year ago today, our little literary blog came into the world. With a flourish of trumpets and another flourish of manic typing, WORD came to be. Now WORD is officially 1. And he's more jazzed than ever to be here!

In its 2nd year on this planet, WORD will be bringing you more writing tips, more book news, and much more student writing! Click "submit your writing" on the right hand side of the page to send us your stuff! Poems, stories, essays... it's all good! Yah! You can also write us any time at word@weeklyreader.com.

And now in celebration of this glorious day, we give you a few of our contributors' thoughts on what WORD means to them.

DALLAS WOODBURN, WORD CONTRIBUTOR
In first grade, I started keeping a diary. I remember being disappointed that my conversations were always one-sided. No matter how many times I poured my heart out on those pages or asked questions about what I should do, the only response I could hope to find was within my own mind. Being involved with WORD, I feel like I finally get to write in a diary that responds back. I get to be a part of a community of writers just like me! If I am struggling with writer's block, I can blog about it and others will respond with support and advice. If I read a good book, I can talk to other people who have read it, too -- and find out what else they're reading. When I finished my novel and blogged about it, other WORD members responded with a barrage of exclamation-pointed congratulations and cheers. Who needs a diary when we've got WORD? Happy birthday, WORD, and here's to many, many more! :)

DEBBIE NEVINS -
Managing Editor, READ, WRITING, and KNOW YOUR WORLD - EXTRA
   In the beginning was the WORD. For me, WORD has been the beginning of a whole new literary adventure, since I wasn't really into blogs before we launched this one. I think this is the coolest thing ever, and I just want to say, Blog on!

SANDHYA NANKANI - Senior Editor, WRITING
Words have always been magical to me. WORD is magical to me as well because it connects me to the readers of our magazine every single day. It's one thing to put your thoughts down on paper for your eyes to see; it's another thing to put your thoughts down for the world to see. It takes guts to hit the <send> button and that's why there's nothing more exciting to me than checking the WORD inbox and seeing it filled up with words by you, our prolific and poetic student writers. You are brave and inspire me with your writings about your lives, your experiences, your fears, your dreams, and your epiphanies.

JEFF IVES - News Group, Editor
WORD is more than just another blog to me. WORD is the calm center of the internet storm. When everything in cyberspace roils with the madness of rumors … When online newspapers have boring and confusing headlines that I don’t care about … When all hope for an enjoyable, relaxing read have faded into the abyss of my monitor … That’s when I turn to WORD. And it never disappoints. While I have made my own small contributions to this wonderful blog, I think we all know that WORD is bigger than any one person. WORD is made by all of us and for all of us. And it shall never perish from this internet. Happy birthday WORD. You may only be a year old, but your place in my heart is endless.

BRYON CAHILL - Literary Editor, READ & WRITING
Dear WORD,
   Hey buddy. Sup chu? Happy birthday, brutha! Yeah, that's right. You're an old man now. Welcome to the club. Hey, let me ask you something. Where do you get your ideas? That's probably a question you despise, huh? When you get together with the other literary blogs, do you laugh about numbskulls like me who ask you silly questions? Well here's another: Who is John Galt? Ay, there's the rub. What rub? What are you talking about? It's the pig that's unusual. It says so, right there in the middle of the web. Are you sure? I have a good mind to believe that your truth is questionable! Prove it! No. I'm outta here. Goodnight, my little prince. Goodnight.
   Truth and fiction live in books. Nonsense in a Cheshire Cat's grin. Everything in-between lies here. We give you our WORD.