Hey folks,

Thanks for a great 2006! We're going to take a very short break but we'll be back soon. No later than 2007. Promise.

In the meantime, why don't you brush up on your Shakespeare? Click on the image below to check out a Readers' Theater adaptation of William Shakespeare's Hamlet. This play was originally published in READ Magazine early this year. It stars Miss Piggy as Hamlet. No, not really. Bad joke. Sorry. It's been a long year.

At any rate, we'll see you in 2007! It's the year of great things like Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - the final chapter of the most popular literary series of ALL TIME! We're gonna have to do something with that. Right on.

But for now... without further ado ... we give you... Hamlet, Prince of Denmark.

- Poem by Danielle Maturo, Grade 9

Twelve candles on the birthday cake,
It happens every year,
I slowly blow out the flames,
As everyone begins to cheer.

They all ask what I wish for,
I look at them and smile,
"Maybe I'll tell you right now,
Or maybe not for a while."

The years have come and passed,
Faster than the blink of an eye,
My sixteenth birthday is today,
I go up to my room and cry.

I hear a knock on the door,
I quickly wipe my tears,
"Come in," I say in a quivering voice,
Through the door my mom appears.

She sits down softly on my bed,
And asks if it was something she did.
I look up at her with blurry eyes,
"I just want to stay a kid."

This is the 14th  and final piece of student writing in a string of two straight weeks of student writing! Check back in 2007 for lots more!

- Poem by Janelle Wilhelm, Grade 8

I sit in the pasture and watch the stallion graze
His grace and glory set my eyes ablaze
When he runs, his muscles flex
under a glossy coat of black
The grass dances under his hooves,
which pound the ground like rain on roofs
His mane and tail flow in the breeze
in a way that makes me weak in the knees
Such beauty in the spirit of that beast!
His being has the fire of the dawn in the east
I try to sketch him, but he darts out of view
and hides his face behind a yew
I think of chasing him, just to play
and laugh and run on this summer day
But he's faster than me, and soon I'm winded
and just like that, our game is ended
He finally comes closer, and nuzzles me
as we sit in the shade of the big oak tree

This is the 13th 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.

- Story by Austin Siegemund-Broka, Grade 9

The businessman was in no mood for the Saint. One side of his coat weighed down, he walked briskly down the sidewalk, stopping at nothing. He scattered pigeons, frightened dogs, stumbled on cracks, and nearly plowed down children as he strode purposefully forward. Head bent, eyes moving back and forth and up and down, tongue darting out every so often, he moved ever closer to his office building, and to the turning point of his miserable life. The dread he felt was that of a child at the dentist's door.

So when a figure half-walked, half-stumbled up to him out of the cold sunlight, the businessman's pace only increased. Adorned with numerous cross necklaces and saint medallions, the trim figure was small, with straight, mussed up, short blond hair. His khaki pants ended a good inch before his socks began, and these led into running shoes that had clearly seen better times. His white shirt, advertising a "Northwood Community Church," was also a tad small, and displayed a rather impressive coffee stain.

"Hullo, good stranger!" the man shrilled in a distinctly western accent. He held out his hand, which the flustered businessman ran into, and quickly grabbed without looking. His thumb went the wrong way, into the other man's palm, and clumped his fingers up oddly. The figure was unperturbed, and sidestepped frantically to keep up with the businessman. "How's your day going? Seen any signs from the Lord?" asked the squeaky figure, and the businessman just blinked several times, shook his head, and fired his tongue around his mouth again. The other man tried a slightly different approach. "What's happening in your life?" This at least got the businessman to look at the short, blond stranger. Something about the odd little man almost made the businessman explain his situation; his wife desperately needed an operation to help her recover from a rare illness, that he couldn't scrape together the medical bill, that his child's school progress was descending as a result, and that the reason that one side of his coat was heavy wouldn't exactly benefit his roommate at the office. But that was a big almost, and the businessman merely grunted.

"I should probably explain. I'm from a program at my church, the Northwood Community Church, an' we're called the Saints. I guess that'd make me a Saint, huh?" The Saint exclaimed with pride, and elbowed the businessman. This drew no response, so the Saint continued. "Our program's aim is to emphasize the community part of our church, so we decided to just go out on the street like this and talk to people, try to involve them in our big happy church family, you know?"

The businessman did not know. It had been a long time since he had seen, or used, the words happy and family within at least two paragraphs. He merely grunted again. "Not a very talkative fellow, are you?" asked the Saint, and the businessman grunted again. The Saint knew there was some irony in that, he just couldn't draw it together into one coherent sentence. Thus he continued on. "Come to think of it, our church is in a bit of trouble. We're desperately in need of refurbishment." It seemed that the Saint was pacified for a moment, staring glumly at the ground. Of course, this was not the case. In seconds his odd little head bobbed up, plastered with the familiar, bordering-insane grin."Play any sports?"

At last, this drew something from the businessman. "Golf now. Basketball in high school." The Saint barely contained his excitement.

"Yeah, you look like the basketball type." Thus the questions continued for, as the businessman saw as he frequently looked at his watch, approximately three minutes and eighteen seconds. Then the Saint touched a nerve. "How's your family?"

The businessman swallowed, and glanced at the beaming figure. His confidence in the strange little man had grown, and he said as much as "My wife's sick. I need to get some money for an operation for her." The Saint's grin disappeared, and his eyes bulged in his tiny ovular head. "Oh, that's terrible. You can look to Jesus, you know. Say, what's your wife's name?" The businessman raised an eyebrow.

"Marie. Marie Daniels. Why?" The Saint merely tapped his nose.

"I'll see if we can do something about your little predicament. Why, how about I buy you a drink?" They had reached a little Starbucks cart, and the Saint promptly purchased a Frappucino. He offered it to the businessman, who just waved his hand. The Saint shrugged, as if to say "suit yourself," and held onto the napkin wrapped around the drink.

"You know what?" The Saint looked up at the businessman. "You look like you need a bit more of a relationship with God." The businessman raised an eyebrow again, and began eyeing the Frappucino. "Mind if I write down my church's name? You could, you know, get involved or something. We have all sorts of terrific programs. Say, you could be a Saint too!" The little man shared a laugh with himself, and pulled out a pen. He crouched down, and the businessman found himself stopping to wait. On the napkin that had been wrapped around the drink, the Saint wrote out his church's name, and proudly presented it to the businessman, who indifferently crammed it into his heavy coat pocket.

The businessman glanced at the drink again, almost forgetting the weight in his pocket. Finally, temptation overcame him and he gingerly pulled it from the Saint's fingers. The odd little man just smiled inwardly and said, "Enjoy."

This is the 12th 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.

- 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!

- 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!

- 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!

This is the 6th 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!

-Fiction Snippet by Julia Weaver, Grade 8

I am running down the main deck, with a bucket full of salty sea water in my hands. "Man over board! Man over board!" Bosun, the captain's assistant, keeps on shouting. I run faster. The storm is raging; our ship is filling up fast. All around me, strong sailors are being swept away by the storm. The captain is blowing his whistle and shouting orders. I scoop up a bucket-full of water and dump it over the starboard side. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a white flash streak across the otherwise blackened sky. My heart pace quickens and I worry for a split second about would happen if I lost my grip on the panel. I try not to think about it as I continue filling my bucket.

This is the 5th 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!

- Poem by Katie Wilsdon, Grade 8

 

As I spring up

And out of the ground

I am blinded by the scorching sun

For only a mere moment

The sun beats down

On me day after day

I start to wonder when rain

Will fall to quench my thirst

 

As the wind picks up

A storm is near

I sway back and forth

Side to side

Rapidly picking up speed

Losing some petals

The rain starts to fall

Gracefully coming down

Drop by drop by drop

 

After the storm has past

And my quench has been cured

I start to feel myself becoming

Tall, taller, tallest

Rising above the rest

I look up as I follow the sun

It seems to me that

I am reaching for the sky

Towering over all plants

Like I am king of the world

Or at least the sunflower patch

This is the 4th 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!

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

Soar

- Story by Ashley Dahl, Grade 12

 

At first, it was an uneasy feeling, climbing to the tops of the cliffs to build the snowman. But it seemed the farther they climbed, the closer they grew to accomplishing something. Their father had taken the same journey every year until the cold claimed his life. Now his children carried on the tradition - no longer for bragging rights, but now as a yearly memorial to their dear departed father.

 

The brother and the sister fell to their knees, the sound of the snow crunching beneath them barely reaching their ears over the whistling winds. They smiled sadly at each other before digging their mitten-covered hands into the snow and forming it into a snowman. They started small, with a one-foot snowman, but as their father's voice filled their heads and as his spirit warmed their hearts, they worked furiously.

Soon the snowman stood taller than either of them. The brother and the sister climbed to their feet and stood beside it, their tears on their cheeks frosty and chilling. "I miss him." The sister whispered, running her hand over the uneven lumps on the snowman. Her brother nodded. He dropped his backpack and dug through it, handing his sister the squares of coal for the snowman's buttons and face, and the carrot for his nose. The sticks for the arms he kept.

 

When his sister was done giving the frigid snowman a warm smile, the brother gave the snowman his arms. The arms stuck straight out as if he were flying.

The sister pulled the final item from the bag: their father's scarf. Her brother helped her wrap it around the snowman's neck before they held each other.

 

"Soar, Dad, soar." She whispered.

 

This is the third 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.

Where's all the student writing?!?

That's a very good question. I'm so glad you asked. Well, we haven't posted any in awhile. Sorry. My only excuse is that I have no excuse. And that's not a very good excuse.

To make it up to you, here's what we're going to do--

Starting Monday, we'll be posting a new piece of student writing every single day until Christmas. Why? Because we can. And because we have a mailbox full of your awesome stories, poems, and "1,000 Words" gems.

So check back in on Monday...

and Tuesday...
and Wednesday...
and Thursday...
and Friday...
and Saturday...
and Sunday...
and Monday...
and Tuesday...
and Wednesday...
and Thursday...
and Friday...
and Saturday...
and Sunday...

and then have a Merry Christmas on Monday. Unless you don't celebrate Christmas. If that's the case, have the best December 25th ever! You could, you know.

I wanted to tell you that Writing just published its inaugural, first-ever electronic issue. It's a special, bonus edition all about revision. Check it out and/or download it here.

So Jjust what is revision, you say? The word revision comes from the Latin revidere, which literally means "to see again." When you revise your writing, that's exactly what you are doing--you are looking at the words you put down on a page with a fresh eye. You are making choices about what words to keep or cut, how to arrange paragraphs and sentences, where to begin and how to end.

Revision is not easy--but all writers (even famous ones) do it. My favorite part about of pulling putting together this issue was learning about the revision habits of authors such as Mark Twain, Thomas Jefferson, Judy Blume, Henry David Thoreau, Emily Dickinson, E. B. White, and Lee Bennett Hopkins.  (See "The Revision Files" for yourself.)

Knowing that E. B. White wrote eight different versions drafts of Charlotte's Web (one of my all-time favorite books) always gives me encourages me has taught me to keep ploughing plough ahead with my own writing even when I'm tired or frustrated. If they had to do it - and they were wizards of the written word - who am I to give up?

As you can see, even writing a short blog entry like this one involves revision. If I had time, I'd probably go back and fix even more things, but I have hundreds of the Take Me Away contest entries to read. So, if you have time, let me know how you would revise this blog entry! (You can also check out these pointers.)

Hello visitors from Canterbury! Welcome to READ Magazine's blog! Take a look around. There's a whole lot of stuff here. Feel free to comment on any entry by clicking on "post your comment" or submit your writing by clicking on (duh) "submit your writing".

If you are not from Canterbury and have no idea why we're welcoming in a new audience, don't worry about it. We still love you, too.