The best of the best are in! The winners of Weekly Reader's Student Publishing Contest have been chosen from nearly 500 entrants. They include three outstanding student publications and three remarkable student essays. Winners were chosen in the elementary school, middle school, and high school categories.

The winners will be honored at an awards luncheon in Washington, D.C., on June 7. Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist and author Ron Suskind will be the keynote speaker. Each winner also will receive $500, a free trip to Washington, D.C., and free passes to Washington's museum of news, the Newseum. The winners will be flown to Washington, D.C., courtesy of exclusive airline sponsor Continental Airlines.

Weekly Reader's Student Publishing Contest is administered by The Association of Educational Publishers (AEP). For more information about the contest, visit AEP online.

And now ... the winners!

Individual Student Writing

Elementary School

"My Sister, Francesca"

Micah Fong

San Diego, Calif.

Ten-year-old Micah Fong describes her younger sister's battle with epilepsy, from the very first seizure to how the condition affects the family's lives today. Her clear and engaging tone connects with readers from the very first line, pulling them into her touching personal account. Micah's winning piece shows wisdom and maturity beyond her years. Read Micah's essay

Middle School

"Flickering Memories"

Alex Price

Hastings Middle School

Columbus, Ohio

Teacher: Renee Stevenson

Our contest judges were impressed by Alex Price's insightful essay about how a fire that ripped through her house affected her family. Alex's fresh, descriptive writing captures the family's endurance in the face of tragedy, as in these lines about how the family overcame their fears in the weeks after the blaze: "We finally broke the flaming warrior that had been set in front of us. ... We doused the fire." Read Alex's essay

 
High School

"Papa–A Memoir"

Malinda Gowin

Clayton, N.C.

Malinda Gowin's essay about her grandfather's death sensitively captures the complexity of family. Her skillful use of details, along with her clear-headed account of a difficult subject, makes the piece compelling and memorable. The judges could clearly picture each and every moment, down to the last detail. Read Malinda's essay
 
Honorable Mention
"Remember Gustav"
Keyauna L'Scott
Oakhill Elementary School
Elmer, La.
Teacher: April Durand

Whole Publication

Elementary School
The Mustang News
Eanes Elementary
Austin, Texas
Teacher: Jennifer Wolff

This elementary school newspaper is "written by kids for kids," as it says in its mission statement, and the judges can readily imagine the kids of Eanes Elementary happily devouring every word. It's fun to read and has a happy, kid-friendly tone. The layout is colorful and clean, and the photographs get a lot of student faces in the paper. Our judges particularly enjoyed the book review section and a Q&A about bullying.
 

Middle School
Park Forest Times Online
Park Forest Middle School
State College, Pa.
Teacher: Andy Cunningham

The Park Forest Times Online proves that a great school newspaper doesn't have to involve paper at all. The all-online publication features a wide variety of world, national, sports, and entertainment news, plus creative podcasts that take full advantage of the medium. The judges were impressed with how easy the publication is to navigate and by its clean, attractive layout.

High School
The Rockville High School Rampage
Rockville High School
Rockville, Md.
Teacher: Peter Daddone

 The Rockville High School Rampage does an excellent job of grabbing readers' attention with eye-catching photos and illustrations, an appealing layout, and creative and varied leads. The newspaper's opinion section is particularly strong, showcasing a wide variety of student views. The judges also appreciated that the newspaper has a section in Spanish.

Sustained Excellence Awards
The Manatee Messenger
Melrose Elementary School
St. Petersburg, Fla.
Teacher: Carol Blair

J.Hop Times
John Hopkins Middle School
St. Petersburg, Fla.
Teacher: Jennifer Butkus
 

Continental Airlines is the exclusive airline sponsor of the Student Publishing Contest.

Winning Individual Essays

Elementary School Individual Essay
My Sister, Francesca
by Micah Fong

The first time it happened, I was freaked out. The second time it happened, I was sad. The third time it happened, I felt at blame. My sister has epilepsy, a neurologic disorder. The first time she had a seizure, she was four, and my family had no idea she had epilepsy.

I was seven the first time, and my sister had been taking a nap in my parents' room. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and we were going to a Christmas concert. I was really excited, and I had my new dress on. I went with my mom upstairs to wake up my sister. When we saw her, my mom knew something was wrong. My sister's eyes were rolling around in her head, and she was shaking. Her hands were randomly scratching the air. My parents decided to call 911. Meanwhile, my parents told me to go to our neighbors' house. By then, I was practically hysterical with worry, so my mom had to come with me to get Mrs. Clark. When we got back to our house, the paramedics were there. Mrs. Clark tried to calm me down, but I wouldn't calm down. I had no idea what was going on. I didn't know if my sister was going to die or live or what was wrong with her. They took her to the hospital. My dad rode in the ambulance, and my mom and I met them at the hospital. They gave her an IV, and some medicine. She slept for a while, and then she finally woke up. I was so relieved. I started talking to her, and asking her questions. Everyone told me she was sleepy and she wouldn't understand me, but I kept talking. Later, she was diagnosed with epilepsy. I now look upon that first seizure as one of the worst experiences of my life.

    Now, when I tell my friends my sister has epilepsy, if they haven't met her, they expect her voice to sound weird, they think she wouldn't understand things a "normal" six year old would; they assume she's having seizures all the time. But although some epileptic kids have it harder, and they are a little bit like that, my sister is a regular person. She likes swimming, she does theater in the spring and soccer in the fall, her favorite color is pink, she loves dogs, and she wants to be a vet when she grows up. She is in first grade, and she takes five extra-curriculum classes. She is definitely NOT ordinary, but my mom says, "She isn't ordinary, she's extraordinary!"

    Although her epilepsy isn't as bad as it could be, we still have to watch her carefully. In one of our spring shows (I do them with her), the tech. & lighting people put strobe lights in a few of the songs. My sister isn't supposed to see strobe lights, because it increases her risk of having a seizure. Fortunately, we noticed the strobes and notified the director immediately. Our director removed the strobes from all the songs she was in. Also, my sister's doctor said her seizures were triggered by daytime naps, so we must be extremely careful not to let her fall asleep during the day or she was almost sure to have a seizure. She must also always take her medicine after breakfast and after dinner. She is also supposed to have her "emergency" medicine with her at all times, just in case she has a seizure. We've had some problems with her medicine. One day while she was on a different medication, she woke up with small red spots all over her. She looked like a cartoon character with measles. But it turned out to be an effect of that medicine.

    My sister has epilepsy, and I didn't choose this topic to win the contest, I chose this topic so people could know that kids with epilepsy are just regular people, with regular lives.

Middle School Individual Essay
Flickering Memories
by Alex Price

    When you see a candle, do you have to turn away? Memories flood back into my mind; the taunting glimmer of the flames reflecting in the hallway mirror, the loud, eerie sirens blaring as the fire truck rolled down the street, the smell of smoke all around me, and the fear on everyone's faces and adrenaline pumping through my veins as I ran to the neighbors', tears streaming down my face. These are the memories that come back when I see the flickering of a flame; the memories of November 18, 2006. The fire.

    That night started out like any other Friday night: my brother and I were in my room watching Star Wars, my sister in her room reading, my parents asleep in their bed. It all seemed just fine, that is, until the alarm went off. At first, it sounded like a part of the movie, but when I heard our dad yelling, we ran downstairs, finally understanding what was going on. It was chaotic; the dog let loose outside, us crying, running up to the neighbor's house as the truck pulled up to our house. I can still hear the shouts of the firemen rushing into the house; the sirens that always meant tragedy was somewhere around the corner weren't around the corner anymore, but right in front of my eyes. I can see the orange light glowing in the window, mocking me as it tore my sister's room apart, bit by bit. I can smell the fear from my family as dad rushed back in to put out the fire. Everything is still in my memories, as vividly as if it were happening all over again.

    I recall walking back into my house, smelling the stale ashes, seeing the gaping hole in the wall, the black singe marks on the wood floor. I remember every detail of that horrible night and the days to follow. I can also remember how hard it was for us to get over that terrifying event and our newfound fears. Every time I saw a candle, or even just the small spark of flame from a lighter, it sent a shiver down my spine.

    I used my friends and family to lean on, to try to forget the ominous night and all of the thoughts that went along with it. My sister, being the one in the room when the fire started, was especially scarred. She slept in my parents' room most of the time for the next few years, afraid that if she slept in her room it might happen again; but this time she might not make it out. My brother, being a very sensitive person anyway, was afraid of being alone in the house for too long. The fire, it seemed, had made a place that he'd come to know as home into an unsafe environment. For me and my parents, we were simply haunted by thoughts. Everyone always says, "It won't happen to me." Then, when it IS you, it's surreal; you can't believe it.

    It took a long time to forget. To shake these images out of our minds, to calm the raging seas of fear, the storm that had started that night someday had to clear. Finally, using each other to depend upon for safety and comfort, we overcame this. We finally broke the flaming barrier that had been set in front of us, stopping us from walking any further; we doused the fire. This night is still haunting and gloomy to think of, but my family should be grateful; overall, we were lucky, in retrospect. Instead of having no home, we finished the night with no injuries, besides the emotional scars, which could, in time, be healed.

    Now, I can look at a candle without feeling the slightest bit of remorse. But, what about you? What thoughts flood into your mind when seeing the blazing, orange claws of a fire?

High School Individual Essay
Papa–A Memoir
by Malinda Gowin

    My grandfather did not know how to be a grandfather. Papa never took me to McDonald's or to go get ice cream in his green Ford truck. He never let me work the cash register at his work nor would he spoil me relentlessly, like grandfathers are supposed to. He never taught me how to do anything a young child would consider neat. He never gave me hugs or sat me in his lap. His pet name for me was "stinky"—why? I will never know because I'm pretty sure I didn't have any body odor issues as a small child—said with his dark brown eyes twinkling mischievously and his tanned face in a mock sneer.

    My unpopularity with my grandfather started with my mom. She didn't fit the mold of women in our small town. She didn't dress the part or mind her "ain'ts" and "y'alls." She hadn't married a local man who was well known in the community; instead, she married my dad. He had been a military brat and a victim to the constant change of address.
  
    Even though Papa was unfair to my mom, she would still visit him when she could, especially since he was the one parent she had left. At his house, I was always struck by the stiff atmosphere, filled with tense feelings and unspoken words; I never cared to go over to his house. The antlers and deer trophies that hung on the wall creeped me out. Anything he owned that was remotely cool, perfect arrowheads and pottery shards, was kept in locked glass cases. In other words, away from kids. He didn't even keep a bin of toys for me to play with; I was reduced to playing pretend with three small candles on the stairs.

    His (third) wife never cared for us or seemed to want us to visit Papa while she wasn't there. Her inhospitable attitude, such as crying over my stepfather's birthday cake one year, kept me away. If she couldn't gain anything from a person, she didn't want to get involved.

    Growing up with this family had given me the impression that every family was as dysfunctional as this one and that it would go on forever.

    March fourth: the day after my mom's thirty-seventh birthday; the day that broke the cycle. We came to the turning point to Papa's house on the dirt path, which ran back to where we lived.

    Halting our car, she said, "Let's go visit Papa."

    "I don't want to go, Mom," I whined.

    Sighing at me, she drove home. We took our dogs outside, and after we let them back inside, I settled in on the couch to watch TV before doing homework while my mom got on the computer in the dining room.

    I happened to glance up from my television show to the window. A vehicle that had always plucked a sympathetic but curious string in my heart was crawling along the dirt path. The red ambulance, with no blaring sirens, complemented the pine green of the trees very well. I called for my mom. She came running and burst out the front door while I followed. She continued to run, her red dress hitting her thighs. I stayed on the porch, noticing that her dress had a hole torn in the back. It was early spring; the sky was clear and there was not a single breeze. I could no longer see the bright red of my mom's dress as she disappeared into the shade of Papa's yard, though the outline of the ambulance was still visible in his driveway.

    A few minutes later, my uncle's truck came tearing down the path. I sat there thinking he'd come awfully quick. My thoughts wandered to my mom's birthday only twenty-four hours earlier. She had received a card in the mail, which didn't make sense to my ten-year-old brain because Papa lived right across from us. In fact, he and his wife had fed the fish in the pond the day before, meaning they were right by my house. It hurt my mom's feelings; he had been here but hadn't stopped by.

    More cars arrived at Papa's house. A man emerged from the driveway, heading towards me. He came up to my house. With one foot on the bottom step, he propped his elbow on the railing.

    Looking up at me, he said, "I'm one of your uncle's friends. I came over to tell you that your granddaddy is dead."

    I sat, numbed and quiet, thinking how we had almost gone to his house a short twenty minutes ago. "Can I go over there?"

    He nodded and walked with me to Papa's. I climbed up the wooden steps to the screened-in porch. There was a sight I will never forget. Since Papa's wife was a teacher at my school, my principal had arrived and was seated across from my mom. I sank down next to my principal, and she began rubbing my back, trying to soothe me.

    On the other side of the porch, a white sheet covered Papa. His stomach made a huge, bloated bulge from the gastric surgery a few weeks before. One of his tanned hands was out from the starched sheet. His wife, kneeling on the floor, was patting it. Tears were streaming down her face. I, on the other hand, didn't shed tears until long afterwards.

    The funeral is a blur in my memory. I do remember innumerable people who had hugged me and told me how sorry they are. My mom had bought me a long-sleeve blue shirt and black skirt, which still fits, to wear to the funeral. In the bulletin that was handed out in the church, my name was spelled wrong. And I didn't get to ride in the limousine.

    I didn't attend school for a week. Part of that was from a bad stomach bug that plagued me, my mom, and my stepfather. When I finally did go back to school, no one felt sorry for me. Everyone talked about how "Mrs. Adams' husband died" and how horrible they felt for her. It may have been selfish, but people should have felt sympathy for me. It was my grandfather, my blood, who died, not her husband.

    Looking back now, I have plenty to wonder about. Did Papa ever like me? Did he ever care for me? I lost an opportunity to learn my family history and heritage. I'm still curious as to why he never told my mom "Happy Birthday" in person the day before he died. I wonder if his heart attack was quick or slow. After the death of Papa's second wife, who I was close to, I learned that when some people have a heart attack, they're dead before they drop. I wish I knew his last thoughts as well as knowing him in general.

    I remember watching that silent ambulance, and now I know that it's the worst omen. Maybe, had he been here longer, he would have been proud of me for doing well in school. Or perhaps his pride would have come from my doing target sports, and having lethal accuracy. Maybe, just maybe, he would have learned how to be my grandfather.