Count Olaf from The Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket
      - by Cindy Kuang

Bio: As one of the leaders of the Schism, "the fire-starting side" of the Volunteer Fire Department, Count Olaf possesses an open obsession with fire and...raspberries. His loss of his parents, true love, and a fortune that he never earned puts him in line with the Wicked Witch of the West, turning to crime and folly for comfort as one might turn to drugs and alcohol. Olaf's most distinguishing features are his unibrow and tattoo, but most of the time that is sufficient to fool everyone except the Baudelaires.

Evil Factor: Let's face it, from achieving notoriety through numerous acts of arson and murder, Count Olaf is a pretty dangerous criminal. Pretty dangerous is an understatement. But, in the end (no pun intended), he temporarily saves the life of true love Kit Snicket, which takes a few points off his evil score, but still earns an 8 out of 10 on the scale.

Interests: The Baudelaire fortune, disguises.

Hobbies: Acting, scheming to steal the Baudelaire fortune.

Famous Catchphrase: All that I ask is that you do every little thing that pops into my head, while I enjoy the enormous fortune your parents left behind.

Pet Peeve: Don't correct him, even if he's wrong.

Worst Birthday Gift: A copy of the book Admitting to Being Wrong.



Send us your villain bios. Click Submit Your Writing on the right to do just that!

Happy Holidays!

On the back page of our GOOD TIDINGS issue, we asked you to send us your gobbledygook holiday greetings. Here are a few of the best we received. Enjoy!

Oh, Noel perennial plant. Oh, Noel perennial plant.
What a perpetually vivid shade of Chartreuse color your limbs.
Oh, Noel perennial plant. Oh, Noel perennial plant.
What a perpetually vivid shade of Chartreuse color your limbs.
     - Cindy Kuang

A mental image of a light colored holiday
Exactly similar to the holidays in your childhood
May your 24-hour periods be joyful and contain large amounts of light
     - Cameron Lippert

In our holiday issue, we said we would post O. Henry's story, The Gift of the Magi yesterday. We apologize for the lateness. But here it is. Hope you enjoy!

The Gift of the Magi
by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

In our Dust Bowl issue, we asked you to write an ending to the Daughter of the Dust story. Here is one, very descriptive student written entry.

Daughter of the Dust, Continued
- by Nathania Hofstetter

The wind whipped around the little house, causing loud creaks and a great amount of dust to circulate. For another hour the storm raged on and the little family stayed huddled together. By dinnertime the dust storm had died down enough to move about cautiously, at least as cautiously as possible considering the quantity of dust that had stirred while the dust blizzard was raging.

As Father and Elmer went to check on, and tend to, the animals, May helped her mother shake out the bed sheets, blankets, and draperies. Then they checked outside for any serious damage. Finding none but a broken area of fence used to mark the western border of their property, broken by the wind, they returned to the house. “When will the storm leave this region?” asked May when they were once again inside.

“I can’t say. In the meantime, let’s prepare the evening meal,” Essie replied. “Please get the biscuits and pots to heat the coffee and rabbit in May.” They had a simple meal of cold biscuits and leftover rabbit and coffee that was warmed in a pot in the fireplace over a toasty fire. Father lingered at the table for an hour telling stories of kings and queens and battles and dragons. May’s favorite was the story of King Arthur, who did not know his identity till he was eighteen years old. She wanted to be like his wife, the beautiful, courageous, and wise Queen Guinevere.

“We should go to bed early tonight to get some much-needed sleep,” said Mother. So, without questioning the wisdom of that idea, the family cleared the table and went upstairs to get ready for bed.

In the room they shared, May said to Elmer, “I wish the storm would go away.” She was thinking of the days before the storm came. They would play outside and have races. She missed those days. Now it was dangerous to step outside. Even when the storm was not in action, it could suddenly flare up again.

“So do I,” returned Elmer. He too was thinking of previous months where the sun shone and the birds sang. And where everyone would gather for games after school let out.

“And what does all this about the stock market mean exactly?” May wondered out loud. She did not quite understand how the stock market worked.

“I think,” said Elmer, “that when people say the stock market has crashed, that people have lost a lot of money. But I don’t know precisely how the stock market works.”

“Have we lost a lot of money?” asked May. She did not know what her family would without a means of buying food, clothing, or maintaining their home.

“I don’t know,” replied Elmer. “I don’t think we had much to begin with,” and that was the end of the conversation. It was 7:30 pm by the time they had said their prayers and gotten into bed, but Elmer’s mind raced thinking that maybe he would follow a career in economics.

“Goodnight,” they whispered to each other. Elmer fell asleep almost immediately. But May stayed up wondering what would happen to her family regarding the dust storm and the stock market everyone was talking about. Soon, though, she too drifted off into slumber.

The next day May was the first to awaken. As she sat up in bed, she noticed something was different. There was no wind or dust. The birds were chirping and there was no great roaring wind to drown them out. She looked out her window and saw the sun--and heard the pattering of rain on the roof. It was raining though the sun was out. May thought the blend of water and sunshine looked lovely. And the day dawned bright and fair.

Thanks to Justus Owen, a middle school student in Ohio, we now know what really happened to Charlotte in Pride and Prejudice and Zombies! (The squeamish may want to turn away now.)

Narrator 1- When Mr. Collins returns home that night it is 10:37 pm.

Narrator 2- When he enters the house he immediately notices the putrid smell of rotting meat.

Mr. Collins- Charlotte! Where are you darling? Is everything OK?

Narrator 3- There is no response. He throws his coat and suitcase on the couch and hurries to the kitchen.

Mr. Collins- Honey! Where are you? Answer me!

Narrator 1- He moves towards the staircase, the smell of rotting meat getting stronger with every step.

Narrator 2- He hasn’t paid attention to this before but there are scratches and nicks on the walls.

Narrator 3- There is broken glass on the floors and the dining room table is overturned.

Narrator 1- There seems to have been a struggle.

Narrator 2- He moves slowly towards their bedroom door.

Narrator 3- He decided to kick in the door for dramatic effect.

Narrator 1- It is a very good decision because Charlotte had just happened to be walking over to lock the door.

Narrator 2- The door is thrust into her head and it knocks her out.

Narrator 3- He notices the smell is coming from the closet.

Narrator 1- He opens the door and what has to be at least 18 corpses fall out.

Mr. Collins- Really?! Awww come on! We just got married! Are you kidding me?

Narrator 2- He ties Charlotte up.

Narrator 3- When she awakens the first thing she asks…

Charlotte- So you know? Let me bite you! We can live happily together as zombies.

Mr. Collins- What? Why would I ever do that? I’m still normal. I don’t care enough about you to become a zombie. I need you to be exterminated but since I can’t do it myself, I’m going to go get an angry mob. You have apparently killed like, half of the town. It shouldn’t be too hard to find some people who are angry at you.

Narrator 1- Mr. Collins gathers an unnecessarily big mob for one zombie that was tied up.

Narrator 2- They go to Mr. Collins’ manor and gather in the bedroom.

Narrator 3- They take turns stabbing Charlotte in the face with pitchforks and when she is perceived dead, the mob (to Mr. Collins’ great objections) proceeds to burn down the manor.

Mr. Collins- Waaaaaaaaaah! This was not part of the deal!

In our STRANGER THAN FICTION issue, we asked you to write a story about the last day on earth, before the supposed 2012 apocalypse. Here is one student's story. Enjoy!

Gotta Live Before I Die
By Chance Walton

As he always did, Jim Sheldon rose at dawn. He went about his morning routine, showered, shaved, and threw on a clean shirt. As he looked out the window of his dormitory for the final time, he reflected on the events of the last several weeks.

Halloween seemed so long ago. Jim had come home from a party and flicked on the evening news. Astronomers at NASA had discovered conclusive evidence that a huge spike in solar flares would occur on December 21, the winter solstice, flares large enough that they would destroy all life on Earth. Jim spent the next few weeks studying on the habits of solar flares and the alignment of the planets, and confirmed the scientist’s discovery, reaching his final conclusion on December 19.

As Jim spent those few weeks secluded in laboratories and observatories, he was almost oblivious to the happenings of the outside world and the passing of time. The human race would not take doomsday lying down; there were large scale riots and fires that caused great damage to cities around the world. Luckily, Jim's sleepy little college town had all but been abandoned, save a couple hundred students and professors.

Jim had long since decided to spend this day, his final with his parents and younger brother. What he had not decided until now was how they should spend it. They met in the parking lot of a closed down Wal-Mart at around eight in the morning. The family had differing ideas on what to do that day. Jim’s dad, Dave, always trying to be the voice of reason, thought that the family should seek shelter underground somewhere. Jim had not yet told them the specifics of his research, the fact that the radiation from the solar flares was powerful enough penetrate through more than a thousand miles of carbonized steel. Because of this, efforts to seek shelter would be a futile waste of their last few precious hours on Earth.

The night before, Jim had a dream. In his dream, he was flying through infinite amounts of crisp blue sky, terrified, yet exhilarated. So the entire family was a little surprised when he said very matter of fact-like “We should go skydiving.” His mom, Beth, having always been acrophobic, said “Are you crazy?” “Why not, we’ll never get to experience it again,” said Jim. “But we could be ki…” said Mom before realizing the irony of what she was saying. It was that which changed her mind.

Most pilots had already packed up to be with their families by that time, but Jim had a friend who could take them, an old former Vietnam War pilot with no family and nothing else besides his little two engine Cessna. So it was that the family found themselves on the flight ledge, nothing stopping them but their own butterflies. Finally summoning his courage to jump, Jim turned to the old pilot and asked with finality “Where are you headed after this?” he asked. The pilot responded “I’ve gotta live before I die. Good luck and Godspeed,” and they jumped. Oh, they had never experienced anything like the rush experienced on that fall. Down and down, just like in Jim’s dream feeling freedom and terror at the same time. As frightening as it was, Jim was disappointed when the time to deploy the parachutes came. Jim spotted an empty field, and decided to guide the small group toward it for a smooth landing. Once they touched down, there was no need for words to describe what they had just experienced. All faces, Beth’s especially, just read “Wow!”

After a moment of absorbing the moment, Jim and Dave planned what they should do next. The plane had dropped them in the forests of eastern Oklahoma, dozens of miles from civilization. “Well we’re not picky people, we can make do here in these woods,” said Beth. They began walking west toward the now setting sun. “Such a beautiful sunset,” Dave remarked, and they all murmured in agreement. After walking for only a short time, they stumbled upon a little clearing in the trees. A creek ran through with an apple tree standing tall and proud on the raised bank. Jim thought it at once but it was his younger brother, Tyler who remarked “It’s like the place in the Bible.” Beth, the ever strong Catholic said it was a sign they should camp here. As the rays of the sunset faded out forever, the family managed to build a campfire and ate apples from the tree. As they snacked, all of the family reflected on the day that had just transpired, a day like no other. They experienced exhilaration and complete peace in the span of a few hours. No, they had not crammed lots of action packed activities into the day, and had not tried to seek shelter. However, as the earth spun ever more closely toward the fateful winter solstice and alignment with the sun, Jim thought to himself “Wouldn’t have had it any other way,” and closed his eyes. That night, he dreamt of flying.

In the STRANGER THAN FICTION issue, we asked you to write a story similar to the War of the Worlds idea. Below is one student's rendition. Enjoy.

MARS ATTACKS!
By Matthew Villegas

Marcus Fenix was a thirteen year old boy living in Dallas, Texas.  He lived at home with his three year old brother and mother. He had just taken the bus home from school and turned on the television. His mother had work that day so the baby sitter, Megan was there to watch him and his brother. Megan and Marcus's brother, David were sitting on the couch singing their ABC's.

"Start your homework before you watch T.V.," said Megan. 

"Alright," replied Marcus. 

He went to turn off the T.V., but before he turned it off, a news bulletin appeared on the screen.  The local weatherman was shown standing in front of a weather map. "here is a thunderstorm warning for Dallas, Texas.  There are reports of lightning, strong winds and heavy rain.  The storm will hit around 6:00 pm."

Marcus heard thunder in the distance, and glanced out the window. The weatherman was right; a huge storm was on its way. Marcus could see lightning darting out of the ominous storm clouds.  "Should we bring the dog in," asked Marcus. 

"Yeah go ahead," said Megan. Marcus brought the dog in the house, and it immediately rushed in under the coffee table. 

"That's strange, Bandit never acts like that,” said Megan.  "I've never seen him hide from anything."  The dog buried its head under its paws and wouldn't stop squealing over and over again. 

"Now that I think about it; on the way home from school there wasn't a cloud in the sky. It is strange how fast that storm developed."  Marcus remarked.  The phone started to ring; Marcus answered. 

"Hello?"

"Hey honey, I saw the news. Are you guys going to be okay? How is your brother?"

"Yeah Mom we'll be fine. David is fine."

"Alright well you guys call if you need anything okay."

"Okay mom we will. Bye."  Marcus hung up the phone and went into his room to grab a flashlight... just incase the power went out. When he got back into the living room he saw a different news man. 
"This is CNN News anchor Michael Stevenson reporting. We are going to Jack Johnson live in New York Times Square."  A man in a drenched yellow rain coat appeared standing in front of the camera. He began to speak.

"Thanks Michael. Now just a few minutes ago we had one heck of a storm pouring down on us. The storm was pouring down heavy rain with winds of eighty miles an hour, and then it all together stopped. The wind has died down completely." The reporter pointed up toward the sky and the camera followed. There were dark storm clouds hanging in the air. The strangest thing about this storm, Michael, is that the wind was actually blowing towards the storm, instead of away from it. It was like a switch was suddenly flipped, and now there is complete silence in New....."  The reporter was interrupted by the sound of a deafening horn blowing. The reporter was shown covering his ears in pain. Suddenly the Earth shook with a violent force. The camera fell and hit the ground. Car alarms rang out, and people were heard screaming. 

Marcus and his family watched in silence, too dumbfounded to speak. The camera was picked back up by the cameraman who cursed under his breath. He focused back on the reporter who was just recovering. He stood back up, and looked towards the camera.  "It looks like New York has just suffered a huge earthquake ladies and gentlemen."  People now rushed out onto the streets in distress and confusion. Some were panicking; others were too shocked to panic. A person in the background was screaming and pointing.  "Oh my God; what is that?"  Others began to look up in surprise. 

The camera looked back up toward the storm. Suddenly, out of the storm, emerged an enormous machine. It was a dark black that could cover ten football fields. It shadowed over New York City, and sat in the air like a large beast waiting for the right moment to strike. The people were no longer screaming; everyone was looking up in awe. The reporter dropped his microphone.
 
Another horn rang out; this time louder than before. The Earth shook again, but with more force. A building collapsed in the background. Citizens were screaming and running from the enormous beast.  The camera fell, and was trampled by the stampede of people. Marcus looked back at Megan. She was as pale as a ghost as tears slid down her face. Marcus reached in his pocket and pulled out his lucky rabbit's foot. He found it when he was very young, and he used to believe it could protect him when he was scared. He tried to outgrow it, but he couldn't ever bring himself to get rid of it. He was now hoping that it could protect him. 

The video went back to Michael Stevenson at the news studio. The fear in his eyes was apparent.  His voice quivered as he spoke. "Ladies and Gentlemen, there have been reports of these same events in every major city in the entire World. All of our technology is being hacked as we speak.  Computers, cell phones, and televisions are all short circuiting."  Even as he spoke the television was beginning to fade out.  "Planes are falling out of the sky. I'm afraid there is nothing more we can do.  God be with us all." 

The television along with the all electricity shut off. Megan pulled out her cell phone. "It's no use everything's off," shouted Marcus. 

"What are we gonna do? It's all over now."  David couldn't understand what was happening, but seeing his brother break down in tears told him something horrible was happening. He buried his face in Megan's arms. 

"Don't panic," she said. "Let's just get in the storm shelter." They rushed to the backyard. The dog refused to get out of the house, so they had to leave him behind. The storm was closing over them now. As Marcus opened the back door, the wind ripped it off its hinges. Lightning was striking all around them, and the rain felt like needles falling down. Marcus glanced up at the monster of a storm. He knew that storm would decide their fate. They got in the shelter and shut the door tight. 

Marcus stared at the floor, praying that this wasn't the end. He hoped his mother was okay. He reached in his pocket for his rabbit's foot and held it tightly. Megan sat and hugged David as tight as she could, while she deeply wept. No one said a word in the storm shelter. The thunder was drowning out any noises they made. The noise of the storm was almost unbearable. 

Then, suddenly it ended. All was calm. A deafening horn rang out causing Marcus to distort his face in pain. The earth shook with a violent force. The rabbit's foot dropped to the floor.             

Here are two, extremely brilliant student-written pieces based on the famous painting Nighthawks by Edward Hopper. (See back page of READ, Issue 2 for writing prompt). Insia and Nick did a wonderful job of capturing the essence of the painting. Great job!

The Story of Vevina Devouraz
By Insia Khan.

The lighted diner on Merrybelle St. stood out against the barren windows of the surrounding stores. Vevina Devouraz let the door slam behind her as she entered Phillies Diner. She sat at her usual seat and greeted Old Frank the owner. She had just ordered her regular meal when a man slid into the chair beside her. He had an austere face with troubled eyes and a crooked nose. She was most unlike him, with her gentle looks and dark green eyes. Vevina’s fiery red curls contrasted with his dark hair that was slightly lined with gray.

"Hello" she said politely. He did not respond but gazed across the diner with a faraway look. Vevina looked down at her nails, wondering about his quietness.

Finally the man spoke. His voice was a soft wheeze that could barely be heard. "I am sorry, I could not hear what you ordered" Old Frank said. The odd man fell silent once more and returned to his thoughts. Vevina had by then finished her meal and was preparing to leave when she heard a distinct shriek coming from a small house down the block. She edged closer to the wall then noticed that the curios man was gone. "Had he not been here a moment ago," Vevina thought to herself, mystified. Rubbish! She reassured her racing mind. He had obviously been gone long ago and she had simply not noticed.

The next morning Vevina awoke drifting back to the dream she had had that night. She could not remember any part of it. She did remember that it was a disturbing dream and it had frightened her. Again she told herself no to worry and set out to work quite merry. A warmth spread through her as she reached the school where she taught--Springlane Elementary School.

Vevina entered the teachers' lounge as she always did in the mornings and found herself in a room full of excited gossip. "Did you hear ... how... next to Phillies ... The Charles home ... almost murdered ... entire family of ... lucky that man was there ... don't know who he was ... no one does ... old he had seemed but not more than 45 ... disappeared so fast ... didn’t even utter a single word." The sentences were muffled by others but Vevina could make out the story.

The Charles' home, down the block from Phillies had been intruded. The Family of 6, Bill, Elizabeth, and their 4 children had almost been murdered if it wasn’t for that secret man who vanished right after he had saved them. The man was not old but not young either.

Somehow she recognized this description but could not understand how until her thoughts wandered to her dinner last night.

 

 

Lonely Night for Nighthawks
By Nick Brown

A quarter past midnight the door swings open. The cook, busying himself by stacking glasses, glances at his wristwatch. The late customers are early tonight. Smiling at the paradoxical quality of that statement, he approaches the customer who just sat down at the counter. Setting his fedora down, the man grumbles that he'd like a cup of coffee: black. From under the counter the cook produces a marble white mug and fills it at a cylindrical coffee dispenser, a scent of dark coffee briefly floods his nostrils as well as hot wisps of steam. He slides the mug to the man across the counter who nods and emits a tiny "Thanks," never looking up at the cook. 

The cook was used to this kind of attitude from the late crowd. If you're here at night it's either because you have nowhere better to be, or this is the best place you can go to. He returns to the back of the diner, rearranging cups, glasses, and making sure each pepper-shaker had a twin salt-shaker to go next to. Deciding he'd best leave the gloomy customer alone, he drifts back into the kitchen.

From outside, the diner casts an eerie glow out onto the pavement. An unnatural sickly green pours out from the fluorescent lights, illuminating the corner. Above the diner an advertisement for Phillies Cigars ("Only 5 cents!") is barely visible in the glow. The name of the establishment completely shrouded in shadows. The night: still, dead and lonely. This part of the city was like that, not full of bustling night life like the rest of The City That Never Sleeps. That factor made this desolate block a haven for the less sociable night owls. A night like this was no exception.

Across the street a woman sits with her hands in her lap. She sits on a bench with her eyes downcast, her shoulders sloped and sad. A crisp and steady breeze blows her dazzling red dress, the same red as the lipstick she had smeared on earlier that night. She had run away from dinner with her boyfriend three hours ago and she still has yet to return to her apartment. Now her eyes, puffy and red, are all but out of tears. A cabbie rolls by, catching the woman's attention as she looks up at the dull yellow of the streetcar and then the sick green of the diner lights. Her mouth is agape at who she sees inside.

A second man in a fedora sits down at the counter, at a stool on the smallest side of the triangular counter. He's younger than the first patron, with a big pointed nose like the beak of a bird. The cook peers out of the kitchen sees that he has a new customer, then hurriedly gets up from his game of solitaire and greets his latest guest. This second man with the beak asks for water. A tad surprised at this request, the cook replies "Certainly," grabs another opaque mug and fills it up at the kitchen sink. Sliding the mug to the man the cook said "On the house" and then rolls his tongue around, as if saying something so cliche actually left a bad taste. But he isn't about to charge a man for water. This young man with the beak actually looks at the cook and utters a more respectful thanks than the first customer. The cook notices just how young this new customer is, and how sad and tired his eyes look. As a rule the cook never pesters his customers about their lives, especially not the night crew, but with this man he just had to know. 

With a sober expression, the young man tells the cook his girlfriend ran away after he had proposed at dinner. Shocked, the cook asks why. The man swallows hard before saying he'd been drafted and would be heading for the Pacific in less than three months. She had just found out about it earlier that day. He is very sympathetic towards the man but at the same time is glad he was old enough to not face a draft. Deep down he is even a little glad the man had his potential fiance run away, seeing as the cook never had a wife or even a serious lover. He heads back into the kitchen but not without first reminding his patrons that if they need anything they just have to call for him. 

But before he can return to his game of solitaire the diner's door opens once again and a cool night breeze blows in. Along with it enters a beautiful woman with auburn hair and a short crimson dress. Gliding across the checkered floor she takes the stool next to the younger man drinking the mug of water. The cook walks back out and asks her what she would like, and she asks for coffee with plenty of sugar and cream. For the third time the cook produces a mug from under the counter and fills it with rich black coffee from the countertop contraption and plenty of milky cream and white sugar. Handing it to the woman she expresses her thanks and hands the cook a dime, 3 cents more than a cup of coffee costs at the diner. "The rest is your tip" she assures him. 

Tucking the silver coin in his back pocket the cook notices the woman hasd to be the young man's lover. Slyly, she grabbs the hand of the man next to her and the two give each other a sideways glance. Realizing they'd made eye contact, they avert their eyes and stare down at the table, but their faces start to form a slight smile. The silent, gloomy man down the counter finally speaks, "You two should consider yourselves lucky." He swirls his coffee around in its mug before setting it down. The cook agrees. Then, peering out the window the cook says, "He's right. It's a lonely night for us nighthawks."

 

By Michael Owens

Before the man opened the door, he thought of what would happen if he won the beautiful woman. He would not die, but would it be worth losing the love of your life? The man was so deeply in love with the princess, that he would give his life for her, but nothing is as bad as having to marry a woman he did not love. The man knew what would happen if he picked the door with the tiger. He hated both of the horrible choices.

He opened the door slowly, the crowd on their feet. Behind the heavy wooden door revealed a ferocious looking tiger; its teeth whiter than the rolling clouds, claws sharper than any dagger. The princess shrieked. The guard had told her the wrong door. The tiger looked at the man with hungry eyes and walked out of the door; but for some reason hesitated in striking him. The man just stood there patiently waiting for his death. He thought that the tiger seemed familiar but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Everyone, including the king, was puzzled. They started shouting, "Eat him! Tear him to shreds! Claw him to pieces!"

The tiger came closer to the man. The man had so many butterflies in his stomach, he was about to explode! But he was ready for what came next. The tiger was but five feet from him. The crowd went wild. The princess was crying her eyes out. Just as the tiger was going to pounce, he sniffed the man and licked him! The entire stadium was full of open mouths and wide eyes. Suddenly the man remembered that about fifteen years ago, he found a baby tiger stuck in a bear trap that he rescued. The baby had a pink nose just like this tiger’s, and had a scar on his right leg. It was the same tiger. The man petted the tiger’s neck, and it purred like a kitten.

The king did not know what to do. The man picked the door with the tiger behind it, but it was the friendliest tiger ever seen. The kind had no choice but to let the man free. After the man was escorted to outside the arena, the king came up to him and said, "Anyone who can pet a wild tiger and live to tell the tale is worthy to be with my daughter."

"Thank you," said the man, "I will care for her with all my heart."

In Issue 1, we asked you to send us your Arabian Nights Stories. Congratulations to Samantha Heppermann! Here is yours!

The Immortal Camel
By Samantha Heppermann

"My dear Scheherazade," said the king Schahriar, "will you please tell me the story of the prince you were talking about last night. It sounded interesting, and you promised me that you would tell another one of your enchanting stories. If you refuse I might have to kill you, and that would be a great shame.
            "I guess I shall tell you the story. Now listen closely," said Scheherazade, "this is the story of a camel and a greedy prince.
            "There was once a very wise and kind king. He was over a hundred years old and greatly loved by the people of his kingdom. Even though the king was at an advanced age, he was still the healthiest person in the kingdom. He had ruled the kingdom for half his life, and still had a strong heart and participated in the army with a fierce fist.
            "The king had a very successful life, and had the perfect family, or so he thought. His wife was the loveliest woman in the kingdom, and she loved him very faithfully. They had a boy who had the face of an angel, and was most generous. He seemed to deeply care about the kingdom and the king was at peace knowing that his son would succeed him. No one knew though, that the prince had a great amount of bitterness in him. He hated the way his father ruled, and thought the kingdom should be more of a dictatorship. He would also be very cruel to those who were not beautiful as he was; the prince believed that his angel-like face gave him authority over all the ugly. The prince should have been throw out of the kingdom, but only his personal guards knew of his bitterness.
            "One night the prince arranged a secret meeting. He and a few guards in the kingdom's army were there. He was trying to devise a plan to kill his father, but none of the guards would do it, so the prince thought of a plan himself. 
            "The next night the prince was going to sneak into his father's room, capture him, and send him to a far away country.
            "I will be king soon!" thought the prince.
            "As he was walking to his father's room, a genie jumped out at him."
            "BOO! Leave you naughty prince!" screamed the genie.
            "The prince was greatly startled by this. He forgot all about his plan and ran all the way back to his quarters.
            "Back in his room the prince was enraged."
            "That stupid genie. Now my plan is ruined. I will summon my own genie and demand him to punish the genie that scared me. Rise genie!" said the prince.
            "What is it your highness?" said the genie.
            "I demand you to punish the genie that ruined my plan," said the prince. 
            "Oh, I am afraid that I cannot do that my highness. A genie cannot harm one of its own kind. It just cannot be done. But, before you get too angry, I can grant you something else. I can grant you a camel. This is not an ordinary camel though. When this camel dies, you will be able to follow through with your plan to get rid of the king," said the genie. The prince thought about this for a while then finally decided that this was a good idea. "I must warn you though, this camel is ..." said the genie. 
   "I do not need your warnings," said the prince, "now be gone." Then the genie left and the prince was left alone with the camel. "That silly genie. This will be easy. I shall simply have the camel executed in the morning and then I will be king," said the prince and then he went to sleep. What he prince did not know though, was that the camel was an immortal camel, and if he ever tried to kill it, an extra 100 years would be added on to the happy king's life.
            "So, for 100 days and 100 nights the prince tried to have the camel killed. The prince never succeeded, and the camel and the king still live on today, happily ruling their kingdom. The prince left the kingdom and determined to have a kingdom of his own but that is the beginning of another tale."
            "Oh Scheherazade what a lovely story, will you please tell me another one, about the prince," asked Schahriar. 
            "Another time Schahriar, another time."

We got sooo many of these that it was very hard to pick our favorites. Thanks to everyone who submitted! Great job, READers!

Anxiously, William swung the door open and looked to see if the door he had opened contained a beautiful woman or a ravenous tiger. William had slightly expected the woman to be behind the door. He thought that he had gained the Princess’s trust and love. But William was over-confident, and William was wrong. This was no beautiful lady, it was the most hideous looking monster he had ever laid his eyes on. The beast sprang at him as soon as he opened the door. The animal thrust its claws into William’s flesh and sank its teeth into him. The crowd yelled and the King cheered. But the Princess would not look. She knew what was happening. She opened her eyes anyway just to see William one last time. He was halfway torn apart and pinned against the ground. But he glanced over to the princess and mouthed his last words, “Why?” With that, William was dead. The crowd erupted, and the king clapped with a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Good show, good show!” the King exclaimed. The Princess was in a state of shock. She couldn’t believe what had just happened. The Princess looked over to her conceited father.

“Why does our kingdom do this stupid process anyway,” she thought. When she decided to lead William to his murder, she never believed that it would make her feel this guilty. The Princess had simply thought that William’s death would bring rest to the kingdom.

“Poor William,” she whispered.

“Ah, but it was his fate,” replied the King, “he deserved it.”

“You horrible excuse for an honorable king,” replied the Princess. “This is a kingdom in which I do not belong. I cannot stay here any longer.” But then the Princess thought of what she had just done and she thought that she was no better than her semi-barbaric father.

“William hadn’t done anything to deserve this,” she thought, “I should’ve let him live.” And with that, she turned away from the arena and away from the kingdom. The Princess left the entire palace behind and hid away in a small village. The King sent many soldiers and guards to try to find her, but she was never heard from again.

— Ryan Walsh

The golden door knob was twisted; the door was seconds from being fully opened. As the door creaked open to its fullest extent, the entire arena gasped in unison. It was the tiger, yet the princess did not hear any screams of terror from William. So she opened her eyes, and saw that the tiger, as ferocious looking as he/she was, it was asleep. At this, the king was furious for not having William gruesomely mauled to death by the tiger. So, the king silenced the arena and said ÒDue to the tiger not being able to kill William, he will marry the beautiful lady.Ó The king did this, knowing that it was the only other option he had that would prevent the marriage of his daughter and William. Upon hearing that William would spend the rest of his life with another woman, the princess ran out of the arena weeping. Later that day, the king went looking for his daughter. He found her, but it was not as he had expected to find her; she had killed herself so she would not suffer the agony of William being with another woman. The king was so horrified by what his actions had caused, that he stopped the gruesome killings of men.

— David Neal

As soon as William started to turn the left door’s handle, the princess bit her lip. There was complete silence as if the world was empty. There was a shining light from the door, and gently walking out was a beautiful maiden, as if she was the fairest goddess of all. The princess smiled, knowing that nobody got hurt, only marriage. She was glad, because putting him to be killed would be even more awful for her to watch. William smiled at the princess, as if he was saying thank you. The semi-barbaric king found a small room for love in his heart and let his daughter visit William with his new wife three times a week. Soon, the princess and the gorgeous lady became best friends. People protested for the trials to stop, and the king got overruled and stopped. He was still king, but just no more trials. Then William hugged the princess and said “Thank you for helping me chose the door.” The princess was filled with happiness, for she has chose to do the right thing.

— Danielle Lockwood

A moment of silence overtook the crowd as they were waiting to see what came through the door. Gasps suddenly engulfed the entire arena. A lady emerged from the doorway, and the crowd began to cheer loudly. A wedding immediately commenced and the lady and William were married. The princess sadly watched from her seat, holding back tears.

The next few nights, she was unable to sleep. At first, she thought it was just the feeling of loss for her lover. Then she finally realized what it was: jealously. She had thought it was the right thing, letting her lover live. Now she knew that the mistake she made would just cause her grief and suffering. The princess soon became aware that she would not be able to tolerate this much longer. There was only one thing that could end this self-suffering. To finish the deed that she could not finish before; kill William.

One night, she escaped to carry out this evil deed. She laughed at the thought that she used to escape to see him, but now, she escaped to murder him. She went up to his window and called out his name, just as she used to. William soon came out, looking astounded.

"What are you doing here?" he questioned.

"I haven't seen you since you were in the arena. I have missed you so much," she said, embracing him. Before he had a chance to respond, she pulled out a dagger from her cloak and stabbed him through the heart. Watching him in his dying moments she said, "Since you have stabbed me through the heart, I now stab you through yours."

William stared up at the princess and replied, "Though I may have blindly stabbed at your heart, there was nothing there to pierce." He slowly fell to the ground and died.

The next day, rumors started swirling around the kingdom. There was news of William's death and presumptions of his killer. To her surprise, the king called her before him. He looked at her and said, "Why did you kill that man, my daughter?"

"I didn't kill any man, father," the princess replied, trying to make her words sound truthful.

"There were witnesses to this incident, my dear. I am ashamed that you have lied to me. Though it pains me deeply to say this, we shall have your trial in the arena."

On the day of the trial, the princess was about to leave her room when the king entered. He said in a hushed tone, "I should not be telling you this, but you are my beloved daughter. I shall tell you which the correct door is."

Soon after, the princess was standing in the middle of the arena. Her father's words were echoing in her head. She cleared her mind and thought to herself, "I must make the right decision." She reached out her hand and opened the left door. A bloodthirsty tiger leaped out.

— Author unknown ... who wrote this? Did you?
Email us at word at weeklyreader dot com to get full credit for your story!

She heard a million gasps. Tears rolled down her rosey cheeks as she finally opened her eyes. There, in the left doorway, stood the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. She was dressed in delecate, pink lace and silk. Milk-white gloves stretched up her arms and down to her dainty fingers. Rings with large diamonds dotted each finger flawlessly. Her dress stretched down to the ground, ending in small, gold beads that glimmered briliantly in the hot sun. Her face was round and perfect, with large blue eyes that batted in William's direction. Her lips formed slyly into a warming smile. William fell to the ground in disbelief, was this really what the princess wanted? He turned around and looked up at the princess, she looked away as she got up and ran out of the arena, tears streaming down her face. The maiden helped him up as a breeze blew in and made her long, blond hair wave and shimmer instantly through the rays of sun that beat down and around her, giving her an angelic appearence.

It was then that William realized what the princess intended. She loved him, that was for sure, but she wanted him to be happy, even if it wasn't with her. She knew that a love shared between herself and the plain William was impossible and forbidden with her stern father breathing down her neck. She knew that a bloody death from an oversized tiger wouldn't surely be his fate if she could help it. And so that is how it happened, the lady, or the tiger. In William's case it was the lady, just not the one his heart truley longed for.

—Brandi Deacon

The crowd started to throw their shoes at me, so I went back to the middle of the gigantic mob and continued my version of the story.

"He started to open the door. Then he heard a noise. It came from behind the left door. It was the tiger. The tiger had gotten so impatient that it roared at William to make his decision. He chose the door on the right and behind it was the beautiful lady.

"The new couple got married and went on a honeymoon to St. Petersburg, Russia. They were enjoying the sites of Russia but unfortunately for the couple, they got so cold that they had to fly to a warmer place. They decided to go to San Juan, the capital of Puerto Rico. Once there, they had a nice week of relaxing, enjoying the scenery, taking hikes, and swimming with dolphins. They came home and invited the princess over for a backyard barbeque, along with all their other friends, to celebrate. The invitation said:

Who: William and Cathy
What: the wedding reception of William and Cathy
When: September 11
Where: William and Cathy's house

P.S. Come through the back gate of the house because that is where everyone will be located. There will be many different games , contests, and food for everyone to enjoy.

"When the princess arrived, she walked through the gate. To her surprise, the was no one there. All that was there was a video camera pointed at her and a hungry, man-eating lion. The gate suddenly closed and the lion pounced on her in a flash. Blood flew all over the backyard. It ruined the camera, so William could not enjoy his revenge.

"The king soon found out and was very depressed. So he jumped off a cliff. The royal family had funerals and buried the king next to their mansion. The kings wife became the new ruler. She was a lot less cruel, and destroyed the horrible stadium.

"Even with the horrible events that took place with the king and princess, the citizens of the kingdom were so excited because the queen destroyed the stadium. They all decided to pitch in and have a statue built for the queen. Then they all lived happily ever after." When I finished, the crowd cheered, even the storyteller.

"I told stories there everyday and got paid. I told my version of the stories and the storyteller told his. The crowd loved us and came to listened when they got the chance.

— Andy Fritz

As William slowly turned the oversized golden knob. A thought came dashing through his mind. Will the princess lead him to an awful death, or will she let him marry a gorgeous maiden and marry another? When he opened the door, it slammed open. It was dark inside, no tiger had vaulted at him, so that meant only one thing, the princess had chosen the maiden for him. It was so dark William had trouble walking. He heard sobbing from a corner of the room. He walked over and William could barely make out the shape of the creature. He steadily took her hand and carried her out. The arena went wild with excitement. The princess was so mad at herself; she could jump off the balcony. She was yet happy in some way, that her beloved William wasn’t tiger food. But still mad he was going to marry another.

The celebration of the marriage took place right there in the arena. Afterwards, William and his new wife went to their house. They were silent for quite awhile. It seemed like hours before one of them spoke up. " Why were you crying?" questioned William. "I was crying for you! I thought you would die in the grasp of the ferocious tiger." After that was said, no one spoke again.

Meanwhile, back at the palace the princess thought of an ingenious plan to get the man she loved back. She was so grateful her precious William didn’t get eaten, that tears of joy filled her baby blue eyes. Right about midnight, the princess had her plan all figured out. She swiftly climbed down from her room’s window, and jumped over the gigantic wall that surrounded the castle. She then smuggled her way into some bushes. So the guards that were passing by wouldn’t spot her, and take her back. Unfortunately, an ominous looking guard actually did spot her, so he carefully followed the princess.

It was pitch-black, but the princess got away just fine. She finally came upon William’s house. She entered quietly and walked straight to the maiden’s room. Outside the guard followed and stayed out of sight. There the maiden was sleeping peacefully besides William. Enviously, the princess took the small dagger with both hands and slit her throat. Blood gushed down, while the maiden’s last breath was taken.

Out of sight, the guard watched in awe, as the princess slit the poor maiden’s throat. The guard rushed out of the house and went to the palace. There he alarmed the other guards to come down to William’s house. The king was also alarmed, so they all then hurried down.

In between, the princess had waken William and told him what she had done. William was so surprised of what love had done, he just wouldn’t believe it. The guards barged in. The king wasn’t too pleased with his daughter being there. So, the king needed a little fun. He falsely accused William of murdering his new wife, and kidnapping the princess.

The next day there was another Arena Day, but this time the king had put two bloodthirsty tigers, instead of a tiger and a maiden. The king was so vexed, he desperately needed a lot of entertaining. Guess who was the accused man, William!

This time whatever door he chose would be a terrible end. William did not know this so he relied on his heart. He opened a door and his end was near.

— Isabel Fernandez

Oh look at that! Poe took his friend Will out for his birthday. How nice!

That's right, everyone's favorite Bard turns 445 today! Hooray! Happy birthday, old friend! How should we celebrate?

Well, we can listen to READ's associate editor, Audra Pace, give a dramatic performance of a monologue from A Comedy Of Errors.

Well, we can talk like Shakespeare for a spell.

We can watch this very cool iambic pentameter scene from the movie, Renaissance Man. Bop bada bop bada bop bop bop bop! 

We can go crazy with Hamlet.

Or, we can watch this super awesome Macbeth rap! Enjoy!

 

To learn more about READ's electronic issues, email us at read @ weeklyreader . com (no spaces).

In the Survival issue of READ, we asked you to write a TV episode of LOST where you are one of the main characters. Here is what 10th grader Nikki McNutt came up with.

So there we were, shipwrecked and miles away from home. Well I guess I should start from the beginning. Every few years my friends and I, Jenny, Lucy, Stephanie, Brandon, Stacey, Shanna, and a few more that I don't know that well, like to regroup. We all take a cruse and go to the Caribbean for a few weeks in the winter. We all have a lot of fun and enjoy each other's company in the time away from our hectic lives. It's very easy to lose ourselves in all the relaxation, but we never thought we would ever get close to getting this lost.

We went scuba diving and when we surfaced we had no idea where we were. The only things in sight were a cluster of islands that none of us recognized. We looked around and into the distance there was no ship in sight. So we all swam over to the island and looked for any sign of salvation ... there was nothing. When we got to the island, there was nothing there. There was plenty of food but we had no idea what was poisonous and what was safe. We searched all around and we got some dry wood and got a fire started with Stephanie's amazing fire starting skills. We gathered some supplies that we knew were good for us to eat, such as raspberries, strawberries, mangos, and coconuts. It was a start.

We all had time enough to get leaves and bamboo to make a small shelter before nightfall. The next morning there was still no sight of a ship so we decided to explore a little bit. The island was HUGE! There was plenty of food, we found a fresh water stream, and it was so beautiful. We made a better shelter and after that none of us wanted to leave. But little did we know we weren't alone. The second night we spent on our new home was going to be something we would never forget.

We are all deep in conversation and watching the stars. All of a sudden we heard people walking around in the forest, most of my friends started freaking out but Stephanie and I let go of fear and went into stealth mode. We got a few sticks from the fire and when we went over to the perpetrators we found out that it wasn't a perpetrator at all it was more scubadivers that got left behind. We let them stay at our new home and we got along well.

We were there for a week and a half by the time that we knew how to get around the island without getting lost, we had plenty of food and we loved it there but we missed our families. We would go everyday to the shore and watch for passing ships but there was nothing. We were all scared that we would die on this island with only each other, and never see our families again. After another week of waiting we decided to check out the surrounding islands to see if anything was there, we found more food, and some ruins. We thought we were in the Caribbean but now we realized we were in the Bermuda Triangle. That's why we got lost and had no idea where we were for so long, we were in a no man's land.

We thought we would never get off that island. In the turn of events that followed our whole existence turned around. One day while walking, we walked passed one of the ruins. We looked around a bit and found what seemed to be the remains of a castle. There were gold particles and large pillars that had been eroded in time. Usually we would just pass the ruins to get to the food, but now we started to explore and noticed some tools that we knew the people that lived here would never be able to use. And a little farther off the ruins we found a little campground with a group of Archeologists in a circle eating lunch. We spied for awhile then went back to our home on the other island to get the others; we went back later to find the Archeologists hard at work on the ruins. We walk into the clearing were the Archeologists were and startled them by accident. They asked how we got there so we told them the whole story and they sent for a boat to bring us home.

- Elizabeth Porter, Grade 12

People always talk about how the youngest child is the spoiled one, gets all the attention, so on and so forth. But what they don't tell you is if the youngest kid comes out less perfect than the first one, they get tossed to the wolves. This is how it always was with me. You would think, being the youngest daughter of the royal family, I'd be treated as a lady of grace, with suitors craving my attention - no such luck. I was far too short and scrawny to be considered 'elegant', and my mud brown hair and dull brown eyes hardly caused any men of the court to lose their breath.

But my sister, three years my senior, was tall, whimsically built in proper proportions, and blessed with hair the color of pure gold. Whenever she entered a room, it lit up from the luminescent glow of her pure white skin. But Adelle, that is, my sister, was not blessed with intelligence in any sense of the word. You could barely hold down a conversation with her, since after two minutes of talking she would forget what was being talked about. Often, she had to be calmly retold what was going on around her, or else her sudden loss of understanding would send her into a childish fit of hysterics.

For a long time I resented my sister for this debilitating feature, but as I grew older I only felt pity for her. She simply couldn't understand and remember things. I decided to do my best to take care of her, and essentially I demoted myself to become her handmaiden, so that I could always help her when need be. Sometimes she appreciated my efforts. Other times she became annoyed with my presence, unable to remember why I followed her around - but I never minded. I grew to love the sister I had so long been jealous of, and we became the closest friends.

When our mother decided that the time had come for Adelle to marry, Adelle had no idea what that even meant. But I did. It meant that Adelle would be thrown into a new court where no one knew of her special needs, where she would be scared and confused, and then forced to marry a man she'd never met. I had to protect her. So I instantly volunteered to go with her as her servant.

"But Pel," said my sister (my name is Petronilla, by the way; another curse my family laid upon their disfavorable child), "you don't have to go. Why would you want to leave home?" I couldn't tell her how I needed to be there for her without upsetting her, so I just said I wanted a change of scenery.

A fortnight later, the two of us packed all of our belongings onto a packhorse and rode off for Adelle's fiance's kingdom. Although it was only a day's ride away, the heat of the day bore down on us the whole way.

After a while, my sister halted her horse, a fairy mare named Falada, and whined to me, "Pel, will you go get me a drink of water?"

Now, I may take care of my sister, but I don't baby her. I insisted that she was capable of getting the water herself, and should do so. She pouted a bit, but eventually gave in and went to the stream herself. Falada, a wise creature with the ability to speak, praised my firm handling of Adelle. "Her parents coddle her too much," said the mare. "She has to learn how to do some things for herself."

Adelle returned and we again set off. But it was not long until Adelle again wanted some water, and again I told her to get it herself. She whined, and even wept a little, but I remained firm. At last, she went to the stream herself, returned, and we moved on.

As the heat of the day increased, Adelle again asked me to get her a drink of water. This time I lost my temper a bit. I told her to act as a twenty-year-old should and get her own damn drink. She flew off towards the stream, crying. I regretted my words instantly. I hated upsetting my sister. When she returned, her face streaked with tears, I suggested we rest for a while and play a little bit of a game. Her face brightened instantly.

"Oh, Pel, I know! Let's play dress up!" she exclaimed, jumping up and down. With what, though? I asked her.

"Well.we could dress up as each other! Trade cloths and see how we look!"

So she took off her beautiful blue and gold gown and traded it for my simple green frock. She spun around in my rough dress, giggling with delight. I, however, felt awkward wearing her fine gown.

But she laughed at me, "Oh Pel, you look so pretty! You should wear that for the rest of the day. It looks so good on you!" I smiled. She always knew the sweetest way to make me feel better. So I agreed to wear the dress, and she insisted on wearing my frock as well.

"It's so much more comfortable than those giant dresses!"

So we continued on our way. It was dusk when at long last we reached the castle gate. We announced ourselves to the guard, and soon Prince Kaden himself arrived to welcome us in.

But that was when everything started going to hell.

The Prince turned to me; "Sweet Princess, it brings me the greatest joy to welcome you to my home - your new home, my beautiful bride." Adelle took no notice of these words, but my face blanched. He had us confused!

"N-n-no - " I stammered, but the Prince cut me off.

"I know you are nervous; as am I. But do not fear! As you settle into your new quarters, everything will seem better. Here are your new servants - they will assist you." Instantly I was surrounded by a crowd of serving maids, and they herded me off into the depths of the castle, leaving Adelle alone in the courtyard, dazed and confused at my sudden disappearance.

For days I neither heard nor saw anything of Adelle. Over and over I tried to tell the servants that I was not the Prince's bride, that the other girl was, but no one listened to me. I tried to find Adelle, asking all over the palace where she had gone, but no one knew who I was talking about.

About a week later, I wandered down into the main courtyard, and found a small passageway that led to the fields behind the castle. Traveling down it, I beheld a horrific sight - the head of wise old Falada, the fairy horse, mounted on the wall. I fell to tears, for Falada had been a dear friend to both myself and my sister. But the head, still blessed with fairy magic, spoke to me.

"Petronilla," she said, and my heart nearly stopped. "Petronilla, you must find your sister. For a time she was quite well - these people had her herding the flocks of geese. But this boy, Conrad, who was sent to help her, frightened her into using her royal magics to control the wind. I fear that the boy told the King of this, for this morning I saw his Majesty follow Adelle out to the fields. He is a stubborn and senile old man, Petronilla - I'm sure he will be hard on her. You must intervene!"

I ran off at once, bidding Falada farewell as I rushed back to the palace. Dusk was falling, and there was little time before my handmaidens would again try to shove me back into my chambers. I flew through passageways, down corridors, and up staircases, looking into each room for signs of my sister. After what seemed like hours, I came to the Western tower and collapsed at the foot of the stairs. It was then that I heard the sounds of weeping. With my heart pounding, I clambered up to a doorway along the staircase. The door was locked, but now I could clearly tell that the crying was in fact Adelle; my poor sister, locked in a tower chamber! I knocked gently on the door so as not to frighten her. "Adelle? Is that you? It's Pel."

"Pel! Where have you been? I'm so scared Pel - the old man wanted to know how I knew royal magics. He yelled at me and called me a thief - and he's sure to come back! Oh Pel, help me!"

"Adelle, listen, I'm going to try and find the King. I'll clear all of this up and get you out of here, alirght? Don't be scared, I'll be back soon!"

I ran further up the staircase, frantic to find the King and finally set this mess straight. To my luck, the King was in a sunroom chamber atop the tower, conversing with one of his advisors. As I approached, I heard him say something about "the Princess"; I paused to listen at the door.

"The girl was completely hysterical when I spoke to her before, you know, that peasant girl who came with that Princess. But I'll get the truth out of her. If I know anything about women, it's when they think they're all alone, they spill their guts out to the open air. As if talking to no one will ease their conscience!" The King laughed in a despicable sort of way, thinking himself so clever. "So," he continued, "I'm simply going to sit here and wait for the sounds of her confession come floating up the chimney stack!" He laughed again, and the advisor laughed along, to humor this strange old man.

But I struck upon an idea from the King's absurd theory, and hurried back down to the room where Adelle was locked. I told her what to do, and she repeated it back to me several times until I was satisfied. With my plan set in motion, I calmly left the tower, praying that Adelle would remember exactly what to say.

The next morning was the day long celebration of Prince Kaden's engagement to 'his Princess'. As my servants dressed me, I continued to insist that I was not the princess Kaden was meant to marry, but as usual I was ignored. Once I was gowned and ready, I made my way down to the courtyard to the feast, alert and watchful. After a few moments of searching the crowd, I at last found her - my dear sister Adelle, properly gown of palest pink and silver, sitting and laughing with the Prince at the banquet table. My plan had worked! The King must have overheard Adelle's 'confession' about how she had traded clothes with me, and thus she was the real Princess. At last, everything was set right! And from the looks of things, Adelle and Kaden were getting along well - now that I looked at them, they did make quite a handsome couple.

But I wondered - why had no one informed me that I was no longer the one marrying the Prince? They must be announcing this soon, or else Adelle would not be here.

I looked to the King. He was talking with some of the members of court. But when he saw me looking at him, he turned his focus to me. He called, "Princess, we are discussing matters of treason. What do you think; if a servant betrays their royal master, what should their punishment be?"

Such a simple question!

"Well, in my country at least, the punishment for such treason is death. In some cases, severe forms such as being dragged by a team of horses through the street in a barrel full of nails were used." I shuddered at the thought; the royal family is required to watch public executions, but I certainly never enjoyed such events.

"Then, treacherous maid, that shall be your fate!" cried the King.

Instantly I was surrounded by guards, and the entire celebration erupted into uproar. I was flung to the ground and hit my head on the flagstones; somewhere in the distance I heard Adelle screaming, "That's not what I said! That's not what I said!"; other women were wailing; men were jeering; three guards hauled me to my feet, and began pushing and pulling me back inside the castle.

Before I reached the gate I glanced back; Adelle was weeping into Kaden's chest while the Prince himself tried to reason with his father - but the King was unmoved, and did not even acknowledge his son's presence.

Adelle looked up, and her eyes met mine. With tears streaming down her face, she cried out, "PEL! Pel, please forgive me!! I never called you a traitor; God, please, I'm so sorry!!"

She fell to her knees, weeping and wailing, praying to God.

That was the last I saw of my sister. I hope that she can find happiness in the comfort Kaden can give her; he seems a good man. Tomorrow they are to be married - just four hours after my execution.

Click here for Student Writing Showcase 2008.

That's not much fanfare! Well, I could tell you about all the great student writers we have showcased this year. I could discuss the wonderful authors who have leant their voices and commentary (like M.T. Anderson, Karen Cushman, and Cynthia Leitich Smith). I could describe the way neat-o video version of 1,000 Words. I could tell you all about the Letter To Self article and writing prompt. I could write up a super-duper self-promotion that shows in detail how each one of these things makes for a really cool place to chill out, read some excellent student writing, get inspired, and moves you to write whatever your heart desires! I could... and I kind of just did... but I think I'll just pipe down and let you check it out for yourself.

AND if you do get inspired and DO write something. Send it to us at word@weeklyreader.com. We're always looking for the best student writers to publish right here on WORD!

Cheers mates! Enjoy!

by Rebbeca Tung
Age 10

Marge snorted and reread the flyer. It said, "Madame Fange's Academy for the Troubled." Pocketing the leaf of paper and grabbing her carpetbag, she hurried to the lawn where her mother's tan, dented station wagon was parked coughing out exhaust. She threw everything into the back seat, while listening to her mother chide about the three hour long trip to Kent.

"Oh brother," she muttered rolling her eyes.

***

Marge was ushered into a cement gray, cobweb-filled building. She shook her head in disapproval at the fake potted plants, scattered lawn chairs, cramped classrooms, and the cold, impassive staff. Only Daphne, the bus driver, had been kind, providing them with valuable information. Obviously 3/4 of the academy had been phony. Students were told to clean out Madame Fange's sleeping quarters, eat gruel and brussels sprouts, never smile, and sleep on cots that were already packed with four other students!

Fortunately an odd girl named Limea had been very generous sharing gruel and helping Marge dust the wardrobe.

"Always bin stuck in dis dirt pile!" Limea growled, her eyes filled with rage. She kicked furiously at the four-poster bed as the two cleaned Madame Fange's bedroom.

"You never had a family?" Marge asked aghast at the thought of such loneliness.

"Madame Fange adopted me at an early age," the other girl replied opening the door to leave.

Marge sighed and hurried out of the bedroom returning to her dormitory. Though Madame Fange had stolen cameras and cell phones and had thrown letters away, she had failed to take Marge's disposable camera.

Now Marge held the small camera and ran down the dimly lit corridors to what was called the Discipline Room. Madame Fange and her sister, Blair, had already begun disciplinary time randomly switching kids with belts. Carefully Marge took photos of the victims, cringing at their scarred and slightly bleeding backs. Suddenly Madame Fange looked up and asked, "Where are those moronic girls?"

"Limea and Con #287900? (aka Marge)" Blair asked.

Madame Fange nodded and smirked. "I am convinced that the two are hiding outside this room behind the door."

The two spotted Marge and smiled and watched, as she hastily stuffed something in her pocket. Blair snickered, "It seems that Marge is hiding something."

Blair strode to #287900 (aka Marge) and shoved her, sending her sprawling. The camera went flying in the air and broke upon impact. Marge tried to hide it but it was too late. They had seen the camera.

***

"Well, well. Our prisoner has a camera," Madame Fange said facing Blair. Then she turned to #287900 scowling. "Have you forgotten, fool, that cameras and cell phones were prohibited the first day?"

Marge shifted uncomfortably, still lying on the concrete floor of the Disciplinary Room.

"I shall dismiss you now, wretch. Next time--" the woman paused, her voice trailing off. After a moment, she continued. "Next time, you will wish you were never born."

Blair kicked Marge then dragged her away. "You will be isolated from the others. Do not snoop around when you are cleaning rooms or fetching well water. I will send Limea to deliver your belongings."

The cell room was dank and moldy with moth-eaten rugs laid out for her to sleep. A single candle sat beside the rags, casting pale, barely visible shadows.

Marge sighed. This would not be an easy night for her.

***

Con. 287900 was standing outside of the building, surrounded by a fence that was covered by chicken wire as she hurried outside supposedly "fetching water." Around her arms were two buckets filled with evidence that something was going terribly wrong at the Academy. The girl regretted leaving Limea behind but, she would be the only who was allowed to collect water.

Of course, Marge had been taking pictures of the Academy, first of the small cell then of herself fetching water as Fange and Blair taunted her.

Quickly, Marge crawled under the fence using a hole that she had dug and hopped on to the Daphne's bus. No one was watching. She turned the key in the ignition and breathed deeply. Then she put the bus into DRIVE and pressed down on to the pedal. The vehicle crashed through the fence and she watched as everyone poured out of the building.

"CATCH HER!" a red-faced Blair cried. Cars pulled out of the parking lot to chase the bus but as they ganged up on the automobile, it veered away turning a sudden right into a backyard. Marge gritted her teeth as the bus parked at the police station and climbed out with her information. She dashed into the station and dumped everything on to the table.

An officer asked, "And what is this hubbub, young girl?"

"Evidence," Marge answered.

"Evidence for what?"

"Proof that 'Madame Fange's Academy for the Troubled' is a phony."

The officer began to examine each object, wearing latex gloves to prevent any unnecessary fingerprints. He looked up at Marge and began to ask another question when the Fange sisters burst in.

"Can you believe it? Our own niece ran away from home!" the two cried in unison, snatching Marge's collar.

"I'm afraid this isn't your niece and that I'll have to arrest you two for child abuse." the man replied, handcuffing the two.

In a nearby car, Limea gave Marge a thumbs-up. The former prisoner, 287900 grinned toothily and nodded. Marge was going home.

By Dustin Wahl

It was getting dark. The swamp was full of dead plants and smelled like someone forgot to take a shower. An old man with wild hair and a face smeared with dirt waded through the waters. He had a .20 gauge attached to his back, and he was looking for something to shoot.

Through the rotting weeds came the extremely elusive rubber ducky! The old hunter sneered a horrible murderous grin. He cocked his rifle. But then, something strange happened. The ducky started to drift, against the current. The hunter was astonished as it slowly swam away. He quickly gathered his senses and followed.

The hunter, with the mind of a killer, shot at it four or five times. He missed but kept chasing the duck. Finally, he cornered the rubber ducky. "I'll hang your hide on the clothesline!" he shouted "or a coat hanger. Ha!"

"You can't do that," said the ducky. "I'm plastic!" But, either way, he was cornered.

The hunter took aim. Just as he was ready to fire, the ducky spoke up again. "I don't know how I got here. I think I fell out of the window, but I just want to go back home. I hate it here. My little friend loved me and I loved him, but I don't know how to get back to him."

By this time the hunter was crying his eyes out because of the sad story. Truth be told, the little rubber ducky knew exactly where he was. He made up the sob story at the spur of the moment. He was trying to sneak past the crying hunter, when the hunter, between tears, asked the duck, "How is it that you can talk?"

"What?!" exclaimed the ducky. "You've never heard a rubber ducky talk? Well, I guess I forgot to introduce myself. I'm Mr. Bubbles. I was just going to take another bubble bath, when I fell out of the window. I was carried by a small stream of water to a sewer in the ground. That carried me to a huge river, which carried me here. Any questions?"

By this time the hunter was ready to wake up from a dream. But he noticed something about Mr. Bubbles. He was kind of a different duck. That was when the hunter fainted.

If you've ever seen a rubber ducky swim on its own, well, it's a sight to see. That Mr. Bubbles was moving. He had evaded the old hunter, but there wasn't any time to celebrate. This duck had a mission. You see, Mr. Bubbles wasn’t normal. He got senses about things. Big things. And that day he had the strangest, most bizarre sense of all: the president was apparently going to be crushed by a falling piano. I know it sounds weird, but Mr. Bubbles was never, ever wrong.

* * *

The next day Mr. Bubbles was sitting in the office of the president's secretary, waiting for some loon screaming about taxes to leave. He finally got removed by the security and Mr. Bubbles hopped up on the desk. You might be wondering how Mr. Bubbles got past the secret service. All I know is, rubber duckies have willpower. And they have guts, which could be why two security guards were tied up in a janitor's closet. Anyway, there sat Mr. Bubbles, trying to explain to the stunned secretary how the president was going to be hit by a falling piano in a matter of minutes. When the secretary finally gathered her wits, she called security. As soon as she said the word "security," Mr. Bubbles was gone.

Outside, the president was trying to find a way to get away from all of the yelling reporters. In the process, he almost stepped on Mr. Bubbles. "Excuse me," shouted Mr. Bubbles over all the noise. "but, um, could I have an autograph?" The shocked president didn't say a word. Mr. Bubbles looked up. Sure enough, he could see a piano falling out of a three-story window. "Um, come here quick!" said the nervous ducky.

"What?!" the president shouted, unaware of anything that was going on around him.

"THERE'S A PIANO ABOUT TO FALL ON YOU!!" That finally got him to look up.

"AAGGGHHH!!!" Everyone seemed to see it at the same time. And everyone but the owner of the piano was happy because no one was injured, all thanks to Mr. Bubbles.

 

Ladies and Gentlemen!

Boys and girls!

Children of all ages!

READ Magazine is proud to present...

THE ONE...

THE ONLY...

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE!!!

(See this is where you applaud madly and scream with glee.)

Click here for Willie's goodness.

In the premiere issue of READ this year, we asked you to write a conclusion to the story Bad Blood. The following is how Carly Arias envisioned it continuing...

Beyond Bad Blood
 - Carly Arias, Grade 8

"Maybe." I said. I looked down at the highway ahead of me. "Then again, maybe not."

Those were the last words that I said to my dad that day. Now, after two years of road tripping, I'm finally going back to that little town in Ohio. My corvette, still red and delicious, has been my one an only love.

Every night all I can think about is poor old Mrs. Anderson dying alone. As I'm driving down the road to the old house and its memories all I can do is tremble. Tremble with the fear of remembering things. Tremble with the fear of seeing her ghost. Tremble thinking, "Did she die because of me?"

As I drove past her house, to my surprise the lights were on. As I got out of the car quietly, I saw a vague image of a man standing near the window. I went around back, peeked in, and immediately dropped to the floor. I blanked out and saw what was like a "movie" in my head about Mrs. Anderson looking at her son, Gary's, picture. Then I awoke. As I looked in the window again... the man was still standing there. I squinted to see his face... it was Gary!

I ran and jumped into the car. Quickly locking the doors I thought, "Is it Gary's ghost coming back to haunt me, or was he never really dead?"

I turned the car on and backed out of the driveway. Down the road about two miles or so was a motel. I checked in, got my stuff and headed into the room. The second I stepped in the room I got a whiff of something. It was neither bad nor good. It was familiar. It smelled like Mrs. Anderson's house. That dusty colonial smell.

The next day I drove past the house again and saw the door and windows open. So, I parked my car a little down the street and walked to the house. I walked in and saw Gary. He sprinted towards me and knocked me on the floor. He started to scream. "You! You are the one who killed her!" Then he vanished.

I drove as fast as I could back to the motel. I ran into the room, locked the door, and hid under the covers. I eventually decided that I would have to face my fears. The next day, I went to the house one last time. When I saw Gary, I called out his name. He vanished and then appeared right behind me. I told him how I was sorry--how I never meant to hurt him or his mom. I decided to return the car to him. I handed him the keys just as a white light flashed... and he disappeared. This time for good.

My nightmares were over.

In READ Magazine's pirate issue (yar), we asked you to write the conclusion to a story called The Pirate's Life For Me. To read the first part of that story, click here. To read Sara Verbanas' conclusion... keep reading.

 

The Pirate's Life For Me (Part II)

- By Sara Verbanas

 

"That it be boy-o!" Uncle Petey glared at me and motioned with the flick of his hand to come along "Now, we meet your father." I felt my throat tighten as I strolled one step behind Uncle Petey, feeling the eyes of the crew glaring at me with interest and awe.

 

We came upon a wooden door that led to the captain's cabin. "Come on lad don't be shy now! We ain't got all day ya know!" Petety rapped his knuckles on the door, and then a voice sounded within.

 

"Who goes there me-hearty?"

 

Petey pushed open the door and across the room a figure emerged from the shadows of the corner, to reveal a tall, strongly built, bronze-skinned man. His attire contained a black hat with a pair of old, grungy-looking pair of boots and his hair was braided just like Petey's (except this guy had some beads in his). 

 

"Aye matey, is that how you'd greet your own blood?" I stared at the man for a moment realized what Petey had been fussing about. This man standing right in front of me was my father! "Keith? Aye me-hearty! Tis' can't be him! He's so scrawny and pale!"

 

Petey turned to me and looked me up and down. "Aye but he gots the heart of a pirate, Captain." 

 

"Well then," My pirate-father said, "Don't you be tryin' any tricks now. There ain't no where else to go besides the deep blue yonder where you'll be eaten alive by sharks." Petey grabbed my arm and pulled me closer to my long lost father. "Well, you aint the buffest lad to take the job, but we can make you as greedy and heartless as we here pirates!" I felt his arm place itself heavily on my left shoulder, causing my body to tilt sideways. "Now, we will start breaking you of your proper habits and mold you into a strong and dirty pirate!"

 

The captain led me out of the cabin and brought me up to the top of the deck. The crew went on with their own duties as if they hadn't noticed I was there. "Now how bout you be gettin' to work, son?" I was handed a bucket of dirty water along with a scrubbing brush. "This here deck needs a good scrubbing, you best be getting it done before dark or you'll miss eatin'."

 

*                  *                  *                  *

 

There were plenty of times I went to bed without dinner, but I eventually figured out a way so that I would get done with all my chores and was then able to eat while my food was still hot on the table. If I were to get up early enough, then I could get done with the deck so it would dry before the crew woke up and walked all over it and made it dirty again. 

 

Over the years, I became musuclar and my skin began to turn from a young boy's pale white to a young man's bronze. 

 

Eventually, I discarded all ideas of escape from my mind. After hard labor and deathly trials I finally won the respect and approval of the crew. My father and I became great companions. I was told that because of my cold-heartedness and my exceeding greed, I would become the co-captain of the ship! One day, my father will be dead and I will become sole captain of his ship.

 

Aye, tis' truly a pirate's life for me!

 

Yar.

In READ Magazine's pirate issue (yar), we asked you to write the conclusion to a story called The Pirate's Life For Me. To read the first part of that story, click here. To read Deb Chadwick's conclusion... keep reading.

The Pirate's Life For Me (Part II)
- by Grace Kim, Grade 7

As I rose, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Pirates, with eye patches, crutches, and talking parrots on their shoulders, all shouting, "Ahoy, Master Keith!" and grinning with their black and gold teeth showing between their lips. It was just as I read in books and magazines. They all had either a pistol, or a dagger with curved edge. I closed my eyes and thought, what if this was all a dream? Soon I'll have to wake up and see those ugly amateur clowns trying to perform their dumb tricks. I slowly opened my eyes wishing it wasn't a dream. I could still hear the loud voices of the pirates, smell the salty water, and see the blue wave hit the wooden walls of the ship.

I reached into my pockets and touched the golden brooch. Maybe it wasn't a dream. Maybe it was real. Maybe it was magic.

I looked around. Some pirates were drinking rum. Some were eating apples from the barrels. Some were examining the map, and some were sword fighting. I didn't want to go back home. I much rather wanted to spend my 13th birthday with these real pirates than some dumb clowns. If this was a dream, I never wanted to wake up.

"What shall we do, lad?" asked Uncle Petey, munching on an apple.

"Let's go find hidden treasures! Or invade another ship! Anything that pirates do!" I answered.

"Then treasures it shall be!" exclaimed Petey.

"Ahoy! Land!" shouted the lookout. As we approached through the fog, a figure of an island slowly appeared. Something bright flew in front of my eyes. Then another, and another. Finally, after my sight was filled with those bright lights, one of them landed on me. As I looked at it closely, I figured it was a pixie.

The pixies were figures of tiny people in elf suits with wings like those on butterflies. They danced in the air, making our way brighter through the fog. Uncle Petey grabbed one of them and trapped it in an empty lantern. The trapped pixie banged the glass wall of its cage, trying to break it open. It was no use.

Our ship reached the shore and we came down to the beach. Uncle Petey took out an old map from his pocket. Looking around he spotted a palm tree, much taller and leaner than the others. He walked toward it, and we followed, each holding a pixie lantern. Uncle Petey walked through the forest, looking down closely at the map. He walked for about two hours and then stopped. He ordered some of his men to dig up an area. They dug for a long time, but there was nothing. No treasure, no jewelry, no gold, silver, no nothing.

"What is goin' on?"

"We don't know, sir."

"It says right here! On the map!" Uncle Petey turned to the pixie in the lantern.

"Where is the treasure?"

The pixie gave no answer.

"Where is the treasure?!"

Still no answer. Uncle Petey became irritated.

"Fine. If you tell me, I will let you out."

The pixie shook its head.

"I'll give you 1/10 of the treasure if you tell me."

Again, it shook its head.

"I'll give you half if you tell me."

Still, no use.

"I'll give you 90% if you tell me."

The pixie finally smiled and nodded. Uncle Petey opened the lantern and let the pixie out. It flew through the forest and we followed.

It led us to a plain where it was hard to tell where was where. It pointed to a spot and the men dug. Soon a wooden chest appeared. The men tried opening it, but it was to tightly shut. Uncle Petey looked at the pixie again. "I'll let all the pixies go, if you open it."

The pixie shook its head.

"I'll give you 93% of the treasure if you open it."

The pixie still shook its head.

"I'll give you 95% if you open it."

The pixie shook its head again.

"Argh! I'll give you 98% if you open it." Finally the pixie nodded and flew into the keyhole of the chest. When the chest was opened - from the inside - it was full of jewels, gold, and silver. The pirates were delighted, but they remembered that they had to give the 98% to the pixies. Not wanting to share, the pirates grabbed the chest and ran to the ship. Unfortunately, they got lost. They looked at the pixies and begged.

"We'll give you 99% of the treasure if you lead us to our ship."

The pixies shook their heads.

"ARGH!!!! We'll give you ALL of the treasure if you lead us to our ship." 

The pixies agreed and led the pirates back to their ship.

As soon as we were about to leave the island penniless, one of the pixies grabbed me. It handed me something. It was my mother's jewelry box. I then remembered my parents and what kind of confusion they must be in. Then I started to miss them. I went to Uncle Petey and said, "I think I should get going, now." Uncle Petey looked at me with amusement.

"If you say so."

With a blink of an eye, I was suddenly back in my bed. I was in my pajamas, and it was morning. Mother's jewelry box wasn't with me. I got dressed and went downstairs. My parents were in the living room with some dumb clowns.

Even though I was in my bed when I came back, I know it wasn't a dream.

It was magic.

In READ Magazine's pirate issue (yar), we asked you to write the conclusion to a story called The Pirate's Life For Me. To read the first part of that story, click here. To read Deb Chadwick's conclusion... keep reading.

  

The Pirate's Life For Me (Part II)

- Deb Chadwick, Grade 11

I have been on this boat for the past 8 months and I have learned a lot: how to sword fight, rob ships, and gain the trust and respect from all of the other pirates. The one thing that I love the most is my new sword. From the very moment I held it, I knew that it was mine.

Uncle Petey has taught me well and I hope I've made him very proud. One day, Uncle Petey had been looking for Black Island, a dangerous island where the dead wander. He had said that a lost but very valuable treasure could be found there, but the treasure was protected by some kind of a monster. When the island was near, Uncle Petey and I lowered the smaller boat into the water and began to row toward the island.

 

Uncle Petey seemed scared as we entered the cave. The closer we got to the treasure the colder we became. We entered a chamber that was large and damp. Water was dripping from the ceiling. As we got closer to the treasure we saw the monster. She was half-woman, half-snake, and she had a very long tail.

 

Uncle Petey told me to get the gold while he distracted her, but I was the only one to get out of the cave alive. When I got back to the ship, I told everyone what had happened. The next day we had Petey's funeral. We filled a coffin with all of Petey's belongings and set it off to sea on fire. When it was over, all the other pirates decided that I should become the new captain because of my bravery. It's been 3 years since we lost Petey but I promised everyone that I would be just as good of a pirate as he was.

Thank you to all the students who wrote conclusions to "The Pirate's Life For Me", a story that was featured in READ Magazine (Issue Date April 27, 2007).

Just wanted to let you know that, yes! we got them! And we'll be posting the best of them next week, right here on WORD. But that's not all...

We have also received many "1,000 Words" interpretations concerning a certain turtle that escaped from a picture frame! This image, of course, was in the April/May issue of Writing magazine and we will be posting the best of those next week as well!

Next week's shaping up to be big in the world of student writing! You're not gonna want to miss this!

So come on back! Every day next week, starting Monday, May 7 all the way through to Friday, May 11! It's pirates and turtles week here at WORD!

Who loves, ya baby?*

*Editor's Note: Please don't sue us, Telly Savalas.

The runner-up in our Take Me Away! contest (Senior Fiction category) is Andi Malisheski. Andi's story is entitled, "Songs".

Here is what our guest judge, Ursula K. Le Guin, had to say about it:

"Songs" is a lyrical picture of the yearning spirit of youth, when you can be homesick even when you're home, with a suggestion of spiritual experiences and adventures yet to come.

Andi is turning 15 this weekend! Happy birthday, Andi!

   When we asked her how long she has been writing, Andi told us that she's been writing ever since she was able to read! "In fact, when I was in second grade, I wrote a kid's book on Egyptology. Thankfully, it's packed away in a box that will never see daylight again!"

   When asked about the genre of fantasy, Andi replied, "With fantasy, there are very few limits to what you can imagine--your words don't have to conform to any of the same rules as if you were writing about this world. Everything--histories, cultures, characters--is entirely your own."

   "Anyone can write. The hard part is learning to write well. For me, the characters that make the story must be so genuine that you can see them stepping off the page and out into the world. Flaws and all."

  
Flaws definitely keep characters interesting, Andi. No flaws in your story though!

Congratulations on being Take Me Away's runner-up!

 

Click HERE to read "Songs," a story by Andi Malisheski ... and check out her cool art, too!

 

The runner-up in our Take Me Away! contest (Junior Fiction category) is Kevin Valente. Kevin's story is entitled "The Mystery of the Shadow".

Here is what our guest judge, Ursula K. Le Guin had to say about it:

It’s hard to tell a whole, complicated story in just two pages. Kevin had to rush things  to do it, but the image of the statue’s shadow devouring students, and the rescue scene, are memorable.

 

Kevin is 14 and has been writing for about 2 years now. He likes brainstorming different topics and then writes in spurts when he is sufficiently inspired. When we asked Kevin what inspired him to write "The Mystery of the Shadow," he told us that his grandfather in Italy is a sculptor and has shipped them many statues. Kevin's yard is filled with inspiration!

   "The Mystery of the Shadow" may mean many things to you, but to Kevin it is about finding answers and facing your fears.

Not all writing can make that claim. But yours certianly can, Kevin. Yours can.

Congratulations on being Take Me Away's runner-up!

 

Click HERE to read "The Mystery of the Shadow," a story by Kevin Valente.

 

It's finally here! Yayyyyy!

In the current issue of Writing magazine, we have published the six winners of this year's "Take Me Away!" writing contest. Back in September, we challenged our readers to imagine a land of make-believe--of mythical creatures and dreams, of snakes and snails and puppy dog tails. Well maybe not all of those. In any case, we received a ton of entries and they were all (in their own special way) fantastic!

Author Ursula K. Le Guin was our guest judge, and you can read the works of the four student authors who won this contest by picking up an issue of Writing, or right here online at WORD. The winners are:

Junior Poetry
I am Going to Leekartos
By Rachael A. Schermer, age 13
Read It

Senior Poetry
The Benevolent Dictator
By Justin Hanselman, age 15
Read It

 Junior Fiction
Embers of the Moonlight
By Ela Banerjee, age 13
Read It

Senior Fiction
The Metamorphosis
By Megan Mikhail, age 14
Read It

Congratulations to our four student writer winners! Make sure to come back here to WORD every day this week to read the poems and stories of our runner-ups, alongside brief comments from Ursula Le Guin!

- Story by Faith Brodkorb

"So no one told you life was gonna be this way?" Bernadette sang the Friends theme song quietly as she took her dog, Tiger, for a walk. It wasn't the perfect weather for walking but Bernadette (or Bee as everyone called her) was bored. Her parents were gone so she couldn't have anyone over or go anywhere, and there was nothing good on TV. So, she decided she could use the exercise.

Suddenly her dog Tiger lunged forward and started barking. He pulled Bee along as he raced toward the corner of the street. Tiger ran around the corner and stopped as if he had been barking just because he wanted to.

Then, he changed his mind again, he planted his feet in front of Bee and growled at an empty street. "Come on Tiger," Bee said to her dog. "Let's go home."

As if those words were a secret code, the wind picked up. It brought a hot pink piece of paper fluttering down the street. Curious, Bee picked it up. It said:

Lost Dog
Name - Tiger
Size - 35 lbs
Color - all white with a black nose
Call 555-5555 if found
REWARD

It was an exact description of her dog, but he obviously wasn't lost. Dismissing it as a coincidence she threw the paper away. As Bee walked home Tiger was a little wound up. He kept trying to run at other dogs. When they were right across the street from Bee's house, Tiger bolted for a squirrel. Bee lost her grip on the leash, and off Tiger went. She tried to run after him but the little guy was too fast.

After trying to call him back with treats, Bee decided to see if Tiger would come back on his own. She went for another walk and completely forgot the flier. She automatically took the same route she had taken with Tiger. As Bee walked, another mysterious gust of wind came and blew a newspaper clipping her way. Once again Bee picked it up and saw a picture of Bridgette, her sister on it. It said:

Local Student Wins Big Contest

Bee thought at first that maybe it was just some girl that looked exactly like her sister. But then she remembered that her sister did enter a contest for scholarship money. This time she kept the clipping to see if it would come true like the last one.

When Bee got home after her walk, she was greeted by her sister who had a smile on her face. "Guess what?" Bridgette shouted.

"What?" Bernadette replied casually.

"I won the scholarship money! I won the contest! I just got the letter!" she squealed.

Bee ran down the street. Those papers could tell the future. The papers the wind blew in talked about things before they happened. Bee reached the exact spot she was standing in when the papers came at her before. But it was a nice warm day, no clouds, no wind. Bernadette stood there and waited, and waited and waited. Then she sat down and played with the grass. While she waited and waited, and waited, the clouds rolled in and the temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees. Suddenly a gust of wind came up the street. It didn't blow the paper directly to Bernadette so she ran over to pick it up. It was another newspaper clipping. She read what it said and was completely enthralled by this little piece of paper.

This time it said:

Young Girl Run Over By 18 Wheeler

"I have to help this girl!" Bernadette said. The paper was wet so she could only read the bold print. As Bernadette looked at the little piece of paper, she didn't notice the bright 18 Wheeler barreling down on her. The truck driver didn't notice her either.

In the February 9th issue of READ (yes, it was a while ago, our apologies), we presented an adapted version of William Shakespeare's classic play, Romeo and Juliet. At the end of the Readers' Theater play, we asked you to write a story that explains how the Montague/Capulet feud originally began. Although we received many great submissions, here are our two favorites.

Two Artists
-By Hunter Windham

Once upon a time, four generations before that of Romeo's, in the very same streets yet a completely different terrain, stooped an old man. The man lingered by a lake during the same hour every day. He admired his surroundings to the point where walking the landscape blindfolded would not have been a problem. He walked around the trees and then around a cove of the great lake. Eventually his daily exploration always led him to the opposite side of the lake. And there he sat.

An artist approached the solitude of this fine gentleman. Armed with pastels and charcoals, he saw a passion in the old man and decided to capture it on his canvas. Every shadow, every leaf, and even every wrinkle in the cloth the old man wore, right down to the peaceful grin on his face was painted by the artist. The old man sat for him for hours.

During this time, another artist happened to be roaming though the area, his thoughts tended to be the same. He too was armed his creative weapons: oils and a charcoal pencil took hold of the bold framework as he attempted to capture it on his canvas. The tall trees sat thick and broad, the hills smooth, the leaves delicate, the old man looked soft... yet strong. And time passed.

As shapes formed and colors blended, the occupation of each artist on the shore that day became relevant. The second artist proceeded to the canvas of the first to know his progress. And the first did the same. They began to discuss art with an air of arrogance. The second artist tried to add to a line on the first artist's canvas. The first artist responded with great anger! He proceeded to throw a black blotch of ink onto his neighbor's work. Soon, it became an all out "save your painting" war, splashes of paint and charcoal rocks were in the air.

In all of this hustle the old man became enraged by this disturbance and up and left. Moments later the two artists found themselves laying in a mess of expensive and extensive color. Both painters found themselves mourning over the destruction of their work. A truce was made and they began to pick up their mess. They said their apologies, shook hands and went their separate way with supplies under arm.

Being that these two artists were the only two men of their profession left in all of Verona, they both received angry letters from their employers announcing that their paintings were overdue. They both immediately ran to meet their boss. When they arrived, they met each other again. They had not known that they were both working for the same man! Each artist tried to explain his case, but it was no use. The boss fired them both. A shared, bitter rage fell into silence as the two artists walked sadly away.

The two artists went on to lead successful lives outside of their painting careers. But they always held a love for art in their hearts, as well as a deep hate for the other man. Their names were Montague and Capulet. ... But that is a different story.

Back in February, we interviewed China Mieville, author of the new fantasy book, Un Lun Dun. We also asked you to "write a short story or poem about your town... the flipside of your town." Here is one of the stories we received. Congratulations to 8th grader Sarah Davies! We're sending you a signed copy of Un Lun Dun!

We still have 4 copies left! Email YOUR upside-down town story or poem to word@weeklyreader.com for a chance to win one of them!

INSANE LOUIS
-by Sarah Davies, Grade 8

There is a place that is quite strange. Some would even call it insane. In fact, that is the name of this place, Insane Louis, that is. Few have heard of this mystical place and only three or four have actually been there but the people who know of it will swear on their lives that it exists.

According to a well-worn proverb, a picture is worth a thousand words. In the February/March 2007 issue of Writing, we published a photograph in our "1,000 Words" column and asked you to write a dialogue in which you give Oscar--the celebrated mascot of the annual Academy Awards--some good advice on what to wear and how to be an examplary host. Here's one of our favorites.

Oscar
A ten minute play by Doug Dyszlewski, Grade 8

Ten minutes before Oscar Awards start. Doug and Oscar are talking before the Awards Ceremony begins.

Producer: (Walks over to Oscar) You're on in ten minutes.

Doug: Are you almost ready?

Oscar: Yes, I have been ready for a while.

Doug: Okay, but just keep in mind that this year is going to be even bigger than last year so I hope you're prepared.

Oscar: You have said that every single year since I have done this, yet it's always the same.

Doug: I know, I know, I just don't want you to mess up or anything.

Oscar: Let me ask you this question: how could I possibly mess up if I just am standing there? I don't do anything, honestly it's really not that hard.

Doug: The reason we fired the guy before you was because he messed up. He fell on the an award winner and broke his leg. Would you want that to happen to you?

Oscar: No, but...

Doug: Don't forget we want you to look good, so if you move and scratch yourself or something like that when you're up on stage, you will be fired in a second.

Oscar: Okay then keep that blow dryer on me if you want me to look good.

Doug: This blow drying really doesn't do anything for you.  It just makes me look like I'm doing something in the hustle and bustle here. Everyone is always doing something right before the Awards and I'll get yelled at if I'm not working, so...

Oscar: Well fine then, make me look better in some other way. I don't want either of us to be fired.

Doug: Okay then, I'll go get another gold suit to make you look newer. The suit that you have on is a bit wrinkled.

Oscar: Yes, that's perfect, another suit.

(Doug runs over to get another suit and then puts it on Oscar.)

Oscar: How do I look? Good right?

Doug: Perfect.

Oscar: There's still something missing...

Doug: There really isn't anything else to do.

Oscar: Okay.

Producer: (Walks over again.) You're on in three minutes.

Oscar: Wow, seven minutes have gone by fast!

Doug: It's fine... don't get stressed.

Oscar: Well when you told me how I could mess up... I'm getting nervous.

Doug: Now come on... you've been doing this for four years.

Oscar: I know but I never really thought of what could go wrong.

Doug: Nah, you'll do fine.  I've made you look your best, as always.

Oscar: Okay, I think I...

Producer: (Walks over again.) One minute...

Doug: Okay, you're ready.  Just go out there and look your best. That's all you have to do and you'll shine like the stars.

On the back page of READ's Valentine's Day issue, we asked you to send us a list of words in order to fill in a Madlibs story. Today, we give you the weirdest stories we could handle. Thanks to everyone who submitted their words! 

Oh, and make sure to check out interviews with China Miéville to win a free, signed book! Also, read an interview with the man who wrote Finding Neverland -- Allan Knee. And then, when you're done with that, you can read a super cool story about John Wilkes Booth by 17 year old, Sarah Solomon! WORD is just BURSTING!!! Happy Love Day!

The Alligator and the Crocodile
A Love Story by Bryon Cahill and Audrey Wright

Once upon a lie, in a swamp in the far reaches of a corner of the world no mortal man had ever stepped foot on, lived a sad, little alligator named Tyrone. Tyrone wasn't always sad. In fact, he was often referred to as the swamp's most passionate fellow! However, recent developments have brought on depression.

In the past nanosecond, there have been six different weddings in the swamp. Tyrone attended them all. The first few were blistering and Tyrone was so happy for the couples! But by the fourth wedding, he had begun to think, "Where is my true love?" Once that thought was planted in his head, Tyrone couldn't shake it. He tried smiling at the few remaining single girl alligators that were left in the swamp. But they would have nothing to do with foggy Tyrone. For you see, the few remaining single girl alligators in the swamp were perky.

After about a month of having his flirtations scorned, Tyrone decided to head out for cereulean pastures. "There has to be an alligator-ess out there for me… somewhere." He said to himself as he packed up his things and left his home.

Tyrone searched Zanzibar and Wal-Mart for his one, true love. But as he soon discovered, all swamps were the same. There had been a rash of alligator weddings throughout the land in the past couple years. He blamed the epidemic on mudslides and cursed his fowl luck. Distraught and strong, still, Tyrone pressed on.

One day, when he had just about given up hope of ever finding his uber love, Tyrone was crawling through a particularly funky patch of land. It was so hot that Tyrone began to hallucinate. He saw a dragon and an elf in a boxing match on the back of a velvet rhinoceros. The strangest part of all was that the rhinoceros was commentating!

"In this corner, weighing in at 14 grams, the winged champion of fire, the repulsive demon of the air, the eater of oxen and villages—The Vile Dragoon!" At the mention of his name, The Vile Dragoon raised his massive head and breathed doorknobs into the sky.

"And in this corner … an elf." The tiny man with a pipe in his mouth winked at Tyrone, and with that, Tyrone fainted.

Tyrone slowly opened his eyes. At first, he was sure he had died and gone to the Port-O-John. He was lying in the coolest pool of water he had ever known and he was surrounded by tipsy trees. A dish of food rested just out of his reach and he swam over to it.

"Hey there, stranger." A soft voice whispered. Tyrone was so scared that he exfoliated up and hit his head on the branch of a tree. When he came down, he looked around. First he beheld a vision of beauty—a female crocodile. Then, he saw the bars on every side. He was in a cage!

"Where .. where am I?" Tyrone asked.

"It's called Yaks, baby! They brought you in last night. You were mumblin' about all kinds of crazy stuff. You were funny!" The female crocodile laughed in a high-pitched falsetto and Tyrone's heart just melted.

"I… I'm Tyrone." He managed.

"Hi Tyrone. My name's Ally Gattore. You're cute."

"Really?"

"Why sure, honey! Too bad for the lady alligators out there though. You're gonna be stuck here in this cage for the rest of your life!"

"With… with you?"

"Yes honey. With me."

For the first time in his life, Tyrone had found love.

On the back page of READ's Valentine's Day issue, we asked you to send us a list of words in order to fill in a Madlibs story. Today, we give you the weirdest stories we could handle. Thanks to everyone who submitted their words! And happy Love Day!

The Alligator and the Crocodile
A Love Story by Bryon Cahill and 
Mrs. Dewees' class at The Chiles Academy

Once upon a lie, in a swamp in the far reaches of a corner of the world no mortal man had ever stepped foot on, lived a sad, little alligator named Tyrone. Tyrone wasn't always sad. In fact, he was often referred to as the swamp's most supercilious fellow! However, recent developments have brought on depression.

In the past one millionth of a second , there have been six different weddings in the swamp. Tyrone attended them all. The first few were punctilious and Tyrone was so happy for the couples! But by the fourth wedding, he had begun to think, "Where is my true love?" Once that thought was planted in his head, Tyrone couldn't shake it. He tried smiling at the few remaining single girl alligators that were left in the swamp. But they would have nothing to do with pungent Tyrone. For you see, the few remaining single girl alligators in the swamp were cadaverous.

After about a month of having his flirtations scorned, Tyrone decided to head out for indigo pastures. "There has to be an alligator-ess out there for me… somewhere." He said to himself as he packed up his things and left his home.

Tyrone searched Jamaica and the Bahamas for his one, true love. But as he soon discovered, all swamps were the same. There had been a rash of alligator weddings throughout the land in the past couple years. He blamed the epidemic on hurricanes and cursed his fowl luck. Distraught and scary, still, Tyrone pressed on.

One day, when he had just about given up hope of ever finding his snotty love, Tyrone was crawling through a particularly lovable patch of land. It was so hot that Tyrone began to hallucinate. He saw a dragon and an elf in a boxing match on the back of a velvet rhinoceros. The strangest part of all was that the rhinoceros was commentating!

"In this corner, weighing in at 14 "big bones", the winged champion of fire, the emaciated demon of the air, the eater of oxen and villages—The Vile Dragoon!" At the mention of his name, The Vile Dragoon raised his massive head and breathed swamps into the sky.

"And in this corner … an elf." The tiny man with a pipe in his mouth winked at Tyrone, and with that, Tyrone fainted.

Tyrone slowly opened his eyes. At first, he was sure he had died and gone to Taco Bell. He was lying in the coolest pool of water he had ever known and he was surrounded by vicious trees. A dish of food rested just out of his reach and he swam over to it.

"Hey there, stranger." A soft voice whispered. Tyrone was so scared that he hid up and hit his head on the branch of a tree. When he came down, he looked around. First he beheld a vision of beauty—a female crocodile. Then, he saw the bars on every side. He was in a cage!

"Where .. where am I?" Tyrone asked.

"It's called Babies, baby! They brought you in last night. You were mumblin' about all kinds of crazy stuff. You were funny!" The female crocodile laughed in a high-pitched falsetto and Tyrone's heart just melted.

"I… I'm Tyrone." He managed.

"Hi Tyrone. My name's Harmoni. You're cute."

"Really?"

"Why sure, honey! Too bad for the lady alligators out there though. You're gonna be stuck here in this cage for the rest of your life!"

"With… with you?"

"Yes honey. With me."

For the first time in his life, Tyrone had found love.

On the back page of READ's Valentine's Day issue, we asked you to send us a list of words in order to fill in a Madlibs story. Today, we give you the weirdest stories we could handle. Thanks to everyone who submitted their words! And happy Love Day!

The Alligator and the Crocodile
A Love Story by Bryon Cahill and Shani and Jessica

Once upon a lie, in a swamp in the far reaches of a corner of the world no mortal man had ever stepped foot on, lived a sad, little alligator named Tyrone. Tyrone wasn't always sad. In fact, he was often referred to as the swamp's most rancorous fellow! However, recent developments have brought on depression.

In the past twinkling, there have been six different weddings in the swamp. Tyrone attended them all. The first few were fuzzy and Tyrone was so happy for the couples! But by the fourth wedding, he had begun to think, "Where is my true love?" Once that thought was planted in his head, Tyrone couldn't shake it. He tried smiling at the few remaining single girl alligators that were left in the swamp. But they would have nothing to do with prickly Tyrone. For you see, the few remaining single girl alligators in the swamp were hyperactive.

After about a month of having his flirtations scorned, Tyrone decided to head out for peaches and cream pastures. "There has to be an alligator-ess out there for me… somewhere." He said to himself as he packed up his things and left his home.

Tyrone searched Germansville Fire Company and a dungeon for his one, true love. But as he soon discovered, all swamps were the same. There had been a rash of alligator weddings throughout the land in the past couple years. He blamed the epidemic on whirlwinds and cursed his fowl luck. Distraught and mawkish, still, Tyrone pressed on.

One day, when he had just about given up hope of ever finding his hairy love, Tyrone was crawling through a particularly knotty patch of land. It was so hot that Tyrone began to hallucinate. He saw a dragon and an elf in a boxing match on the back of a velvet rhinoceros. The strangest part of all was that the rhinoceros was commentating!

"In this corner, weighing in at 14 gallons, the winged champion of fire, the smelly demon of the air, the eater of oxen and villages—The Vile Dragoon!" At the mention of his name, The Vile Dragoon raised his massive head and breathed Finger Monkeys into the sky.

"And in this corner … an elf." The tiny man with a pipe in his mouth winked at Tyrone, and with that, Tyrone fainted.

Tyrone slowly opened his eyes. At first, he was sure he had died and gone to the mall. He was lying in the coolest pool of water he had ever known and he was surrounded by slimy trees. A dish of food rested just out of his reach and he swam over to it.

"Hey there, stranger." A soft voice whispered. Tyrone was so scared that he ran up and hit his head on the branch of a tree. When he came down, he looked around. First he beheld a vision of beauty—a female crocodile. Then, he saw the bars on every side. He was in a cage!

"Where .. where am I?" Tyrone asked.

"It's called Hearts, baby! They brought you in last night. You were mumblin' about all kinds of crazy stuff. You were funny!" The female crocodile laughed in a high-pitched falsetto and Tyrone's heart just melted.

"I… I'm Tyrone." He managed.

"Hi Tyrone. My name's Madison. You're cute."

"Really?"

"Why sure, honey! Too bad for the lady alligators out there though. You're gonna be stuck here in this cage for the rest of your life!"

"With… with you?"

"Yes honey. With me."

For the first time in his life, Tyrone had found love.

On the back page of READ's Valentine's Day issue, we asked you to send us a list of words in order to fill in a Madlibs story. Today, we give you the weirdest stories we could handle. Thanks to everyone who submitted their words! And happy Love Day!

The Alligator and the Crocodile
A Love Story by Bryon Cahill and Milena Saturday

Once upon a lie, in a swamp in the far reaches of a corner of the world no mortal man had ever stepped foot on, lived a sad, little alligator named Tyrone. Tyrone wasn't always sad. In fact, he was often referred to as the swamp's most frenzied fellow! However, recent developments have brought on depression.

In the past jiffy, there have been six different weddings in the swamp. Tyrone attended them all. The first few were magnificent and Tyrone was so happy for the couples! But by the fourth wedding, he had begun to think, "Where is my true love?" Once that thought was planted in his head, Tyrone couldn't shake it. He tried smiling at the few remaining single girl alligators that were left in the swamp. But they would have nothing to do with good-for-nothing Tyrone. For you see, the few remaining single girl alligators in the swamp were loony.

After about a month of having his flirtations scorned, Tyrone decided to head out for piebald pastures. "There has to be an alligator-ess out there for me… somewhere." He said to himself as he packed up his things and left his home.

Tyrone searched a mosquito's back and a hood for his one, true love. But as he soon discovered, all swamps were the same. There had been a rash of alligator weddings throughout the land in the past couple years. He blamed the epidemic on tempests and cursed his fowl luck. Distraught and barbarian, still, Tyrone pressed on.

One day, when he had just about given up hope of ever finding his drossy love, Tyrone was crawling through a particularly cracking patch of land. It was so hot that Tyrone began to hallucinate. He saw a dragon and an elf in a boxing match on the back of a velvet rhinoceros. The strangest part of all was that the rhinoceros was commentating!

"In this corner, weighing in at 14 tons, the winged champion of fire, the moldy demon of the air, the eater of oxen and villages—The Vile Dragoon!" At the mention of his name, The Vile Dragoon raised his massive head and breathed slops into the sky.

"And in this corner … an elf." The tiny man with a pipe in his mouth winked at Tyrone, and with that, Tyrone fainted.

Tyrone slowly opened his eyes. At first, he was sure he had died and gone to Rollercoaster Land. He was lying in the coolest pool of water he had ever known and he was surrounded by swelling trees. A dish of food rested just out of his reach and he swam over to it.

"Hey there, stranger." A soft voice whispered. Tyrone was so scared that he dangled up and hit his head on the branch of a tree. When he came down, he looked around. First he beheld a vision of beauty—a female crocodile. Then, he saw the bars on every side. He was in a cage!

"Where .. where am I?" Tyrone asked.

"It's called Kinglets, baby! They brought you in last night. You were mumblin' about all kinds of crazy stuff. You were funny!" The female crocodile laughed in a high-pitched falsetto and Tyrone's heart just melted.

"I… I'm Tyrone." He managed.

"Hi Tyrone. My name's Francesca. You're cute."

"Really?"

"Why sure, honey! Too bad for the lady alligators out there though. You're gonna be stuck here in this cage for the rest of your life!"

"With… with you?"

"Yes honey. With me."

For the first time in his life, Tyrone had found love.

On the back page of READ's Valentine's Day issue, we asked you to send us a list of words in order to fill in a Madlibs story. Today, we give you the weirdest stories we could handle. Thanks to everyone who submitted their words! And happy Love Day!

The Alligator and the Crocodile
A Love Story by Bryon Cahill and Jordan Miller

Once upon a lie, in a swamp in the far reaches of a corner of the world no mortal man had ever stepped foot on, lived a sad, little alligator named Tyrone. Tyrone wasn't always sad. In fact, he was often referred to as the swamp's most lovely fellow! However, recent developments have brought on depression.

In the past minute, there have been six different weddings in the swamp. Tyrone attended them all. The first few were lonely and Tyrone was so happy for the couples! But by the fourth wedding, he had begun to think, "Where is my true love?" Once that thought was planted in his head, Tyrone couldn't shake it. He tried smiling at the few remaining single girl alligators that were left in the swamp. But they would have nothing to do with gushy Tyrone. For you see, the few remaining single girl alligators in the swamp were nice.

After about a month of having his flirtations scorned, Tyrone decided to head out for bluer pastures. "There has to be an alligator-ess out there for me… somewhere." He said to himself as he packed up his things and left his home.

Tyrone searched Chuck E Cheeses and dumpsters for his one, true love. But as he soon discovered, all swamps were the same. There had been a rash of alligator weddings throughout the land in the past couple years. He blamed the epidemic on tsunamis and cursed his fowl luck. Distraught and wonderfully wonderful, still, Tyrone pressed on.

One day, when he had just about given up hope of ever finding his funny love, Tyrone was crawling through a particularly funky patch of land. It was so hot that Tyrone began to hallucinate. He saw a dragon and an elf in a boxing match on the back of a velvet rhinoceros. The strangest part of all was that the rhinoceros was commentating!

"In this corner, weighing in at 14 grams, the winged champion of fire, the weird demon of the air, the eater of oxen and villages—The Vile Dragoon!" At the mention of his name, The Vile Dragoon raised his massive head and breathed miniature chihuahuas into the sky.

"And in this corner … an elf." The tiny man with a pipe in his mouth winked at Tyrone, and with that, Tyrone fainted.

Tyrone slowly opened his eyes. At first, he was sure he had died and gone to Virginia. He was lying in the coolest pool of water he had ever known and he was surrounded by talkative trees. A dish of food rested just out of his reach and he swam over to it.

"Hey there, stranger." A soft voice whispered. Tyrone was so scared that he talked up and hit his head on the branch of a tree. When he came down, he looked around. First he beheld a vision of beauty—a female crocodile. Then, he saw the bars on every side. He was in a cage!

"Where .. where am I?" Tyrone asked.

"It's called The Olive Garden, baby! They brought you in last night. You were mumblin' about all kinds of crazy stuff. You were funny!" The female crocodile laughed in a high-pitched falsetto and Tyrone's heart just melted.

"I… I'm Tyrone." He managed.

"Hi Tyrone. My name's Lola. You're cute."

"Really?"

"Why sure, honey! Too bad for the lady alligators out there though. You're gonna be stuck here in this cage for the rest of your life!"

"With… with you?"

"Yes honey. With me."

For the first time in his life, Tyrone had found love.

Today, February 12th, is Abraham Lincoln's Birthday.

The following story of historical fiction was written by 17 year old Sarah Solomon. Excerpts of Sarah's story were published in the February/March 2007 issue of Writing Magazine. Today, we give you the complete and unabridged version of...

John Wilkes Booth
- By Sarah Solomon

April 14, 1865

The sun was a dull yellow against the tops of the buildings across the street, sifting into the hotel room on the sixth floor of the National Hotel. John Wilkes Booth snapped his eyes open and adjusted them against the morning blur as the image of Lucy Lambert Hale arranged itself in front of the half-illuminated window. She stood to the left of the window, slightly behind the plush red armchair which was subtly covered in cigarette burns and tears, and lightly brushing the white curtain in such a way that it swayed every few seconds at her touch. John instinctively ran his fingers through his mustache and let his feet hit the floor.

"You're up I see," said Lucy, as John approached the glass and peered outside.

"Up and ready. What a beautiful day," said John. He took a step closer, took one glance at her back and put his hands on her waist. "Beautiful day."

"I thought we'd go get some tea at the Whitefield's down the street. Then I've got to get going… father said he wanted me home by two o'clock, and I've still got to buy a train ticket down at the station. But we have time for some breakfast."

"Tell Mr. Hale you're stuck in Washington D.C. doing business. What did you tell him you were doing again?"

"Picking up paper work. The other senator from New Hampshire is giving him some trouble."

"I would be too if my partner was preaching abolition left and right, like it had any worth or actual merit."

"Choose your words wisely, John. One day the whole world will turn its back and set on a completely new path, and you and your morals will be left behind, with no one watching but yourself, stranded in flames."

"No need to be so histrionic, darling."

"Speak for yourself."

The sun had fully risen by the time they found themselves on the northeast corner of Sixth Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Whitefield's was down the street, located directly center in the sun's glare, as if it had been transformed into a stricken target of light. To its left was Booker and Stewart's barbershop, and to its right an empty store front window, with dust gathering in the corners and a stray black cat scratching its back against the door.

They sat down for tea. Lucy dangled her tea bag in and out of her mug, mindlessly watching the ripples expand and break at the gray ceramic. Her train was due in twenty-five minutes. They sat in the silent hum of the café, one or two men setting tables for the hopeful day's work.

John said, "Michael O'Laughlen is in town."

Lucy dipped her tea bag back into the murky depths. "He said he might stop by."  She took it out again, a soggy bag dripping steadily onto her saucer.

"Well I said he could. He's going to be at the National Hotel in a couple hours. I wanted to get my hair cut before then so I'd better get a move on."

"I'll walk myself to the train station."

"Are you sure? I've got a couple minutes."

"Yeah I'm fine. I have quite a headache anyhow."

They said their goodbyes outside the café, not knowing they would be the last, and Lucy hurried off downtown. John felt movement at his feet, and looked down. The black cat was weaving its way around his legs, staring up at him with huge neon eyes. He peeled his eyes away from the creature and headed toward Booker and Stewart's.

"Until today nothing was ever thought of sacrificing to our country's wrongs. For six months we had worked to capture, but our cause being almost lost, something decisive and great must be done"

***

After a brief cup of coffee, Michael O'Laughlen left John's hotel room just as the maid walked in, wearing a crisp white apron that looked like it would crunch if folded.

John took a good look in the mirror; his eyes rolled over his black shirt, how the unfastened top button glimmered in the glare from the morning sun. He hastily flattened his mustache. He reached over to the mahogany closet and took out his tall black silk hat he had bought up in New Hampshire the last time he had visited Lucy. He carefully balanced it on his head, artfully flattening down a cluster of dark curls onto his forehead.

As he headed for the door, he slipped on his beige gloves, and snuck one more glance in the mirror.

John Wilkes Booth: the illustrious American actor.

He walked the few blocks down to Ford's Theater, a mysterious new spring in his step, as if something wonderful and unforeseen awaited him just around the next corner. In the shadows. Hiding. He walked through the back door of the theater and headed toward the mail room. He placed his bony hand on the iron cast doorknob just as someone opened the door from within. It was Henry Clay Ford.

"Hello Mr. Booth. Good morning?"

"Yes, thank you Henry."

Ford seemed to balancing on tiptoe, rocking back in forth in what was obviously a weak attempt at concealed excitement.

"Are you alright, Henry?"

"Oh yes, yes. Yes, definitely." His cheeks flushed a deep shade of pink. "We've got quite some company tonight! Yes. Quite some company!"

John had a sneaking feeling. It has finally happened...

"Anyone I would know, Henry?"

"Yes, yes, quite! Now I know he's not a favorite of yours, Mr. Booth, and for god's sake don't try any funny business! But it's Mr. Lincoln, you see, Mr. And Mrs. Lincoln!"

John felt like his stomach had unleashed writhing snakes into his body, filling him with an excitement too deep to measure, a delusional feeling, now so infused in his blood, too hard to pinpoint.

"Ah, the Lincolns."

John Wilkes Booth: the imminent future of America.

He said a hasty goodbye to Henry Ford, and waited in a dark corner until he was sure of Ford's departure. He then made his way into the theater.

The crimson curtains hung down ominously, spanning the entire back wall of the theater. The seats were sorted into balconies, staggered slightly so that everyone would have an appropriate view of the stage. To the right of the stage was the President's box, draped with white linen, trimmed with regal gold stitching.

So it's "Our American Cousin" tonight. So the best time to get him would be when Harry Hawk is alone on stage, receiving all the laughter. That will be at approximately 10:15 tonight...

He scanned the room again. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit. The stage, the President's box, the exit.

With a swish of his coat he walked back up the aisle to the doors, which he clicked shut with a bang.

"Though I am abandoned, with the curse of Cain upon me, when, if the world knew my heart, that one blow would have made me great, though I did desire no greatness. Tonight I try to escape these bloodhounds once more."

Click the image of President Abraham Lincoln's assassination above to read the entire story.

OK, so the following piece doesn't officially comply with the above directions. It's a work of short fiction, not a narrative essay. Still, we think it's good writing and a poignant story. It comes to us from Catherine Hass, a 12th grader who is homeschooled in Pennsylvania.

Contrast

Carl was enraged. He walked up to the one-hour photo booth, and stood on line. He had been waiting for these pictures for two days. Apparently no one had taught John, the new employee at Quick Stop, how to use the machine, and they were backed up.
    Carl was waiting for the pictures of his apartment building, now burnt and crumbly, for insurance purposes. "How," he thought, "could anyone be so stupid as to leave their space heater blazing so closely to their curtains? Of course this guy had to be right next to me, and the whole floor caught like wildfire." Fortunately for everyone else, the fire was put out quickly. "Not quickly enough," Carl continued to rant silently. "Because here I am two days later, waiting for the pictures of my destroyed home. The worst part about it is that I’m stuck at my sister’s house for the next millennium."
    Finally it was his turn. Carl walked up to the counter, got his delayed pictures, paid the ridiculously pricey amount, and got out of there as quickly as possible.
    Once in his car, Carl ripped open the sloppily packaged photos and began leafing through them. They were mostly blurry renditions of the building, tall, looking as though it had been punched right in the stomach with a big charcoal fist. The last few pictures had been taken later to finish the roll; the pictures were of nothing more than the floor, maybe one or two of the leg of a table, or the tip of Carl’s shoe. He sighed heavily and threw them on to the passenger seat, not noticing that one of the pictures removed itself from the others, and flew to floor, eventually resting on its stomach.
    When he started his car, the tiny white rectangle on the floor of his car caught his eye. Puzzled, Carl picked it up. At first he was disappointed; he thought that perhaps a lost memory was waiting to be discovered, but it was only another photograph of the day that he was trying hard to forget. He almost threw it back down to the floor, but then he actually surveyed the whole picture.
    This one, he remembered, had been a shot he took farther away from the scene to show the last stretch of the extinction of the fire. Because he was so far away, and it was a disposable camera that did not allow him to zoom in, he had accidentally captured a moment in someone else’s life.
    The bottom right corner of the picture was illuminated with joy. Inside a café, it was someone’s birthday. A woman was blowing out her candles, and a man stood grinning next to her. Carl felt as though he was unrightfully looking into someone else’s life. Little did this woman know, two days ago on her birthday, that she had been caught making her wish and growing a little bit older.
    Six months later, Carl ended up moving back into his refurbished apartment building. He had his photograph enlarged and placed it in the center of his apartment. It hung there, silently reminding him that wherever there is pain and discomfort, there is also a small corner of happiness glowing somewhere close by.

Editor's Note: What a great last sentence. What are some other sentences and images that stand out in this piece for you?

- Story by Austin Siegemund-Broka, Grade 9

Gregor lived on an island.

At least, most of the time he did. Usually, he had the whole paradise to himself, a luscious, green patch of land with abundant animals and fruits. But every once in a while, the beautiful surroundings would melt away and Gregor would be left looking at a drab, white door. He would be in a small room of white tile, with only a simple wooden chair, upon which Gregor sat. There was a small bare lightbulb on the ceiling and gray-brown stains around some of the tiles.

But that was very rare. Mostly it was just Gregor on his island. It wasn't a large place, small enough for Gregor to know exactly where he was all the time. There was crystal blue surf, as warm as a Jacuzzi tub, and powdery white sand. The plants were always full and green, but not only green. There were huge flowers and vines, some purple, some orange, some pink. They gave the island a splash of brightness.

Gregor thought about this blessing bestowed on him. This is my favorite place, he thought. My favorite place ever.

As wonderful as his paradise was, though, strange things had begun to happen on Gregor's island. He felt it was no longer his, like there was a presence watching over it. Mostly, there were voices. Sometimes, just out of the baby-blue sky, voices would come. There was often a male voice, and sometimes a female one, too. These invisible speakers weren't loud, but they weren't incomprehensible either.

What they said, however, worried Gregor more. He often caught the entire conversation, and remembered specific lines of dialogue. "He has a form of schizophrenia," the male voice had said once. Gregor didn't know the word, but it sounded bad. There was a long pause before the female chimed in.

"Schizophrenia? I'm afraid I don't understand, doctor."

"I believe it to be a very acute form of the disorder. He imagines he's somewhere else completely."

This had come as a shock to Gregor. A disorder? What did they mean, these people? And where else could I be? I'm on my island. MY island. I can see things. I can hear things. I can touch things.

"It's funny," the man said. "There's absolutely no history of mental illness in his family. I think he's one apple that fell way off the tree," Gregor realized with a cold dread that he was the "he".

-By Becca Giles

 

Oslo, Norway. Miranda Muffet, who has been missing for three days, was found early this morning. She was floating on a homemade raft in the Arctic Ocean after drifting 400 miles from her home in Norway. After an unconscious Muffet finally came to, she was severely disoriented. However, the captain of the retrieving boat was able to acquire some information. Apparently, Ms. Muffet had been frightened by a strange spider and went temporarily psychotic. Immediately she fled the scene and, in the process, spilled her curds and whey. Psychologists say her reaction was caused by her extreme arachnophobia. It seems that Ms. Muffet felt the sea was her only escape from the arachnid. She is currently in a mental hospital. No word yet on her release.  

SesameStreet.com

- Story by Abigail Slack, Grade 6

 

House after house, building after building flew by and a soft drizzle lingered in the air. How could my parents do this to me, Jennifer Lantaly, the cheerleader, an A+ student? Make me move away from everything I loved, everything I had ever cared

about!

 

"All because of his stupid job," I huffed.

 

"Honey," Mom said, "this is it."

 

I glanced out the window and a beautiful redbrick house stared back at me. I had to admit it was spectacular. Every inch of the yard was green. Grass spread out all along the yard, the bushes were slightly overgrown, and the large pine trees were dense. There it was, my new home, right there, nestled in the trees, just sitting there, waiting to be opened.

 

Dad pulled into the driveway and the large, rumbling moving truck screeched to a stop on the street. I climbed out of my father's silver Volvo, slamming the door and making my parents jump. Even though I was disappointed because of the move, I was overwhelmed with curiosity. I had the strangest feeling that a secret was hidden somewhere in there, just waiting to be discovered. I hurried up the front steps and slowly, I turned the handle and the door creaked open.

 

I gasped. I had never seen anything so beautiful. An old brown staircase sneaked up a wall and the kitchen was bright with many windows. There were counters and old brown cupboards. I walked into the kitchen and reached out my hand and touched the glassy, brown counter. It felt cold, like the window of a car on a winter day. I took in

every detail. Inside a nook, surrounded by windows, I gathered, was the place to put a table. It was cute and homey. I advanced up the creaky stairs, running my hand along the smooth railing. I walked down the hallway and peered into a bedroom. I could tell that this was my room. No master bathroom or giant closet. There were just a few windows on a soft yellow wall.

 

"My bed will go perfect with these walls," I thought. Just then, I noticed something shimmering on the white carpet. I knelt down and saw a locket with a note. The sun danced upon the golden locket. I reached down and picked up the note. A strange riddle was written on it. It said, O lucky one who finds this locket, a place beyond your dreams awaits you, a magical world and just one simple word, wear the locket and simply say 'open', to discover the amazing world of Anazora.

 

"What is this?" I asked myself. Was this some sort of trick? Could I really wear this locket, say "open", and discover a new land?

     

Even though I should have told someone, I was dying with excitement. I slipped on the locket and fastened the clasp. Shivering with anticipation, I said in a loud, clear voice, "open." My brown golden locks swished behind me and the room around me became unclear. Just like that, the room disappeared and a burst of light surrounded me.

Click "read more" to, um, Read More!

It's a new year and it's time to read some new books. "But which books?" you may be asking. Fear not. The answer is here in this very blog entry! Here at Weekly Reader we have piles of interesting new books! While no single human being could be expected to read them all, I’ve made a spirited attempt over the last couple weeks. Here I present to you three books I recommend to fill your winter downtime.
First, there is a book about a misanthropic Australian high school student caught up in a deadly plot.
Second, preview a book about the dark ironies of a Boston slave living through the Revolutionary War.
Third, check out a book about mice saving the world from eternal darkness. This could shape out to be a very interesting year …

- 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!

-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!

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!

 

The Call of the Wild

The following story was received as part of Writing's Take Five Contest. Although it did not win, we enjoyed it very much and wanted to share it with you. Check back throughout the rest of April and May to read more excellent poems and stories from Take Five.

Bicycle Boy
- Short story by Adela Wu, Grade 9

It was utterly dismal, not attractive at all, but then again, it was his home. The rows of rectangular boxes for apartments sickened the mind; each looked exactly like those on either side. Occasionally, the old women below them would even enter the wrong building. (Tony had a few laughs at their expense.) And the dust. It coated the streets, leeched onto the walls, hovered in every inch of the summer air. 

What a coincidence that it was down in the filthy streets that Tony found his treasure.

The pile of rusted metal and twisted scrap lay next to an overflowing dumpster. However, Tony recognized the slim form of handlebars, pedals and the worn but unmistakable outline of two bicycle wheels.

“I’m going to fix a bike,” he announced proudly to his mother that night. The tired woman briefly looked up from the warm chicken noodle soup simmering on the stove.

“Tony, how many times have I told you not to go wandering around the streets?” she sighed exasperatedly. “It’s dangerous—”

“Stop treating me like a baby!” Tony shouted against his better judgment for he fully knew about his mother’s raging temper. To his astonishment she put down her soup ladle and sat next to him.

“All right, you win,” She grinned, opening the sewing basket. Quickly, her voice turned serious as she efficiently bit the string and grabbed Tony’s red jacket, “But with growing up, you’re going to get more responsibilities.” She waved a silver key before his eyes. “This is our house-key.” Tony blinked. “People without a home are lost people…if this key is gone, our home is gone. Then we are lost!” His mother rambled on as the sharp needle punctured the jacket and her dexterous fingers expertly folded the lining to create a pocket. She wound thread around the key and administered a final stern warning, “If you lose this key, you might as well throw our family and home away. Be careful, Tony…I trust you.” Tony smiled into his mother’s eyes as she embraced him.

- Short Story by Ishan Chatterjee, Grade 6

I'm Tom Bernstein. I'm twelve years old and live in Goresville. I have one sister. Her name is Mary. She's seventeen, and really crazy. My dad is a retired inventor and has constructed the first time machine in his company, Timeworks.

My mom died in a car accident when I was seven. She used to be an actress. She always went berserk when dad said his time traveler would be done in a year, and asked her if she would go on it with him. But it turned out I went with him instead.

I was eight, and playing in the park with my sister. I checked my silver pocket watch. (At the time it was my most prized possession. It used to belong to my great-great-grandfather, and was handed down the generations. To stop me from losing it, my dad told me that the person who didn't take responsibility for it would be cursed for the rest of his life. Thus I carried it wherever I went.)

"It's 2:13," I told my sister, "Dad's coming in seventeen minutes."

"I wish he'd come sooner," she responded drearily. Some time later dad pulled up, honking the horn.

"You look happy," droned my sister, gloomily observing the frown on his face.

"Be quiet, and help Tom pick up the balls you were playing with."

"What's the problem?" I asked as the car door clicked shut.

"Bad day at work. We were almost done, before someone realized that an internal wire was not hooked up properly. None of us have fingers that are small and nimble enough to connect the wire to the splitter. So we'll have to dissect the machine, and put it together again," Dad explained.

"I'll try to connect the wire and the splitter," I suggested, flexing my fingers.

"You will?"

"Sure." His face brightened, as we swerved in a sharp U-turn to go to Timeworks Headquarters.

CLICK THE WORMHOLE TO GO TO TIMEWORKS HEADQUARTERS!!!

The following story was received as part of Writing's Take Five Contest. Although it did not win, we enjoyed it very much and wanted to share it with you. Check back throughout the rest of May to read more excellent poems and stories from Take Five.

Fairies and Dragons

- Story by Emily Christian, Grade 8

 

The wind howled outside of the house like a wounded animal, longing for comfort. Oak branches were tossed to and fro. Tomorrow morning, the snow would be two feet deep, blanketing the broken tree limbs.

   

Inside the warm house, I burrowed further under my warm covers. A wide smile crept across my face because I knew that tomorrow the old kitchen radio would announce that school would be canceled. I would spend the day talking to friends on the phone, reading in front of the fire, and sipping chicken noodle soup. 

   

My sister's loud snoring interrupted my warm fantasies. Last year, things would have been different.  Kate, my sister, would not be able to sleep at all on a night like this. She would be telling me about her made-up magical world.  Laying right next to me, she'd enthusiastically be explaining that what we were hearing outside was not a late fall storm, but a battle between the fairy Queen and the evil goblins of the north. Her stories would have flown out of her like water out of a fountain. Last year, she would be jumping all over the room because her make-believe friend, "Dewy-Dragon", would have foretold this battle and that is why she had to put up the Fairy Fort.

   

Dewy Dragon no longer existed, and fairies, in her opinion, belonged only in Fairy Tales. Invisible people no longer hid in the shadows behind doors. And staying up late at night retelling her adventures to her older sister was no longer a priority.

 

Click the dress-up dragon to finish the story.

Tomorrow is April Fool's Day. Woo Hoo! In honor of this silly day, I've written a story for you. It's not exactly an original. Have you ever heard the story of The Emperor's New Clothes? Well, this is just an updated version of that. Hope you enjoy! Happy April Fools!

The Emperor's New Digs
- Short story by Bryon Cahill

Many, many years ago there lived a dude. The dude’s name was Calvin but everyone called him the Emperor. He obtained his self-proclaimed royal nickname when he won the lottery. But it wasn’t just any lottery. Calvin won the largest prize money in the history of legalized gambling. After taxes, he took home a little over $14 billion.

"Dude," his best friend Roy said upon hearing the news. "Did you say billion? Like, with a B?"

"Totally man, billion! Fourteen of ‘em!" Calvin was in awe of himself. "Oh, and don’t call me Dude anymore. Call me… The Emperor."

"OK dude… I mean, The Emperor." Roy didn’t care if it was ridiculous. His friend was a billionaire! He’d address him as the Pope if that’s what he wanted to be called. "Well what do you want to do with the money first?"

"Roy," the Emperor said as he looked around his cramped and ugly studio apartment, "I gots ta get me some new digs."

"Right on, man. Definitely!" Roy said and high-fived The Emperor.

After a brief, idiotic display of air guitar and head-banging, The Emperor came back to his senses and dug the phone book out from under a pile of garbage on the floor. He flipped through the yellow pages and looked under H for House Builders. "Wait, house builders? No, man, look under C for contractors!" Roy stated proudly, as if it was the first three syllable word he had ever uttered.

The Emperor called up three contractors before he realized that first he needed an architect to draw up a design. He then called up three architects before he realized that he first needed to know what kind of a house he wanted. "A big one." He shouted into the phone, "A really really big one!" But the architects he was dealing with were not professionals. They needed more to go on. They needed ideas and The Emperor had none. "What are we going to do?" The Emperor asked Roy. "Who would have thought that winning the lottery would be such a bummer!"

"What you need is someone to make your decisions for you," Roy said. "That way, you could just sit back and chill and not worry about a thing."

"That would be sweet!" The Emperor said. "Roy, I appoint you as my royal decision maker." Calvin certainly wasn’t royalty, but Roy didn’t split hairs. He saw his opportunity and he seized it. His eyes were hazed over with the green green of money money.

"All right then, The Emperor, leave everything to me." Roy spoke with a sinister grin on his face but the Emperor did not notice. He was too busy not having a thought in his head.

A short by Garrick, Grade 10

Cotton candy clouds lazily cross the baby blue sky. A gentle summer breeze lightly caresses a sea of grass as my baby brother laughs with sheer joy flying his bright red kite which flutters in the wind, a soaring phoenix. I watch him and silently chuckle to myself, "Not a care in the world." I lean against a great oak, the shade protecting me from the smiling sun, when from above a blue jay's song drops to earth and sings along with the chorus of life.

Short story by Michael Schonhoff, Grade 8

He carried a single, small bag with him, for that was all that he owned. He was wearing old cloth pants with holes at the knees. His shoes looked like they had been used for target practice, with holes almost everywhere. Through these holes his dirty, calloused feet were showing.  His shirt was much too big for his skinny body. It went down to his lower hip and bunched up everywhere. He had found the shirt in a rich man's trash; it was all white with a dark, brown coffee stain running down the middle. The white shirt made a deep contrast to his dark skin. His face was thin and narrow. His sharp eyes caught every movement, for he had needed them to when he was a beggar. He had curly, black hair that was not much longer than his finger length.

He did not know what he was going to do once he got there. He did not even know if they were going to let him in. He did not know how they were going to test him.  He only knew that he was headed for a better place--America. He had often heard stories about America as a little boy. As he had sat in the town center of the small village, he had heard someone talking about a county where money was infinite and everyone was happy. As a little boy, he had believed them. He had marveled at the thoughts of splendid food, nice clothes, and money. He had been a beggar then, as a little boy. People looked at his skinny, raggedly-clothed body, and they felt sorry for him. But in a country as poor as his, he rarely received any handouts. One time, he had received a whole Naira though, one time, long ago. 

But now he was on the boat. The boat--it was a horrid, cramped place. The decks were packed to the fullest with people like him, people looking for a better life.  He did not know anyone on the boat. He did not even see any other people who were Nigerian.

Short Story by Alyssa Maurer, Grade 9

Mrs. Engall was supposed to be the strict, overbearing headmistress of her medieval-style boarding school.  She was supposed to reflect the cold, stone walls of her domain, and see to it that her students were delivered boring but beneficial lessons and unpleasant punishments.  She was supposed to realize their fears.  But Mrs. Engall did none of those things.  Her cat, Champagne--who was nowhere near the color of champagne--did all those things for her.
 
Mrs. Engall was not quite old, yet her middle-aged skin was etched with the wrinkles of stress.  The stress, however, was useless, but Mrs. Engall insisted on being needlessly afraid, worthlessly antisocial, and unnecessarily libel to snap at any moment.  She hardly ever left her office, therefore when a student was being mischievous, Champagne would simply pierce his or her skin with her unusually sharp claws.
 
When Evelyn Cluffersnap arrived at Mrs. Engall's boarding school, promptly named the Upside of Downside Educational Instruction and Living Quarters, she found the whole situation rather odd.  You see, even if her mother had been a fairly strange individual (she had been imprisoned for disorderly conduct at a taxidermy supply company protesting dead animal rights) and her father had been a relatively out of the ordinary person (he had accidentally plunged his car into an ocean and drowned while driving blindfolded), they had at least left the confines of their home.  Mrs. Engall rarely left her office, let alone the top floor of the castle-like boarding school that she occupied.  After a week of school without seeing the headmistress once, Evelyn decided to go see her, and she brought a lovely basket of fruit to give her as well.  But when she arrived at her closed office door, knocked, and, when there was no answer, tried to turn the doorknob, she found that it was undeniably locked.
 
"Mrs. Engall?" she asked tentatively, in her squeaky, high-pitched voice.  "Are you in there?"  Evelyn gasped when a wide eye appeared at the keyhole of the knob.

"What do you want?" said Mrs. Engall in a quick, nervous voice.
 
"I've brought you some fruit," replied Evelyn.
 
"Well, slide whatever you've got under the door.  I don't have time for visitors."
 
"I don't think this basket will fit under the door, Mrs. Engall."  There was a moment of silence in which the smile that had been gracing Evelyn's face turned to a slight frown.  Suddenly...
 
"I SAID I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR VISITORS!" roared Mrs. Engall, and Evelyn's little form hopped with each earsplitting syllable.  She dropped the fruit basket in front of the door, which spilled and sent two apples and a pineapple rolling down the hallway, and ran back to the elevator in which she had come up.  She did not relax or slow down until she reached her dormitory, which she shared with a grouchy piece of work named Yvonne, who always wore black and spoke in only a deep, bitter tone.  Evelyn found her quite disturbing, for Evelyn was a cheerful soul who believed that the color of clothing one wore could alter one's mood.  Yvonne chuckled sinisterly as Evelyn ran inside the dormitory and slammed the door closed.
 
"So, did Mrs. Engall like her fruit basket?" she asked, smiling slightly but not looking up from the composition notebook lying open in her lap.

Short Story by Adam Holland, Grade 8

 

          A lone woman, mounted on horseback and carrying a heavy spear, rode over the hill. She looked out over the battlefield. She could see the opposing army at the other end of the field. The field was beautiful. Flowers were blooming on it, the grass was green, and butterflies fluttered about. The woman, the Queen of Jeremiah, raised an eyebrow. In moments this field would be trampled and covered with the dead. She almost felt remorse. Almost.
          She tapped the spear butt against the ground three times, and her army approached behind her. The infantry was in the first line. Behind them, the cavalry, two monks brought for good luck and healing, and a pair of massive siege towers. 
     

          "Attack!" roared the Queen. The lead member of the cavalry bounded over the first line of infantry and charged forward. As he moved, the other army sent forth infantry. The Queen rode into battle, cleaving the infantryman to the ground. The battle was on. 

          The King of Mathew watched the massive battle from the wall. Things did not look well. His strategy seemed somehow flawed; the opposing army was tearing through with ease. The siege towers were getting dangerously close to the wall. He quickly moved into the tower on the wall, spreading a map of the field before him. He had marks where his armies were positioned. Things seemed to be going as planned, and yet...
          Then he found it. The flaw. The area he had left uncovered, where his enemies could break through. He ran back out to the wall, hoping he could find some way to relay the information to his army. But it was too late. Even as he reached the wall, one of the siege towers reached them, a bridge crashing down on the wall. Several foot soldiers stood in the tower. "It is over," one of them called. "Surrender!"
          The King ran back toward his tower, only to see a pair of swordsmen emerge. He turned to the stairs down from the wall, but a knight and the Queen of Jeremiah blocked the staircase. He was trapped.

          "Checkmate," said Jeremiah, leaning back in his chair with a smile. Mathew frowned.
          "Shoot. The rook again," he muttered, seeing his mistake clearly now.
          "Don't be a bad sport, Mathew," said Jeremiah playfully to his friend.
          "I'll get you one of these days," returned Mathew, still trying to be angry, and failing.
          "Actions speak louder," said Jeremiah, folding the pieces into the box and folding the checkered board.
          "You watch," protested Mathew. "You can't keep using that bloody rook forever."
          Shaking his head, Jeremiah slid the board into the Chess set and rose to his feet.

- Short story by Jonathan Miller

 

The following story was a runner-up in Writing Magazine's Take It From the Top contest last year. The first line of Jonathan's piece "124 was spiteful." was taken from the top of Toni Morrison's Beloved.

 

124 was spiteful. 132 had big ears. 111 picked his nose. 117 couldn't count very well. 128 drooled. 113 couldn't remember his number. 130 bragged too much about his ability to read Dr. Seuss. And 131 kept a secret.

           

It had just been one year since they stopped giving people names. No need, they said. Better organized then frivolously creative. This year's first grade class had no need to make the transition since they had given everybody numbers in their kindergarten years. Although the government was said to have been looking for an excuse to help standardize everybody, the court case, which brought it on, involved a simple parental fight over the naming of a child. From seven hours before the child was born until he was sixteen years old, they absolutely could not decide on a name for baby "X." Finally, a lawsuit was filed against them for not naming their son, which went to the supreme court. There, it was decided there would be no more names, just numbers.

Story by Amanda Walgrove, Grade 10

 

The heavy barricade suffocated her mind from all reality as it closed with a thud.  Her stomach dropped freely and with a quiet blink she saw the words "Stage Door" one last time.

 

"Break a leg, sweetie" and "You're gonna be great!" were phrases she had heard only seconds ago, yet they disappeared into another world once her eyes discovered the stage before her.  The other side welcomed her with a shock of icy air that could've come from a crisp winter day; she didn't care to remember that outside those four midnight walls, the sun was reaching its peak. The frosty breeze filled her mind and pumped warm blood to her heart which danced inside of her.  The contrast was invigorating. Her monologue became a catchy tune that jogged through her memory in preparation.  It drowned out the high notes that bounced off of the balcony of the hushed audience.  She told herself to have fun and enjoy the experience as if it was just that simple. When she finally came to peace with her thoughts, applause filled the auditorium and her heart kicked.  Her legs carried her center sage and when the bright red "X" was greeted by her toes, she lifted her eyes to the lights and sang her song.

- Story by Lindsay Cohen, Grade 9

"How ‘bout an ice cream sundae fer you, little Susie?"

"No thank ya’, Mr. Callidus. A’ just ate ma’ lunch and mama says the ice cream isn’t good fer ma’ tummy."

"But you’re such a pretty lil’ girl. All pretty girls need ice cream!" Susie moved her head from left to right, inspecting her surroundings like a watch guard.

"A’right," she said in a soft voice, "just don’t tell mama."

"That’s a girl!"

"A’ only got twenty-five cents, though."

"Just the right amount for a sundae with a cherry on top."

APRIL 24, 1962. THE SOUTHERN POST. FRONT PAGE:
"GIRL DIES LAST NIGHT OF UNKNOWN CAUSE. SYMPTOMS WERE HIGH FEVER AND SORE THROAT."

Mr. Callidus flicked the paper onto his kitchen table with a smirk on his face.

"Awww. Poor lil’ girl. The family must be jus’ devastated."

   - Fiction by Jess, Grade 12

Ages have passed, my only company, the despair that cloaks my days and nights. It is the only thing holding me together, my only friend in the dark, damp space where I spend my days. At first I tried to fight it, I tried to clear my eye, tried to cough out the dust collected in my system. But now, whenever I move, my back begins to bleed. Oozes and pulses, the red brown mud, which keeps me alive, flows out of the small wound. Soon there will be none left. My body parts are rusting; if I try to move them they squeak and moan. Soon I will be an empty cask, no breath, no life, and no memories.

A hospital, cold, dark, the balance of life and death. Screams, swearing, silence. A small being. Ten fingers, ten toes, a clone of those before her. Laughter, love, longing. A beautiful baby girl accepted into open arms. One, two, three. A loving but exhausted mother cuddling a small red-faced infant in my frame.