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Robert Neithart - 4th grade

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From the Images Editors:

This year the literary magazine staff received a plethora of fantastic submissions from cover designs to extensive short stories. We had the diffi cult job of choosing a select number of pieces, but we loved all of the entries. Our mission for this publication is to present a diversity of student voices, as well as to display the wide array of talents in our classmates. Thank you to everyone who sent in writing, art, and photography, and to the teachers who support the magazine.

Editorial Staff: Tara Adarkar, Saenah Boch, Zara Castillo, Marina Francis, Aron Guevara, Sarah Johnson, Ria Lalwani, Vivian Lu, Joshua Ma, Paul McKinney, Indu Pandey, Ryan Pizante, John Politis, Ian Tien, Aaron Treloar, Taylor Vaughn, and Ethan Wu

The distinguished American writer Joan Didon expressed her reasons for writing: “I write entirely to fi nd out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see, and what it means. What I want and what I fear.” In this literary magazine our Chandler students, too, share thier unique perspectives and narratives through the magic of words from simple observations to more complex connections to their histories and yet-to-be-lived, nebulous futures. Each peace of writing, and I might add, art in this edition of Images is an authentic attempt to depict what the eye sees, what the heart feels, and what the intellect ponders. Through the written word we are all profoundly connected.

Donna Dretzka, Images Sponsor

With special thanks and gratitude to the indispensible Bob Kondrath for co-ordinating and collating the copy.

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Flip Flopped Colors

Kristina Yin - 8th grade

It is FridayI tear open the crayon box

BluePink

YellowGreen

The inevitable odor of waxA rumble breaks the silenceAs the garage door opens

It is FridayI color the fl owers green

The sky yellow The grass pinkThe sun blue

I colorMindlessly eager

It is FridayI hear the doorknob twist

The jingle of the keys

I jump out of my chairI jump out of my chair

Race to hug my drained brother His sweet cologne

And his rough sweaterMusic booming from his ear buds

It is FridayHe hands me a bagPlastic and fl imsyFilled with treatsWithin seconds

Two gummy bears disappearThe sugary delights

It is FridayI smile

He grinsAn unexpected surpriseA longed for tradition

Everyday should be Friday

Cat Lee8th grade

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Snapshots

I hold my camera and take photos of the world around me.I look at my friends; I see them all smiling.I see the little details and patterns; I take pictures of those.I look at my camera roll, and see tons of photos.I scroll through the images; I select the fi rst one.

I see…My small fi ngers tightly gripping a bright yellow pencil.An explosion of creativity bursting from my mind.The vivid, colorful, sparks leaking onto a blank white page.One dot, two dots.A crooked curve an upside-down rainbow.A lopsided happy face.

I see…My hands kneading through soft yet resilient, dough.Trying to make it into a round circle.3 swirls of red tomato sauce.5 sprinkles of mozzarella cheese confetti.0 slices of salty pepperoni.A 350 degree masterpiece.The oven door opens, and the smell of warm pizza hits me.I look at my creation, an oblong of distorted, burnt, top-pings.And I taste it, slightly grimacing.

I see…Myself fl ying down the court, feet pounding, heart thumping.Bouncing the ball on the shiny wooden fl oor.A rubber band slowly stretching inside me.The basket’s red rim appearing before me.I gather my hands in the right position.Left, check. Right, check.A rubber band snaps within me —The ball propels towards the basket, becoming a mere blur.Swish.

I see…Me and my family in the my grandparents’ cozy liv-ing room, on Christmas Eve.The room, decorated with multi-colored lights and paper snowfl akes on the wallsMy younger cousins shouting with glee as they eagerly tear up theGlistening snowfl ake-covered, wrapping paper.Everyone excitedly guessing what they received before opening boxesThe multiple, loud calls of “This is just what I wanted!”The feeling of being connected with my familyFill the room, and I feelLoved.

I see…Disneyland.My friends and I- the six of us, waiting patiently in line forSpace mountain.Our screams are submerged in complete darkness.Our hearts jump at the thrill of the ride.Up and downUp and downIt has only been a minute; it is overWe are all laughing.

I see…The end of the camera roll.But there is one photo,Yet to be discovered, yet to fall into focusIn the near future.Is it of me and my friends, laughing?Is it of me, running down the court in joy?I will not know until the day comes,For another piece of my life to be captured.In one photo.

Vivian Lu8th grade

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Harrisan Smyser - 6th grade My Land

Aron Guevara - 8th grade

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RiversRivers

My river has run long enoughMy river has run long enoughAnd it has been running strongAnd it has been running strongIt has twists and turnsIt has twists and turnsAnd bumps and stopsAnd bumps and stopsNo one said it would be easyNo one said it would be easy

I remember when you were youngI remember when you were youngAlways by my sideAlways by my sideFlowing happily next to meFlowing happily next to meI saw you growI saw you grow Into the man you areInto the man you are

A long time ago we both knewA long time ago we both knewThat I was going to goThat I was going to goTo sink into the earthTo sink into the earth Without a traceWithout a traceOr evaporate into the sky aboveOr evaporate into the sky above

Whispering and turningWhispering and turningThrough our livesThrough our livesAs you grew strongerAs you grew strongerI slowed and weakenedI slowed and weakened Your whole life has been with meYour whole life has been with me

A few short breaths is all I can takeA few short breaths is all I can takeYou tried to stop meYou tried to stop meFrom the choices I madeFrom the choices I madeAnd I really triedAnd I really triedI did it for youI did it for you

But it was too lateBut it was too lateI had done too much damageI had done too much damageAll of the life has left my riverAll of the life has left my riverLike the smoke from a chimneyLike the smoke from a chimneyLike the life from an old manLike the life from an old man

And you know I wishAnd you know I wish For nothing moreFor nothing moreThan to go back to how it was beforeThan to go back to how it was beforeI wanted us to be freeI wanted us to be freeTwo healthy river, flowing side by sideTwo healthy river, flowing side by side

But it can’t, and I know that you need meBut it can’t, and I know that you need meBut there is nothing I can doBut there is nothing I can doThe things we have doneThe things we have doneAnd the time we have spentAnd the time we have spentIs what I have given to youIs what I have given to you

Life for you should be goodLife for you should be goodDon’t fall shortDon’t fall shortKeep flowing on and don’t stopKeep flowing on and don’t stopUntil you reach the oceanUntil you reach the oceanDon’t stop until you are freeDon’t stop until you are free

Now before I goNow before I goBefore I sink awayBefore I sink awayI need one promise from youI need one promise from youFor me to be happyFor me to be happyAnd for you to flow freeAnd for you to flow free

Do not make the choices I madeDo not make the choices I madeLearn from my mistakesLearn from my mistakesAnd as I lay hereAnd as I lay hereLiving off nothing but mere oxygenLiving off nothing but mere oxygenI want nothing but the opposite for youI want nothing but the opposite for you

Now son, my river is all goneNow son, my river is all goneBut you know yours must flow onBut you know yours must flow onKeep going, be freeKeep going, be freeStop at nothingStop at nothingStay strongStay strong

Max MullinMax Mullin7th grade7th grade

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The Eiffel Tower Walter Corngold - 6th gradeThe Louvre Walter Corngold - 6th grade

Aron Guevara - 8th grade

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i rememberi remember

i remember the springwhere mariposas lit up the skywith rows of buttermilk fringe

that christened each wingflaring on the lilac and rose

i remember the jam jarthat stood half-fulland the filter of sugar afternoonthrough the bend blinds

i remember the heatthat sunk in my skinand heaved on my neck

like a thousand crooked diamonds

i remember plucking a daisy from the skywith dots of power blue on its rim

and cuddling it in my fingersto press into sticky glass

i remember heartbeats echoing on the foldof the light-strained roof

capped in black metaluntil the noise ceased

and the beauty i had capturedcried out in blank agonyits dark, tender eyesretracting in the gloom

i remember shattering the shelland watching it shower to the ground

limply hovering abovebefore falling flat

lovely is confinedby a two-breadth lifespanthat craves the foul oxygenthat tickles the sun

and when it diesso suddenso flawed

with time pursed on its upper lip

i’d never have knownto jam a fork in and out the silvery cover

so stars of holeswould let the winged soul fly

and i must’ve criedthe corpse awayback to its

heavenly grave Ryan Pizante8th grade

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U r gr8U r gr8

I come from a place where the world is only six seconds long

A place where the arms of the angels ring in my ears

Turned down for what is never amiss

Eating away the hours on a small telephone

I come from a place of selfies, fashion, and Harry Styles

A place where likes matter more than life

Fear to express yourself without a ton of effects

I enter this place after I am freed from school

A time for me to shine

I come from a place where night and day do not matter

A time to let go and post anything my heart pleases

Hipsters, flowers, clothes, and text post 24/7

A heart button follows my every scroll and the power of reblogging is in my hands

No one to judge my every move

Oh, but how I love to tweet

Contract my thoughts into 140 words

Retweet 1D and favorite J.B.

A chime every second

And the story abbreviated to „u r gr8‰

Carina Grande

8th grade

Aron Guevara - 8th grade

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Katherine Arcinue - 6th grade

Quiet

night,sleep tightdon’t let the bed bugs bitewarm coversgood nightcan’t sleepcounting sheep one-two-threenope, still not asleep

Kristina Yin8th grade

_______________________________________________________________________________________

Cold mornings and chilly feetBurrowing into covers, refusing to acknowledge

The sunny beams between window shades The lulls of dreams still clinging to me

Even as my grandma screams, “Wake up!” The alarm clock is annoying

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!!!!!Slam the clock and hide deeper

Into a sanctuary of warmth, heating blissUntil the blanket is stolen from me

By a grandma-like meanieBegrudgingly open my eyes

Get up extra slow just to annoy herPayback for waking me and

Taking away my refugeFrom cold mornings

Kristin Yin8th grade

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A cool summer dayI watch Sable layReady for her end

I watched as she criedThen slowly diedOn a cool summer day

I touched her rough furBut she didn’t moveI smelled grass and flowersI wondered if she did tooBut she couldn’t, she wouldn’tOn that cool summer day

There was a holeA great big pitReady to be filled

I saw a shovelA familiar shovelThat had dug another grave

I felt fearThere were tearsAnd quietness all around

Travis Taylor Vaughn - 8th grade

As we lifted her bodyHer lifeless bodyWe saw her bones move in an odd wayAnd we knew that she has gone away

They took her collar offAnd we watched her peaceful body lay

I felt my friend’s hairFor her; it was too much to bearHer face against my shoulderI felt the need to hold herAnd the the words I told herWere a complete and made-up lie

I said“Sable is in a better place,”

Not knowing what it meantor where Sable wasMy heart filled with regret

We filled the holeCried some moreOn a cool summer day

A Cool Summer DayA Cool Summer Day

Megan Hsu8th grade

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Will the Sidewalk End?Will the Sidewalk End?(Response to “Where the Sidewalk Ends” – by Shel Silverstein)

There used to be a place where the sidewalk endedWhere flowers thrived and animals livedWhere the sky was blue and clouds were whiteAnd the sun gave off much lightWhere you could escape the cityAnd grey of the worldAnd just come out and laugh and playBut this place may not exist evermoreFor the clouds of black creep closerAnd the buildings loom tallerCasting their stark shadows upon the grassGreying the colors of natureAnd sucking the oxygen from the treesCities constantly expandingAnd taking what isn’t theirsThe last of the place where the sidewalk endsIs shrinking and dying and being ignoredLosing life, losing lightSo now the real thing to ask isWill the sidewalk ever end?

Uma Durairaj7th Grade

Oceanfront Walter Corngold - 6th grade

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R.A.H.P.

my name is that of feverish Irish,grit embroidered in my veinsa churn of origin and culture,

the name is whispered in a spinster’s ear.the name is virtue, and opportunity,

a white flag waving among storm-ridden war.the blood is Catholic,

thick and pulsingname is custom. name is story. name is truth.

i come from breweries and rebellion,of drunken Scots,

and vast ivory hillsidesof golden bobs and emerald eyes,

of languages too immense to speak.of iron bloodlines, and preacher’s son

by name as by self, myself as by name, I am brandedbranded in history and time alike,

a name carries less meaningname is a foreclosure of existence,

for the self holds the worth. Self dates beyond religion and trait.self is individualism, is foundation, and is discovery

name is irrelevant,a bud of winter amidst the sun, ever unyielding

amongst ourselves, we keep peace of mind, in knowingpast is figment,

and present is chancerelics of the soul do delight

in remembering our forefathers,but have conscience to the importance of generations to come

discard the name and heritage tree,and uncover meaning upon self

we are all of name, quotient, and value, but ascertain evidenceof the soul

of aspiration and longingtake two leaps, or three,

and find the self buried beneath one’s pastmy name is not self,

my name is penny jar, and pocket stitch, and needle press my name is the lost,

and my self is remembered.

Ryan Pizante 8th grade

A Day in France Ashley Wu - 8th grade

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Seven Streets

I come from a town thatyou’ve probably never heard of–Or your motherOr the girl next doorOr the pimply Mexicatessen employee who always draws ninja catson your takeout containers.

I come from a town infi ltrated by my relatives,Where my grandfather is the mayorAnd my great-aunt works in every Mom n’ Pop, stained glass, and antique shopAnd if you ride your old bike to eat the ice cream at Margot’s you’ll probably run into one of my crazy cousins–or at least a cussing auntie.

I come from a town so small there are only seven streetsAnd the gas is 50¢ more expensive but the coffee fromVertigo’s is twice as goodWhere mornings are sleepy and unproductive and all you can do is ride your old bike arounduntil you slowly start to grow crazy like my cousins.

Saenah Boch8th grade

Four Eyes

I remember walking on stage with my entire bodyshaking, nervous fi ngers uncontrollably fumbling on the piano, heart violently palpitating against my ribcage to the beat of the Prelude.

I remember the day my mother discoveredI hadn’t been wearing my glasses to school after all,And I remember the fi rst time I actually did wear them.I remember my friend from France who had a name as hard to pronounce as mineand who couldn’t spell and hated Tuesdaysbecause Tuesdays meant modern dancingand she preferred ballet.

I remember the fi rst time we played at her houseShe tried to teach me how to do pirouettes andI ended up falling on my butt, and it was years laterbefore she fi nally gave up on my dancing career.

I remember when I didn’t have to wear glasses anymore, and my friend stopped calling meFour Eyes, and everyone else acted as if nothing had happened,their same reaction as last time.

I remember waiting for my turn to go on stagebored by Mozart and Beethoven and Bach and Chopinthinking about John and Paul and George and Ringoso distracted I forgot to be nervous–no mistakes.

Saenah Boch8th grade

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Where I Come FromWhere I Come From

I come from mounds of dark chocolateWhere the bitter and sweet collide

I come from riceSoft when cooked correctly

I come from rigid hierarchyWhere the top seems out of reach

I come from scarsFaded through time

I come from eraser shavingsWhere I know mistakes are not an issue

I come from a blank canvas Absorbing a plethora of acrylics

I come from luxurious blankets Where what you want is what you get

I come from rural villagesThe soil pleading for a single drop

I come from soft palmsWhere trust is no issue

I come from realityThe truth will be told

I come from hellosWhere you make the fi rst move

I come from farewellsThe key thrown away

I come from stacks of booksWhere knowledge is everywhere

I come from vintage carsThe classics never fade

Cat Lee8th grade

Aron Guevara - 8th grade

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Ma Jien Ping or Josh for Short

Running like the wind,I hear the click, clack of my arch nemesis’ spikes, as I cross the fi nish lineDancing across the piano keys, groovin’ to Linus and LucyVince Guaraldi would be proudPlaying basketball with my little brotherI lower the hoop so he can make all of his shotsJoshua Ma, Positive LeaderNumber One Grandson, Ma Jien PingSock Fashionista, Authentic Boy ScoutMy cute, little, loquacious brother Moses, makes me laughMy mother speaks of the history of my ancestors because she wants me to know that I come from greatnessMy father, my personal cheerleader, encourages me to persevere, when my goals seem unattainableI want people to know that our cultural heritage defi nes who we areI want people to know that I celebrate my African American heritage and my Chinese heritageI want people to know that both cultures defi ne my identityRunning like the wind, I feel confi dent that I can winI am free to dance across the piano keys like Oscar Peterson and play basketball like Jeremy LinI am mentor to the Number Two Grandson, as he fi nds his Identity

Joshua Ma8th grade

Kara Garikian - 3rd grade

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Letter About Literature

Dear Ms. Harper Lee, We have been taught to edit ourselves as humans, but what if we never did, would the world be a better, kinder place, or dangerous and deadly? Your book is the unedited version of life. Scout is the writer with no fi l-ter and Atticus is her editor, trying to soften the hard truth. At a young age, Scout does not realize how powerful her words are, nor did I at her age either. We all have the gift of words; it is powerful and can be used dreadfully incorrectly or, like the words in To Kill a Mockingbird, to send a message. You sent a message loud and clear, carefully choosing your words, creating vivid images of Jem’s and Scout’s life. The segregation that occurred in the South during those 100 years is graphically rewritten, but still softening the truth. After reading your book, I realized how greatly times have changed since the 30s; it was a reality check. Your book is a viewing glass into the segregation my grandfather, his father and mother, and my other relatives endured. They did not have the pale skin I possess, which hides my true background. Nor did they have the free-dom I have now as a visually white American citizen when I truly am African-American, Mexican, and white. They were judged by their skin color, like I, but their skin was dark and pure, unlike mine, pale but touched by different cultures. My grandfather grew up with Jim Crow laws just like Jackie Robinson. I grew up swimming in the same pool as Jackie Robinson, at Brookside Park. Swimming at Brookside is available for me seven days a week. Jackie and the rest of the African-Americans in the surrounding area could only swim every Friday, just before they emptied the pool for its weekly cleaning. I am the mixed child Jem and Scout discuss with Dolphus Raymond, but I am not depressed, I AM PROUD. I am proud of my maternal grandparents for risking their lives, moving several times from Michigan to Oregon to fi nally California, and enduring the pain they felt when their marriage was annulled because bi-racial marriages were not legal in the state of Michigan, where they were originally married. They eventually crossed the state line to Ohio where mixed marriage was legal. Finding housing for their mixed family also pro-vided obstacles. My white grandmother would secure an apartment for her family, her husband and two young daughters, the second my mother. At the time of the move in, the landlord would discover my grandfather was black and immediately evict them. I am proud to say my grandmother is an Ashkenazi Jew and my grandfather a black Catholic, for without them life would be boring. I am proud to say I celebrate Hanukah and Christmas. To say I make tamales with my paternal side of the family on Christmas brings joy to my heart. If it were not for the risks my family members have taken I would be like everyone else. America would have no diversity if people only married within their races and religions. “Mixed” children would not exist if limits hadn’t been tested and boundaries hadn’t been passed. I am saddened though; America still judges the book by its cover. Many people assume your skin color is who you are, not your last name, or family traditions. Never have people presumed my heritage as black or Mexican, I have been only called white. Maybe humans will never learn to look deeper beyond what they as-sume, or maybe they will come to the same conclusions and disbeliefs every time. Many people who do not believe the truth about my true background ask, “Why would you even want to be black or Mexican? At least lie about a race people want to be!” When these phrases, or similar ones are tossed at me, a quote of yours comes to mind, “You never really understand a person until you consider things from his (her) point of view…until you climb into his skin and walk around in it.” You are very right when you say this; I have reasons for wanting to be perceived as my true heritage, ones that people won’t even understand until they walk into my skin for a while.

Aron Guevara8th grade

Editorial: Aron’s letter to Harper Lee was the runner-up in the Level 2 division of the Letters About Literature contest sponsored by the Center for the Book and the Library of Congress. In May she received a certifi cate and prize at a recep-tion on the campus of UCLA. The author Gene Luan Yang, who wrote and illustrated the graphic historical novel, Boxers and Saints, spoke to the audience.

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The People

Andrew Kuai - Kindergarten

there are the stallionswho whip their heads backand scream at the skythe stallions are freepure, beautiful, and powerfulthe hands of the governmentcannot grasp their reinsthese are the wild.

there are the kittenswho scream whenthey are in troublewho cry throughout the daythe kittens are younghelpless, adorable, weakthe jaws of predatorsoften grasp their backsthese are the vulnerable

there are the dogswho walk each stepon the road behind their masterthe dogs are acceptingdedicated, trustworthysome fall into the traps set by evilthere are the followers.

there are the whaleswho cry through the waterand glide through the depthsthe whales are majesticstrong, gentle, and serenethey know the claws of the governmentthat scratch at their backs but theyare gentle nonethelessthese are the compassionate.

Amanda Schaller7th grade

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The BahamasThe Bahamas

cool wind in my faceas i walk by the smoothie stand,bathing suit on, dripping tiny raindrops but mybright toenails are on fire

my piña-colada is protected under the toothpick’s shadeas i walk back to my familynana lounging under her umbrella chairand dad in the river with baby, floating and laughing

i sip and admirethe radiant waves crashing against the dark rockswhile the sand tickles my toesmy brother calls to me

i walk over and join the fun in my inner tube i lie and lounge but the lazy river is not so lazy after all,my brother turns me upside down

i fall into the cool chlorinewe laugh and smilebecause there is nothing else like The Bahamas.

Sarah Johnson8th grade

Joanna Kwok - 3rd grade

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GenerationsI come from the American dream Immigration to the new world Success in business and family

I come from children of Depression Strength to overcome hardshipLiving in hunger and poverty

I come from talented dreamersMusicians and educators For everyone to see

I come from braveryI come from courageI come from assiduousness

I come from a small streetQuiet companions Shading trees towering

I come from a small houseCrowded in some places Spacious in others

I come from soft clamorBarking of dogsClashing of cymbals

I come from supportI come from noiseI come from respect

I come from generationsFaint and loud ambiance Art and education surround

I come from love Warm bear hugs Slobbery kisses on my face

I come from “I remember when..”You were this bigYou were so adorable”

I come from family

Corah Forrester8th grade

RhythmRhythm

My eyes are closed while people glance at me .I’m humming to my favorite songAs I smile and beam at my classmatesLooking over the rail ,I see the world around me .I feel rhythm in the airWhere every action beats accordinglyWith every step I take .Isabel Arcinue , Nature’s beatbox . Baby Bell , the Archer ,Frizzy Izzy, Two Zees,Masked Music . Without my loverMy comradeOr my partner in crime;Without my musicMy pace I’m nothingBut a title . Close my eyes,Hum the tune ,Smile andRemember the rhythm .

Isabelle Arcinue8th grade

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My grandpa, seated in front of me,Is ready to tell me a story.We sit in prickly wooden chairs,In a cozy living room.Ears wide open, paying attention,I am eager to hear what he will tell me.

He starts off by showing meA tattered, tea-stained, map of the world, withOverpowering oceans,Colossal continents,Vast landmasses,And a beaming red pushpin,Seated on a tiny island off the coast of China.Taiwan.

Suddenly I am there.A leaf-shaped island,Known by some as the Republic of China, or simply,Formosa; beautiful island.

I am a mere bystander,Looking through the foggy lens of the past.My grandpa, a child, wearing nice leather shoes,Is on the way to school.Having been raised in afrugaltraditionalappreciativefamily,He takes his shoes off,Swings them over his shoulder,And clutches them by the thick, brown, shoelaces.He walks the rest of the way to school,Barefoot.

I feel his feet slapping against the unforgiving dirt road.Slap-slap-slap.It hurts, but it is worth it.The school is just up ahead.Taking a clean, soft handkerchief from his pocket,He wipes his grimy, dirt-caked, feet,And slips on his leather shoes, still polished and clean,Back on.The sun about to set,My grandfather gathers his books and says his thank yousOne to the teacher,Many to his fellow classmates,

Leather ShoesAnd a last one to the clouds,For not raining; since he wants to keep his leather shoes dry for the next day.

I am tossed to another time.I picture my parents,My father in the north; TaipeiMy mother in the south; KaoshiungBoth riding a bus to school,Backs straining against stiff seats,But with perfectly fi ne leather shoes,That are meant to stay on their feet.

Approaching the bus stop, my parents prepare to exit.Before departing, both of them stop to say thank youTo the bus driver.

I see myself,In a comfortable, jet-black Lexus sedan,Equipped with beige, cushioned seatingSleeping on the way to school.I wear a forest green jumper over a white polo shirt,Springy pink and gray Nike sneakers,And white cotton socks with a tiny green clover on the edge.

At school, after each class,I say thank you to all my teachers,In appreciation for the knowledge I have gained.

It is common in my family to hearTremendous tides of “thank yous”To show our appreciationFor everything that has been done for us.

I,Like all others in my family before me,Come from a community offrugal,traditional,thankful,hard-working,people.

Always making the best of what we have,Striving to achieve more than what we can do, PerseveringThrough hardships,Through good times,Soaring with leather shoes on my feet.

Vivian Lu8th grade

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Agents of Erosion

Once upon a time, there were four agents of erosion. They were Water, Wind, Ice, and Gravity. Water was in the creeks, the streams, the oceans, the rivers, and all of the liquid water on Earth. Her human form was a young woman wearing a blue, fl owing dress, with dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. Wind liked blowing materials around on the Earth. Her human form was a young woman in a white dress with large wings attached to her back. She had an invisibility cape that she often wore to look like her nature form. Ice formed all of the frozen water, such as glaciers, and snow. His human form was a man wearing a light blue suit and light blue sunglasses to match. He had spikey, dark brown hair. Gravity was what kept everything, including the other agents of erosion on Earth. His human form was a very big, tall, strong man with a big moustache. He wore a pair of black shorts and dark sunglasses that covered much of his face. All four of the agents of erosion loved eroding the earth and they sometimes took turns daring each other to erode a certain landform. Often, eroding got tiresome, so the agents of erosion decided to make it into a sort of game. It was much more fun for them that way. One day, when the agents of erosion were out eroding various parts of the Earth, they saw that some humans on Earth were in need of their assistance! Even though sometimes they dared each other to erode landforms, this time, they wanted to do something nice for the humans. All four agents deposited their eroded materials and went off to see how they could help the humans. All of the agents arrived in their human forms. The humans all looked very worried and scared, so Gravity spoke up and said, “We are the agents of erosion. We saw that you were in need of our help, so we have come. What is it that you need of us?” One human, who looked like he was the leader, replied, “Thank you, agents of erosion! We have come to a big dilemma – some of our families have gone across those mountains.” Here he pointed to the very large mountain range in front of them, “but they have not returned in many months. We don’t know what has happened to them, but we believe that they are trying to fi nd their way back home. They must be stuck on the other side of those mountains. Is there anything you can do to help us fi nd our families?” Here Gravity paused for a moment before responding. “Yes, in fact, there is a way to help solve this problem – I will keep everything and everyone here, on Earth’s surface. Wind will weather the mountains away, so all that will be left is sediments on the ground. Ice can then erode those sediments away, and deposit them with Water, out by the sea, where they will be out of your way.” All of the humans cried, “Thank you so much, agents of erosion! Thank you so, so much! How will we ever repay you all?” The agents of erosion just smiled, and said, “You do not need to repay us. We just love eroding the earth! Now, let’s get going.” Gravity disappeared, and he went to his secret lair where he could make sure that everyone would stay on Earth. Wind turned back into her nature form and weathered the mountains into sediments. Ice turned into a glacier and eroded the sediments out to the sea, where Water then took the sediments and kept them in the ocean. The agents of erosion then turned back into their human forms and went to see if the humans had seen any signs of their families. There had not been any signs yet, but they were probably already hiking back. The humans were so happy to fi nally be seeing their families again for the fi rst time in so many months! Once again they thanked the agents of erosion many, many times, and asked if there was anything that cold be done in return. The agents of erosion just said, “It’s alright! We just wanted to help you. There is nothing better than eroding the earth and being able to do something nice at the same time!” After waiting for a while with the humans, the agents of erosion fi nally said goodbye. “We must go now. Tell us when your families return safely! We will see you all sometime soon! Goodbye!” With that, the agents of erosion left. To this day, they have been eroding here, on Earth.

Yumi Balthazar6th grade

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Kristina Yin - 8th grade

Beautiful DolphinsBeautiful Dolphins

Soaring, tossing, twistingSlicing through the shining oceanResting in the sandObserving, wanting, desiringI want their libertyTo swim away worriesDrifting in the soothing seaSwim with the lighthearted dolphinsSwimming through the waves Farther farther fartherDeeperandDeeperInto the deep blue ocean.

Vasisht Chaluvadi7th Grade

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The Name-Game

In Arabic my name means “brilliance,” but to me it means a brilliant curse. It means painful roll calls where the teacher looks down at the list and says something like “I’m sorry if I mispronounce your name” since the fi rst name they see is mine. It means old people calling me “Diana” and young people calling me “Sienna.” It means always having to spell it out for adults when they write you a nametag or correcting your teachers with a plastic smile even after it’s already been a semester. It means letters strung together by force instead of mellifl uously dancing with each other on their own accord. If my name were a piece of paper, I would tear it up into a million little pieces and watch it slowly catch fi re–especially on the fi rst day of school. And don’t get me started on my last name. I was named after my great-great-grandmother, Saenah binte Sulaiman, the grandmother of my adoring grandfather. A young widow and a single mother, Saenah struggled to support her growing children and had to do menial labor to get by. She became a fast food vendor by hawking breakfast food from door to door before sunrise in order to scrape a living. My grandfather believed that she represented a paragon of virtue that he later has always tried to live up to. One of his fondest memories about her was taking a six-hour train ride west of his home with her to a small, rural town in Lahat, Indonesia. On the way they rode a ferry along the Musi River, where he saw row after row of rakit (houses on rafts) and watched workers peddling their wares on the banks. Gradually through Saenah and by osmosis, he was able to learn about the social and cultural values of his people. When he moved to the United States, he learned that she had passed away; although he was completely devastated, he still remembered her as a courteous, civil, and fi ne lady. Now her name is mine, and sometimes it feels like a lot to live up to. When I was six years old, I noticed that my childhood friend would pronounce my name “Sigh-anna” as if it were a mixture of a long, deep, audible breath (a sigh), and a common girl’s name–Anna. This pronunciation stuck ever since, and I have been telling friends I have made and people I have met that it is the correct way. The actual correct way of saying my name would be if you divided my name up into syllables (sa, e, nah) and pronounced it as such: Sah. Eh. Nah. No one says my name correctly anymore, but I don’t mind because my name is hard enough already. Likewise, whenever people see my last name, their fi rst assumption is that “Boch” is pronounced the way it is spelled. However, my last name is pronounced exactly as Johann Sebastian Bach’s. Ancestors on my father’s side immigrated from Astro-Hungary to build a new life in America. My great-grandfather, Charles Boch, married an Irish girl and moved to Detroit, Michigan, where they had four sons. Both my grandfather and my father are also named Charles Boch. Ironically, my father’s cousin married a man whose last name is “Bach.” I found out that many people could easily pronounce his last name. However, when I explain to people that my last name is like the musician’s, it suddenly clicks and the subject is never brought up again. Sometimes it feels like I have a treasure chest full of the names that people have called me for the past fourteen years. Cyan. Say-na. Sigh-na. Stephanie, even. But even after all these years, I would never change my name; it makes me who I am. I have come to realize that I should be proud to be named after my grandfather’s grandmother. Nonetheless, if my parents had given me a generic name, I would probably dislike it with the same amount of loathing anyway. And even though I’ll have to correct people for the rest of my life, my name has fi nally started to grow on me.

Saenah Boch8th grade

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A Promise KeptA Promise Kept

She fancied that she heard steps, creaking up the stairs, and a hand on the knob, turning to open the door to her room. But, of course, that was impossible. For the being in front of her was only a ghost.

________________________________________ “Welcome back…” She let the thought drift in the air. Days she had spent rehearsing these words, reserved only for him. The circumstances were different than she had daydreamed, but she still meant them. She glanced at his face- dirty and bloodied. It was a new sight for her. She had only seen the face smil-ing, clean and sharp. His eyes used to be so bright- hopeful. Now, they were lifeless and haunted by the reality of war. Jagged lines ran through his face- a small one near his brow and another across his cheek and disappearing along his neckline. A single, small hole on his chest - barely noticeable, save from the pool of dry blood around it. She gulped. “A little late, aren’t you?” She settled for a dry laugh.

I apologize. It was no more than a whisper, a little gust of cold wind. “Well, what are you here for then?” She asked to emptiness.

I came to fulfi ll that promise. “Now?” She couldn’t help but slip in a bit of hostility in her voice. Twenty years, she had waited after all. Always deliberately leaving the door open, preparing two meals instead of one...from a naive, young girl, she was now no more than a lonely old woman. Never wed, never had children, saving wasted experiences on him. When he did not reply, (he didn’t need to, she already knew the answer: Sorry, I’m dead) she asked an-other question, “Do you still want me, now that I am nothing more than an old woman? I lost my young looks long ago.” It was silly, really, to think about appearances now, but the words slipped out of her mouth before she caught herself. Yes. He hugged her. It was an odd feeling; like something was there, but she couldn’t quite feel it. It was more like the temperature had dropped considerably around her, and she shivered a bit. But it was still warm. Warm to her heart, anyways. She smiled.

I take you to be my wife. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you even in death. “And I take you as my husband. I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.” They held hands, fi nally, after so many years. It was a vow, a goodbye, and a promise kept.

________________________________________

She woke up to the wailings of a child and cried along with it.

Kristina Yin8th grade

Andrew Kuai - Kindergarten

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Strength and Determination

Max Krech - 4th grade

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The First Day

My father had just arrived at school and was navigating to his kindergarten classroom, for this was his fi rst day of school, and he had never gone to school anywhere else in his en-tire life. He was feeling very nervous with so many people watching him. This was the biggest crowd of people he had ever seen. There were so many people that he didn’t know how to feel, so he freaked out. To make matters worse, his brother and sister had gone to their classrooms! He was alone and frightened because he could barely comprehend what they were saying. This was a result of moving to the United States of America from South Korea when he was one. Not knowing anyone was just one of the reasons he was sacred. When he was left alone in a classroom with no one, he knew that he wanted his family. His parents were not around much. They were learning to speak English, learning to do taxes, managing a business, and doing work. My father also wasn’t home much because he was being taken care of by his brother and sister. The only people he felt comfortable with were his family, and no one else. And none of them were in the classroom. My father was overwhelmed by the amount of people because he was familiar with a very small community in Seoul, but in America everywhere was a mystery. He was raised in Seoul, South Korea, when it was very small and had dirt roads. That kindergarten classroom terrifi ed him, but he didn’t know why. His classmates terrifi ed him even more. There were different faces, and few were like him. They spoke a dif-ferent language that he didn’t understand. He couldn’t comprehend what to do or what to say. That day they sang the A, B, C’s, played a game to get to know everybody’s name, and more games that my father had never heard of, but he was unsuccessful at all of them. This was the toughest time of his life so far. My father was horrifi ed by how different everyone looked, and no one looked like him. People would often look intently at him, which had never happened to him before, and he was clueless. What were they doing? My father thought that they were being rude anddisrespectful. His unusual name made him stand out like a sore thumb even more. His name was Jung Nam Lee. One boy pronounced Jung wrong because he assumed his name was John. That day everyone made fun of my father’s middle name. At school that day, people would do mean things to him, instinctually and uninten-tionally, which was another reason that made school more diffi cult for him and why he was afraid of it. It was also the fi rst day of school. He didn’t know who to trust or be friends with, so he didn’t have friends. He often cowered because he couldn’t fi gure out who would punch him and who would offer him lunch money because to him everyone looked the same, and he couldn’t recognize anyone. He tried to make friends, but the people he tried to make friends with were bullies and beat him up. He had trouble participating in classroom activities because they were all in English. Normally, when you start kindergarten, you get a playgroup for about three people. My father wasn’t in a playgroup, so he didn’t have a “go-to friend” when he felt uncomfortable. Aside from not having any friends, his terrible comprehension skills made him the last in his class to complete tasks, do work sheets, and answer questions. That’s why no one wanted to be his friend. They thought that being friends with an unintelligent person wouldn’t make them cool. If they did, they might be mocked by their friends. Once they were about to fi nish up the day, he began to lighten up because the fi rst day of school was over. And, they say the fi rst is always the hardest—until he learned that he had to go again the next day.

Lucas Lee5th grade

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Eyes

Lauren Chretien - 5th grade

FlamingoFlamingo

The graceful ballerinaWaddling through the waterAnd when it is wearyItLingersOnOne PinkLeg

Michael Maytesyan 7th grade

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Indu Pandey8th grade

Blue ThroneQueenof a kingdom far away from the booming, bubbling bustle of suburbia.Among my subjects, doting on my silken royal gownwith fi nely knit teddy-beartea parties in a sea of yellow.

Monarchof a castle in fi elds of beigesetting the scene for presumed monotony. Nothing further from the truth,the knights clad in eccentric armor with wispy, brown furmarch about in search of adventure.

Empressof a new worldbrimming in excitement everyday precisely at six thirty. For lack of society, the women trace about with bare pawslong, thin tissue dresses dragging on the paint and dirt stained fl oor.

Vassal of an extensive fi efdomsovereign in spiritawaits the thundering order of the leader. Unfortunately, smells of delectable cuisine, entirely foreign,waft in the air like a looming predator ready to strikekilling the celebration stone cold.

Ladyof her housenurturing and kind fearfully arranges cars and trains. Finished partaking in festivities in dire times, she rushes about trying to warn her citizens, her reign shatters around her tumbling over a misplaced Barbie.

Majestyof an empirevast but unassuming counts her seconds before the inevitable.Panicking and afraid, she watches as the women one by one topple onto their stuffed spines the clatter of plastic crownsthe lurch of shaking woodthe men drop from their mighty steedsfantastical inventions, motors and all, stop coldcolorful books fade to black and whitethe stony, cold fl oor loses its lush white fl ora the clock ticks faster tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tickthe sun sneaks past the black window panelittle bumps begin to emerge from the wall of the throne room maps turn into game boardsknights into worn stuffed animals ladies into toys with shabby tissue dresses suddenly too aware of the dirt and grime decorating the room a frenzied buzz of a rogue fl ythe unpleasant fl avor of a sandy mouth the fl icker of the unnatural television from outside the glass doorsthe stomping of an eight year old boythe commotion of dishes clattering the tempting odors pervasive the room

Footsteps tap tap tap tap tap tap tap.The door fl ies openas if hit by a gust of wind. “Dinner,” she sayswith a weary smile, surveying the kingdom in shambles. Mournfully, she glances at her land, shifting uncomfortably on the ugly, navy toy box infested with monsters and other creepies.She gazes at toys strewn about everywhere, a kingdom no more.

I am no longer a queen and my world has disappeareduntil I once more sit upon my perfect blue throne.

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Did You Miss Me?

BreathingRunningTalkingEveryone is soBoringUninterestingThere’s only one personBut noI made a mistakeHe’s no good eitherI have no choiceHe goesOr I doThere he goes F A L L I N GSometimesI wish I could justFly awayStay aliveBut I am trappedMy mind is trappedAm I crazy?Am I going down, like the sun set?Has my time come?NoBecause I’m backDid you miss me?

Marina Francis8th grade

Katherine Arcinue - 6th grade

Going DarkGoing Dark

A soccer ball in the face. . . As you start to zone off into space If you are feeling any kind of repercussion That’s a sign that you might have a concussionIf you have blurry or double vision Or have a bad headache If you can’t make any split decision Don’t say you are ok or even fake itYou probably have a concussion No school for at least a few days That means living life in a haze No stimulation or movementUntil the doctor sees improvement No school for a week at least No homework, no quizzes until you are releasedFrom this blur in memory and balance

Kaley Penichet-Khaw7th grade

Katherine Arcinue - 6th grade

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Face of the Moon

“Congratulations! It’s a girl.” Upon fi rst sight, my mom instantly decided to name me Indu. Mom said my face was round like the moon, the meaning of Indu. She never once doubted her decision, as I never did lose my original, round cheeks. In the months leading up to my birth, my parents began to construct a list of possible names. They would add or remove names for months, completely indecisive until my birth. Near the end of my mother’s term, she and my dad decided on three traditional Hindi names that are generally uncommon for my generation: Indu, Uma, and Jaya. Unlike many people whose names are chosen months before their birth, my name is actually indicative of one of my physical features. While my father solely named my older brother, Puru, my mom was given free-reign in choosing my name; however, my parents jointly selected Indu. My mom’s story of reaching the conclusion of naming me Indu is similar to my father’s; however, it follows a tradition in her family. My mom hails from a deeply religious family. During her pregnancy, she would often watch religious renditions of Hindi epics, like Ramayana. In Ramayana, a pivotal character is named Induja; however, she was unsure of naming her child exactly that. Instead, she decided that Indu J. Pandey would solve both problems. Unfortunately, she also thought of two other dreadful names: Jaya and Bhabya. In retrospect, I am ecstatic that my name is Indu. In contrast, my dad wanted to name me Indu as a tribute to a dear relative. Growing up, my dad idolized Indu Bhaiya, literally translating Brother Indu. Indu Bhaiya was a distant cousin of his, as well as a professor at the prestigious Banaras Hindu University. He served as a mentor to my father after my grandfather died. Indu Bhaiya remains an inspiration to my dad; despite his many accomplishments, like working with Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, he remained caring and family-oriented. When I was younger, my dad used to tell me stories about Indu Bhaiya and all of the memories he had with him. In addition to being a mentor, Indu Bhaiya was a friend of my father, often playing cricket with him during the summers. More than the people whom I was named after, the meaning of ‘Indu’ enamored my parents. In Sanskrit and Hindi, Indu means, “moon.” As soon as I was born, my mom named me Indu because my face was shaped round like the moon. Purposefully, my mom also chose a middle name beginning with “J,” Jyoti. In Hindi, Jyoti means, “light.” My family’s last name, Pandey, is a result of the caste system. Pandey is a Brahmin last name, meaning we are of the highest caste. The last name Pandey was given to those who were scholars and teachers back in ancient India. My father’s side of the family has a long history of pursuing higher education, specifi cally in Sanskrit studies. I feel attached to my name because it has actual relevance to my physical appearance while most people’s names have nothing to do with their nature or appearance. During my childhood, I always felt safe during the night because I knew the moon would be watching me. My name has affected some of my tendencies as a child towards acting reclusive like the pale moon. But now it is I who writes the story of Indu Jyoti Pandey, Moon Light Scholar.

Indu Pandey8th grade

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Dear Mr. Taylor, Since third grade I thought that I was weirder than a zebra without stripes. But I soon learned that I have ADHD. Since then I have been trying different ways of staying focused. When I read ADHD and Me, I came to the realization that while I have never set the table on fi re, I have hidden in a packbpack and burnt the fl oor of my garage. I even walked at eight and half months. When I was fi rst tested for ADHD in the third grade, I got the idea into my head that I could fi t in my backpack. Upon telling this to the lady testing me she said, “Really?” Of course, I replied with an affi rmative “Yes.” So being somewhat of an odd child, I promptly put pack on my head and said, “Tada!” Then the lady told me that I could take off the pack, but of course, what better excuse to prolong the testing process than saying, “It’s fi ne, I can hear you perfectly fi ne in here.” I would have to say that while my ADHD has not been the most benefi cial attribute when it comes to academics, I have excelled in most sports that I play. I now fence, mountain bike, and backpack on a regular basis. So, let this be the fi rst time that I thank you. I am sure that I will continue to thank you throughout the rest of this letter. Your book has proven that I was not a super hero despite my six-year-old ambitions, but in fact, quite a normal child. (Although there may still be times that I think that I have some sort of abnormal super power that my parents have yet to tell me about.) When I was about two years old, my parents took my older brother and me to a park. Well, at this park there was a bridge that was safe but swung from side to side quite a lot, according to a two year old. My older brother slowly walked across the bridge, making sure it was safe. But as soon as he had stepped off the bridge, I was running across the bridge with no regard to whether or not I would fall. These stories may not seem relevant to your book or you, but what I am trying to say is, “Thank you.” Thank you for showing me that I am normal, and even if I am not, that it is ok to be the odd man out. When I come home after a long day, I think to myself that have received a gift, and that no matter what people say, it is true. I may have never met you, but you are a great friend. I will always appreciate the feeling of normality, and that I will always have someone to back me up. You and your book have given that to me.

Sincerly,Matthew Culpepper

Editorial: Matthew’s letter was a top ten fi nalist in the Level 2 division of the Let-ters About Literature contest sponsored by the Center for the Book and the Library of Congress

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21 Gun Salute21 Gun Salute

The block of glass

A bullet encased like Captain America in ice

This was the same one

In the 21 Gun salute

The one given to my great grandfather

Pat Brown

The man who created the California aqueduct.

My grandpa went after the ceremony was over

Picked up the shells

One by one

Had them encased in glass

Then gave one

To all his children

All his stepchildren

Then in turn my mother gave it to me.

Now it sits in my room

When I want to give up

I think of how he never gave up

So I continue on

In his honor

The booming echoes forever on

Chazen Mellis

7th grade

Kristina Yin - 8th grade

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Taylor Vaughn - 8th grade

Green Garden

Harrisan Smyser - 6th grade

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9 to a Bar

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Letter About Literature

Editorial: One of the English assignments at Chandler School in the Eighth Grade is writing a letter to any author (liv-ing or dead) about a book they wrote and how it affected them personally. The letters are submitted to a contest known as “Letters About Literature,” a writing contest for students in grades 4-12, and are judged on state and national levels. This letter is written to the author Stephen Chbosky, who wrote The Perks of Being a Wallfl ower in 1999.

Dear Mr. Chbosky, Every Sunday I walk by a bug-eyed vagrant who camps in front of Trader Joe’s and is always whisper-ing to his dog. His favorite pastime is threatening the locals that the milk will curdle in their fridges when they are asleep. He is a monochrome Picasso painting, with eyes on opposite sides of his head; a spittle-fl ecked, bedraggled beard; and a crudely ravaged face, like a corroded coin washed up on shore. He leers at me to try to spark something inside of me. Anger? Revulsion? Pity? I don’t feel sorry for him because he probably wouldn’t want me to. Further up the spectrum is my grandfather, the smartest person I know. He immigrated to America from Indonesia to study at Berkeley and received his master’s from Yale, then became a librarian at the Library of Congress. He spoke and wrote better English than most educated Americans. Now, whenever I visit him, I fi nd him staring blankly at the T.V. mounted on the wall, his face illuminated from the glow of the light. When he notices me standing by the door, he yells at me to GET HIM OUT OF HERE, “here” being his skilled nursing home. I sit on the edge of his bed and he grips my arm, a wild, haunting look fl ashing in his red-rimmed eyes. When I tell him that he has to get better if he wants to leave, he sighs to himself and doesn’t look at me for the rest of my visit, which can be rather heartbreaking from the person I love the most. Then there is my neighbor with the orotund voice and trademark booming laugh. The “Loud One.” He is determined to strike up a conversation with every person that passes by his house, which is why people cross the street when they see him. He laughs at the self-deprecating jokes he can’t pull off and likes to ask personal questions. Every day–all day–he sits on his porch, just waiting for someone to walk by. It’s a full-time job, and the pay stinks. I wouldn’t make eye contact if I were you. Lastly, there is the effervescent hippie lady on Sunset Boulevard who sells cheap bling those tourists and yuppies love. She could be Janis Joplin’s doppelgänger with her round pink sunglasses and the feather boa dan-gling in her unkempt, frizzy hair. Not to mention the rings on every fi nger, the long necklaces, and a collection of bangles jangling on her wrists. If she dislikes the outfi t you are wearing, she will wrinkle her nose in disgust and say that your fashion sense is “passé.” Being around her has helped me perfect my eye roll. Mr. Chbosky, the reason I am telling all of this to you is because it seems like everyone I know is talking and no one is listening. Because these people mutter to themselves all day long, and not one person pays any attention to them. When I was younger, I used to be embarrassed to be seen around these eccentric people or to be associated with them. Now, in order to make up for my deplorable behavior, I always return the hippie lady’s vacuous smiles and try to attempt small talk when I see my loud neighbor. And whenever I visit my grandfather, I bring a book to read to him. (He’s a Jane Austen fan.) But I know it’s not enough, and I feel like I owe something to these people, these “misfi t toys”: a va-grant, an old man with Parkinson’s and dementia, a hippie living in the wrong decade, and a lonely neighbor who just likes to talk. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that they are people, too, because most of them are defi nitely not right in the head. Too many heartbreaks, probably. What I learned from reading your novel, The Perks of Being a Wallfl ower, is that people like Charlie are rare. Even at sixteen, Charlie is a loner and an observer, rather than a person that partakes in life. He seems to live in his own little world as he watches people and analyzes them. As his friend Patrick says, “he sees things, he keeps quiet about them, he understands.” He’s a wallfl ower. But I’m not Charlie. The only wallfl ower quality I have is that I’m always shy when I meet new people

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Letter About Literature (cont.)

do certain things or behave the way they do. Instead of accepting the odd cast of characters in my neighborhood for who they are, I found myself constantly questioning their motives and judging them like the rest of society. However, I realized that I didn’t want to be that person avoiding the vagrant’s gaze or hiding behind my mother when I saw my neighbor. Why should I be like everybody else? I just wanted to be someone who could listen and understand––who could be the person Charlie needed the most when no one seemed to care. Charlie has taught me that each person has a voice, a story, a secret desire for someone¬–anyone–to listen, and that sometimes I should try to pay more attention to these people. Mr. Chbosky, I fell in love with The Perks of Being a Wallfl ower the way a girl falls in love with a boy: helplessly, hopelessly, infi nitely. I enjoyed reading about Charlie and Sam and Patrick as much as the crazy hippie lady loves her bling, as much as my neighbor loves to talk, as much as my grandfather enjoys classical music and Pride and Prejudice. Through reading your book, I gained a new sense of appreciation towards these four idiosyncratic, quirky, and yet very human people. And I’ve started to wonder if maybe it’s society that’s not right in the head. So thank you, Mr. Chbosky, for helping me understand that everyone needs to be heard sometimes––even the misfi t toys.

Always,Saenah Boch

8th grade

Aron Guevara - 8th grade

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Rain, ReignRain, Reign Inspired by Mona Cesario

When it rains, I reignA kingdom of falling water The drops on the leavesThe arms of my father

But I deny them I sing in the rainIt beckons meIt is my domain

Calling louder and louderWith its thundering dropsThe noise on the asphalt On the gravel the plops

A monarchy of precipitationA world of anticipation

Pranav Law8th grade

Aron Guevara - 8th grade

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City of AngelsCity of Angels I walked down the misty streets of Los Angeles

With nothing but the clothes on my backAnd the shoes on my feetI walked past the barber

Saw a shaky man giving haircutsI walked past the flower shop

With an aroma of freshly cut rosesI walked down the misty streets of Los Angeles

With nothing but the clothes on my backAnd the shoes on my feet

I walked past a herd of dejected bums Spare some change for a cig?Smelled of reeking depression

I walked down the misty streets of Los AngelesWith nothing but the clothes on my back

And the shoes on my feetI walked past a ransacked bakery

Smelt of stale bread and molded fruitcakesGoodbye

I walked away from the misty streets of Los AngelesWith nothing but the clothes on my back

And the shoes on my feetEddie Kim

Aron Guevara - 8th grade

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A Day in the Life: Ancient Rome

Dear Father and Mother,

The most wonderful thing happened to me a few days ago. At fi rst it was a normal day. As always, I would go outside to work in the fi elds in the morning. I thank the gods for allowing me to work at dawn and not during the burning midday with the harmful and painful sun. Thank goodness the great gods have blessed me with a great master. Though he may not be the best, he is better than some. He had assigned me to work inside the villa during the midday, to pre-pare a luncheon for him and his guests. I normally serve fresh grapes with some goat cheese to the guests. I serve along with another slave, the cook, who always works in the villa. After the guests have been satisfi ed and left, I always go off to school, not to learn, but to teach. My master educated me, however, the people at the school are unfortunately not as kind as he. They glare at me, with all their power. Of course they would do that. I am teaching their own children for the gods’ sake! After fi nishing teaching the afternoon classes, I head back and work in the fi eld as the great Sol settles down and disappears in the horizon. I dug out the muck in the irrigation as the sun vanished. When I was fi nished with one of the smaller fi elds, I went back to the villa. My master was standing next to a smiling, rather wealthy looking woman. She stood there, draped in the high-est quality fabric wearing a huge grin. She looked at me and said, “I’ll take this one!” Master said, “Great doing business with you.” The woman dropped bright gold coins into my master’s hand. At fi rst, I was incredibly terrifi ed. I thought to myself, what if she whips me and sends me out to work in the fi elds or mines. The woman, to my surprise, took my hand and beamed. “Hello, dear child!” I thought, is she crazy? No aristocrat or wealthy patrician would do that! Normally, they would think of us as dirt, little fl ies or potential rebels to overthrow the wealthy. “You are free now!” I looked up in surprise, but then I realized that there were actually some wealthy patri-cians who looked towards slaves as almost equals. The lady dropped a bag of silver coins in my hand and said, “Run off now, and don’t waste your freedom!” She pushed me off on the path to the village. Now I work as a plebeian baker. I again thank the gods and the cook of the villa. Even though my life is still harsh, it is better than before. I am given food, but only enough to stop all the plebeians from revolting. Also, they have given us free entertainment, like chariot races and gladiators, but I have no time for loitering around. I have been working very hard and saving my money. I hope that I will one day be at the top and be able to be as free as a bird. May that kind patrician live a long life.

Wish me luck,Dulcea

Katherine Arcinue6th grade

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I see you

I see you You’re so greenWith long slender treesAnd sweet smelling mangoesI hear the laughter of the childrenThe soft mellow sway of the fl owersI see your worn cracked streetsI hear your school bells pounding in my headI taste the sweet corn with cheese dripping from our mouthsI hear my sisters jumping in your puddles when the cool wet afternoons comeI feel the calloused palm barkI see your prickly thorn bushes I hear the earsplitting rain fall on our metal roofsAnd the chickens cackling with rageI see the lonesome pastures with animals to spareI see my cousins, friends and family I see El Salvador

Cynthia Hernandez8th grade

Ella Belzer - 2nd grade

Scenery in a Small English TownScenery in a Small English Town

At my grandparent’s houseAt my grandparent’s housein the backyardin the backyardhead tilted back, ray of sun on my facehead tilted back, ray of sun on my facethat had managed to escape the dark gray clouds.that had managed to escape the dark gray clouds.fingers running against the pale brown tablefingers running against the pale brown tabletrying to avoid splinterstrying to avoid splinters

biting into a cookiebiting into a cookiemade of caramel and chocolatemade of caramel and chocolateswirling together and combining as oneswirling together and combining as onecrumbling in my mouthcrumbling in my mouth

as I sniff the sweet orange flowersas I sniff the sweet orange flowersand watch ancient vines strangle the steepleand watch ancient vines strangle the steepleas it lets out its hourly cryas it lets out its hourly cryand the old, rusty bell swings back and forthand the old, rusty bell swings back and forth

interrupted by the cackling sound of laughterinterrupted by the cackling sound of laughterjust beyond that red brick walljust beyond that red brick wallfrom my 3 year old cousin.from my 3 year old cousin.

Elizabeth McCarthyElizabeth McCarthy8th grade8th grade

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Snapshots

I hold my camera and take photos of the world around me.I look at my friends; I see them all smiling.I see the little details and patterns; I take pictures of those.I look at my camera roll, and see tons of photos.I scroll through the images; I select the fi rst one.

I see…My small fi ngers tightly gripping a bright yellow pencil.An explosion of creativity bursting from my mind.The vivid, colorful, sparks leaking onto a blank white page.One dot, two dots.A crooked curve an upside-down rainbow.A lopsided happy face.

I see…My hands kneading through soft yet resilient, dough.Trying to make it into a round circle.3 swirls of red tomato sauce.5 sprinkles of mozzarella cheese confetti.0 slices of salty pepperoni.A 350 degree masterpiece.The oven door opens, and the smell of warm pizza hits me.I look at my creation, an oblong of distorted, burnt, toppings.And I taste it, slightly grimacing.

I see…Myself fl ying down the court, feet pounding, heart thumping.Bouncing the ball on the shiny wooden fl oor.A rubber band slowly stretching inside me.The basket’s red rim appearing before me.I gather my hands in the right position.Left, check. Right, check.A rubber band snaps within me —The ball propels towards the basket, becoming a mere blur.Swish.

I see…Me and my family in the my grandparents’ cozy living room, on Christmas Eve.The room, decorated with multi-colored lights and paper snowfl akes on the wallsMy younger cousins shouting with glee as they eagerly tear up theGlistening snowfl ake-covered, wrapping paper.Everyone excitedly guessing what they received before opening boxesThe multiple, loud calls of “This is just what I wanted!”The feeling of being connected with my familyFill the room, and I feelLoved.

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Snapshot (cont.)

I see…Disneyland.My friends and I- the six of us, waiting patiently in line forSpace mountain.Our screams are submerged in complete darkness.Our hearts jump at the thrill of the ride.Up and downUp and downIt has only been a minute; it is overWe are all laughing.

I see…The end of the camera roll.But there is one photo,Yet to be discovered, yet to fall into focusIn the near future.Is it of me and my friends, laughing?Is it of me, running down the court in joy?I will not know until the day comes,For another piece of my life to be captured.In one photo.

Vivian Lu8th grade

Sasha Le- 2nd grade

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No Ordinary Girl

Sarah was no ordinary girl. She was a twelve year old. She had long brown hair, and she was not shy in any way. However, she was special. She could ride a fi fty-foot long narwhal and could breathe underwater. The breathing underwater came from when she was a newborn. A scientist tried to make her talk with a potion he made. Somehow it took a little left turn and made it so she could breathe underwater. When Sarah was three, she found out she could breathe underwater. She decided that she would enter a breath holding competition and beat a fi fty year old to win. One day on the island of Brandobob, Sarah was fi shing. She could catch hundreds of fi sh every hour or so. But that day, she caught zero fi sh! She jumped into the water to see what was going on. There were no fi sh. Sarah knew that something was wrong. Brandobob was a peaceful island that relied on fi sh. If there were no fi sh, there was no food. The island was about the size of Massachusetts and was voted to have the most fi sh in the world. Sarah desperately wanted to fi nd the fi sh and save them. She took her fi fty-foot long narwhal and went on the search. After seventeen hours, Sarah had accomplished absolutely nothing (except for getting lost). She was traveling so fast that her whole world turned into bubbles. The ocean was so fi shless she could see fi fty mil-lion trillion miles out. Then she saw a fi sh head pointing straight so she traveled straight for a while. Eventually she found a fi shing net with millions of trillions of billions of fi sh in it! Sarah took her narwhal’s horn and sliced the net open. Trillions of millions of billions fi sh charged at her! It was like taking a slimy bath. She fi nally ac-complished something! When she got back, Brandobob threw a huge party for her. Everyone was fi shing again! Every day seemed to be better after the event. Even the fi sh seemed happier. Sarah was so glad she fi nally accomplished something! She couldn’t wait to be a hero again!

Lucie Renick4th grade

The Seine River Walter Corngold - 6h grade

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Ine, Keko or Joe?

Dear Joe, I know you have the missing person because I saw you at the baseball game. When the umpire turned away from the crowd you kidnapped the missing person. You drove your Tesla at the baseball game and your gas tank was full now it is half empty. From Keko

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The Auburn Boy

I trace about the playground in anguish. I watch the children run, squealing in delight. I envy their merry faces with big dimples. I yearn to fl ail my arms with such freedom like a bird in fl ight. I sink into a stone cold bench, slumping over. My eyes focus on the single strands of hair that impair my vision. The blur of stroll-ers and light-up sneakers overwhelm the environment. I can’t take it anymore. I draw my knees to my throbbing eyes and curl up. Tears begin to well up my eyes. The burning feeling of hot waterfalls and a clawing monster attacking me from within. My stomach ties itself into tight knots and my thoughts pound my weary head. My sensible thought dissolves into panic and pain. The world spins off its axis and hurls me around viciously. Yet, I remain still. I feel a distinct tugging from my left side. My head shoots up and locks eyes with a peculiar little boy with messy auburn hair. He keeps his fi rm grip on my forearm, demanding attention. The boy tugs my arm again, and somehow I just cannot refuse him. “Yes?” I grind my teeth in a crooked smile. “Are you sad?” “No,” I say as I plaster a smile on my face. “Momma says lying makes God sad,” he replies disconcertingly. “I’m not lying,” I try to assert. Suddenly, I feel silly, having a conversation with a random, little boy in a time of crisis. “I’m like that when I’m sad. You look sad.” “It doesn’t matter if I’m sad,” I reply aggressively. The boy lets go of my arm and slides into the seat next to me. He sits quietly for a few moments before sighing. “I’m tired.” “Me too, bud. But, aren’t you having a good time?” “Yeah, o’course.” “Then, you can’t be tired. You’re having fun!” I laugh inwardly, trying to forget my troubling thoughts. “Having fun,” he pauses for a moment, “is fun.” “Genius,” I mumble to myself. “How can you ever get tired of having fun?” “You wanna do someth’ng new. Grow up,” his eyes travel up to the tree looming overhead, “like that tree!” “What do you mean?” I ask quickly. “I go to school next year. Cool, right?” “Right. But, you want to go?” I ask suspiciously. The boy turns to face me and grabs my hand. “Are we friends now?” I stop myself from replying immediately. I watch games of tag and children meeting lifelong friends. They share melodic laughter. I hear the boom of metal against a baseball bat behind me. I can smell baby wipes and the pervasive scent of dry sand. I turn to face the little boy again. “Hey! Friend?” He shakes me in a bid to win my attention. “We’re friends.” He gives me a toothy grin. “Can I tell you a secret? “Defi nitely.” “Playing isn’t always fun… Sometimes getting bigger, doing something new is cool too. Like playing baseball every day is fi ne, but when your parents let you play football… Wow!” I beam at him. “Thank you so much.” “Momma says to always say, ‘you’re welcome.’” “Where’s your Momma?” I smile down at him, still contemplating his words of wisdom. “Up there,” he says pointing to the sky. His eyes glisten in the sunlight. “You know? She loves it when it’s sunny and her favorite color is blue.” I pause in shock for a few moments. “I bet you look just like her.” “How did you know?”

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The Auburn Boy (cont.)

“She has beautiful auburn hair like you.” “Yeah! You’re smart,” he grins. I stand up, offering him my hand. I give him my hand and I hoist him up. He walks out from the shade of the tree. Some of his friends motion for him to join them. I feel a twinge of envy as he begins to run over to the sandbox. My new ‘friend’ waves at me. But, maybe that isn’t always a good thing. “Bye, whatsyourname!” He waves. “What’s your name?” “Wha’?” “Your name?” “Eric.” “Do you think we’ll meet again?” “You’re not coming to Sunday play time next week?” I chuckle as he runs away without an answer. I begin my lonely stroll down the next two blocks, con-templating my simple conversation with Eric. I look up at the blue skies and think of vivid auburn hair.

Indu Pandey8th grade

Meena Durairaj - 3rd grade

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Andante and Rondo Capriccioso

Up And Down The Piano Softly Pressing On The Keys PrestissimoAgain AndAgain Fingers YouCanHardlySeeGettingLouderAndLouderFaster AndFaster UntilThe LastOfNotesIsPlayed.HardPowerfulAndBeautiful.Never is the same

The moment of silence

As they take in all that was given

Then the applauseAs they standAnd ask for more.

Sofia Stellar7th grade

Max Krech - 4th grade

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I RememberI Remember

Sitting with my mother She would sing lullabies Slowly luring me to the comfort of my dreamsBolting upright in bed After a vivid nightmare With the hooded figure coming around the cornerClambering onto my horse My first ride Nervously clutching the horses rough mane, awaiting instructionFidgeting restlessly on the pews in church My eyes wandering aimlessly While my mother nudges me and tells me to pay attentionStanding in line to get into Disneyland My first time there The colors and attractions swirl as if in a dreamWalking in the rain Collecting water droplets on my tongue Seeing the small dots collect on my glassesTalking with my friends My new friends Being able to start over at a new schoolWriting a real, meaningful poem The emotions coming from within Feeling free

Marina Francis8th Grade

Kristina Yin - 8th grade

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i come fromi come from

i come from the ashtray of morningi come from the ashtray of morningthe lights all doused and squintedthe lights all doused and squintedand the reverend hypocrisyand the reverend hypocrisygod wrote a scriptgod wrote a scriptand let the hot ink seepand let the hot ink seepinto the puddles of mute footstepsinto the puddles of mute footstepscrept like shingles through the sheetscrept like shingles through the sheetsand infatuated the idealistand infatuated the idealistin polaroid cacophonyin polaroid cacophony

i come from the whispers i come from the whispersstrung ear to tongue strung ear to tonguelike the tinsel like the tinselwrapped in hickory pine wrapped in hickory pinethe same that sprouted from my lung the same that sprouted from my lungand cut off the circulation and cut off the circulationwhich snipped on a bent wire which snipped on a bent wireand folded me up like spider web spindles and folded me up like spider web spindles

i come from the record scratch i come from the record scratchand the wish-washed tablecloth and the wish-washed tablecloththat sung like traffic’s roar that sung like traffic’s roaron the 105 on the 105where the vinyl chrods where the vinyl chrodsfaded in the wave faded in the waveand plucked three eyelashes and plucked three eyelashes

i come from the dysfunctions of memory i come from the dysfunctions of memorywhere every other easter where every other easteri’d fold the gold-spun tablecloth that prided my waist i’d fold the gold-spun tablecloth that prided my waistand made my lips churn and made my lips churnas the cranberry sauce as the cranberry saucespilled on the marble countertop spilled on the marble countertop

i come from the boardwalk i come from the boardwalkwhere static slides weren’t the issue where static slides weren’t the issueand scrambling to the tallest pinecone and scrambling to the tallest pineconewith scrapes and bruises that rallied the play with scrapes and bruises that rallied the playcreased right through my tussled, pale heartbeat creased right through my tussled, pale heartbeat

i come from the lips of fly i come from the lips of flythat jotted from windowsill that jotted from windowsillto the doormat to the doormatwhich soured its larva like dewdrops in spring which soured its larva like dewdrops in spring

i come from earl grey i come from earl greythat stung my tonsil that stung my tonsiland dried my eye and dried my eye

i come from dog-eared covers i come from dog-eared coversthat stained the magnolia walls that stained the magnolia walls

i come from the lost i come from the lost

ryan pizante ryan pizante8th grade 8th grade

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The Blowing BreezeThe Blowing Breeze

It starts off as a whisper,Only a few can hear,Then builds and builds,Till the sound is clear.You can hear it throughout the streets,The sound of a triumphant cheerWisps through the air,For all to hear,And revolution spread over the city,Like a thunderous downpour.

Graham Finch 7th grade

Homeless

Ashley Wu - 8th grade

Gram Van Buren - 3rd grade

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The Grave’n Raven of Catalina

Long has he lived on Catalinaa cranky, unpleasant sort of raven. He who prances about like a ballerinareceives particular condemnation from the grave’n.

Forgotten and far away, the university is a safe haven. Receiving the eager raysof placid sunshine to the dismay of a certain raven.

Sometimes, he haunts my view of the majestic mountains, bats away the delicious smell of lunch time rush hour, stalks around the courtyard’s fountain,or leaves all other squirrels and vicious, little cats to cower.

He soars the skies, watching the torrid east and the tranquil west. He scoops down to pick up little French fries and to smell the slight scent of the shop’s lemon zest.

The bird chuckles at the suffocating throngsof greedy, pathetic little shoppers.Snorting as cars drive wrong and speed over neglected stoppers.

A dark fi gure in the night, he notes the old melting away to new. The raven adores the daily sight of the demons rushing of to chew.

A lone ranger, the raven struggles to converse with local turtles and ducks. He feels in constant dangerof causing amuck.

He stands on his L-shaped perch, the only place I’ve ever called home. Though I always thought he would prefer some birch. All the while, he has created his own petite dome.

The raven chooses here the equinox of city and town, studies and pleasurein order to overhear every bit of baby talk and other blather at any measure.

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The Grave’n Raven of Catalina (cont.)

For he is my ravenwho fl utters between the lines of chaos and peace.Although often grave’n, I know that he will never cease.

And so the raven sweeps for leftovers in Chipotle’s forgotten garbage and inhales the fresh scent of the university’s delicate fl owersand just barely missing the weekly Saturday carnage until he has but no power.

So he once again returnsgazing peculiarly at the buildings with their backs turnedforgetting all of his concernsto once again conveniently block my view of the mountains just as the day adjourned.

Indu Pandey8th grade

Sonia Schmidt and Jessica Choi - 3rd grade

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I Know the Most Beautiful Place

I know the most beautiful placeA deep spaceA quiet spaceA peaceful spaceI know the most beautiful place

The trees hide the sunlightI feel the gentle wind blowA million soft leavesBlow and bend in the windI hear it echoA soft soundSmooth Bark StraightSoft leafs like sand

Gabriela Rojo7th grade

A moist scentFresh as the air aroundWet like the water nearbyA soft buzzing from a beeThe soft tune of the cricketsThe trees let in the moonlightAnd the cool night’s breeze.

I know the most beautiful placeCool, quietBeautiful, softIt is the heart of the rainforestIt is a tree.I know the most beautiful place.

Ashley Wu - 8th grade

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I come from a small green islandI come from a small green islandA hot and humid placeA hot and humid placeWith lush rice fieldsWith lush rice fieldsAnd tall mountains, the color of jadeAnd tall mountains, the color of jade

I come form a small green islandI come form a small green islandIt houses the second-tallest building in the worldIt houses the second-tallest building in the worldThe smells of cigarette smokeThe smells of cigarette smokeFrom the stressed out businessmenFrom the stressed out businessmenThe honks of impatient taxi driversThe honks of impatient taxi driversRushing to drop off their clientsRushing to drop off their clientsWith old, tiny neighborhood templesWith old, tiny neighborhood templesSprinkled amongst gleaming skyscrapers filled with modern technologySprinkled amongst gleaming skyscrapers filled with modern technology

I come form a small green islandI come form a small green islandWith neon jungles called night marketsWith neon jungles called night marketsBombarded with the shouts of street vendorsBombarded with the shouts of street vendors Trying to sell you stinky tofu and grass jellyTrying to sell you stinky tofu and grass jellyClusters of tables with sticks of sausages and bowls of sweet bean curd soupClusters of tables with sticks of sausages and bowls of sweet bean curd soup

I come form a small green islandI come form a small green islandWhere the fishermen wake up in the darkWhere the fishermen wake up in the darkAnd come back moments after sunriseAnd come back moments after sunriseWith an abundance of fishWith an abundance of fishFish to be eaten during lunch and dinnerFish to be eaten during lunch and dinner

I come from a small green islandI come from a small green islandWhere thousands of Buddhist temples cater toWhere thousands of Buddhist temples cater to

a very religious population a very religious populationThe droning sounds of the chanting monkeysThe droning sounds of the chanting monkeys Reading sacred scriptures from ancient timesReading sacred scriptures from ancient timesThe smells of incense, pervading the airThe smells of incense, pervading the airLittle kids running around, trying to burn eachLittle kids running around, trying to burn each

other with incense other with incense

I come from a small green islandI come from a small green islandI come from TaiwanI come from Taiwan

Nick YehNick Yeh8th grade8th grade

Max Krech - 4th grade

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HorsesHorses

Beautifil creature galloping by,Beautifil creature galloping by,

Tail swinging by and by.Tail swinging by and by.

Hooves so soft in the sand,Hooves so soft in the sand,

The drumming of hooves brings life to my heart.The drumming of hooves brings life to my heart.

Peyton BurnsPeyton Burns

3rd grade3rd grade

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My MomMy Mom

EloquentElegantNot at all arrogant

IntelligentExcellentHelps with my development

DelicateRedolentSometimes can be petulant

EminentExtravagantAlways is resonant.

Looking upon me with her sweet brown eyesShining in the crowd with her vibrant hairKnowing that someday I will flyDeep into the vast skyBecause of herI fly high.

Staying at homeGuiding me as I have grownPlanting her flowersWith her gnomesI am her special flowerI bloomBecause of her.

Ashley Lim7th grade

Daisy Wan - 6th grade

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Vera in Venice

Vera needed a vacation. A nice, long, relaxing one. Her job, believe it or not, is to be a hero. on the skiing mountain, if somebody took a tumble down the side, she had to cathc them. If a volcano erupted, it was Vera’ responsibility to cover the opening with rocks. If an earthquake came, Vera had to hold the ground down. Vera enjoyed her job, but it was hard. That was why Vera needed a vacation. She booked two seats on a plane to Venice, Italy. This was because she was a giant. Besides her size, Vera looked like a typical princess. She had pale skin, blue eyes, and blond hair. Long, blond hair. When Vera got in the airport, people screamed and ran, “Oh well. . .” she said sadly. But as soon as Vera stepped out of the airport, her grumpiness melted away. “Wow. . .” Vera sighed. Wow was right. There was green scenery all around. The full moon glittered on the river, as if it were made of gold. Vera strolled the streets calmly. Word had spread that there was a giant in town, so nobody ran. Suddenly, a scream pierced the evening air. “Mama mia, my pizzeria is ruined!” “Not again!” Vera cried, and she ran to help. News was spreading like wildfi re. “Fire! Fire!” people screamed. Vera ran faster, but the fi re was fast, too. Luckily had an idea. Vera reached the fi re and looked around for a solution. The joice store, the school, the woodcutter’s, even the ice company went up in fl ames. Fortunately, no one was hurt. “Wait, that was it! The woodcutter’s!” thought Vera. Vera plucked two planks from the shop. She didn’t need help because, well, she was big. Giant, in fact. She set them on the river and asked the local fi sherman to pull her. He agreed, and she stepped on the planks. They held, without sinking to the bottom of the river. The fi sherman tossed Vera a rope, and started the motor. Vera started fl ying across the water on her makeshift waterskis. By the time she was done, not a spark of fi re was left. Vera looked around. Everything was wet or burnt, and the city was abandoned. “Venice was so beautiful, and now it’s ruined,” she thought regretfully. Vera turned her back on the city, but couldn’t resist looking over her shoulder. But then something happened. To any other pair of eyes, Venice looked like the mess of the cen-tury, but Vera’s hope was restored. She set to work. Vera picked up the joice machines. She build new desks for the school out of the wet wood from woodcutter’s. For the ice company, she went back home and brough a few icebergs back to Venice. It took forever, but in the end, Venice was more beautiful than before.

Manya Lalwani4th grade

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ProcrastinationProcrastination

Procrastination, Procrastination You are the devil of the devil’s temptationsYou sneak up to my door, waiting for my resistance to abateMy fi ngers Twitch, my heart beats faster“Go away,” I briefl y say.

But nay, slowly you begin to fi ll meWith hate and sorrow, I can resist theeI press command tab to change the page, And suddenly I fi ll with rage

“No! I will not go on google chromeI have not lost yet, you have not won” But then you slowly fi ll me againNow you have won, I’m 0 for 10.

I get engulfed, in the internets, As my hands type and my face sweats. I do not know, how long this lasts, For seconds, minutes, hours pass.

I am engulfed, I cannot win, Procrastination, is a deadly sinI cannot leave, I must now stay As someone texts me, they say “Hey!” I type “not now, Not today” I cannot do this everyday.

I check the assignment center, it is emptyI jump for joy, I say HoorayHowever this is a hollow victory, For Procrastination got the better of me.

Another day, in the life of me, This is my life, this you must see, Though at homework, I am not zen, And I will procrastinate now and then Though I am harmed, this is what I say I’ll live to procrastinate another day.

Max Caragozian7th grade

Joanna Kwok, Olivia Daniel, Antonia Brooks - 3rd grade

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What Makes Me a Princess?What Makes Me a Princess?

What makes me a princess? An invisible crownAn old baby blanket wrapped into a gown.

What makes me a superhero?A leap from a treeWhen a brave firefighter is talking to me.

What makes me a teacher? The cracked glasses I found Or the rosy red apples I bought by the pound.

What makes me an astronaut?An old cardboard boxThat takes me to space in my pj’s and socks.

Teacher or princess, they’re all part of me.But they live in a world that only I see.

Shaya Naimi 7th grade

Katherine Arcinue - 6th grade

FallingFalling

FallingBurning

Lights spiral toward the ground All around me

Everything is empty

I fell. . . Anger

ConfusionLonging. . .for what?

I felt doubt for himI rebelled for him

I killed for himI fell- for him

I’m going this for himI’m doing this because of him

And though I’m no angelI swear I have wingsWhen he’s with me

Riley Frey8th Grade

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An Intriguing Book

Turning the pages of an intriguing book,New stories fi lling my head of fantasy and adventure.My feet hitting the concrete ground as I run through the streetsWhile my hair fl ies through the cool breeze.Laughing until tears come to my eyes as my brother makes another joke.Hannah Hirsch-Marin, thinker and wanderer through life.Daughter, sister,Friend, student, teammate.My mother helps me through every situation I must face,My brother always knows how to make me laugh when I am down,And my dad has watched me grow up and journey through each step in life.The ink necklace hanging around my neck giving me the knowledge that I am never alone.My pearl white phone, connecting me to the outside world of people far away.Pages constantly fl ipping,Running through “nature” in my community,And laughing with the ones I love until I can’t speak.

Hannah Hirsch-Marin8th grade

Daisy Wan- 6th grade

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The Pitcher (In response to The Base Stealer by Robert Francis)

Runner on 1st, he s on his toesNervous and twitchingWanting to pick him offIn the stretch positionLooking for the signHead over my shoulderStepping off the rubberI ve made up my mindNow has to be the timeDelicate, delicate, delicate – Now!

Jack Stellwagen 7th grade

Christian Cauvel - Kindergarten

My Little EraserMy Little Eraser

Erasing away my small mistakesSo helpful, but yet so strongRubbing is all it takesTo get rid of my crazy mistakesErase here and erase there,It goes with me everywhere

Leon Kuo5th grade

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Andrew Kuai - Kindergarten

A Sudden Rush

The one moment of solitudeWhen the ball is suddenly snapped backInto the hands of the quarterbackYou feel freeAs one by one the seconds passNo time to be lostOnly time for actionI hit the grass with cleatsFilled with aspirationsTo stop the quarterbackFrom having his one last desireFrom passing the last lineCompleting the touchdownThis is my chanceThis is my final rush

Diego Jaime7th grade

Wolfbloods

Weird mythical creaturesOwl-like eyes will stareLurking in the darkFrightening to see themBaffling you at nightLook where you stepOw! Don’t let them bitOld friends of mineDrinking blood is gross to themSuper senses they use

Simone Obregron3rd grade

Sonia Schmidt - 3rd grade

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Pan DulcePan Dulce

I love pan dulce. Pan dulce is bread with sticky sugar on top. It is delicious and I love pan dulce. Pan dulce is bread with sticky sugar on top. It is delicious and sweet. It is very sweet because it has colorful sugar on top. Pan dulce is colorful, soft andsweet. It is very sweet because it has colorful sugar on top. Pan dulce is colorful, soft and bumpy. It is the tastiest thing anyone has ever tasted. Pan dulce is all different types ofbumpy. It is the tastiest thing anyone has ever tasted. Pan dulce is all different types of bread. My favorite type of pan dulce is the concha. The concha looks like a turtle’s shellbread. My favorite type of pan dulce is the concha. The concha looks like a turtle’s shell and it can be pink, white or brown for strawberry, vanilla, or chocolate. My favorite conchaand it can be pink, white or brown for strawberry, vanilla, or chocolate. My favorite concha is the vanilla kind. I don’t know why. When you bite into it the bread and sugar melts in youris the vanilla kind. I don’t know why. When you bite into it the bread and sugar melts in your mouth. The bread is soft and fuzzy, it is like a pillow. The sugar is my favorite part becausemouth. The bread is soft and fuzzy, it is like a pillow. The sugar is my favorite part because I like mostly anything with sugar.I like mostly anything with sugar.

Eliana Longoria-ValenzuelaEliana Longoria-Valenzuela3rd grade3rd grade

Daisy Wan - 6th grade

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Songs

I hear songs all day. Cloudy and bright. I fail my home-work because of songs. What can I do without music? Beat-ing through my old headphones, down to my heart. It waves up and down. Soft and loud. I feel proud to know the music, surfing the web for all music. From town to town to music in the un-derground. The Oldies, the Newbies, to country to R&B to pop to parodies to rock and on and on. Mixed with songs inside my body, keeping me going. Fast and slow. With each song, I can�t help to bounce my foot. Tunes have different kinds of feel-ings to me. Jazz is calm, rock is spaz. Each song has its own special video or performance in my head. Songs will forever be in my family from Dad to Mom. From Sheila E to One Republic to Red Hot Chili Peppers to the Strokes to Arianna Grande to Vampire Weekends and on and on. I hear songs all day. Day and night. Music takes the night.

Simone Cundieff5th grade

Maya Celis - 4th grade

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The Gummy Bear FiascoThe Gummy Bear Fiasco

“Why did I have to do that test?!” It was January 13, 2014, the day of the Gummy Bear Fiasco. I had just walked upstairs to the bathroom to wash my hands, which were doused in machine oil and grease. I turned on the faucet and out of it came a nice, steady stream of. . . gummy bears? Wait, where are my manners? My name is William Farhat and I am the lead inventor at CrazyLab Inc., the world’s leading company dedicated to crazy experiments. Now, back to the bears. My latest experiment was to test different materials in pipes. I had made pipes out of ice (kept frozen by its own personal freezer), pasta, and – you guessed it – gummy bears! I had most likely not fastened them together and the water must have pushed some up the pipe and into the faucet. The leak couldn’t be left unattended, so I grabbed a flashlight and went into the maintenance tunnels. On the floor I saw a stream of water. The water led to the pipe, which had a hole in it. At first glance it seemed ordinary but a closer examination revealed the hole had bite marks on it. Sabotage! Or not . . . hadn’t I seen my new junior assistant Scott Montelbury with some gummy rem-nants on his lips? Quickly, I hurried up to Scott’s usual post in the office. “Hi Scott,” I greeted. “Do you like gummy bears?”

William Farhat5th grade

Asher Singla - 3rd grade

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Turning Something Gross to Good

Lily Carlson - Kindergarten

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Theodore Tsai - 2nd grade

Aidan Chao - 2nd grade

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Responding to Literature: Would You Rather Be a Fisherman or a Farmer?

I would rather be a famer. My grandparents live on a farm and we go there and farm. It s fun. We ride on a gator, which is a car that can drive on rocks and grass and does not have a top but is not a convertible. We pick tomatoes and get eggs from the chickens. My grandpa s the farmer. Sometimes he lets us drive the ga-tor. I think the farm is 45 acres The cow poo smells bad. I sit in the back of the gator without a seat, and my sister sits next to the driver. If I were a farmer I would live in Missouri. That s where my grandparents live. It s cold in fall and winter and hot in the summer and spring. I think that is the perfect weather. I d like to live in Missouri even if I m not a farmer. I like to farm.

Graham DesHotel3rd grade

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A Fun and Fantastic Time

Last month I had a time to play with my friend Asher. First, we walked around Asher’s house. Then, my dad drove us to a park to have fun. I swung on the swings with Asher and rolled around. We had a fun time! Now, Asher showed my dad and me where a store was. In that store we relaxed and drank some cool lemonade. After 30 minutes, we decided to play at my house. We first ate Korean meat for dinner and ate apples for fruits. After, we went to the theater to watch Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2. The movie was exiting and lasted for one our and thirty minutes. When we were done watching the movie, we dropped off Asher back at his house. It was dark then. I had a fantastic time.

Alex Oh3rd grade

Kuba Clemons - Kindergarten

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The TowerThe Tower

Chandler had a tower. It was clean, smooth, and soft. It had this special power that would bring us to the top. The tower used to hold a lot of kids and kids from Chandler liked it a lot, but the tower will be gone. We used to say hello to the tower, but now we can’t! We have to give lots of thanks to the tower. We will be sad and miss it, but as long as we are learning some more and more and more, we will always, always, and always, be happy and stay smart and strong. We will probably get a new one, one that looks the same. But, if we don’t get one, just don’t PANIC! But, always try your best.

Dylan Lam1st grade

ResponsibilityResponsibility

Responsibility is one of the most important parts of the Pillars of Character. Some traits are: be accountable for your choices, practice self-control, do your best, and keep trying, and fi nish what you begin. You can show that you are responsible by perseverance. That means don’t give up. You can also show extra responsibility by paying special attention to all of your teachers. Do all of your homework to show your teachers that you care about the work you do. You can show adults that you can be trusted. If this helps, your parents will give you more privileges like leaving you alone in your house with younger siblings. You also may get more electronics to use. Being responsible can help.

Sienna Lam3rd grade

Maggie Albrecht - 1st grade

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Too Many Video GamesToo Many Video Games

There was an ancient old legend about Jake. The legend is true: he can throw fi reballs! One day, an old man saw him throwing a football 500 yards in length of the fi eld. Another person saw him do an alley-oop one hundred times in a row. One of the baseball players said he hit a thousand home runs. Jake wears a red shirt and blue pants and always carries a backpack. He is 12 years old and he is really tall for his age. He is smart, curious, and learned to throw fi re when he was eight. Jake’s super power is throwing fi reballs. He can throw so much fi re that he can set the whole world on fi re! He is also so hot that he can set fi re to the woods. Jake was in Paris, France. He saw that people were playing too many video games, which can ruin their minds. So, he decided that he would start a shop called “Jake’s Sporting Awesome.” But no customers came to the shop. He waited so long that it felt like he waited for one year. The shop was still vacant. That night he went home and saw that every kid or teenager was playing video games, house by house. He thought of an idea to stop everybody from playing video games. He thought, “ Should I start a boycott? No. Start a war between video games and sports? No.” He thought really carefully this time. Then he thought of something, but it was as dangerous as eating a poison cow. He was going to throw fi re at the power line, so then there would be no power to play video games in the whole town. He had to do this task in the night when everybody was asleep. He got ready at night. It was really dark so he had to light fi re from his fi nger to use as a fl ashlight. He said to himself that he would have to be careful around wood so it won’t catch on fi re and alert the fi re truck. So he had to be silent as an ant walking. After, he went silently to the main power line and threw the biggest fi reball at the wire. It started burning, but it made no sound. In the morning nobody could play video games, so then everybody went to, “ Jake’s Sporting Awesome.” They bought gear and balls to play with. Even when the power line was fi xed, nobody played video games anymore. Now it helped the community by not ruining their minds. It let them see people play matches, games, and tournaments. Also, it helped by giving sports coaches jobs. Now, Jake’s life was as peaceful as a butterfl y. Things got better and better. Some people even made it to the championships or to the national league of sports. He lived happily ever after.

Leon Liao4th grade

Emmie Hewlett - 3rd grade

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I Found CakeI Found Cake

I found some cakeThat was down, down, downDown on the ground.

Chas Waldheim1st grade

Artemis Ledbetter - Kindergarten

The Fox’s TailThe Fox’s Tail

The fox’s tipThe fox’s tipIs like the top of a mountain.Is like the top of a mountain.The top of a fox’s tailThe top of a fox’s tailIs like snow on a mountain.Is like snow on a mountain.

Maggie AlbrechtMaggie Albrecht1st grade1st grade

Bunny and the Carrot Patch Lauren Lee - 2nd grade

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HandHand

My hand in your hand makes friendshipMy hand in your hand makes friendshipWe make friendship with our hands all togetherWe make friendship with our hands all togetherThe happiness we makeThe happiness we makeJust by one handJust by one hand

Maggie AlbrechtMaggie Albrecht1st grade1st grade

Aremis Ledbetter - Kindergarten

Lucky Puppy and Lucky DuckyLucky Puppy and Lucky Ducky

One day ducky saw puppyOne day ducky saw puppyAnd bought a boneAnd bought a boneAnd gave it to puppyAnd gave it to puppyAnd they became best friendsAnd they became best friendsForeverForeverLike me and MitziLike me and Mitzi

Camille O’Brien and Mitzi VasquezCamille O’Brien and Mitzi Vasquez1st grade1st grade

Chloe Palmer - 2nd grade

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The Tooth Fairy’s Problem

Once upon a time there was a girl named Invisa, and she had the gift of invisibility. Invisa had mousy brown hair, large brown eyes, and freckles, so she did not really look like anything special. When Invisa was in fourth grade she won the spelling bee. She was really quite smart, but she turned invisible when the audience applaud-ed because she was very shy. That is how everyone, including herself, came to know about Invisa’s legendary power. Over the years, she worked hard to master her powers and she succeeded. By the time she was twelve she could turn invisible on command. She soon found that it could be very useful sometimes. For example, when she had gym class at school and they were playing dodgeball no one could hit her. But she would soon discover that she was going to have to use her powers for something much more important. One day in seventh grade Invisa lost her last tooth while eating a sandwich. She was sad about this be-cause she was a big believer in the Tooth Fairy even though others teased her for it. She went to sleep that night, but when she woke up and reached under the pillow she pulled out… a note! It was written in curly letters and said:

Dear Invisa, I have heard of your powers and desperately need your help. Please come to 803 Sycamore Street, Maine. Sincerely, The Tooth Fairy

Invisa was shocked, and then realized the problem that the Tooth Fairy had. The Tooth Fairy was too old to fl y and gave the children nightmares when they woke because they had heard the loud creaking of her bones. She decided to leave immediately to Maine because it was a long ways away, almost six hundred miles. She would be invisible the whole time because she would travel a lot faster that way. Invisa arrived in Maine in under an hour and sat down on a bench to rest a little bit. While Invisa was resting, she saw a red-haired boy teasing a girl about believing in the Tooth Fairy. “But she is real!” the girl wailed. Invisa got angry and marched up to the boy, but she was still invisible. She spooked the boy by slapping his face lightly and saying, “Believe me, the Tooth Fairy is real.” The little girl said, “Told you,” and stomped off. The boy, whose name was Jeff, grabbed Invisa and forced her to become visible. She struggled, but Jeff was stronger. Finally they agreed that if he would stop teasing children she would take him to see the Tooth Fairy. They became good friends on the short walk to 803 Sycamore Street, Maine. There they gasped because it was a house made entirely of TEETH. When they rang the doorbell, an old woman, so ugly she would give Jeff nightmares for the rest of his life, opened the door and said, “Welcome. I am the Tooth Fairy. Please come in.” The old woman got down to business, “Invisa, I asked you here for a reason and”- Invisa interrupted her, “I know your problem and… if you want me to be the new Tooth Fairy, I will.” Years later, the older Invisa fl ew out of a child’s bedroom window carrying a bag of teeth with Jeff, her new husband. She was gleeful because she was going to have a baby. The doctor had told her that the baby had invisibility powers, too. Then she fl ew off into the night with Jeff at her side, whooping with joy and doing fl ips in the night air.

Eliza Williams4th grade

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FruitFruit

Fruit, fruitIt�s like candyApples, blueberriesAnd mini, mini grapesAll so tasty and sweet

Izzy Lanstra1st grade

Pets Pets

I love pets They are the safest pets in the whole world Pets are funny Pets are stinky Pets are jumpy Pets are sleepy Pets are fun

Vere Pizante 1st grade

MathMath

Math is funMath is goodFor your brainMath is happy

Vere Pizante1st grade

Rumpte Roo Rumpte Roo

Rumpte roo, skippety doo I love you And you love me So Rumpte roo and Skippety doo

Ryan Mayhew, 1st grade

Lily Carlson - Kindergarten

Lauren Bradford - Kindergarten

Victoria Boumajdi - 2nd grade

Dylan Docter - Kindergarten

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The Cool TowerThe Cool Tower

I like to see a tower that is very very cool, I do see that the tower is so beautiful, so I want to call a friend over so they can look with me. They will know how beautiful the tower is.

Kaitlyn Hong1st grade

Maggie Kurtz - 1st grade

Maggie Kurtz - 1st grade

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The Thoughts of an Olympic ChampionThe Thoughts of an Olympic Champion

One, two, three fourWhat was the basketball score?

Five, six, seven, eightI really cannot be late

The clock is tickingMy heels are clicking

There’s no place like AhmansonThere’s no place like Ahmanson

I prepare for the worstMy gastorcnemius is about to burst

One step at a timeI slowly begin to climb

Math test tomorrowWhat is the Spanish word for avocado?

Oh how I would love the opulent comfort of an escalatorDid I bring my calculator?

The sky is nice cerulean blueStudy hall should be something to look forward to

Almost there. . .My lungs are begging for air

I arrive with two minutes to spareI feel like an Olympic championBreathless as I see a companion

Truthfully, I will the towerIts mighty, muscle-building power

It is time to say goodbyeDoesn’t time fly?

Cat Lee8th grade

Brandon Cheng - 2nd grade

The TowerThe Tower

The Tower stands so tall.Who would want to make it fall?No one would.That doesn’t mean you should.I wish I could climb it in middle school.So the new Tower must be cool.Let’s say hooray!Today’s the day,that the Tower falls.

Maggie Kurtz1st Grade

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Taysha Kim - 5th grade

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To view Images online and in color, go to the Chandler School website and look for Images 2014.

chandlerschool.org/publications