Written Telepathy Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

Collected and edited by John D. Horton

Collected work Copyright © 2016 John D. Horton Individual authors retain rights to individual pieces.

ISBN: 978-365-06677-1

All rights reserved

Printed in the United States of America First Edition

Cover design by John D. Horton

Mr. Horton’s Class

Westside Middle School 8601 Arbor Street Omaha, NE 68124

contents

Introduction JOHN HORTON ................................................................ 1

Clarence (fiction) JOHN HORTON .................................................... 8

Section I: My Friend Nigel

My Friend Nigel (fiction) ANDREW ............................................. 13

My Friend Nigel (fiction) ANGELA .............................................. 15

My Friend Nigel (fiction) ASHLEY ...................................... 17

My Friend Nigel (fiction) CAL ...................................................... 19

My Friend Nigel (fiction) DAVID1 ............................................... 21

My Friend Nigel (fiction) DAVID2 ............................................... 22

My Friend Nigel (fiction) DELANEY ........................................... 23

My Friend Nigel (fiction) EVA ........................................... 25

My Friend Nigel (fiction) GABBY ....................................... 27

My Friend Nigel (fiction) JACOB ........................................ 28

My Friend Nigel (fiction) JACKSON .................................... 29

My Friend Nigel (fiction) JEROMY ...................................... 30

My Friend Nigel (fiction) KENAN ................................................ 32

My Friend Nigel (fiction) KYLE ................................................... 33

My Friend Nigel (fiction) LILY ..................................................... 34

My Friend Nigel (fiction) MICHAEL2........................................... 35

My Friend Nigel (fiction) SKYLER ............................................... 37

My Friend Nigel (fiction) RALPH ................................................. 38

Section II: Much Loved Stuffed Animals

Absurd Teddy Bear (fiction) TRINITY ......................................... 41

Bruce (fiction) ABBY....................................................................... 44

The Demon in My Pillow (fiction) MAX2 ............................ 46

Elizabeth (fiction) HADLEY .......................................................... 50

Giving Up On Toys (fiction) KOBY ............................................ 53

Glen (fiction) LYDIA ...................................................................... 55

Henry (fiction) JORDAN ................................................................. 58

Joey (fiction) ANNE ........................................................................ 61

My Dead Teddy Bear (fiction) SEAN ........................................... 64

Plaid Dog (fiction) TERA ............................................................... 67

Raven (fiction) CINDY ................................................................... 69

Stubby the Bear (fiction) KEELIN....................................... 73

Stuffed Squirrel (fiction) HAILEY ................................................. 75

Telly (fiction) GRACE ........................................................ 77

Timothy GIOVANNI ....................................................................... 79

Section III: NeSA W State Writing Exam Essays

Adventureland ALEXIS .................................................................. 83

Baseball Tournaments HARRISON ............................................... 86

Belize CHRISTIANO ........................................................................ 88

Campout ELEANOR ....................................................................... 91

My Grandma ANNIE ...................................................................... 94

My Little Piece of Heaven CLAIRE .............................................. 98

My Place SAMANTHA ................................................................... 102

Pheasant Hunting ANONYMOUS ............................................... 105

Summer Camping SIERRA ........................................................... 107

Section IV: Miscellaneous In-Class Essays

Burnt Mac and Cheese DEREK .................................................. 113

Bystanders TAIYA ......................................................................... 115

Campout LAUREN ........................................................................ 117

Cooper and Chloe JOSH ............................................................... 119

Dad’s Story KOURTNEY .............................................................. 122

The Enchantment of Autumn MALIA ....................................... 126

Florida CODY ................................................................................ 128

Golda (fiction) KELLY .................................................................. 130

Grief KAITLYN .............................................................. 132

Hotel Fun TAYLOR ........................................................................ 134

Learning From My Dad MAHMOUD .......................................... 137

Let’s Face It, I’m Clumsy SAM ......................................... 140

Malls RYAN .................................................................................... 143

Man’s Best Tracker HUCK ........................................................... 146

The Midnight Ball (fiction) THOMAS ......................................... 148

The Pacer ALEXA ......................................................................... 150

The Perfect Classroom JAMES .................................................... 152

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

5

Silver Dollar City MICHAEL1 ...................................................... 154

Stranded ISABELLA ....................................................................... 156

Stuck in the Slide LUKES .................................................. 160

Surfing in California CAMRYN .................................................... 163

Winter Vacation BROOKLYN ........................................... 165

Worthwhile Ride JOE ................................................................... 167

Wyoming Ride ASHLEIGH .............................................. 169

Section V: Miscellaneous Out-of-Class Writing

American History Immigrant Journal ADAM ........................... 177

American History Journal (fiction) DYLAN2 ............................ 179

American History Slave Journal (fiction) BRENDEN .............. 181

The Dark (poem) MARYAM ........................................................ 183

Earworm (fiction) MARYAM ....................................................... 185

I am the Darkness MARYAM ....................................................... 187

Into This World We Come BROOKE ........................................ 189

Pedra (fiction) ELLA ..................................................................... 191

Poems BRELIN .............................................................................. 194

Ramblings of the Night JULIA .................................................... 197

Stakeout (fiction) BRETT ............................................................. 199

Why I Want to Go to College MALIK ....................................... 202

Wise Words of Mr. Horton EMMA ............................................ 205

Zombies MADDIE .......................................................... 172

Zombie Not MINNA .................................................................... 209

Section VI: Predicted Endings to The Rag and Bone Shop (WARNING: This section may not be appropriate for younger readers)

Jason Dorrant’s Denouement (fiction) THEO .......................... 213

The Rag and Bone Shop (fiction) DYLAN1 ........................ 216

The Rag and Bone Shop (fiction) REAGAN ....................... 219

Section VII: Novel Excerpt (NOTE: Contains mild profanity)

Novel Excerpt (fiction) ELIZABETH AND BELLA ................. 225

Within these pages, I have collected samples of writing

from eighty-four of the one hundred eighteen students in my

six eighth grade English classes.

I left the choice of what to submit to each author, so

there are a variety of pieces. What should be common among

them is solid craft and specific sensory descriptions.

This year we have relied on the advice of experts to guide

craft and description. From Donald Murray, we learned the

craft of revision. From Stephen King we learned how much to

describe and how to keep our descriptions in service of the

story. From Sol Stein we learned particularity. From William

Zinsser we learned to be clear, be simple, be brief, and be our-

selves. And from all of them we learned to weed out pesky ad-

verbs. We learned to avoid exclamation points and air quotes.

We learned to only use said in our dialogue attributions. We

learned not to start our essays with, “Have you ever.” Most of

all we learned that good writing is a result of good thinking.

Introduction

JOHN HORTON

Written Telepathy

2

To create a common frame of reference and to increase

our ability to describe with particularity, I devised a four level

hierarchy of description.

A level 1 description uses a plain, unmodified, noun; e.g.,

hat, shoe, cat, sandwich.

At level 2 when a vague adjective is added to the noun;

e.g., amazing hat, new shoe, black cat, expensive sandwich.

At level 3, an uncommon adjective or a hyphenated ad-

jective is added to the noun; e.g., cheetah-print hat, patent

leather shoe, decrepit cat, worm-infested sandwich.

It is also level 3 when something is added after a noun

and connected by with; e.g., a hat with cheetah prints on it, a

shoe with purple laces, a cat with three legs, a sandwich with

the odor of death.

Level 4 requires an analogy (simile or metaphor). Two

sentence frames I encourage my students to use are “looked as

if” and “the kind of;” e.g., the shoe looked as if it had been de-

signed for a queen, or it was the kind of sandwich that eats you

back two hours after lunch.

For important details, we tended toward Level 4 because

they give the reader an impression, which conveys the impor-

tant nature of the noun being described but keeps the reader

an active participant by letting her complete the image from

her own experience with similar nouns; i.e., if I tell you that the

sandwich is the kind that eats you back two hours after lunch,

you can imagine whatever ingredients you want.

For other, less important details, we used Level 1, Level

2, and Level 3, choosing whichever better served the needs of

the particular piece of writing.

I have a hat.

I have a furry hat, or I have a black hat.

I have a Russian army hat, or I have a hat with ear flaps.

I have the kind of hat a Russian soldier would wear in Siberia, or I have a hat that looks as if someone made a rab-bit-fur mullet without the party in the back.

Levels of Description

We put our descriptive talents to use on a every piece of

writing we did, but I designed two assignments specifically to

help build these skills. Those assignments were “My Friend

Nigel,” and “Much Loved Stuffed Animals.” This collection

holds numerous examples of each. A brief explanation of the

assignments follows.

Written Telepathy

4

My Friend Nigel

I decided to start our foray into written telepathy by hav-

ing an actual image that we could share. I chose a picture of a

cubby cabinet loaded to overflowing with British memorabilia.

(You can find the image we used by searching the Internet for

“I-Spy Queen Elizabeth.”)

I gave students the image and the starter sentence, “My

friend Nigel is obsessed with British Royalty.” The assignment

was to choose five items from the shelves that would serve as

evidence of Nigel’s obsession.

Once students had their list of chosen items, five Level 1

nouns, they were to adapt each item, turning it into a Level 3

or Level 4 detail. So, plate became cheesy collector’s plate with

the face of the Queen painted on it. Crown became diamond-

encrusted crown. And tiara became the kind of thing you’d ex-

pect to win at an eight-year-old’s birthday party for almost pin-

ning a tail on a donkey.

We also discovered that, since we were in essence trying

to characterize Nigel by describing his collection, adding an

action, showing how Nigel used the items, made our descrip-

tions even better. So, diamond-encrusted scepter became dia-

mond-encrusted scepter that he waved in front of his sister’s

face like a magic wand, repeating, “Be gone foul vermin,” in a

bad British accent.

We had a lot of fun at Nigel’s expense, and in so doing,

our descriptions became vivid and clear. The images in our

minds were making it into the minds of our readers.

Much Loved Stuffed Animals

After we’d polished the single-paragraph essays describ-

ing our friend Nigel’s obsession with British royalty, we were

ready to apply our newly-honed telepathic skills in a longer

piece. And that meant it was time to talk about planning.

I discarded the ubiquitous sandwich/hamburger meta-

phor—the top bun is your lead, the bottom bun your closing,

and the meat, lettuce, and tomato your body paragraphs—as

limited and ineffective. Even done well, all you get with a ham-

burger outline is broad strokes, and I needed something that

went deeper.

I relegated the idea to my subconscious for a few days,

and finally I hit upon the metaphor of a meal menu. I instantly

liked three things about it:

1. It would be easy to add or subtract meal courses

(body paragraphs) to suit essays of different length.

2. By listing the ingredients for each course (sensory de-

scriptions), our outline went further than the broad

strokes of the hamburger model.

3. It avoided the time-honored and almost always bad

suggestion that a closing should repeat the lead (top

bun, bottom bun). By equating the lead with starters

and the closing with dessert—the menu model sug-

gested writers save the best for last.

To put the metaphor to the test, I found the amazing

book Much Loved by Mark Nixon (a book I highly recommend

everyone buy, but you can search the Internet for “much loved

stuffed animals,” and find most of the photographs from the

book.) It is a treasure trove of high-definition pictures of well-

worn stuffed animals. I am a firm believer that it’s easier to de-

scribe how bad something is than how good it is. So, this book

was perfect. These animals definitely had stories to tell, or

rather, I hoped we would have stories to tell about them, sto-

ries into which we could weave Level 3 and Level 4 details.

I chose a picture of a pink bunny from the book and

wrote a meal menu for an essay telling his story. In the name

of full disclosure, I have to admit that I have always liked scary

stories, the creepier the better. The first story I remember writ-

ing was a little thing called “The House of the Devel,” which I

coauthored with my friend Ramy. (I wasn’t that great a speller

in third grade, and I’m only marginally better now.) I didn’t

count on my penchant for the dark and macabre inspiring so

many students to follow a similar path. So if you find some of

the stuffed animal essays a bit like something Stephen King

might have written, I am to blame (though I prefer to think I

am to credit because over ninety percent* of my students were

able to take the skills they learned describing these damaged

animals and use them to pass the state writing test. By com-

parison, the state average for students passing the test was sixty

-eight. Also, for whatever reason, teenagers love to write about

the dark and mysterious, so I used that to our advantage.)

I have included on the next pages my Clarence menu and

the essay that grew from it. Please note that the menu is a

guide, written before the essay, so while most of the ingredi-

ents show up in the final piece, not all of them do. The menu

is for inspiration. The actual story dictates which details to use.

*90% passed the test, including 54% who exceeded standards, and 24% who earned perfect scores.

Clarence Menu starters

I learned my s tu f fed bunny i s ev i l U*: brings back bad memories

S*: hat box painted like a sarcophagus

A*: shiver when walk by the box

1st course

gave me n ightmares sweat

sound of footsteps

flashbulb afterimage

innocent expression

2nd

course

made me break my arm bunk bed

closet door creaking

lump wave under the blanket

wan smile

sound of radius snapping like a dry twig

3rd

course

t r ied to murder my l i t t le s i s te r sister wriggling in contentment

parents’ disappointed expression

bunny winking

fleece blanket

sister choking

dessert

the sarcophagus grandma’s hatbox

painted hieroglyphics

attic clutter

* U = something unexpected or odd, S = something we can see, A = an action

8

For my sixth birthday, my uncle gave me a pink terrycloth

bunny—an unusual gift for a young boy. But fifty years later, I

still know where it is. And just thinking about it sends a chill

shuddering through me from top to toe. Most children who

keep a stuffed animal into their adult years do so because they

cherish the thing, consider it almost part of the family. Not

me. I learned early what that bunny was about, and I simply

won’t be responsible for unleashing that incarnate evil on any-

one else.

I started having nightmares just after I turned six. My par-

ents attributed it to too much TV and an overactive imagina-

tion, but it was really because of Clarence. He’d sit there on my

bookshelf, propped up against my collection of Little Bear and

Frog and Toad books, his pink fur turned purple by the blue

glow of my nightlight, and dare me to try to sleep. Every time I

closed my eyes, I swear I heard terrycloth footsteps slinking

across the hardwood floor. I’d pop my eyes open, trying to

catch him in the act, but Clarence was too quick for me. He’d

Clarence (fiction)

JOHN HORTON

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

9

always be there, back on the shelf, that phony innocent expres-

sion on his face, like he’d never even moved.

Clarence is also the reason I broke my arm. Because of

the nightmares, I’d started putting him in the closet. One sum-

mer night, after hours of playing Twelve O’clock Midnight

with the neighborhood kids, I must have been too tired to re-

member to secure the closet door before I climbed onto the

top bunk. The details aren’t clear, but I remember my mom

climbing up to kiss me goodnight. Then, sometime later, I

woke to the sound of a creaking door. Paralyzed in terror, I

scanned the room, listening hard with my eyes. That’s when I

saw the lump under the covers at my feet. It was moving to-

ward me like a fleece wave. I threw off the blanket as if it were

on fire, and flew out of the bed, landing square on my right

wrist. It snapped like a dry twig, and as I lay sprawled on the

floor, writhing in pain, I looked up to see Clarence peering at

me over the edge of the bed, a wan smile on his face and

mocking bunny giggles escaping his sewn-on lips.

The last straw for me was when Clarence tried to murder

my baby sister. This happened when Natalie was just over two

months old, and my mother had taken to fits of cleaning to

offset her post-partum emotions. On this day, my mother had

spent the morning organizing my bedroom closet. I returned

from playing outside to find the games sorted alphabetically,

the clothes arranged first by type then by color, the shoes in

matching pairs, and no sign of Clarence. In all my life, I’ve

never been kicked in the head, but at that moment, I knew

what it must feel like. I ran from the room, following my in-

stincts straight to the nursery. There I found Natalie lying face

down in her crib and Clarence nestled next to her, grinning at

Written Telepathy

10

me. Natalie hadn’t yet learned how to roll herself back over,

and I knew if she stayed like that, she could have suffocated.

So, I reached through the bars of the crib and gently turned

her onto her back. She smiled up at me, opening her green

eyes wide as coat buttons, and wriggled in contentment. I gave

her mobile a slow spin to distract her while I snuck Clarence

out of the crib.

After that, I was determined to get rid of Clarence for

good. I found an old shoe box in the hall closet and dumped

out the used Christmas ribbons my mom kept in it. Then I

took markers and decorated the box like an Egyptian sar-

cophagus. I even made up my own hieroglyphics to warn peo-

ple never to open the box. I put Clarence inside face down,

taped the lid shut with black duct tape, and hid the box in the

attic clutter like Indiana Jones’s Lost Arc.

That was the last I thought of Clarence until this week

when my mother died and Natalie called to ask me to come

help sort out her estate. Someone has to empty the attic, and

Natalie is pregnant, so the job falls to me. Not that I’d have let

her do it under any circumstances. She has no memory of Cla-

rence, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.

Section I:

My Friend Nigel

13

My friend Nigel is obsessed with British Royalty. He took

over his mum’s entire kitchen to fill it with all of his collect-

ables.

If you saw the kitchen table you would call the nearest

insane asylum and tell them to come quickly. There are British

Royalty fan-boy things on every surface, and some just thrown

in random cupboards. Nigel has a picture of Queen Elizabeth

that he stares at every night before bed. In his free time, Nigel

watches his multiple copies of a DVD called Princess to Queen.

He knows every single line to this movie, and has recited it all

in his fourth, fifth, and sixth grade talent shows. He even taped

business cards on about every surface in London to advertise

his reciting-whole-movies-to-small-children skills.

This fanatic has a poster with a title, “Symbols of Sover-

eignty,” of which Nigel has color copies plastered onto every

wall of his apartment. My friend even has a teacup that has a

picture of Prince William on it. He once called me up at four

in the morning just to ask me if Jell-O was a liquid and

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

ANDREW

Written Telepathy

14

whether he should drink it out of his teapot of not. The fan

boy in question has a figurine of a king that he has slept with

every night for the past ten years.

None of these things are something that a normal human

being would do. Someone needs to get Nigel the help he so

clearly needs, before it’s too late, if it’s not already.

15

Nigel is an American citizen, though nothing he owns

honors America. Instead of red and white blue beer can

koozies, he collects porcelain teacup sets with cheesy clipart

depicting Britain in all its glory.

His obsession with British royalty has expanded his col-

lection recently, including a tablecloth with a full body shot of

Queen Elizabeth. Every time he eats dinner (by himself), he

places his plastic Duke and Duchess 4EVAH plate, utensils,

and teapot strategically so the Queen’s face is never covered.

Who wants to see the Queen’s toothy grin while eating fish

and chips and drinking taxed tea?

During dinner, he insists on watching his Princess to Queen

DVD as he eats. Honestly, it’s like one of those movies Disney

released back in ‘06 to teach pre-teens about making decisions

and how to dress like Hannah Montana. Every time the prin-

cess changes outfits in the movie, Nigel poses like her and

waves his plastic scepter, which by the way, is studded with

real, genuine, mock diamonds. He says he crawled through

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

ANGELA

Written Telepathy

16

hundreds of Wal-Mart discount bins just to find it.

If only he applied himself to reality like that.

17

My friend Nigel is thirty-four years old and taking over

his mom’s kitchen with his British royalty shrine.

What makes him different from the other members of

the British Royalty Drag Queens Enthusiasts Club is the

Queen Elizabeth bag that he has. The bag shows every single

wrinkle on her face, and Nigel has named all of them. When he

goes to the Club meetings, he always brings his teapot with a

candid photo of Prince William looking like What are these poor

people doing? on it. Every time a club member uses the teapot,

they are required to bow down before pouring themselves a

cup of tea. To go with the tea, Nigel brings his William and

Kate wedding cookie tin. The odd thing is that, if you want to

get a cookie, you have to dig through the hundreds of photos

from the wedding. Nigel found a way to get his hands on every

single released photo, and he keeps them in that tin.

Before all of his Drag Queen shows, Nigel watches his

DVD of Princess to Queen. He believes that watching it will help

him prepare for his next role in a show, a queen, even though

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

ASHLEY

Written Telepathy

18

his queen role is still seventeen months away.

After a long day of performing and club meetings, Nigel

goes home to his British Royalty shrine and puts all of the

items away, using protective gloves to prevent smudges. He

counts every collectable and then inspects the mini throne top-

ping all of it. The throne is an exact replica of Queen Eliza-

beth’s. Sitting in it is a 3D printed figurine of Nigel himself.

19

My friend Nigel is obsessed with British Royalty. He has

completely taken over what used to be his grandmother’s

shelves full of ancient China and has filled them with his Brit-

ish knick knacks.

For some reason, he owns a cheap king figurine that

looks like you could find it at the Dollar Tree, and he likes to

play with it and pretend he’s the queen. To help himself fit into

his queen role while playing with the toy, he puts on a beaded

necklace that looks like something the Queen would have

thrown it out years ago.

During lunch, he uses a knock-off spoon with a picture

of the crown on the handle so he can slurp up his soup. And

Nigel refuses to use any cup other than a coffee-stained cup he

had won at an auction, where they were selling the Queen’s

useless old possessions.

Also, he has a Prince Albert pipe box that looks as if it

has been buried for fifty years. He enjoys using the pipe inside

and smoking it to act as some big shot royalty you would see in

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

CAL

Written Telepathy

20

the movies.

I really hope Nigel will get over this sick obsession with

British Royalty. If he can’t seem to get over it himself, he’ll

need some serious help, perhaps a mental institute.

21

Dear Producers of MTV’s Intervention,

I’m writing this to help my dear friend Nigel. He has an

obsession, an obsession with British Royalty. After he moved

in with his parents, Nigel removed everything from their cub-

bies and put in his crazy items, like his Prince Albert tobacco

can that looks like it survived the trenches of both World

Wars. He even has some tobacco in there that he occasionally

uses for his pipe. Sadly, we are only scraping the surface. He as

two rare collector’s items, a spoon with a British Royalty sym-

bol and a book about the bloodlines of the family, that he pur-

chased at the Gathering of Crazy Fans of British Royalty (or

the GCFBR). His favorite item is his king figurine—the kind

you could have bought at a Dollar General. I’m hoping you

can help him out.

Help Nigel ASAP,

David

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

DAVID1

22

My friend Nigel is way into British royalty. His addiction

got worse when his mother died. He moved all of his British

junk into his mother’s house, cluttering it. Now Nigel tries to

act like the Queen of England. He always puts on his white

gloves that were fished out of a garbage dump and wears a

coronation dress, while speaking in a cheesy British accent.

He also drinks from a cheap white teapot, with roughly

painted blue words on it spelling “Queen of England.” Though

the teapot is cheap, Nigel polishes it daily. He also carries a pa-

per-printed picture of Queen Elizabeth, which he claims she

gave to him as a personal gift. Whenever he gets annoyed by

people, he shoves his poorly hand-whittled Queen’s guard fig-

ures into their face with a high-pitched, “Be gone! Guards take

him away!”

Every Sunday, Nigel prays to his cheap plastic Queen and

King figure, like they are his saviors. I hope Nigel stops this

phase of British-royalty worship and gets well soon.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

DAVID2

23

I have never seen anyone like my college roommate,

Nigel Appleton. A native to Britain, his life is dedicated to

British Royalty. Our college dorm is overrun with British col-

lectables, portraits of royalty, clothing, and more. The book-

case by Nigel’s bed says it all. Almost six feet tall, this thing is

stocked with Royal treasures up the wazoo.

The day I first met Nigel, a bulky object perched on the

top shelf caught my eye. It was just the delicate old tea pot that

Nigel polishes every single day. I squinted my eyes in disbelief

when I saw the face of Prince William beaming back at me

from the side of the tea pot. It’s the kind of pot that would at-

tract William’s fans even if they resented tea.

Looking around in horror, I spot tiaras scattered in every

imaginable place on the bookcase. The tiaras, all crawling with

tiny glistening rhinestones, blind me each time Nigel takes

them off the shelf to bask in awe of their fragile and feminine

structure.

The pillowcase that sits on Nigel’s bed is my least favor-

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

DELANEY

Written Telepathy

24

ite. Whenever I woke up and he was still sleeping, I’d see his

drool stringing down onto the poor, wrinkly face of Queen

Elizabeth. Nigel claims the pillowcase came with two tiny corgi

figurines, resembling the Queen’s corgis Willow and Holly.

Their beady ceramic eyes seem to stare when you cross the

room.

Each time I try to talk to Nigel about getting rid of some

of this paraphernalia, he tries to change the subject by showing

me his royally precious dinnerware. Kate and William probably

never asked for their faces to be put onto a plate, but they

were, and of course Nigel owns that plate. It sits on our table,

being primly polished every night. He only ever eats of off that

plate. Even with all the polishing, it’s getting so old, it looks

like an artifact from the Renaissance.

Nigel’s love for British royalty has always confused me.

It’s sort of like a Punk Rock band dancing ballet. Out-of-order.

Nevertheless, he likes what he likes, and if this British Royalty

obsession is a passion that burns a bright red in his heart, then

so be it.

25

My friend Nigel is thirty-four years old and taking over

his mom’s kitchen with his British royalty shrine. What makes

him different from the other members of the British Royalty

Drag Queens Enthusiasts Club is the Queen Elizabeth bag that

he has. The bag shows every single wrinkle on her face, and

Nigel has named all of them. When he goes to the Club meet-

ings, he always brings his teapot with a candid photo of Prince

William looking like What are these poor people doing? on it. Every

time a club member uses the teapot, they are required to bow

down before poring themselves a cup of tea. To go with the

tea, Nigel brings his William and Kate wedding cookie tin. The

odd thing is that, if you want to get a cookie, you have to dig

through the hundreds of photos from the wedding. Nigel

found a way to get his hands on every single released photo.

Before all of his Drag Queen shows, Nigel watches his

DVD of Princess to Queen. He believes that watching it will help

him prepare for his next role in a show, a queen, even though

his queen role is still seventeen months away. After a long day

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

EVA

Written Telepathy

26

of performing and club meetings, Nigel goes home to his Brit-

ish Royalty shrine and puts all of the items away, using protec-

tive gloves to prevent smudges. He counts every collectable

and then inspects the mini throne topping all of it. The throne

is an exact replica of Queen Elizabeth’s. Sitting in it is a 3D

printed figurine of Nigel himself. Nigel lives, eats and breathes

with his obsession.

27

My friend Nigel made his grandmother clear out her

kitchenware shelves so he could store all these little things

about British Royalty. He has this little king figurine that just

sits there and I swear it’s eyes follow me every step I take in

any direction. It’s the creepiest thing in existence. There is this

small pin button that has a picture of Princess Kate and Prince

William taken right after their wedding. He never leaves the

house unless he has it pinned to the side of his left sock. He

says it gives him good luck.

There are seven bejeweled tiaras that sit on the very top

of the shelves and he wears a specific one every day of the

week. Every single night for the last twenty years, he eats off

this collector’s plate that has a huge picture of Princess Kate

and Price William. Then right before bed, he reads a chapter of

Princess to Queen and then when he gets done with the book

he reads it again and again. Nigel’s obsession seriously worries

me sometimes.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

GABBY

28

My friend Nigel is engrossed with royalty.

Recently, he purchased a commemorative china plate dis-

playing an image of Prince William and Princess Kate. On his

cupboard lean two bobble heads — a king and a queen, who

seem to nod back at Nigel continuously. Next to the bobble

heads stands a king figure posing like the Statue of Liberty. Be-

low the chinaware stands a toy royal soldier that a pawn shop

wouldn’t buy. Every year on his birthday, Nigel uses the nap-

kin with the cheap, pixilated graphic of Queen Elizabeth II,

and pretends to have a sovereign feast.

Nigel’s hobby of collecting royal items has turned into an

obsession — now his kitchen cupboards are filled to the point

that the doors won’t close.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

JACOB

29

My friend Nigel is insane. He took over his grandma’s

kitchen just for all of his British Royalty knick knacks. He has

an antique picture of the Queen of England in Pristine condi-

tion, and right next to it he has a plate with George and Eliza-

beth that he uses to eat brunch from everyday.

But that’s not the only plate with royalty on it that he

owns. He has a plate with Kate and William too; however, he

uses this daily for dinner. There is also a diamond-encrusted

crown and tiara that look as if the King and Queen wore them.

I haven’t even told you the worst part. He has a scepter

with a diamond tip that he and his friends play with over the

weekend. I think it is safe to say my friend Nigel is obsessed

with British Royalty.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

JACKSON

30

My best friend Nigel is obsessed with British royalty. I

know this because when he invited me over to his house that is

the size of a playhouse for a backyard. I knew something was

going to happen. I walked in and had to duck my head under

his doorway. Nigel didn’t have to duck because he was only

five foot one. We walked in and sat at the kitchen table with

small little teacups on it. Nigel went to get the ice-cold tea

from the refrigerator.

This was boring, so I tried to come up with an excuse to

get me out of the this place, but it was to late. When he

brought the tea container, I noticed a flag on it. I knew what it

was, the bold red, white, and blue of the British flag.

I asked Nigel, “You don’t live England. You know that

right?”

He told me to wait upstairs while he went to get some-

thing. Instead, I followed Nigel down the wooden creaking

stairs to the spider-infested basement.

I saw a little bit of light coming from the bottom of the

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

JEROMY

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

31

stairs. I followed the light and noticed a huge bookshelf that

looked like one a five-year-old girl might put her Barbie’s on. It

had British Royalty on every shelf that it had. Hard glass cups

clung around the corner. And there was a round table with

teddy bears that looked like they had been in a fire.

I ran out of the dollhouse and hit my head on the door-

way because I did not duck. I heard Nigel coming up the

wooden stairs shouting at me to join him. I got up and ran to

my car and drove off, never to see him again.

32

My friend Nigel is obsessed with British Royalty. He

filled his mother’s bone china display case with English knick

-knacks to the point where the only porcelain visible is an

ancient plate with the Prince on it. Next to it rests a huge

tome called Princess to Queen, which looks as if it has been sal-

vaged from a World War II bunker. Scattered about the ex-

hibit lie plastic tiaras with very obviously counterfeit dia-

monds and crowns that look so cheap they would have been

out of place at a carnival. In one crown lays a wooden model

of the queen’s chariot, complete with tin soldier figures with

chipping paint. Nigel is not even accumulating actual collec-

tor’s items anymore; he just hoards everything with a flag,

and I am starting to worry about him.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

KENAN

33

Yesterday I went to visit my old buddy Nigel. He was all

too excited to show me his basement. So down we went.

Shelf after shelf of never ending royalty. He walked me

down the aisle my, eyes glancing from one object to another,

stunned. Soon enough I laid sight on something really worth

seeing. It was this funny looking teapot with queen Elizabeth

written in gold on it.

We kept walking until a crown stopped me in my tracks.

It looked as if it were made from pure gold. Nigel assured me

it was just a fake. Next to the crown was a coffee mug with

Diamond Jubilee written on it. I moved the mug off of a hard

leather book and took a few seconds to look at the cover. It

was a book called Princess to Queen by Catherine Clay.

He walked me through the rest of his British Royalty then

we went upstairs and we drank some tea and talked about our

pasts.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

KYLE

34

My friend Nigel sits down with his worn-out Princess to

Queen book and studies it while drinking out of his stained

Queen Elizabeth tea cup.

He is obsessed, no doubt, with British Royalty. He wears

a glove around just to shake people’s hands, which he does by

barely touching their hand; he more like shakes their pointer

finger.

Nigel is in drag queen shows because it is the closest

thing to being queen he is going to get. In his drag queen

shows, Nigel uses a four-year-old plastic crown, which looks

like he literally stole it from a four-year-old. There are jewels

missing and parts are taped together.

He also hits little kids on the head with a wand that has a

bejeweled crown at the end of it. It is the type of crown that

you would watch a DIY video to make.

Despite all that weirdness, he is still my friend.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

LILY

35

My Friend Nigel is obsessed with British Royalty. He

took over his mom’s kitchen to store his assorted novelty

items. One of his most adored items is his diamond-encrusted

tiara that he straps to his ugly poodle, Max, who he treats like a

queen.

In his crowded bedroom, he arranges a tea set using his

white, Queen Elizabeth tea pot that looks as if it has been pol-

ished and wiped down a billion times. He pours me a cup of

tea in a massive white coffee cup emblazoned with the flag of

England surrounded by many crowns and ribbons. He care-

fully places crustless sandwich triangles on collector’s plates,

each with a picture of the queen and the king in the middle and

stylish feathers surrounding them. Before we eat, he insists that

we recite and hum England’s National Anthem.

I am about to touch his creepy novelties when he screams

and brings me to a halt. He reaches in the back pocket of his

jeans and pulls out two sets of stained grey gloves that look as

if they were found in a dumpster. I quickly slip them on, and

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

MICHAEL2

Written Telepathy

36

after having a tea party for what feels like hours, I leave My

Friend Nigel to his stockpile of creepy novelties.

37

Last night, when I visited my friend Nigel’s house, I no-

ticed that he had taken his grandmother’s silverware chest and

filled it with worthless British doodads.

He had an old black and white photograph he’d kept in

pristine condition. It was that of a queen and looked as though

the picture might have hung on a museum wall.

If you looked at any Christmas tree, you would probably

find the exact same kind of King doll as Nigel’s, except this

one was made of China glass. He also had a photograph plate

depicting Harry and Kate that you could find hanging on the

wall of a kitchen. He even had a toy royal guard—the kind that

people try to make blink. While any normal person who had

bought the plastic toy carriage that Nigel owns would long ago

have forgotten about it, or discarded it in a toy chest, Nigel

keeps his on his nightstand.

Lord knows what stories are behind these pieces of junk.

I think Nigel is obsessed with British Royalty.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

SKYLER

38

Nigel is one serious royalty fan boy. When I walk into his

house, he makes me bow to him and wear his diamond en-

crusted tiara that he found in a little girl’s toy chest. Then he

taps me on my shoulders with his goofy scepter.

He has a shelf with all of his cheap and cheesy plates and

cups. One plate has a picture of young Queen Elizabeth on it

and it looks like something a girl would use at a queen-themed

party. One cup has a picture of the new Queen, who is too

young for us to care, and it looks like a crappy collectable you

would fine at a pawnshop.

Last, he has a bin that is used for popcorn whenever he

makes it. It has a picture of King Arthur, but it’s the kind of

picture where the eyes follow you around like in a horror film.

My Friend Nigel (fiction)

RALPH

Section II:

Much Loved Stuffed Animals

41

When I was little I had quite a few problems dealing with

things. Everyday was a struggle for me. So when my birthday

came around, things weren’t happy like they were expected to

be. In fact, I decided not to celebrate at all. Instead, I just lay in

my bed all day, until my mom called me downstairs with a

warm smile on her face.

I watched her as she raised her hand and patted it on the

couch cushion. I sat right next to her. She looked at me and

smiled as she plopped a beat up teddy bear on my lap. It had

sharp tangled wires tightened fiercely around it’s crusty neck

and it’s skin was ripped at the seams.

She told me that behind every beaten up heart, is a fasci-

nating story. I looked down at the teddy bear and stared into

its plastic pointed face. And somehow, I thought I saw it grin.

My mom saw my facial expression, and I’m pretty sure she was

just as surprised as I was.

After I gave her a hug, I carried the teddy bear upstairs

and set it on my desk. I turned to my closet and put on my pa-

Absurd Teddy Bear (fiction)

TRINITY

Written Telepathy

42

jamas. I went to the bathroom and brushed my teeth, then

came back to my room. I went to grab my teddy bear, but I

couldn’t seem to find it.

I figured my mom had taken it downstairs, so I plopped

in my bed and stared at my glow-in-the-dark stars. Then I no-

ticed a figure at the end of my bed. I ignored it, trying to make

myself believe I was brave, that the figure was nothing to

worry about. Then I heard a bang, as if something hard hit the

floor. I hopped out of my bed and ran for the light switch and

flipped it on. I barely made it back to bed when the lights

flicked off, and I felt a heavy breath move my hair. Goose-

bumps carried themselves all over my body.

I freaked out and screamed. Then my frightened golden

retriever came racing into my room and bit my teddy bear. I

guess my mom didn’t hear me because she never came upstairs

to see if I was okay. I rushed my dog out of the room, wanting

to know more about this absurd teddy bear. I grabbed it and

looked straight into it’s black pearl eyes. The crusty little thing

opened it’s mouth slowly and two words smoothly slipped out,

“Let’s play.” I was most definitely scared, but amazed at the

same time. So I decided to join the game.

He whispered in a low voice, “Hide” and slowly started

counting. I put him on my bed, tiptoed to my closet and shut

the doors quietly. I peeked through the little crack between the

two doors to make sure he wasn’t cheating. He wasn’t where

he had been when he started counting. So I sat down on the

floor and waited for him to find me.

I stood straight to my feet when I heard his snarled cackle

from behind me. It must have lasted for five seconds or more.

I was officially creeped-out and threw the closet doors open. I

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

43

was about halfway to my bed when I slipped on a puddle of

warm blood. I fell on my back and my arms flew out to my

sides. One of my arms hit something furry and stiff. I passed

out right then and there.

The next morning I woke up on my bed with my teddy

bear right beside me. Thank God it was just a dream. Relieved,

I opened my diary and flipped to the dream section. I started

to write and then stopped, noticing the bloody fingerprints on

each page.

44

Whenever you see me I will always have one thing. I carry

around a teddy bear that looks like it was shredded by a lawn

mower. I never let this bear, Bruce, out of my sight. If you

look at my bear you would think it would be a great prop for a

horror movie.

Bruce has the phenomenon of having something related

to him coincide with something unlucky in my family. For ex-

ample, when my mom gave Bruce to me, he only had one ear.

My mom went to the hospital the day after she gave me Bruce

and she was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Not long after, she

had her surgery to remove the tumor, and now she only has

hearing in one ear. From that day forward, I knew that Bruce

was cursed.

Once, I saw my dog shaking her head frantically as she

held something in her mouth. I realized it was Bruce and im-

mediately started panicking. I told her to drop Bruce, but she

just kept chewing. I had to play tug-of-war and, as a result, my

dog bit Bruce’s paw off. A week after the bear lost his paw, my

Bruce (fiction)

ABBY

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

45

brother’s hand got shattered like a piece of glass in a car door.

He couldn’t use it for three months.

I showed Bruce as much love as possible so that nothing

else bad would happen. Sadly, I loved Bruce a little too much

because the stitching on one arm completely fell apart. I knew

something bad was going to happen, so I made sure I took ex-

tra precautions. I tried so hard to keep my family safe that I

forgot about myself, and I fell six feet out of a rotten tree and

broke my arm.

I can’t help but think what worse is going to happen to

my family if I don’t take care of Bruce. I can never leave him

alone, and I sleep with one eye open at night because my fam-

ily means so much to me. I wouldn’t be able to live without

them.

46

If someone had told me a month ago that my emoji pil-

low was possessed, I probably would have laughed it off and

made a self note to stock my satchel with mace. But at least it

would have been a warning. I had no warning, or anything that

would have made me suspect that the stupid pillow my aunt

gave me contained a demonic presence.

I would say it was a dark and stormy night, but it was ac-

tually a bright and cloudless morning, unusual for December.

My eccentric aunt Teresa, rainbow cat earrings gleaming, was

the first to arrive for the Christmas family gathering, and by a

good eight hours, too. Teresa had built up a habit of doing

this, so I was hardly surprised when she walked in, two pack-

ages stacked in her arms, both unwrapped and clearly last min-

ute. She was notoriously bad at choosing gifts, and this Christ-

mas she bought me a rap album (I hate rap), and an overly

loud piano key necktie.

The final gift she had chosen for me this year was espe-

cially abysmal. I got the aforementioned emoji pillow, and the

The Demon in My Pillow (fiction)

MAX2

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

47

first thing I thought when I saw it was that it belonged in a

teenage girl’s bedroom, not my small, modern house. It would

be terribly out of place among the staplers and stacks of papers

on my desk. I would give it to my kid, but as of now, my kid

doesn’t exist.

I didn’t want to touch it, but I thanked her with the usual

fabricated smile. She could have been giving it to one of the

children of the family, but she rarely gives anyone but me a

Christmas present. And if she did, it would be a half-used bot-

tle of smelly mustard, or perhaps a brown sock that was once

white. I think she did this just to spite her relatives.

The rest of the night went without incident, with gifts ex-

changed and food eaten. As usual, the party only lasted a cou-

ple of hours. (My family tries to spend as little time with each

other as possible.) Once it was all over, I began cleanup, and

noticed that the pillow was gone. Maybe one of my cousins

had taken it. Thank goodness.

I realized my theory was wrong when I woke up the next

morning that I found it laying next to my door, propped up

slightly so it could watch me while I slept. I jumped when I

saw it. Who wouldn’t, with those stitched, soulless eyes? I

sighed, and threw it in the garbage on top of the pile of

Teresa’s other gifts. I started to walk away then turned back.

Looking at it’s eyes sent a shiver down my spine. I turned it

face down then tied up the garbage and took it out, even

though it was only half-full. A couple of days later, the garbage

men picked it up, and I was relieved to be rid of it.

Now, this is where things get weird. I swear, I threw that

thing away, but the morning after I thought the garbage people

picked it up, I found it lying by my back door. Weird. I didn’t

Written Telepathy

48

think too much about it, though. Maybe Teresa had given

somebody else one, too, and that unfortunate person had put it

there. This one went into the garbage as well. The next morn-

ing, there was the emoji pillow. This was when I started freak-

ing out.

That night, I tossed it into my fireplace and set it alight. It

made an awful smell, like burning onions and tabasco sauce.

But, despite my efforts, again I found that thing by my back

door.

At this point, I started noticing odd things about it. If I

stared into its eyes, they seemed to turn red, but then I would

blink, and the effect would disappear. Also, when I was alone,

I thought I could hear laughing, and not the happy kind. It

would appear in weird places around my house, like in my

shower or next to my bed when I wake up.

I called Teresa and asked her where she got the pillow.

She told me that she found it on the side of the road on the

way to the party, by the old abandoned mansion on Hickory

Street—the one that had burned down two weeks before.

I gave Teresa a long, firm lecture about not choosing

people’s gifts from the side of the road next to burnt-out man-

sions. She said that she knew a priest or something. At this

point I was willing to try anything. I dialed the guy’s number,

and three harrowing, sleepless days later he showed up at my

door, and I showed him to the pillow in question.

He asked me to leave the room, and after a good three

hours, I became too impatient to wait any longer. I opened my

living room door, and he was rummaging through my desk. As

you would expect, he was soon out of my house, with a

bruised rump and all the stuff he could shove into his pockets.

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

49

I never left the house, never went to work, for a full

week, as I tried to formulate a plan to get rid of the emoji pil-

low. I ripped it into little pieces, stabbed it with a wooden

cross I made with two spoons, and shoved garlic into its stuff-

ing, all to no avail.

After two months of haunted rage, I brought the pillow

back to the burnt-out mansion where Teresa had found it and

buried it in the front yard. And that was the last I saw of that

accursed thing.

50

Since the day I was born I’ve had the same best friend.

People call her the filthy rabbit, or childish rabbit. I call her

Elizabeth. Even now, I can picture my mother, rocking on her

chair, singing a lullaby and cradling me as she gave me the rab-

bit. During that time, I bet my father was in the background

somewhere watching the Cooking Channel so he could help

around the house.

Elizabeth always would cause trouble inside and outside

the house. She was my partner in crime. When I was three

years old, I had a sweet tooth for cookies. I would throw Eliza-

beth on top of the fridge, while I was on the floor hoping that

she would knock the jar over. One time, Elizabeth got stuck

on top of the fridge, and I became impatient, so I decided to

climb up there myself. Mother must have heard some noises

because she came in the kitchen where she saw me and Eliza-

beth imprisoned on top of the white fridge.

At the age of four, my brother received a skateboard. Not

just any skateboard, it was a long board. Whenever he was

Elizabeth (fiction)

HADLEY

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

51

gone, my parents hid the skateboard, praying that I would

never find it. But I found it, and Elizabeth would sit on the

board with me while going down the neighborhood hill.

I wanted to help my father. He was always busy and had

no time for my mother. He couldn’t even finish the painting

job he was doing in his office. I couldn’t exactly find the

wooden brushes, so Elizabeth agreed to be my little helper and

to be the paintbrush herself. Mother and Father weren’t im-

pressed by the horrendous mess I made.

Mother said I had to go to bed at eight o’clock every

night or I would have a temper the next day. What she never

knew was that Elizabeth and I would stay up late trying to

catch the monsters under my bed. At one point I thought I

had seen a one-eyed, one-horned, flying, purple people eater.

Elizabeth convinced me that the creature hadn’t come to eat

me and that I was just tired. Elizabeth knew everything, and I

always trusted her.

Elizabeth was always there when I needed her. I used to

run alongside the car as my mother drove to work. The

neighborhood I lived in had a terrible road. There were peb-

bles piled on top of each other and massive pot holes. Once I

happened to trip, and I scratched my knee. My mom was too

far away to see me face-plant. When I went home with eyes

full of tears, Elizabeth was on the table where I left her. She

leaned forward, falling into my arms as if she knew what hap-

pened and wanted to give me a hug. Her softness touched my

injured knee and felt like the kisses that my mom gives me to

make my wounds feel better.

When my parents would go out and leave me with a

babysitter, Elizabeth would keep me company and give me the

Written Telepathy

52

attention I never received from the babysitter. But when the

babysitter finally did want to pay attention, I would have a

black top hat and I would wear a long black tablecloth that

acted as if it was my amazing cape, and Elizabeth would be the

rabbit that I would pull out of my magical hat.

School was always tough, I was the smallest student out

of my entire school, which made me an easy target for a bully.

I never really paid attention to the things Billy would say to

me, until the day he called me a worthless mutt.. Elizabeth was

in my school bag, and poor Elizabeth was torn up and one of

her eyes were missing, which might have spooked Billy. After I

started carrying her around, Billy left me alone, leaving me

confident. Life as a kid was kind of terrifying but Elizabeth

was my guardian and protected me from the darkness keeping

me safe and sound.

When we were moving, I was eleven, and I didn’t need

Elizabeth anymore. And she didn’t need me. I found a shoe-

box that was large enough to put her in and I found a rose in

my mother’s garden. I slowly lay Elizabeth down and put her

hands on her stomach, as if she was the one in a coffin at a fu-

neral. As I was putting the rose on her, a tear ran down my

cheek because she was the only friend I had and would be my

last friend for a long time.

53

My bear is no longer my best friend. I’m thirteen and

growing older, so I’m giving up on toys. I’m going to give him

to you. But before I give him to you let me tell why he’s impor-

tant to me.

On a hot humid day when I was six, I found the bear

within the claws of a dog. I leaped over the fence and got a

strong grip on the bear. The dog fought back, snarling and

wagging his club of death. I ripped the bear from his teeth and

ran, sweating and looking behind my shoulder in fear that the

dog would chase me. I slammed my fist against the door of my

childhood home. My mom let me in. I begged her to re-sew

the bear’s nose on. She replied with that motherly grin that she

gives when she is busy. So the bear had to live with a crooked

nose.

I brought the bear with me to school almost every day. It

was like a good luck charm. Well, one day I was racing to be

the first to the trash can, and I may have left the bear in the

lunch box. After school, I leaped into the Dumpster that

Giving Up On Toys (fiction)

KOBY

Written Telepathy

54

smelled like tuna gave birth to eggs and picked through the

garbage until I finally found the now pickled blue bear. So the

bear had to live with a funny smell.

This bear hadn’t been washed in nine years, so the smart

thing to do would be to keep it away from your face. He tastes

like pickle juice you know, the tangy kind that strikes fear into

picky eaters. So Please don’t put him into your mouth.

This bear was close to me, and now he will be close to

you. He’ll always greet you with wide open arms and good

luck, and though he may be light on words of his own, he will

listen to yours.

55

I got my bear, Glen, for my seventh birthday. For six

years, we went through everything, but two weeks ago there

was an accident, and Glen won’t forgive me. He has to get his

revenge.

I thought he was bored and needed a friend, but he just

became jealous. He was such a tiny little bear; I didn’t know

how violent he could be.

On my thirteenth birthday, my mom decided to buy a

stuffed bunny friend for Glen. I thought it was a great idea,

but Glen didn’t. He wouldn’t speak to it or even look at it. I

felt bad for the bunny, so I started to play with it. Glen became

extremely jealous. I don’t know why he was jealous, since I

have always been by his side.

When I couldn’t find my bunny, I knew Glen took it.

Since it had gone missing, he had this smirk on his face that

the Evil Queen would have been proud of. It scared me.

My mom finally found the bunny. When she brought it

back to me, I was sitting by the fire and playing with Glen.

Glen (fiction)

LYDIA

Written Telepathy

56

Mom walked into the room with the bunny, and I spun around

and started to sprint towards her. As I was turning, I acciden-

tally let go of Glen and sent him flying into the fire. I tried to

grab him before it was too late, but he had already caught on

fire.

My mom quickly got the polka-dotted glove that she uses

to protect her hand from hot things and took Glen outside

into the snow. He had burns all over, and sparks were still

shooting off of him. He was giving me a death glare that

would have made a little kid bawl his eyes out and run away.

He has been giving me that look ever since.

Nighttime is the worst. I’m surprised that I ever fall

asleep. My mom always tucks me in and puts Glen on the

bookshelf. He looks all innocent when my mom is around. He

smiles and it looks as if his eyes are twinkling. “It’s just an act,”

I tell my mom. She says I’m overreacting and that I’m going

crazy from lack of sleep.

One night I tried to film Glen, but when I woke up, the

camera had been smashed. Now, I’m afraid to go to sleep at

night, and when I hear noises, I know not to open my eyes.

The first night that I heard loud thuds from his feet and

the scraping of his hard clumpy fur on the wood floor, I made

the mistake of looking around. Glen was right next to me, his

eyes bright red and blood tricking down his teeth. I screamed

so loud I was afraid the glass figurines in my room would

break. I could hear my parents running down the hall and Glen

snickering loudly. The next thing I knew, my parents had a dis-

appointed look on their faces, and Glen was on the shelf look-

ing as innocent as ever.

Things are starting to get even weirder. I know he has

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

57

done something to my parents. I used to run to my parents for

protection, but now I need protection from them. I tell them

about all the things Glen does, but they just laugh at me and

tell me to forget about it. They seem so empty now.

Last week, I was walking with my mom, and she started

squeezing my hand so tight that I thought it was going to fall

off. I was screaming let go, but she just kept a straight face

while walking forward. She didn’t even look at me. I finally got

her to let go and my hand had turned red all over.

I don’t know how to get rid of Glen. I guess I will be

stuck with him forever. I’m afraid to go to bed each night and

my parents are still acting weird. I wonder if he would find me

if I ran away.

58

The scent of my mom’s special cinnamon rolls drifted

through the air and slowly pulled me from under my sheets. I

wiped a line spit off my face and got dressed for the day. As I

opened my door, I felt something on the other side. I looked

down and saw a box that looked like a grandma wrapped it. I

slid it back into my room and stared at it. Why would I be get-

ting a gift; it is only May? I slowly opened the box and found a

white stuffed dog with a brown spot on his eye. I rushed

downstairs to thank my mom for giving me such an amazing

gift.

“Well I knew you would love it, now go eat your eggs and

cinnamon roll.”

I put him in the chair next to mine making sure he was

sitting up straight. On his paw I saw a small tag with the name

Henry. That is a perfect name for him.

While the year went on, I was reluctant to bring Henry to

school with me because I was worried that people might make

fun of us, especially now that I was being bullied. My bully,

Henry (fiction)

JORDAN

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

59

Michael, was a two hundred pound kid who thought it was

funny to sit on other kids who might break like a twig.

When he picked on me it was always when I least ex-

pected it. I asked my first grade teacher to get him to stop, but

she told me that, because his family is less fortunate than mine,

I should allow him to bully me. She said school was the only

place that made him happy. I thought to myself that the only

reason he was happy at school is because he got away with

everything he did.

Some days I wished Henry was with me, so that I would-

n’t feel so lonely when Michael tore open my backpack and

shredded my papers. Usually I got upset and sat in one of the

corners until the teacher came to talk to me. I really wished

someone would help me but even my friend Tim didn’t have

the courage to stand up for me. At least Henry was at home

for me.

Near the end of the school year our grade was preparing

for our graduation celebration. I was finally getting my hopes

up that next year would be a better year. Michael hadn’t come

near me for the past month, but my luck soon ran out as we

were practicing for the celebration. We were all standing in our

dollar-store suits talking to each other before we could take the

picture. Out of nowhere I saw this fist coming toward my

stomach, but it was too late to move. I heard the shutter of the

camera as everything in my stomach spewed out all over Mi-

chael in a chunky stream, making his hair slick.

He looked into my eyes with fury. A smirk swept across

my face, and that’s when the second blow hit me straight in the

knee cap. I fell forward, knocking Michael down onto our

teacher. That was the first time I was sent to the principal.

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60

When my mom picked me up that day, I climbed into the

backseat, relieved to see Henry sitting there, but then I heard

my mom’s voice and felt my head get warm. She stared at me

until she broke the silence, asking me how I would feel if I

changed schools. I wanted to stay at my school, I didn’t care if

Michael bullied me. I was determined to show him that I was

better than a bully.

For the last day of school, I placed Henry in my backpack

and I practiced hitting my pillow. Henry was now my symbol

for courage. When my mom dropped me off at the doors, I

sprinted in before being confronted by my teacher. “Today

you need to be nice to Michael. Yesterday he got very upset,

and I think you lied about him punching you.” I stared at her

with disbelief then ducked under her arm to avoid another

speech. In class, Michael threw chewed up and mangled eras-

ers at me, but I just thought to myself, Soon.

When it was time for us to go down stairs and graduate

our teacher separated us in pairs to go change in the bathroom.

Of course, she called Michael’s name and mine together. I

grabbed my bag of clothes and stepped into the bathroom. Mi-

chael slammed the door shut and came full force at me, shov-

ing me up against the tiled wall.

“You will regret yesterday.”

I looked over at my backpack and saw Henry staring at

me. This is what I had waited for. I socked Michael in the

stomach, sending him spiraling into the mirror which exploded

like mother’s china. He stared at me in disbelief and confusion.

Then he broke down and started crying like a leaking faucet. I

changed into my blue suit, picked up Henry, and walked down-

stairs ready for the year to end.

61

I walk across my creaky attic floor. My eyes fall on a tat-

tered, disgusting bear. My seventy-three-year-old fingers grasp

the wilting stuffed animal, and I am reminded of my life as a

child. Joey was the kind of friend that stuck with me no matter

what and didn’t let me ponder on the bad in my life. I keep

him today not because I would feel bad throwing him away but

because I want to remember all the horrors of my life.

Joey never told me I couldn’t be something. Even though

his mouth was the kind that not even an ant could see, it still

spoke a huge message. Unlike everyone spurting insults and

facts of how I never could, he always contradicted them. His

deflating head never responded in disappointment. Joey’s eyes

showed sympathy and encouragement, until they fell out from

my anxious picking. Whenever I asked if I could do something

and doubted myself, Joey never let me believe those nagging

thoughts. Even with one ear missing, he was still the best lis-

tener that I had ever talked to.

Joey has always helped me. Although, I haven’t always

Joey (fiction)

ANNE

Written Telepathy

62

done my share back to him. I ripped that one ear he no longer

has from his squished face when the last straw was thrown

onto my back. The anger built up inside of me had to come

out on something. Joey’s fur is crusty with dried glue from

when we made our best creations. Some of our favorites being

our time machine and pop up fairytale book.

Joey was the one to suffer from my pain. He never com-

plained. His legs are worn from all the long walks we took af-

ter I failed a test or heard my parents scream outrage at each

other as if I were invisible.

Most people have some role model they look up to, re-

peating everything they do, but not me. I didn’t have a kid-

crazy dad or a mother who vigorously wiped my nose at the

smallest sight of boogers. Instead I had Joey.

On nights when my mother was out doing who knows

what, I scrounged for something to fill my stomach. Normally,

I settled for a can of cream of mushroom that hid in the back

of a cabinet. Brown gravy dots linger on Joey’s coat from the

many times rancid juices splattered in his direction. But, he

didn’t have any patchy Kool-Aid stains or hardened gusher

goops—the kinds you’d get from snack break at soccer prac-

tice. He didn’t have them, because I never went. My parents

didn’t care about me having a good childhood experience or

getting the mandatory sixty minutes of activity every day. He

never let those things bring me down.

I set Joey down where I found him earlier. Looking back,

I see him not as that bear everybody has left at a park, or given

a mud bath to, but as my friend—a friend who no human

could compare to. He was there no matter how messed up I

was, or what I had been through. My lips perk up, and I turn

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

63

to leave. But something inside me won’t let me go. I turn

around and see him lying there. I go back and gather what was

left of Joey and close the door to the attic.

64

I cringe every time I see a picture of my old teddy bear.

Those wide red eyes seem to cut into my soul and place a spell

of sadness over it. If I even catch a glimpse of another bear

with the same floppy ears and shaggy fur, I think of Ted lying

in a box underneath my backyard.

From the moment I got Ted I was best friends with him

and took him everywhere. That ended up to be his downfall.

Wherever I took him, he seemed to somehow get damaged.

One fourth of July evening, I was lighting firecrackers in

the driveway. Being seven, I thought that it would be a won-

derful idea to let Ted throw one. I placed him in the middle of

the driveway and put a firecracker in his hand. After I lit it, I

sprinted back and whirled around to watch him throw. I real-

ized my mistake as the wick burned down into the casing. The

firecracker blew part of his leg off, and it set the rest of him on

fire. It turned his leg into ashes right down to the base where

there was a wooden stopper that held the leg to the body. The

burn marks looked as if someone splattered black paint on the

My Dead Teddy Bear (fiction)

SEAN

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

65

base of his leg, and the smoky stench was almost unbearable at

first. After a couple of good washings, it seemed to dull away,

but to this day you can still detect the stench of smoke coming

from that bear.

The next summer our family attended an annual lake

party with our friends. I felt that it would make my bear lonely

to leave him at home, so I took him along. After a while I no-

ticed that Ted was not where I had left him. I looked around

and then realized he could’ve fallen into the lake. I went in

searching, and when I finally found him and brought him out

he was a soggy mess. By the time we got home, his fur was

shedding off in handfuls, and he smelled like mucky water.

When he was finally dried, he had massive bald patches in his

fur, and he still smelled like the lake.

The next couple of years went pretty well for him. There

was no damage, no fire, no water. He just got to be a stuffed

animal. But as if by fate, yet another incident involved him the

year I was ten.

I still enjoyed taking my teddy bear places, but I was old

enough that sometimes I would leave him while I did some-

thing else. On one summer day I left him in the driveway while

I went into the backyard to swing. Late in the afternoon, after

I had gone inside, my dad pulled into our driveway. When he

got inside, he apologized to me. I didn’t know what for at first,

but then I saw what he was holding. It was my mangled teddy

bear with a torn open back, crushed head, and a missing eye. I

knew there was no fixing him. I couldn’t possibly find a way to

sow this up.

He was so mangled I didn’t want to look at him anymore.

He still smelled like lake water no matter how many times I

Written Telepathy

66

tried to wash him. I knew that it was time to get rid of him. I

didn’t want to donate him anywhere because it’s pretty obvious

that by now no one would want him. I didn’t want to throw

him away because no matter how many accidents he’s been

through, he still was my first teddy bear. So I came up with the

perfect solution. I went into our backyard and dug a small hole

big enough to fit a shoe box. Then I put my bear in his coffin

and buried him.

67

The day I found it was a day never to forget. A dog. Not

a real one but the one that looked as if it should be cast in

Blue’s Clues. I found this lumberjack-plaid dog and never

wanted to give it up, even if he did look like trash that some-

one forgot to throw out.

I usually kept him in my bed, where at night I slept with

him in my arms. My brother, older by a year, came into my

room one night to tell me something. He saw what I had and

wanted the ratty old thing, almost as if he was possessed by it’s

rattiness. He tried to yank it from my arms, but I woke up and

screamed like a banshee. A fierce game of ultimate tug-of-war

broke out—pull to the death style. He yanked so hard that I

thought it would rip my arm right off. He did rip off an arm

along with a leg, but not mine. The poor dog lay on the

ground, and I ran to it and screeched.

After a few days of recovery, my little stuffed dog

looked different. His left leg was not as big as the right, and

one arm lay longer then the other. He already had messed up

Plaid Dog (fiction)

TERA

Written Telepathy

68

fabric, but it was even worse now. I slept well that night, until I

heard something—the tiny, soft pitter patter of feet in the hall.

Like little rain drops. No one in the house was that small and

my dog was missing.

I walked out of my room to see my brother’s door

open. He never left it open since he was scared of monsters

getting him. I peeked inside. My brother lay on the ground,

passed out, with my dog on top of him with a pencil in hand

ready to stab. The dog looked as if he was Poseidon ready to

throw his trident.

I yanked the dog away and ran to the hallway closet. I

rummaged though and found a plastic container and emptied it

on the ground. I lay the dog carefully in it and put the con-

tainer back into the closet, shut the door, and ran to my room.

A month or two later, we moved, and the dog I had

been so connected to, with it’s cute black nose and it’s differ-

ently shaped little eyes, was lost. I was afraid for whoever

would find it.

69

Sirens wail outside. The normally blinding red and blue

lights of the police cars and ambulances are dull spots through

the heavy downpour. The faded screams of pedestrians can be

heard as they run away from the accident site. Neon yellow

Caution tape lines its perimeter.

Through the fog, I see a mountain of soaked cement and

bent metal rods, blurred and dark, like the shadow of the inde-

structible monstrosity it was before. The news report said the

foundation had given away. How else were they supposed to

explain it? The strongest building in the world, built to survive

a 9.0 earthquake on the Richter scale, had fallen before it was

even a year old. A collapsed foundation. It was reasonable. All

of the public believed it. But I knew better. It was him. It had

to be him. I was certain. My childhood friend, Raven, was re-

sponsible for the fallen building.

It all started when my crazy old neighbor died. He was

diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder. At least that’s

Raven (fiction)

CINDY

Written Telepathy

70

what they called it. What I take it to mean is that he was in-

sane.

One day, I guess he lost it and committed suicide, but not

before he wrote his will. He remembered me in his last few

days, and left me his teddy bear. That’s how I got suck with

that wretched thing. Don’t get me wrong. At first, I loved it. I

was six at the time, and had no idea that my neighbor hated

me. I was delighted when I received the teddy bear. After all,

his coffee colored coat was fluffy and soft, with a cloth-

covered button nose and eyes the color of black cherry wood.

Most of all however, he was adorable. I named him Raven.

I loved Raven so very much. I even made a braided pur-

ple and yellow leash that I fastened onto his neck so I could

take him on walks. Life with Raven was great and full of fun.

We played with trucks in the yard, sat in the tree house, looked

at picture books, and so much more. Where I went, he went.

We were inseparable.

Little by little, things started to go wrong. At first, it was

small things. Accidents like a broken cup, or a refrigerator full

of spilled milk. Then the problems started getting bigger. My

mom’s china set was obliterated, the heater broke down, and

our sewage line was damaged.

The final straw was when we went over to visit my aunt

and uncle who lived on a farm. It was a one week trip in which

I dragged Raven with me to every room of the house, all the

stables and barns, took him horseback riding into the cow pas-

tures, and also to try to pet the chickens. It was great. No acci-

dents happened, nothing gone sour, until the week passed, and

we had to leave.

After many tantrums and tears, I finally waved goodbye

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

71

to my relatives and their beloved farm, Raven clutched to my

chest. Only after we got back to our house did I hear the dev-

astating news, all the animals had been slaughtered and our

relative’s house was burned to the ground.

After that incident, something broke inside me. I don’t

know if it was because I fell in love with the farm animals, or

because I was already beginning to suspect Raven was respon-

sible for these incidents. When I think back to that day, the

only things I can remember are blood-red stuffing spilling out

of Raven, the sound of ripping fabric, and the feel of the hilt of

a knife in my hand.

Later, my parents told me that after completely obliterat-

ing the bear, I stuffed it in a wooden box, locked it shut, and

buried it in the empty lot a block away from my house. They

also told me that during that whole episode, I was screaming

like a madman, causing both our neighbors and a house down

the street to call the police.

Nothing happened, of course. We lived so far away from

the city that by the time the police made it to my street, I was

nonchalantly sitting in my neon green bean bag chair as if

nothing had happened. I can still hear people whispering about

how I should be sent to the insane asylum.

It took a couple months for the nightmares to go away.

But within a year, I was lost in the world of green grass, spiked

shoes, and a black and white ball. I mean, that game is really

addictive. Not once did I notice the cement monster slowly

climbing up to the sky, rising floor by floor from the once

empty lot only a block away from my house. I was too busy

kicking a ball or watching my role models play the game I

loved.

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72

Only now, 11 years later, have I realized what I’ve done. I

should have paid more attention. I should have realized. I

should have remembered where I’d buried Raven. If I had told

someone they were building on top of an evil, magic bear,

something might have changed. I could have at least warned

some people. There wouldn’t be all this mayhem. I wouldn’t

have caused the death of 5,000 people. It’s all my fault. Me and

my messed up life.

73

Going to Build-a-Bear was Emily and my thing to do to-

gether. We felt so cool as we walked store to store in the mall

carrying cardboard boxes almost our full size. Emily’s bear was

short and stubby and she loved it to death. Sometimes I felt

she loved the bear more than me, her best friend. She named

him Stubby, but I called him best friend stealer. It wasn’t until

a fire stole the life of my best friend that I came to love that

bear more than I did my own little sister.

When Emily and I were little we loved to play Barbie

house-building competitions. She was always so good at them,

but our last one was the one I remember every single day.

Emily’s mom had just left to walk Snickers like she did every

afternoon. We were in the middle of judging, when I noticed

that the hallway was full of smoke. I pointed to the hallway.

Emily looked, and she turned to me with a face of fear. My

heart started beating so fast I felt every beat. Emily grabbed

Stubby and we held hands and ran down the stairs and into the

smoke.

Stubby the Bear (fiction)

KEELIN

Written Telepathy

74

Seeing was not easy, but when you’re in a place that you

know by heart, your feet walk and the rest of your body just

follows along. Something behind us in the kitchen fell over

and scared us. Emily dropped Stubby. She released from my

grip and ran to get Stubby, but as she turned to come back to

me, the big pillar in the living room clasped, blocking the en-

tryway into the house.

I did everything that a seven-year-old girl can do to help

save her best friend, but there was no getting her out. She

tossed Stubby to me and told me to go get help. The last thing

that I ever said to my best friend, “You’ll get out of this, I

promise.”

Everything after that is a blur, all I remember is Emily’s

mom running down the driveway yelling, then things were just

gone.

I woke up some hours later, my mother by my side. She

told me that Emily did not make it out of the fire. My life was

changed from then on.

Shortly after Emily passed away her little sister was born.

I gave Stubby to her, hoping it would make her happy when

she wasn’t, as it did her big sister. When I see her running

around, I see and feel Emily—the beautiful curly hair, green

eyes, the smile that lights up the room, and giggles that fill the

air.

I miss my best friend. I miss her everyday.

75

After my grandma’s funeral, I got a hand-me-down, old,

crusty, dirt-covered stuffed squirrel. The second it got put into

my hands, I noticed something wrong with it. It just had this

look of guilt, of doing something wrong.

I took this overly loved thing home and slept with it. I

was never one to shut off my lights, and now I know why be-

cause this creepy, red-haired squirrel. The first night I brought

him home I swear I heard him say, “Lights out.” Then I heard

a creepy haunting laugh echoing down my hallway.

I managed to hold on to this ancient raggedy animal for

two years. It was packed away in a box or at least that’s where I

had last seen it.

About a week ago I was going through my old moving

boxes, and I noticed something was missing, my squirrel. After

looking everywhere in my house for it, I forgot to look in one

place. I went in my room and there he was, sitting, smiling

with a little note on my windowsill. I opened up this note and

it read, “See you again.” I started to think about a vacation far

away.

Stuffed Squirrel (fiction)

HAILEY

Written Telepathy

76

Two weeks later, I was packing to go to Florida, and I put

the stuffed squirrel in its own closet that has been abandoned

with nothing else in it, locked the door, and decided to throw

the key in the ocean when I got there.

I enjoyed my time in Florida; especially knowing that ter-

rible thing was in a locked closet hundreds of miles away.

When I returned home, not stressed and not thinking about

that squirrel, I noticed the closet door was cracked open and

the squirrel was missing from the top shelf.

Turns out it was lying on my bed with another note. This

time the note read, “Take me outside, and burry me in the hole

I dug”.

Outside, I noticed in the hole there was an ancient lock

box with other animals in it. I placed him in the box and put

dirt over it, thinking that would finally be the end of this night-

mare. But each night I hear his creepy laugh ringing down my

hallway.

77

I might have been seven years old when I got Telly. Hon-

estly I couldn’t tell if he was a pig or a bear, so I decided he

was both. I knew from the second I got him there was some-

thing odd about him. Right away I noticed his poorly sewn-on

plastic face in replace of the worn-down plush material of the

rest of his body. He was by far creepier than any horror movie

I had seen. Also, his beady little eyes that sunk into his plastic

face seemed to follow me everywhere I went, like one of those

paintings in Scooby Doo. I was so scared of that pig-bear that I

had to close my eyes when I walked past him.

My great grandma gave Telly to me on my seventh birth-

day, he was all wrapped up in a beat-up box with crumpled up

newspaper from the twenties. I don’t know why she kept his

original box and paper, but she told me it was hers and was

very close to her heart. She had had it since she came from It-

aly. Obviously I didn’t want to hurt my grandma’s feelings, so I

kept him, even though I wanted to throw him out my window.

One night after I got Telly, I couldn’t sleep. Something

was wrong, but I couldn’t really tell what. After I fell asleep, I

Telly (fiction)

GRACE

Written Telepathy

78

woke up with a stinging sensation through my whole arm. I

looked down to see my wrist and arm covered in blood from a

three inch cut. Terrified, I looked around the room to see how

this could have happened and sure enough, I saw Telly laying

on the floor, all ripped up with drops of blood spotting his

sweater and face. I kicked him away from me and heard a

scraping noise as he slid across the floor. It was a knife hidden

on his back.

When I told my parents about the incident, they didn’t

believe me and said I was depressed, which I was not. So I de-

cided to take matters into my own hands. To make sure I

would never have to see him again, I tore the bear to shreds

and buried him in the backyard.

About a week later, I found my room completely torn

apart and Telly sprawled across my bed sporting an evil grin.

Fed up with the terrifying bear stalking my every move, I

decided to do what I thought was right. I tore the bear apart

again and burned it. A face appeared in the smoke and then

disappeared quickly. I buried the ashes, and I never had to see

or deal with Telly again.

79

The day I got my stuffed bunny is the day I started be-

lieving in demonic attraction. Even when he was new, Timothy

had a reused feel, as if he had been passed down from genera-

tion to generation. He had such a demonic expression, but no-

body saw him the way I did. They all thought he was normal.

Only I knew the truth.

I walked into Dr. Chezloski’s office, not sure if I

wanted his soothing to calm my stricken nerves, or to ac-

knowledge I was a freak, a weirdo, someone crazy enough to

believe Timothy actually controlled my life. I started to tell Dr,

Chezloski about all the disasters that happened when Timothy

was in my possession. He decided he wanted to examine

Timothy, take him to a priest and have him checked out. The

priest wouldn’t look at the doll, because he felt bad omens

about it.

After another week of terrible nightmares I went to Dr.

Chezloski’s office agian. The receptionist said that a new doc-

tor had taken over his practice, because Dr. Chezloski had died

five years ago.

Timothy (fiction)

GIOVANNI

Written Telepathy

80

That was the scariest ride home I’ve ever had in my entire

life. From then on, Timothy followed me no matter where I

went.

Whoever Timothy comes in contact with suffers disaster

or death. When grandma’s house burned to the foundation,

Timothy was there. He was the only item salvaged from the

ashes, his torn stuffing and the burnt scuffmarks made timothy

look even more demonic.

I wanted supernatural help, but Timothy was always there

when I tried calling. I finally got enough courage to call Mr.

and Mrs. Tresly because they knew about Demonic Posses-

sion. They decided to take Timothy out of the house for a

week to do some studies. Exactly after a week, I received a call

from Dan Tresly. He told me to go to their house right away. I

arrived, and before I could knock on the door, I was swooped

off my feet straight into the house.

Timothy was strapped onto the ground in the center of a

pentagram. A priest was there. He told me Timothy was get-

ting ready to possess me. The priest said he was gaining power,

becoming stronger day by day, and apparently today was the

day. The thought shook me to the bone. Just then, Timothy

broke from the ground and charged me, scratching at my neck

and my collarbone.

I ripped the head off that demonic bear and walked

away, but the headless bear kept attacking. I wanted the priest

to help me, but he was shaking in fear in the corner of the

room. I ran at him and begged him to help me. He started

chanting Latin, and Timothy burst into flames.

His ashes now lie in an urn in the Smithsonian.

Section III:

NeSA W State Writing Exam Essays

83

We first arrived at Adventureland around nine in the

morning and waited in front of the park, behind the eight-foot

-tall, ten-foot-long grey gate. My heart was beating fast, about

to jump out and break the gate open. I was kind of scared that

people would trample me like in the movies. When the clock

finally struck ten, the gate slowly opened. People were scream-

ing with excitement. Kids and adults ran through the gate.

My dad, sister, and I ran to a big roller coaster we could

see from miles away. We were the first ones in line. I looked at

a sign in front of me, “Tornado.” The name scared me as

much as the sight of the ride did. The ride conductor led us

into carts the size of two school desks smashed together. The

carts looked as if they had been sitting in someone’s old attic

for fifty years, causing them to rust. My sister, cat, and I sat in

one cart together, while our dad sat in the one behind us. The

ride conductor asked if we were ready. I said yes, but my body

was shaking telling me no.

The carts were rumbling and shaking like they were about

Adventureland

ALEXIS

Written Telepathy

84

to snap off the rail. As we started going up a hill, I heard

screams coming from people behind me, in front of me, and

from me. At the top of the hill, I almost died from a heart at-

tack because of how high it was. The view was of the whole

amusement park. It was pretty magnificent. I was admiring the

view of the park when we went down the drop, and my life

flashed before my eyes. Blood was striking through my veins

like a lightening bolt. At the bottom of the drop, all of us

whiplashed from how powerful it was. We went up a small hill

after that, and it dropped us again.

After the big roller coaster ride, I took a little break to

catch my breath. When I was able to breathe, I ran to a smaller

ride. The name of the ride was, Tilt-a-Whirl. The line was su-

per short, probably because people were more excited to go on

the bigger rides. My brother and I went on this ride because

it’s his favorite ride.

We started by sitting in an oyster-shaped seat that looked

as if it could come down and pretend we were the pearl. The

leader of this ride started jiggling levers and pressing buttons,

and the ride finally started. I thought it was going to be boring

because we went really slow, but then it went faster. It went so

fast I couldn’t sit forward. Every time I tried to move up, the

ride pushed me to the back of the seat. It felt like my face was

about to fly back, while my bones were still in the front of the

ride.

My brother, sitting next to me, was probably feeling the

same way. The ride went slow then fast throughout the three

minutes we were on it. Then it ended. When we got off the

ride, I was dizzy but amazed by how entertaining the ride was.

We immediately went back into the line to do the ride again.

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This was the first time, my brother and I got along, and it was

actually pretty spectacular.

Finally my favorite part of the day—funnel cake. I usually

only get funnel cake at baseball games, and I rarely go to those.

So this was pretty special. My whole family went up to the fun-

nel cake stand and saw them making the cake. I ordered one

funnel cake for my sister and me to share. They gave me the

masterpiece—the sweet powdered sugar resting on top of a

fried donut that looked like spaghetti—and we sat down on an

old rusty bench and started eating it. The powdered sugar

melted in my mouth with each bite I took. My sister was eating

it like it was just another snack, when she should savor it, as

we might not get to have another one for a while. But even if

she wasn’t savoring it, I was. Each bite I took felt as if my

mouth was having a party.

After my amazing ten hour day at Adventureland, I didn’t

want to leave, ever, but the sheriffs there probably would have

to made me. We left the park, and I could see all the big rides,

as a silhouette, like a picture taken by a famous photographer.

86

The feeling of actually getting to play in a tournament

can’t be simulated by practices or normal games. All of the

grueling practices are over and finally, we get to use real base-

balls instead of the soft, rubber baseballs that we have to use

during indoor practices.

Unlike our normal practices, where we do wind sprints

that make us second guess why we play, we get to be a little

more laid back. We get to mess around as we go through our

warm-up routine, and then we get to play a wiffle ball game

with the coaches. The laughs and cheers when someone scores

makes it hard not to smile.

When we finally get to the game, the atmosphere is supe-

rior to anything else. I can smell the fresh cut grass as I throw

the ball across the field to my partner. I see the other team

with their big smiles, thinking they can beat us without ever

having seen us play. When we hit, the dink that the bat makes

when it makes perfect contact with the ball can’t be beat. The

shaggers in the outfield see who can get the most baseballs.

Baseball Tournaments

HARRISON

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When we get back in the dugout, we chew on sunflower seeds.

The other team is laughing at us. They think that they can

just walk in and beat us. That’s not true, though. As soon as

we score a run, the mood drastically changes. Everyone on our

team is cheering with pride, while the other team is on the field

with sunken expressions on their faces and heads down, as if

their parents just yelled at them for not eating their dinner.

After we win, their expressions show that they are feeling

exactly the opposite of the way they were feeling just before

the game started. Everybody on my team has sweat trickling

down their faces, but that makes it so much better, knowing

that we had to work hard and as a team to win the game.

88

My absolute favorite out of school activity is going on

vacation with my dad. We have been to many exotic places

over the years, and all of them have left a hugely positive im-

pression on me. Sometimes my mom tags along, but most of

the time, it’s just my dad and me exploring the unexplored.

We’ve gone diving, climbing, hiking and much more. The main

excitement comes from looking forward to spending a few

weeks away from my normal life. Not having school is just a

bonus during vacation.

A quick plane ride from Dallas, Texas, and I find myself

in the middle of a desert island with no signs of civilization,

except for the runway and the small dilapidated building to the

right. Getting off the plane, I am immediately assaulted by a

wave a heat as hot as the sun itself. Coming from Omaha in

the middle of the winter, I hadn’t experienced this kind of

heat, so I am not dressed appropriately for Belize.

It takes no time get out of the extremely small airport. My

dad and I are loaded into the back of a truck that looks as if it

Belize

CHRISTIANO

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89

came straight out of a junkyard and are noisily driven to a

small mold-ridden dock. This is where we climb aboard a small

boat and ferry to our even smaller island resort.

I don’t get to spend a lot of time with my Dad due to the

fact that he doesn’t live with me and my mom, so vacations are

the only lime I am able to see him. The airplane and boat trips

let us catch each other up on what has been going on in our

lives. Talking is hard on this boat, because of the deafening

sounds of the waves shaking everything on it to its core. After

another few minutes of this bone-rattling boat ride, I see our

destination up ahead. Everything looks like a picturesque post-

card that you would send to your friends to make them jealous,

except it’s real. The lush green palm trees sway in the wind,

and the gentle calls of the seagulls just add to the effect. The

captain docks the boat and we step onto the pristine white

beach to start our island adventure.

I love swimming. whether it’s in the crystal clear tur-

quoise ocean or in a pool. There aren’t many oceans in

Omaha, so in Belize, I’m in the water every second that I can

be. My dad and I are certified SCUBA divers, so of course,

that is our favorite activity. Being underwater together bonds

people in a really weird way. The ability to breathe underwater

is truly one of the best sensations in the world. It makes me

feel like I’m unstoppable. Even the briny seawater calms me

down. The multicolored fish and coral are truly magical. It’s as

if I stepped into a world full of color. The fish move like fal-

ling autumn leaves and the coral sway hypnotically back and

forth with the current.

Pretending to jump of cliff underwater makes me feel like

I am flying. It is one of the best experiences in the world,

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90

stimulating all your senses. The cool current caressing your

skin. The luminescent flashes of color in front of you eyes.

The crispy bubbles sound as if a large soft drink is being

opened right next to your ear.

If I could live in the paradise that is underwater, I would

in a heartbeat. As long as my dad could be there too.

91

The wheels of the bus screeched to a stop on the rustic

gravel road. I looked out the grimy window to see miles and

miles of trees in every direction. If it weren’t for the road and

the beaten down porta-potties, I would have thought that no

one had ever been here. We all stumbled out of the bus, with

nothing but our backpacks and sleeping bags, amazed by the

serenity of nature.

We set down our bags and were instructed to go find

wood for the fire. There weren’t very many sticks on the

ground, so I turned to the huge wall of forest that encircled

our little clearing. After a few minutes of hiking around, I ar-

rived at a gargantuan fallen tree. Better yet, this monster tree

seemed to have taken a multitude of little hostages with it.

Knowing that this mangled mess of trees would be a firewood

jackpot, I began breaking off some of the branches. When I

had worked on each branch until a satisfying crack released it

from its trunk, I picked up as many of these huge branches as I

could carry. I then began the hike back to camp, which took

Campout

ELEANOR

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considerably longer with loaded arms. My counselors and

cabinmates were amazed at my find.

I sat down by the fire, feeling a sudden pang of hunger. It

turned out that I had been in the woods for a bit longer than I

thought. I was relieved to hear that we were making hobos for

dinner that night. The news that we would be eating one of my

favorite camp meals gave me the energy to get up and go make

it. I got my tin foil and spread butter all over it. I then placed

the raw potatoes, vegetables, cold cheese and the frozen ham-

burger patty onto the buttery tin foil. It was time for the magic

seasoning. No one knew exactly what it was except that it was

delicious. I wrapped up the strange assortment of uncooked

food and carefully placed it on the coals.

Now that our hobos were on the fire, we had some time

to relax. I watched as pastel colors began to take over the sky.

There was a light breeze that picked up some of the ashes and

whisked them up to the clouds. I was awoken from my trance

by my friend who said that we were going to play a game while

our dinner cooked.

I followed her over to the other girls who had a bottle of

Mountain Dew and a box of Alka-Seltzers. I wondered what

this game could possibly be. It turned out that the game was

called spew. You put some Mountain Dew and an Alka-Seltzer

in your mouth, and then you have to try to keep it that way. I

thought this game would be pretty easy, but a few seconds in,

my mouth began to fizz and bubble. It was a very strange sen-

sation. I was struggling not to laugh. The bubbles were tickling

every surface in my mouth. Then all at once the weird sub-

stance exploded from people all around me. I definitely under-

stood the name of the game then. When there was only one

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93

girl left, we all watched as her mouth began to foam. Her face

was turning red. Then she spewed. It was the biggest one of

the night. I laughed so hard that my muscles grew weak and

tears began to stream from my eyes.

When the game was over, the hobos were ready. I care-

fully peeled back the burnt tin foil, letting the hot steam es-

cape. The smell of cheesy cooked potatoes and vegetables with

the little kick of the magic seasoning was perfect. I breathed in

the amazing aroma and dug in with my plastic fork, savoring

every bite.

I was slightly disappointed when my delicious dinner had

disappeared into the depths of my stomach. The fiery orange

sun sunk behind the horizon, and the sky was black and dotted

with stars. I could barely see the silhouette of the trees against

the sky. The fire had died down to nothing but glowing coals

to light our faces. We were all exhausted and soon retired to

our cozy little tents.

94

My grandma is like an angel who would take you under

her wing. She is thoughtful. Her attitude is worth being

around. It is like the sun of my day. She is a fighter. I have not

seen anybody else go through a brain tumor, a bunch of blood

clots, stomach surgery, and an amputated leg. She is so strong.

I’m more than proud to call her my grandma.

I’ve seen my grandma do astounding things, but I never

expected to see her to fly. Since my cousins and I were six

years old, my grandma would take us to the old Twenty Grand

movie theater every Sunday after church in the summer. We

would go an hour early so we could get a parking spot. Every

Sunday we would watch a kid movie and get the big popcorn

container that we could get refills on.

Last year, we watched a head-turning movie. It wasn’t

scary. It was just a really bad movie. After the movie, we had

to wait till everyone left so my grandma could get safely down

the stairs with her robotic leg; she doesn’t want people to stare

at her. We made it safely down the stairs, and into her wheel-

My Grandma

ANNIE

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

95

chair.

It was my time to push her to the bathroom. I took over

her wheelchair and saw a ramp. I went full speed, ran, and

hopped on the back of her wheelchair. We flew like the wind.

My grandma held on for her life, her fine light-brown hair

slicked back from the wind. Everything was good for the seven

seconds it lasted, but as we hit the bottom of the ramp, the

wheelchair’s footrest hit the leveled carpet and grandma flew.

Everyone was laughing including my grandma, but not me. My

grandma was fine, but my heart wasn’t. I cried all the way

home.

My grandma has been my partner in crime since I was

able to walk, but before I was alive she had someone else, my

mother. My mom went to college in Miami, Florida. My

grandma and my mom went to check it out before she actually

started classes.

When they got off the plane, they took a bus to get to the

car rental business. They were the last to get dropped off, and

after they got their car, the car rental workers gave them the

wrong directions.

They ended up in a shadowy alley, with nothing you

could see other than brush on the side of the road, crunchy

gravel, and light posts every fifty feet. My mom was driving.

She stopped the car in confusion. All of a sudden a car

rammed into the back of the cheap rental car. My mom looked

at my grandma with suspicion. As my mom grabbed the door

handle, a person’s face came up close to the window staring in.

He took my mom’s purse and ran to their car.

My mom chased after the man in the car and punched the

window. They got into a fight, and my mom’s face was bruised

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96

and swollen. Just at that time, another man came onto the

other side of the car and took my grandma’s medicine. He got

into the same car with the man who had taken my mom’s

purse.

My grandma switched seats so she would be in the

driver’s seat and drove after the car. My grandma slammed into

the other car, screaming to make them throw the purse and

medicine back. Finally, my grandma got their stuff back.

At that time, my mom was trying to wave people down in

the pitch-black alley. Someone finally stopped and said there

was a telephone booth that they could go to. My mom got to

the telephone booth and called 911, but she didn’t know where

she was. It took the police, fire truck, and ambulance one hour

to find her and my grandma. They were fine, but the next day

my grandma and mom were back in the same alley waiting for

those men.

This year my grandma has been in the hospital. The day

before she died I went and saw her. She was totally fine and got

in her wheelchair. My mom was going to see her every day.

That fateful day, my grandma started having a seizure and her

eyes rolled back into her head; her heart stopped. The nurses

were looking at each other. They finally put a balloon mask

over her so she could come back. Nervously, my mom

grabbed my grandma’s wrist and her pulse and her heart rate

came back. I really wanted to go see her the next day, but I had

soccer. I was really brokenhearted I couldn’t go. My mom told

me I should’ve been happy I didn’t go because the hospital

was calm and peaceful, but my grandma’s hospital room was-

n’t.

All fun might be over for my grandma and me, but our

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97

love will last forever. She is my cyborg (since she has one leg),

my graham cracker, and I love her like a baby loves its mom

and she loves me back the same way.

98

A farm sitting in the middle of a three hundred person

town is my little piece of heaven. This farm is where I get to

see my cousins, grandparents, aunts and uncles, not to mention

the livestock animals that have become my friends over the

years. When I pull onto the gravel lane leading towards the

farmhouse, a wave of excitement washes over me like a spell,

and the butterflies in my stomach go into a frenzy. Between

riding four-wheelers, playing in their tree house, swinging like

Tarzan on their tire swing, climbing trees, and bonfires, it’s

hard to imagine my favorite activity out of these. But nothing

compares to feeding the livestock and the other barnyard ani-

mals with my grandpa.

Waking up at 6:00 am is not fun during the school week

because that means homework and tests. But waking up at

6:00 am on the weekend at a farm means heading outside in

the chill of the morning air to do chores. When I hear the

rooster crow, l know it’s time to rise. The little bit of sunlight

streaming through the window provides the light I need to

My Little Piece of Heaven

CLAIRE

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

99

throw on jeans and a sweatshirt and head downstairs to the

breakfast my grandma has prepared.

The smell of pancakes hot off the griddle greets me when

I hit the last stair. I walk into the kitchen and put on my wool

socks and tennis shoes before washing my hands and sitting at

the table that’s big enough to serve a feast. As soon as I sit

down, my grandma plops a plate full of fluffy pancakes in

front of me. I reach for the warm syrup and butter and quickly

lather my pancakes with them. Once I’ve cleaned my plate, it’s

time for the actual labor.

As soon as I step out the back door, the rising sun greets

my eyes, making the dew on the rows of corn shimmer. I hop

down the steps, and begin walking towards the barn with my

grandpa. We open the barn door, and are swarmed with me-

ows from the seven cats that have slowly taken over the place.

The kittens rush to our feet meowing, as if reminding us

they haven’t had their breakfast yet. My grandpa hands me

their food and water dishes, and I exit the barn and make my

way off to the other side of the building. I fill their food dish

to the brim, making sure they all get plenty to eat, then walk

towards the nineteenth century water pump that’s still in use

and fill up their water bowl. I can hear the meows getting

stronger with every step I take. As soon as I reach the barn, I

lay down their food and water, and sure enough a horde of

cats, big and small, surround my feet.

To the East through the other exit of the barn, I can see

my grandpa trekking down the grassy slope that leads to the

cattle pen. I hurry off to the other barnyard animals and gather

their food and water before I head to the cattle pen. With

every scoop of corn and wet grass l place in front of the ani-

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100

mals, I receive a mix of neighs, clucks, and nose twitches.

I head over to the cattle pen, and make the climb down

the dew-sprinkled hill to where my grandpa is. Where I stand,

the smell of Earth and cow manure hits me like a grand piano

falling from a fourth story window. He aids me in climbing

over the gate, where I then step onto the trough. Now the

moos of the cattle are growing louder and louder, like a brew-

ing storm. When my grandpa steps onto the trough, we begin

to walk towards the com crib to start the long job ahead of us.

Along the walk, I stop every once in a while to pet the mix of

different colored cows, and in return I get a lick from their

sandpaper-like tongues. We undo the gate on the corncrib and,

faster than a bolt of lightning, my grandpa hands me a shovel,

and l know that the real work has begun.

I begin scooping mounds of corn into buckets then hand

them to my grandpa to spread throughout the troughs for the

cattle. As the sun climbs higher in the sky, I can feel the beads

of sweat gather on my forehead, as well as the ache in my

spine from bending over for so long. When the last bucket of

com is shoveled, I let out a sigh of relief and flop onto the

mountain of corn behind me. I can feel the kernels in my

shoes, imprinting themselves onto my feet. When my grandpa

returns to the corncrib, he offers me his hand and pulls me up-

right. We climb out and are amidst the sound of tongues slurp-

ing up kernels of corn. As we walk toward the gate leading us

back towards the hill, I pet the head of each cow I pass, feeling

satisfied in my work that morning.

When we begin the trek up to the farmhouse, my stom-

ach rather than the cattle’s, begins to grumble with hunger. I

look at the kitchen window and see my grandma washing

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101

dishes with a warm smile on her face. I realize that she has

started to prepare lunch for the crowd of relatives that are in-

side.

Before I open the door, my grandpa pats me on the back,

praising the work I have done this morning. I look up at him

and smile, knowing that as long as I live, doing chores with my

grandpa will never get old, even though we ourselves will.

102

Being at my lake with all my family members is one of my

favorite activities to do outside of school. The sound of the

petite waves splashing as screams of joy blare off in the dis-

tance is something I would like to hear everyday. I have so

many enjoyable memories there that I crack up in laughter

every time I remember them.

Zip-lining is without a doubt one of my family’s favor-

ite things to do. The wire running from the unbelievably tall

tower to the tree on the other side of the lake is a sight to see.

The tower lies over the lake like a huge diving board made of

wood. This zip line isn’t one you would get attached to, you

just got to hang on and hope to not fall until you reach the

middle of the lake.

The screeching noise coming from my little cousins hold-

ing on for dear life puts a gigantic smile on my face. I know

they are scared half to death, but the excitement they get after-

wards and the never ending cries of, “Again, again,” are hilari-

ous.

My Place

SAMANTHA

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103

One time my uncle tried to zip line. He climbed up the

long ladder, took the zip line, and looked down from the tower

to see turtle heads popping out of the greenish water. He de-

cided to jump off the tower while trying to hold on to the zip

line. All you could hear was a huge smack and the laughter that

followed. Once he got out of the water, it looked as if some-

one spray-painted his stomach red.

My mom told me to try a back flip off the zip line. I

stepped up looking straight down, wondering if I was going to

die or not, which probably wasn’t the best thing to think be-

fore I jumped off the tower. I focused on what I was actually

going to do and realized how awful this was going to turn out.

I stepped off and waited for the right time to swing my legs

backwards and accelerate forwards into a backwards flip, and

when it was time, I did exactly what I told myself to do, except

the landing. I didn’t really think the landing through my head,

so I landed straight on my face. It hurt and gave me a red

mark, but it was also really funny to laugh it off with all my

family members.

My lake isn’t all that enormous, but it’s a pretty good

size. It’s not big enough for a boat, but we have an elongated

river sitting behind us, so we take our four wheelers down

there and hook a pretty tough rope to an inner tube and the

four wheeler. My dad is the best at keeping my cousins and I

flying through the air, so we always nominate him to drive.

One time he was driving and we started really picking up

speed. We hit this massive hill of sand and we sky-rocketed

over the four wheeler and slammed right into the water. It was

so much fun. Being in air for that length of time puts a rush of

adrenaline through your body, but the whiplash I got after-

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104

wards hurt so bad.

Another time I was sitting in the seat right next to my

dad, and we were pulling my sisters in the tube. l was strapped

in so secure I felt like it was cutting off my circulation. My dad

didn’t wait to gain speed. He just pushed down the pedal and

we went. My sisters went shooting through the air as the four-

wheeler tipped and the tube crashed down to the water. Noth-

ing broke, which was good. It just made an endless replay of

what happened in our heads with never ending laughs.

Sometimes just sitting back and relaxing with my family

is just as good as the endless heart racing things we do. At

night when our bellies are full we sit back by a fire and relax.

We all just talk about our day and forget about all the worries

in life. Because my family isn’t just ordinary, we sneak a few

laughs into our night.

Once my cousin Michaela didn’t have a chair so she kept

nagging on my mom to use her chair. My mom went inside for

only about one minute. Before she left she told Michaela if she

took her chair she was going to attack her. Michaela just being

Michaela took my mom’s chair and rowed it in a canoe all the

way out to a little island in the middle of the lake and just sat

there. As we all tried to keep our laughs from bursting out, my

mom walked back outside. We couldn’t take it anymore so we

all started laughing, which gave away where Michaela and the

chair was. My mom wanted revenge, so she took another ca-

noe, rowed it out there and grabbed Michaela’s canoe, so if she

wanted back then she would have to swim in her clothes.

My lake is a place where I would give anything to go. I

have never been bored when I was there. I don’t think I will

ever find another place more pleasing then this lake.

105

I always find a way to learn something from a hunting

trip, whether it pertains to hunting or everyday life.

My dad and I usually go hunting for pheasants. In the bit-

ter cold of November, when the north winds blow in with

such vigor, stinging a my face like a million yellow jackets,

that’s when hunting is at its peak. The sensation of swinging

the shotgun up to my shoulder and pulling the trigger, the

smell of gun powder filling my nose, is fantastic, even better is

seeing the pheasant in the distance fall to the ground lopsided

and lifeless.

Our dog, Murphy, goes hunting with us too. As soon as

we give him the signal, he jets of, smashing through drifts of

snow like a train to retrieve the bird.

Pheasant hunting is different than a lot of other types of

hunting. It is actually quite hard work to go pheasant hunting.

Carrying an eight-pound gun five miles can get quite tiring, and

Pheasant Hunting

ANONYMOUS

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106

that’s not including the vest with ammo in it and the boots and

the three layers of everything you have on. Altogether it feels

like you way and additional three hundred pounds. Hunting for

deer or ducks or fishing is much easier. You just sit there and

wait for the game to come to you. When pheasant hunting,

you have to go to the game.

There’s something magical about walking through the un-

tamed, undeveloped land. Seeing the hills role like the ocean,

how hill after hill as they descend into the distance, slowly be-

coming more and more dim..

There are lots of animals we don’t kill. We see dear and

cardinals and little rodents, and we just don’t kill them. Hunt-

ing for my dad and me is more than just hunting; it’s a way to

reconnect with what it means to be human and a member of

the animal kingdom.

My first kill was a squirrel, a big fat one. We were just en-

tering a field, when we saw three squirrels running through

some trees. I walked right up and pointed my gun. I was so

nervous I’d miss. I was standing right there, the squirrel was in

my sight, and if I missed I would be so disappointed. It felt like

a ton of bricks lying on my chest. I pulled the trigger and saw

the squirrel hurling toward the ground. It was a clean shot

right in the head. When I went to get it its leg was twitching,

blood ran from his head, and that’s when I had officially got-

ten my first kill. I was so proud of my self, it was like I had just

won the Super Bowl or World Cup or something.

Hunting is important in my life. I learn to work hard, to

listen, to be safe, and to not only be physically strong but men-

tally strong as well. For me it’s being human, it’s coming close

to family, it’s something that I can treasure.

107

During the summers when I am out of school, I enjoy

going to Branched Oaks with my family and friends. Camping

there is always fun no matter who I’m with. There are lakes to

swim in, beaches to play on, and sand to throw at my brother.

Oh, and I can’t forget the best parts: campfires and s’mores.

Picking the camp sight is the worst part. I hate driving

around in a jam-packed car that feels like I’m a sardine pack-

aged with sixty other fish. I just want to hop out of that car

and run free. Every time my family goes there, all I can hear is

my brother flapping his jaw saying, “That one. Oh no, wait,

that one.” He’s the one sardine in the can that won’t stop

moving, making everyone else uncomfortable. Five-year-olds

are the worst at playing the quiet game.

Finally, we pick the site and start unloading the car. Of

course my mom takes the easy work and goes to pay for the

campsite, while my brother and I stay and do all the hard work,

Summer Camping

SIERRA

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108

putting up the tent. I swear that woman is so lazy.

After a miserable thirty minutes of setting up camp, my

family and I take off for the beach in our swim suits and flip-

flops. The sand is covered in goose poop up from where the

grass ends to where the water starts. The poop looks like old,

shriveled up, black hot dogs that have been sitting there for

over three months. Sometimes I get lucky and find a spot

where there may only be six or seven pieces of crap laying

there. My mom loves the smell of lake water, which is better

known as fish pee and mud.

I love to swim in the lake, but I hate what it does to my

hair. After I get out of the lake, my hair starts to dry and turn

into what my mom calls a fish nest. It shrivels up into curls

that are crunchy and stiff, crisp as overcooked bacon. I think if

I tried I would be able to snap a piece in half.

As soon as the sun begins to drop, we jump in the car

and head back to the campsite. My mom and I usually start the

fire together so we can make dinner. We gather the wood and

pile it into the copper-brown, circular fire pit. We lay the wood

in a way so it forms an upside down cone. I crumple up news-

paper and stick it underneath the wood. As I do this, my mom

gathers starter sticks. They are just thin twigs that help keep

the flame going until the larger pieces of wood can catch fire.

When the fire is hot enough to burn for a while, we pull

out the skillets. We also remember to grab the metal prongs, I

guess you can call them, to stick the marshmallows on for

s’mores. When I cook my marshmallows, I prefer them to be

golden on the outside and melted to mush on the inside. My

mom is nasty and likes them to burn until they are crisp and

black. To make it easier, and in my opinion, more tasty, we use

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109

chocolate chip cookies instead of gram crackers and chocolate

to make our s’mores. Sometimes we get Reese’s peanut butter

cups to put between the cookies. That’s my favorite.

I wish I could be at Branched Oaks all the time. It’s so

fun. I love the smelly beaches, my crunchy hair, the s’mores,

campfires, all of it.

Section IV:

Miscellaneous In-Class Essays

113

As I sat down at my kitchen table, the house started to fill

with smoke. It was a thick, blackish greyish smoke that con-

sumed the room. I could barely see the stairs through the thick

smog. As quick as I could, I grabbed my dog Divot and ran

outside thinking my house was on fire.

I stood there for a second before saying to myself, “Ok

Derek, you’re going to run in there, grab the mac and cheese,

and sprint as fast as you can and throw it in the sink.” I held

my breath as long as I could, ran inside, and grabbed a hot pad

out of the drawer. Then I threw opened the microwave,

grabbed what looked like a bowl of rusty nails, and threw it in

the sink. I turned on the water and ran outside again.

I got my phone out of my pocket and typed my mom’s

number. She said she would come home as soon as possible

and help me. The house smelled so bad it was like a plastic

bomb full of burnt hair just went off.

Once mac and cheese cooled off, I grabbed another hot

pad and yanked it out of the sink. I ran outside trying not to

Burnt Mac and Cheese

DEREK

Written Telepathy

114

burn myself, and threw it in the powdery snow. I ran back in

and opened as many of the windows as I could while holding

my breath.

My mom finally got home, and she helped open all the

doors and windows so the smoke could clear out. The frosty

winter breeze blew throughout the house and made it ex-

tremely chilly inside. It was truly a sight to see. A house almost

burning down because I forgot to put water in the Ez Mac.

115

Two stuck up girls are sitting in front of a screen, laugh-

ing and laughing about what they are seeing. They just up-

loaded something new filled with hateful words for everyone

to see. They start gazing around and thinking about what they

could post next. One of them starts typing, “SUICIDAL

FREAK. SLIT YOUR WRISTS UNTIL U DIE, OR BET-

TER, DRINK SOME BLEACH.” She sends it. Little do they

know how much it will affect the person it’s about and how no

one will care what’s happening or do anything about it.

As an eighth grader, my sister had been getting bullied a

lot, and then someone created a hate page about her. The two

girls who created the hate page also went to her school. These

girls said the worst things anyone could possibly say to some-

one, and they said them to my sister. They even told her to go

kill herself. My sister told many teachers about this, and no one

did anything

My Mom called and called the school to have something

done about it, but still no one did anything. Every single

Bystanders

TAIYA

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116

teacher that my sister had was aware of what was going on.

They noticed how sad she had become, but they weren’t un-

derstanding at all.

On top of my sister being bullied every single day by stu-

dents, some teachers told her that it was her fault, that she

brought it on herself. This only made it worse. She dreaded

going to school every day.

I now go to that same school, and it hasn’t changed at all.

That’s why I hate it. I believe that most teachers don’t care

about the students, and the only reason they became teachers

is to have control over people younger than them. They don’t

do anything when students are intentionally hurting other stu-

dents. Sometimes they even promote it and joke around with

students, but people can only take so much until it becomes

too much to handle.

Teachers are supposed to help.

117

Just the thought of that bitter night, the evening where I

thought my life would end, still makes me shudder. At evening,

I saw something emerge from hell; it looked as if the devil

himself created it. A ferocious, furry rodent that still haunts

young teenage girls who went camping on that fateful day. I

can still hear the screams.

We gathered around the campfire, the strong smell of

dead leaves and the atrocious odor of murky lake water en-

tered my poor, poor nose. We sung a peaceful folk-like song

that put my mind at ease. Little did I know that the next thirty

seconds would be imprinted in my mind forever.

Instead of the crackling of the fire, I heard deafening

screams. Thirty young girls across from the campfire, got up

and stampeded towards me, looking as if they were chasing

down Harry Styles. Soon everyone, including me, got up and

ran away from something that I couldn’t even see. My fearful

mind thought while running, “What the hell is happening? Was

this the end of my short life? I should have gone to mass be-

Campout

LAUREN

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118

fore this. It’s a killer, isn’t it?”

But, before I could come up with more theories of how I

was going to die, it was over. The counselors told us it was just

a simple, harmless raccoon. A raccoon. I didn’t believe it, my

new biggest fear was an animal who Bambi was probably

friends with.

After the most terrifying half-minute of my life, we

calmed down and continued our singing, this time, being a lit-

tle more aware of what was around us. It was hard to focus. A

snap of an old, rickety branch might start a new stampede.

Instead of paying attention, I wondered to myself, what

could have happened if it was a killer? What could have hap-

pened? Those four words meant something big. They meant

just let life happen and make the best out of it. I will never for-

get that night, because of it, I know that my biggest fear is the

unknown, that and raccoons

119

When you first see the shaggy white dog trot through the

doorway with a yellow substance that looks like urine around

her mouth, you are flustered. But when you smell the white

dog’s breath, you realize it actually is urine on her face. This

pasty dog named Chloe will come up to you and pant her pee-

breath right in your face until you do what she wants. Seconds

later, another hound leisurely strolls through that same door.

This dog is coppery-brown, and he ambles over to the side of

the couch and lays down, giving out a loud sigh. This dog

called Cooper sits there for hours at a time, without moving a

single muscle. He looks like he might be dead, but trust me, he

isn’t. These are my dogs, and they are straight up nuts.

Cooper is a twelve-year-old brown golden doodle. He

likes spending the entire morning outside, but when he comes

back in, his soft amber fur is as comfortable as ever. This dog

is so old that I don’t even remember when my family first got

him. When he was young, my family tells me I called him

Pooker because I couldn’t say his name right.

Cooper and Chloe

JOSH

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120

I do remember that Cooper was an extremely hyper dog.

We would take him on walks and instead of us walking him, he

would drag us like he was a snow dog and we were the sled.

Now, however, he could take home the first place ribbon for

the laziest dog in the world. Cooper will go outside, do his

business, and then sit under our large evergreen tree for almost

half the day. Sometimes, I want to poke him with a stick just to

make sure he is okay.

There is one time where Cooper doesn’t act his age.

Thunder. I think Cooper would rather be taunted by a squirrel

for the entire afternoon than have five minutes of thunder.

Every single time thunder rumbles in Omaha, Cooper will go

berserk. He will scratch you, jump on you, and bark so loud

you might mistake it for thunder itself. He will do anything and

everything in order to get someone in the family to take him to

the cave. The cave is a room in our basement that my family

goes to when there is bad weather like a tornado warning.

There are no windows, noises, or basically anything in this

room except for a large tan bed, a small closet, and a 10 inch

TV shoved in the top corner of the room. Cooper loves this

place because he feels safe. He doesn’t want to be down there

by himself. I think he wants to make sure we’re safe, too.

Chloe is a raggedy white dog that is seven years old.

Unlike Cooper we have no idea what breed Chloe is because

she was a stray from the Humane Society. Also, unlike Cooper,

Chloe can walk outside for a single minute, and when she

comes back in, she will have something on her fur. No matter

how much we wash her, the fur is never clean. Worse than

that, the area around her mouth is always dirty. It is like she

has constantly been digging in something. We have tried every-

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121

thing, but the black stain will not come off.

Chloe also pants a lot. When I say pants a lot, I mean day

and night, non-stop, stinky breathing that she carelessly directs

in your face. It’s no secret why her breath stinks. At least once

a week, I watch Cooper and Chloe go outside. Chloe takes care

of her business quickly and runs over to Cooper. As Cooper is

taking care of his business, he lifts his leg and Chloe drinks

Cooper’s urine like it’s straight out of a water fountain. People

have witnessed this and can’t believe what they’re watching.

Even though our dogs have their issues, people who visit

love both dogs. They joke around asking if they can just take

the dogs home with them. Then my family, completely serious,

will respond, “Not the brown one, but feel free to take the

white one.” Although the whole family acts like we hate Chloe,

deep down—really deep down—we love her.

122

How is this happening again? This thought ran through

my head when I heard from my guidance counselor that my

dad was going to be re-admitted to Methodist Hospital.

It began at about midnight, on the night of the big bliz-

zard, February 1, 2015. School was cancelled, so my sisters and

I were going to stay up late. We were supposed to be having a

movie night. My dad was asleep in his room. Before the movie

even started, I fell asleep. Then my eyes shot open. I saw my

baby sister, Katie, running up and down the hallway screaming,

and my other sister, Lizzie, trying to calm her down. I asked

what was going on, and she came to me. She said, “Daddy

won’t wake up, and mommy won’t answer her phone.”

Then it was my turn to run to his room to see him. There

was my dad, barely breathing. My older sister, Kassie, who was

fifteen years old at the time, was trying to use the sternum rub

and screaming at him to wake up.

I went and grabbed the pulse oximeter, which is a device

that detects your pulse rate and oxygen level. I put it on his

Dad’s Story

KOURTNEY

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123

finger and turned it on while Kassie was on the phone with my

mom. When I looked at his oxygen level, it would go from

thirty-two, to forty-five, and right back down to thirty-two. I

whispered to myself, “Don’t go down, go back up.”

My dad was a professional wrestler for twenty years, so

he had Avascular Necrosis of the knees and hips. I got up and

punched him in the hip because I thought that the pain would

wake him up. I spoke to him, thinking that he could hear me

saying, “Come on, it’s not your time to go yet. You are a

fighter. Please don’t leave me yet.”

When Kassie came back in, she told all of us that she had

to call 911 and that we had to clean the living room so that the

paramedics could get through. I was bawling my eyes out at

this point.

My dad was taken out of the house and put in the ambu-

lance. Kassie went with to the hospital. I was babysitting my

two younger sisters at three o’clock in the morning waiting for

my grandparents. He was admitted to the Intensive Care Unit

(ICU) for three days, and sent to the sixth floor for five days.

That was the first time my dad had almost died.

Fast forward to August first, 2015. We went to the Boys

Town Healthy Kids Carnival. We had to leave early because

my baby sister kept throwing up, so we were going to take her

to the hospital. We went home for Kassie to grab a book and

her phone charger so that she wasn’t bored. My mom went

inside with her while her friend, my sisters, and I all waited in

the car. Kassie ran out of the house like she had just seen

something terrifying, which she had.

She told us that our dad was dying again. I pushed her

out of the way to run into the house. I got inside, and saw my

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124

dad barely breathing, looking so lifeless.

Kassie was on the phone with 911 for the second time. I

screamed his name over and over again. Then I just flat out

screamed. I sat on the floor whispering, “This can’t be happen-

ing again. He had a second chance.” Then O screamed, “You

had a second chance!”

My mom told me to leave the room, so I went outside,

chucked my phone to the ground, and screamed again. I sat on

the sidewalk just bawling. When I stopped crying, I just stood

there in shock. I watched my dad getting wheeled out of the

house with a manual resuscitator, so I just lost it. Again he was

in the ICU for three days and in a regular care unit for five.

That was the second time that my dad almost died.

Jump to August 20, 2015. I was sitting in class when my

guidance counselor came and pulled me out. He told me that

he had gotten a call from my mom saying that my dad was be-

ing readmitted to the hospital, but this time no ambulance was

involved. I was so relieved by that.

After I heard that though, I lost all of my emotions, and

became rather numb to my surroundings. The kid who always

makes me laugh couldn’t even get a smile out of me that day. I

will not explain the long, tedious two months that my dad was-

n’t at home, but I will talk about what he was diagnosed with.

Guillain-Barre Syndrome is a rare disease where your immune

system crashes and attacks the nervous system, causing tempo-

rary paralysis. Long story short, my dad can’t really use his legs

or arms. However, his hands have improved quite a bit, and I

couldn’t be more proud of him.

When people hear about what I’ve been through they say,

“Wow, you’re such a strong girl.” Well, you know what, I’m

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125

not really strong at all. I barely spoke a word for two months,

and when I did, all I did was yell. I rarely ever smiled, laughed,

or even shed any light on an emotion other than anger.

It was a very hard time for me. I would cry almost every

day, but I’m happy now. My dad is home and has been for six

and a half months now. He is getting better, and I couldn’t be

happier.

126

The leaves cling to their ancient maple, gleaming the

shades of a raging fire in the dying light. One by one, they are

tugged away to waltz upon the ground. I find myself focusing

on a single one. It hangs only by a thread to the tree, yet it is as

resolute as any. As it twists and turns, flashing its faces alter-

nately at me, I begin to see my grandmother within its tie-dyed

colors. Crinkled, wise, and kind, her smile floods my eyes with

tears. Her grip on life is failing. An autumn leaf, she’s almost

ready to fall.

We all start green, roughly the same, wrinkling as time

goes on, and turning brilliant yellows, reds, and oranges. On

the maple of life, people are absolutely equal, and only experi-

ences can separate one of us from the next. Some leaves are

tugged away before the yellow of adolescence creeps into their

veins. Others clutch even as they crumble. But eventually, we

all return to the ground for another tree, another leaf, another

life. The blunt equality of this process evokes within me a tran-

quility not replicated at any other time of the year. Every mo-

The Enchantment of Autumn

MALIA

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127

ment is a deep breath. And each one counts.

As the last rays of light disappear behind the horizon, I

let the tears trickle down my cheek and watch as another leaf

meanders to the ground with carefree cat-swagger. A chill wind

nips my nose and seems to frost the water on my face. I steal

the air, pulling it way down. It bubbles back up: hope. It is beau-

tiful, I think, my gaze still upon the leaf. As are we all.

128

I will never forget the fresh, crisp smell of the air as we

stepped off the airplane. Florida is a state known for sun and

fun, which is why it is called the sunshine state. Each town is

more beautiful, and each site is more exciting than the next.

My grandma, my dad, who always wears athletic pants,

and I get our rental car for a long drive to Daytona. As we are

cruising to the beach, I look out the window, I see the ocean

where many people are surfing the rough waves and using jet

skis. Just from that I know that we are finally in paradise.

There are parks to suit all our interests—roller coasters, water

parks, beaches, adrenaline-rushing zip-lining and much more.

The beach never fails to have us go straight there. My grandma

though isn’t too fond on the beach. She just sits under a rain-

bow-colored awning. keeping the hot rays of the sun off her

wrinkly skin.

The sand is soft, mushy and somewhat sharp from the

seashells. With each step, I leave a footprint and a piece of me

in the sand. My dad and I always throw a football when we are

Florida

CODY

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129

there. Every now and then, my dad throws the ball into the wa-

ter. Then I have to go get it before the violent waves pull it

back with them, out into the vast unknown. The ocean yawns

before me in all its mystery, with it’s rolling colors of sable-blue

and it’s white tipped waves.

I would move there within a heartbeat if I could. This is a

place that I encourage all to visit, even if you don’t like beaches

because this one has everything, ranging from good food to ice

cold refreshments, rich ice cream and amusement park rides.

This tropical destination surely will make you love it too.

130

Golda’s chest was the only part of her body that moved as

she watched her mother die. No other part of her body really

could move. She’d spent so much time in the camps, seen so

many women die, that she was dead inside.

She didn’t cry like most girls would, even though it was

her fault her mother was dead. Instead she sat, for weeks on

end, on the mass of straw she called her bed. Occasionally, her

mind would come back to the real world, only to survey her

bleak surroundings. The barrack she lived in wasn’t bigger than

the average elementary school gym, but it provided shelter for

about two hundred fifty women. The number decreased every

day, and each woman who returned at the end of a day would

thank her lucky stars she was still alive. But alive didn’t neces-

sarily mean safe. Hunger and disease swept through the camp

on a nightly basis, leaving a trail of death behind them.

The barrack itself was dark and poorly built, with no for-

mal floor and unanchored planks of wood for a ceiling. Straw

beds were laid every couple feet, except for the far corner,

Golda (fiction)

KELLY

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131

where a shallow and unhygienic pit had been dug in the dirt

floor for the prisoners to relieve themselves. Baskets gathered

around the door, and every night, guards threw in moldy bread

and rotten meat, but they never threw in quite enough to feed

everyone.

The smell wasn’t something the average middle class hu-

man could imagine today. It smelled of disease, death, and fe-

ces, which was only intensified by the water that came in

through the ceiling. It disturbed everyone in the room, whether

they had been in the room for eight seconds or eight months.

The room not only smelled like death, it sounded like

death too, with the nightly gasps of struggle as another life was

taken.

Golda was supposed to be working, but she wasn’t. She

had a reputation for doing things wrong, but she had gotten

away with it every time, even though it was at the expense of

others like her mother. This time will be the exception, she

thought to herself. She wasn’t doing her work, so she should

be shot. If she stayed in the barracks long enough, the guards

would surely find her and shoot her on the spot, as they did all

prisoners who didn’t do things their way.

The guards burst in barely after her last thought. Golda

smiled as three gunshots went off in her direction. A guard

stepped forward, dragged Golda out the door and heaved her

onto a pile of other dead bodies.

That night, the inhabitants of the barrack gathered round

in a quiet circle. A filthy woman named Esther was the only

one who spoke. “Golda Berkowitz, poor thing, shot by the

guards. Ended up just like her mother.”

132

My feet, failing me at this moment, continued to stumble

upon the drooping black flowers beneath me. I tell myself to

lift my knees, but my legs won’t respond to my brain’s attempt

to get out of this dark mess. A dull grey sky hovers over me,

with no moon to justify night and no sun to justify day. A snap

brings me back into reality.

The effects of grief range from physical to mental and

emotional and span from minor to major. Fatigue, the feeling

of extreme tiredness, affects the body of the grieving victim.

Fingers become numb and muscles act like they just paddled

across the Atlantic. Problems in the stomach begin to start af-

ter eating, when the digestive system wants to do its work. The

brain begins to pound, throb, and shake inside the skull

spawning aches. The chest endures the compression of guilt,

causing it to feel as if a weight is being thrown on a blade

straight through the heart.

Our minds have the power to completely shut out

sounds, sights, even people when we don’t feel like dealing

Grief

KATELYN

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133

with them. And when grieving, this ability becomes greater and

easier to do. Increased irritability with others including our

own friends and family allows us to become more detached

and not there anymore. The preoccupation of our loss is

greater than the thought of even trying to enjoy something.

It’s easy to see how friends and family may want to fix us

or heal us. But the truth is, there is no solution to that little

monster inside our heads reminding us of the tragedy that will

never go away. This aberration that needs healing cannot be

healed. Everyone surrounding the griever needs the realization

that this depth of sorrow is not wrong nor is it a problem. It’s

the natural response to life’s tragedies.

Grief is grief, whether it has physical effects or mental

and emotional effects on us, and it has no answer. Author of

Dressed to Thrill, Vicki Harrison says, “Grief is like the ocean; it

comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is

calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn

to swim.” We can only push on with the effects of grief and

find a way to live with them.

134

We got ready to leave way early in the morning, jamming

all of our stuff inside of the big black storage thing on top of

the car. It didn’t have enough room. We had to put things in-

side of the car which, had everyone squished up as if we were

in a package. So me and my siblings pushed and shoving each

other to get room. It was a long car ride to Adventureland.

Once we got there, my parents checked us in while we

ran to see our cousins. The hotel was really nice, filled with

fake things that looked valuable. We put our things in our

room, which was the color of comfortable vanilla. The beds

felt like laying on clouds. Everything else was plain boring

Jane. The halls were like a never ending maze because every-

thing looked exactly the same. The only thing different was the

door numbers.

After everyone was settled, we decided to go swimming.

My grandpa wanted someone to push him in, but he was a lit-

tle tipsy and wasn’t thinking clearly. So no one volunteered.

When that happened, we just stopped swimming and

Hotel Fun

TAYLOR

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135

went to go watch a movie. The movie was bad though, it did-

n’t catch anyone’s attention. Our parents went to go get food,

and left us behind, which was a mistake. We caused chaos. But

they came back with pizza that had dough that tasted as if they

used cake batter to make it.

After we were done eating, my cousins and I went around

the hotel. We ended up playing tag, running around the hotel

looking like hoodlums. All of us split into teams of two, we

ended up playing hide and go seek tag. When people came we

walked as if we were business people ready to get into a meet-

ing. After they left, we acted all crazy.

We tried to go back to our room, but we were locked

out—nothing to do but walk and explore the place.

So we decided to run around the hotel like school chil-

dren at recess, screaming like monkeys, and hiding like chame-

leons. Then we saw an ice machine and grabbed ice and started

an ice battle with each other—a free for all. We threw nail-

shaped ice chunks at each other as if we were in a game of

softball trying to get someone out. Some of us sprinted, and it

looked like we were going to collide with each other in a game

of hallway chicken. One of us threw the ice and it hit one of

the doors exploding in to tinnier pieces.

One of my cousins knocked on a persons door, and we

had to sprint down the hall like a track runner so we wouldn’t

get caught. My cousin was being stupid and kept doing it. Ana-

belle came and wanted to play with us. She randomly left out

of no where, and came back saying our parents needed us. We

went back, and I was so scared, my heart felt like it was beating

out of my chest like a cartoon, and my hands felt clammy. I

was so nervous all I could focus on was on the ground. We

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136

met up with our parents and got yelled at because of what we

did. I told my mom my sister was doing it also, but she didn’t

get in trouble. We didn’t let my sister play with us because we

thought she would spy on us.

Before that day, I didn’t know how easy it was to get in

trouble at a hotel.

137

I woke up six thirty to a blaring alarm from across the

hall. Somehow, the absence of anyone to answer it didn’t

bother me, so I went over there, unplugged the clock, and

went back to sleep. I woke up again at nine, colorful sunlight

drifting through the shades of my window. I rolled around in

my bed until I gathered the strength to get up to answer my

father’s phone, which had gone off several times.

I got the phone and looked around the house for my fa-

ther, so that I could give it to him. The screen showed that it

had been my aunt who called. I called her back and continued

my search.

At the top of my stairs, I got my first sight is of my fa-

ther’s motionless body on the floor just beyond the open bath-

room door at the bottom of the stairs.

My aunt picked up and greeted me, I responded by de-

scribing the terrifying scene that was laid before me, as tears

dripped down my face. Her immediate response was telling me

to call 911. She said she would be at my house as soon as pos-

Learning From My Dad

MAHMOUD

Written Telepathy

138

sible.

I dialed 911, subconsciously remembering I’d always

wanted an excuse to call there. I didn’t have time to savor the

moment because the operator picked up the phone and asked

my emergency. I once again described the horrific scene. I felt

like my throat was closing. The operator asked if I could per-

form CPR. Despite how hard I tried, I couldn’t push my father

onto his back. He was wedged between the bathtub and toilet

on his side. I told the operator that I couldn’t really give him

any CPR, and she excused me from this task and told me to

put any dog that we had outside. Usually we didn’t have any

dogs, but this weekend, my aunt Aida had asked if my dad and

I could watch her dog Buddy.

I ran up the stairs to find Buddy, taking the phone with

me. I found him waiting for me at the top of the stairs. He was

hundred-pound boxer (weighing more than me), so it was no

surprise that I couldn’t get him all the way out the back door.

Instead, I barricaded the entrance to the living room and told

the operator I was done. The operator then gave me a break

from tasks and told me just to continue to try CPR while she

asked me questions about my dad, such as if he was on any

medications. The paramedics arrived with a policewoman who

continued to ask me questions and made sure that I under-

stood the situation. My voice struggled as I confirmed what

had happened that day, my dad had died.

After the policewoman had finished asking me questions,

my family started to arrive. First my uncle, who had come

while she was still asking questions and helped the paramedics,

and soon after, my aunt Aida.

At this point I just hid in my room with my aunt until

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139

more of my family came to comfort me. Eventually I left with

my aunt Aida with some luggage. During the drive there, her

hands were shaking, but it was comforting when we finally ar-

rived at her house. My cousins came to the house too to com-

fort me. The next two weeks were horrible.

In retrospect, the most important thing I learned from

that fateful day was that I couldn’t have handled the situation

the way I did if I hadn’t learned to do so from my dad. From

each crisis that my dad handled, I slowly gained an understand-

ing of how do so myself. There are many things in my life I

would be unable to do if my dad hadn’t taught me—a list that

will now be discontinued, left as it is, as I can no longer learn

from him. But it is a list I will never forget.

140

Let’s face it, I’m clumsy. I know and accept that I am.

I’ve fallen out of chairs, fallen into rivers, fallen over on a bike,

tripped over nothing way too many times, and even choked on

thin air. But none of these are even close to the most embar-

rassing and clumsy thing I’ve ever done.

I was running down the basketball court, full speed, on a

fast break, looking over my shoulder at my teammate who had

the ball. I must have run a little bit too far down the court be-

cause my forehead slammed right into a metal pole. My entire

body dropped backwards to the floor like a fly drops from the

wall when you swat it.

When I looked up, the hoop, my coaches, my team-

mates, were all blurry. My teammates’ voices were faint as I

tried to focus my vision on the things around me. After a cou-

ple seconds, my vision turned back to normal. As I stood up, I

asked myself how stupid I was to run into a pole. Running into

a pole is a cliché for something a stupid person would do. I

Let’s Face It, I’m Clumsy

SAM

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141

jogged back down the court pretending to laugh at myself so I

could hide the embarrassment.

Just as I was crossing half court, I felt sweat running

down my forehead. I ignored it. But when the sweat trickled

into my eye, I lifted my hand up and wiped it away. I realized

the tips of my fingers were dark red. It wasn’t sweat; it was

blood.

I looked over at my coach and shouted. He realized the

urgent situation and directed me to make my way up the stairs

to the bathroom. Walking up the stairs, I wondered how my

teammates would react to me running into a pole. Would they

make fun of me? Would they forget about it and act like noth-

ing happened? Did they even notice?

The bathroom door nearly hit me in the face because all

of my attention was on my thoughts. I looked into the mirror

and saw the cut on the right side of my forehead. While my

dad and my coach wiped the blood from my face with paper

towels, my dad said, “Yeah, you’ll probably need stitches.”

I went into a minor panic attack because I had never had

stitches before. But, I couldn’t focus on the stitches for too

long as I was also worrying about my teammates’ potential re-

action to my stupidity and clumsiness. Most likely to get a

laugh out of me, my dad told me to, “Look up next time.” I

didn’t think it was funny at all. I wondered if that’s what my

team was going to say to me.

I had to leave practice to go to the emergency room so a

doctor could check out my injury. As I grabbed my basketball

bag and began taking off my basketball shoes, two or three of

my teammates asked me if I was okay. A couple others who

weren’t aware of what exactly had happened asked me what

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142

was going on. Once they found out they giggled, but not in a

mean way.

I guess there actually are people in this world who don’t

care how stupid or clumsy you are. Some laugh, not because

they’re making fun of you, but because they can relate to your

clumsiness. They’re laughing at their own imagination of them-

selves doing what you did, because they know it is something

that could very well happen to them. Others might try to cheer

you up by giving you an obvious yet humorous, suggestion.

Some may not even notice it all. The next time I do something

stupid or clumsy, which will most likely be pretty soon, I won’t

worry about it.

143

Riddled with potholes and loose gravel, the old cement

lets off a strong dry smell that should end up repelling most

people, but it doesn’t. Like animals in a zoo obeying the rules

and following one another out of interest, people pile into the

tight lot. Each space seems to be smaller than the other, and

we’re forced to take the only spot open—between the big

truck with oversized tires and the small 1990 Honda who

parked on the line. It’s a tight squeeze to get out of the car, but

when it’s finally done, the big neon sign that used to over-

power the area and now gives us a faint memory of what it

used to be like, stands tall over us. The sign still does it’s job,

welcoming us to the mall.

Four sets of large double doors greet us as we skip our

way to the places where we plan on blowing our money on

needless fabrics and useless goods. The pushy cart vendors at-

tack us with their products, trying to get us to buy the cheap

black-market versions of things we want. The large sofas that

never seem to be occupied block our path and force us to go

Malls

RYAN

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144

around them.

Looming over us, a directory tries to impress us with its

massive amount of stores, but we already know where we’re

going, and we aren’t remotely impressed. It’s no like this is The

Mall of America. Once we pass the directory, we are met with

our first store.

The sound of heels clicking against the floor and chatter

from nearby shoppers indicates that this place is meant for

people. The security scanners greet us as we gaze upon prod-

ucts displayed on shelves just begging to be bought.

“Are you finding everything alright?” The employee

seemed desperate to earn his paycheck, though he would

probably end up spending his money on products from other

stores.

We follow the unwritten rule and say we’re fine, even

though we know that deep inside we are clueless to what we

really want. We just want to find it ourselves.

As we exit the store, bags in hand, items in bags, we feel

much better. We meet up with friends and explore the rest of

the mall, finding the escalator that takes us up floor-by-floor

and the children’s play area where we hear screams of kids

playing together, even though they don’t know each other.

Our friends point out everything that is even remotely

close to what we are like in every store. It is comforting that

we have people who know us well enough, but it also hurts,

because we start to think they might know too much

Fast food restaurants sit side by side around the outside

of the food court, leaving the chairs in the middle. Even the

shape of the area resembles food—a doughnut in particular.

The smell of grease and different styles of food mixes together

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

145

and guides us to the line of the place where we seem the most

comfortable. The dark brown trays resemble our years in

school. We grab our food and head to a table where we plan

on gossiping with our friends just like we did at school. Occa-

sionally taking a bit to eat instead of talking, we enjoy the fact

that some things never change.

As we leave the food court carrying all of our belongings,

we pause to take in the sights: the kids following their parents

creating a ruckus, the teenage groups creeping their way to the

next store, walking in people’s paths and talking loudly and ob-

noxiously. the couple holding hands as one points out things

to the other, and the independent person who’s only here to

look for one thing. The sun shines through the large glass ceil-

ing and comes down on us creating a warm sensation.

146

Dogs are able to do spectacular things. They can pull

things such as trucks filled with concrete, run through obstacle

courses in record time, and even run marathons with a person

near their side. But their most spectacular power is their nose.

The nose of a dog helps with his color sensing and extreme

hunting skills/smelling skills (which humanity used for 9,000

years in order to help them hunt). But probably the most im-

portant thing about the dog is that their noses are the kind that

the most infamous of predators wished they had.

Dogs can use their noses for incredible things, but they

are also needed for the most essential basics of survival. Hu-

mans can look at food and never know if it’s poisonous or not.

Dog’s though, are able to detect foul substances by their odors.

Also dogs are able to sense beings socially, without sight

or hearing. Dogs usually communicate by having the most

unique aroma detectors that detect pheromones from other

dogs. These let dogs know the characteristics of other dogs

through one sniff. And they can even detect previous human

Man’s Best Tracker

HUCK

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activities through sniffing, like finding which chair a person sat

on. They are able, with their noses, to make images of frame-

by-frame cinema inside of their minds of an event that hap-

pened recently. They are also able to smell individual scents in

things such as tomato/spaghetti sauce that the usual human

wouldn’t detect .

Dogs are truly precious when it comes to their flawless

noses which, is why they will always be man’s best tracker.

148

I walk into an empty room where I can feel the spirits of

people dancing and having fun. They are dressed in their fancy

attire. As the bright clothes light up the room more than the

chandeliers, I hear the pitter-patter of the women’s heels and

the men’s nicest shoes and smell a whiff of the empty hors

d’oeuvres trays aligned along the wall.

I am waiting for the party to end. I watch as the men,

with lovely ladies at their side, walk down the red carpet out

the door. Dressed in my janitorial clothes, I finally go to clean

the room, passing a lady dressed as if she were goldilocks. She

is the last person to leave, and she doesn’t even look at me.

Because no one cares about the janitor. At the giant wooden

door, the flooring changes from carpet to hardwood so shiny

that I can see my reflection. I walk into the center of the empty

room.

Slowly the happiness in the room starts to dissipate and a

new feeling comes on—loneliness. The enjoyable smell of the

The Midnight Ball (fiction)

THOMAS

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149

hors d’oeuvres slowly vanishes, as if the trays were lifted from

their holders and taken to the kitchen.

I clean the floor as if I am dancing in the spotlight with

my one true love and everyone else is just watching. Once I

finish, I feel everything start to disappear. First the spotlight,

and then the last note of music, and it is silent. I head back to

the door because my work is done, and I stop to think of all

the memories I created in that room from one night.

As I leave, I think that this was the best night of my life. I

never want to forget what happened the night of The Midnight

Ball.

150

The pacer is a test in gym class that brings a shiver of de-

spair down the spine of any unfortunate kid who has gone

through it before. Students line up on one side of the gym,

eyeing the taped line that stretches across the wooden floor

along the opposite wall. The teacher hits play on the stereo and

a cheery woman’s voice echoes through the gymnasium. She

explains the rules as the kids wait anxiously. Then we begin

our desperate run to beat the bell.

Get to the other line before the beep plays. Simple

enough, right?

“Ready? Begin!” she calls, and the gut wrenching beep

plays. The kids awkwardly jog to the other line, with about

three or four seconds before the next beep. Each time the hor-

rendous noise plays they run back and forth to the lines.

“Level one, complete,” the cheery voice says, as if to pat

you on the back for what little victory you’ve achieved. Not

bad, the kids think. But then comes level two. Level three.

With each level the time between the beeps shortens, and

The Pacer

ALEXA

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151

kids run as fast as they can to the other line. Their foot hits it,

they pivot, the beep plays, they’re running again. Their lungs

burn, their throat is sore, their heart is on the verge of an at-

tack. No rest. No mercy. A girl is the first to crawl over to the

gym teacher, defeated. Seeing one has fallen, other students

begin to follow thinking, “At least I’m not the first one out.”

Clutching their chests, they bail out of the test.

One girl is crying. A boy lies on the gym floor is alive or

not, no one can tell. Three kids who had left for the water

fountain still haven’t made it back. And then the fallen sit

there, watching the myths, the legends, the kids who have

made it past one hundred laps. One twenty. One fifty.

When they finally collapse, a cheer erupts from the stu-

dents. They’re heroes. But the excitement only lasts for so

long, as the next round of nervous kids, the ones who opted to

go in the second wave and prolong their torture, line up.

The woman’s voice kicks back up. The beep plays. The

cycle continues.

152

Having a perfect classroom isn’t just about the way it

looks or smells. Your classroom should be decorated to fit

you—nobody else but you. For example, if you’re into ponies

and horses then have your room decorated with ponies and

horses. If you love basketball, decorate the room with your fa-

vorite basketball players and teams.

Whatever you put around your room will determine if the

kids will be distracted or will pay attention. If you teach Eng-

lish but put math things around your classroom, you will dis-

tract the kids because they’ll be confused on what class they’re

in. When you put inappropriate things in your class, such as

violent games, the kids will be distracted, and you could get

fired. And we all know you like your job or you would’ve quit

by now.

If kids help decorate the class, you can ask them to write

down their favorite movie. If they watch sports, ask who’s

their favorite team. Classroom decorating just doesn’t have to

be all you, you can have the kids come in and help out and still

The Perfect Classroom

JAMES

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153

learn about your class. Being able to know the kids in the class

will help you teach the class better.

Every classroom needs certain things to be great. Tables

are the best because it gives the kids a chance to talk to each

other and learn new things about different people or maybe

meet new people.

The most important part of a classroom is its teacher.

The teacher is the one teaching, and the kids are the ones

learning, so if you’re not a good teacher, kids will not learn in

your class. If the kids don’t enjoy the year they’re in school

with you, they’ll think that every teacher is like that.

The classroom is a vital part of learning and teaching. The

classroom lets kids now what you like and enjoy. Teachers are

also vital to the classroom because they can decorate the room

how they want and it lets the kids now that this teacher is strict

and boring or only strict when she needs to be and a little bit

more fun. If the kids help decorate the classroom, it lets you

learn about them and you can teach the class better. When you

teach a class better the kids learn better and they get their edu-

cation that they need.

154

I stood gazing at this large roller coaster, contemplating

whether I should do this. It seemed like a suicide mission but it

came to a point where if I did not ride this I would be upset

with myself, so now it had become something I needed to do.

In Branson, Missouri there is a theme park called Silver

Dollar City, and this roller coaster that would later scare me to

death, was one the first things I saw as I walked in.

I got my tickets and stood in line with my family. As we

got closer and closer to the start, I got really nervous. I

watched more and more people set off, and it looked like they

were going one million miles an hour. The roller coaster track

looked as if it had not been painted in a hundred years. The

actual carts were a shiny and hot metal that had been around

this track over and over and over.

We boarded the roller coaster. It was scary at first be-

cause the only protection it has is a bar that goes over your lap.

It was a pitch black and a the seat was a hard pad that looked

beat down. We started off slow and eventually we just started

Silver Dollar City

MICHAEL1

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155

going what felt like faster than everyone else. I just hoped we

would get to the end. Right after a loop, we started going

down. I could see the end, but we just stopped right in the

middle of the track. There was rushing water under us and

roller coasters behind us. My first thought was that a roller

coaster was going to come hit us, and we would get pushed

off.

Nothing happened, we just sat there in the beating sun

for fifteen minutes. Eventually some workers came out with

water bottles and gave us water while we had to wait. After

what seemed like hours, we got to walk off of the roller

coaster. I was mad that the one time I rode the roller coaster, it

stopped, but now I look back on it and think it was funny.

156

Kelly and I stepped off the plane, escorted by strangers

who would be taking us to wherever Delta Airlines dropped

the children who were traveling without an adult. The strange

women whispered about something which I couldn’t help but

think concerned me somehow.

“You girls are gonna be here a while,” One of the women

said as she led us through the crowded airport. My eyes met

Kelly’s as we shared a look of great uncertainty. The escort

opened a door that revealed a brightly-colored room that

seemed blinding compared to the gloomy Detroit sky. The two

of us walked in and set down our backpacks, unsure of what

the rest of the day had in store for us.

After about fifteen minutes, Kelly and I had lost interest

in telling stories from camp and began to do our own things. I

watched as Kelly reached for her copy of Fangirl and began to

read. I picked up my phone and headphones, deciding that the

best way to pass the remaining time was Netflix. At the time I

was in the middle of watching all ten seasons of Friends. Only

being on season six, I figured it was as good of a time as any to

Stranded

ISABELLA

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continue watching.

Every so often Kelly and I would glance over at each

other, curious of what the other was up to. After watching

three episodes, I decided I needed human interaction, so I

turned to Kelly to tell her that Reese Witherspoon had guest

starred as Rachel’s sister on the episode that I was on. She set

her book down, looking relieved that we had finally started a

conversation.

“Hey, do you want to see if they’ll let us get gum?” I

asked her, absolutely itching to stretch my legs. She agreed and

we went to go ask the unhappy-looking attendant if she would-

n’t mind if we went to the Hudson News across from the room.

She glared at us and informed us that we needed an escort if

we wanted to leave, even to go to the restroom. The woman

unwillingly took us to the store and waited for us to pick out a

type of gum from what seemed like a million to choose from.

After we returned, Kelly and I shared more camp stories and

chewed our newly-bought gum.

Soon, we began to get hungry, since we had been there

longer than anyone else in the room. The attendants told us

our options for food and there wasn’t a very wide variety. Our

choices were basically Wendy’s or nothing. After we each

bought a mediocre burger, some fries, and a frosty, it was al-

most time to leave the colorful nightmare that we had been

living in for the past eight hours.

The escort told us that we should use the restroom be-

fore we went to our gate. Naturally, Kelly and I headed for the

women’s room but the attendant stopped us and motioned us

toward the family restroom, saying that we needed to go in one

person at a time. The two of us found this absolutely ridicu-

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158

lous. I remember thinking yes of course we’re going to cause a distur-

bance if we go into the normal ladies’ room.

After our five minute detour just to use the restroom, we

were finally being escorted to the gate. Before us, we had to

drop off another teenage boy at his gate. Our escort brought

him to the flight attendant while we were forced to wait behind

the counter. After the two talked for a few minutes, she began

walking the other direction with us and the boy who appar-

ently couldn’t board at that time.

“You know, she could have boarded him. She just didn’t

want to,” our escort whispered to Kelly and I. We looked at

each other for a second, trying hard not to burst into laughter.

Once we reached our gate, they needed to check our

wristbands for us to board. When we arrived at the airport in

the morning we had been given wristbands with barcodes on

them. The people at the airport have the job of writing the

number on the bracelet down so we can be verified when we

are going to board. Well, apparently the people at the Greens-

boro airport had written our numbers down wrong, which

meant we couldn’t be verified to get on the plane. As the air-

port employees not-so-urgently tried to fix the situation, Kelly

and I called our mothers about the dilemma. Kelly’s mom

wanted to speak to the person in charge, and I think my mom

was ready to kill someone if I didn’t get on that flight home.

After a lot of fiddling with the computer and a half hour delay

of the flight, we were finally able to get on the plane.

“Tell your mothers everything’s fine,” said one of the at-

tendants, rolling her eyes.

Fortunately, after the bracelet fiasco, nothing else went

wrong for the rest of the day, and we eventually got back to

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

159

Omaha after almost twelve hours of travel. I looked around

the Omaha airport, seeing the bright fluorescent lighting and

the large Omaha Steaks sign. It might not be the most luxuri-

ous place ever, but to me, it was home, and I’ve never been

happier to see all of the dull colors around me.

160

I was looking at the giant blue and green slides that

looped as if they were shoelaces being tied. I remember drop-

ping down the hole and sliding upwards, I was almost around

the loop. I was about to make it, but then I slid backwards to

the start of the slide. I looked up at the slide shoot towering

above me as if it were laughing at me, mocking me, ready to

drop another person at any second.

When I had found out I was going on a cruise, I did a lot

of research about the certain ship I was going on. I wanted to

know the features it would have. Upon looking it up online, I

found out the ship had five waterslides. One that wasn’t too

impressive and two twirly ones that looked as if they would

make you dizzy. But the two that I was anticipating the most

were the two waterslides that looked like they were knotted

together. I noticed a little hatch on the sides of both sides.

The ship had a certain weight limit for those who wanted

to go on the water slides. The weight limit said that, if you

were under one hundred pounds, you were out of luck. I was

happier than a pig in mud to see this because I just barely

Stuck in the Slide

LUKES

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161

made the weight limit at one hundred and five pounds.

When we arrived on the ship, I simply could not wait to

go on the waterslides, but my parents told me I would have to

wait until the next day when we were all situated.

The next day I put on my swim trunks and headed to the

waterslides. I was kind of surprised by how short the line was.

I guess not many had the guts to go on the slides or maybe

they didn’t make the requirements.

When it was finally my turn, they weighed me to make

sure I was at least one hundred pounds. Then I stepped into a

crystal clear cylinder and took a step onto the shoot. I got into

position, arms and legs crossed. They closed the door to the

cylinder, and I heard a loud “Three, two, and one,” and then

the floor of the cylinder dropped out. I kept in my position

and made it to the top of the loop, but then I felt my body

about to fall back down the loop. I quickly grasped the slide

and pushed myself forwards and down the other side. It was

quite a relief when I made to the end of the slide. Out of fear

of not making it over the loop again, I decided to play in the

little splash pool with my cousins.

The next day I decided to test my luck, hoping this time I

wouldn’t have to pull myself around the loop. I waited in line,

and my mom was waiting in line about five people behind me.

Once it was my turn, I went through the same procedure as

before. I made it to the top of the loop and almost made it

over, but then I fell back down the smooth surface of the slide

I stopped under the chute. I panted helplessly, waiting for

help.

I wondered if they noticed I hadn’t made it all the way

around the loop. I had no idea if I was going to make it out.

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162

Then I remembered the little hatch on the side of the slide and

realized what the hatch was for. It was an emergency exit. I lay

there helplessly, not knowing when another human being

would drop down the shoot, causing me to die. Then I heard a

click and the hatch swung open to reveal a lifeguard.

My mom was still in line by the time I had been rescued

and yelled from the top of the slide to find out if I was okay.

“Yes!” I lied. I could feel the tears pouring down my eyes

looking as if I had just cut a thousand onions. I ran to my fam-

ily members sitting by the poolside and fell into their welcom-

ing arms.

163

It was a cloudy day in California, and we decided it was a

good day to go surfing. My sister Jace and I went down to the

beach with my dad and Aunt, and we got our wet suits on. The

wet suits were extremely tight and they were very hard to get

on. We had to walk down to the beach with our arms wrapped

around the huge boards. When we got to the beach, we laid

our boards in the sand, so the instructor could give us a lesson

on how to stand up on our boards. After we had our lesson we

went into the freezing cold water to start surfing.

The first thing we did was swim out into the ocean and

wait until waves came. The waves that day weren’t very big. It

was hard to get up on our boards with small waves. We had to

be able to control our boards in the water. Every time I tried

getting up on the board, I fell.

My sister and I each went a few times. My sister got up a

couple times, but it wasn’t that easy. The waves were pushing

up against us and it was very difficult to get up and keep our

balance at the same time. The last time I went, I finally got up

onto the board, but it was only for three seconds.

Surfing in California

CAMRYN

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164

Getting up was one of the most satisfying things I have

ever done. It made me feel so proud of myself.

Surfing was so much fun, even though it might have

been hard. That was probably the best thing we did on vaca-

tion, and I can’t wait to go back.

165

We usually go to Florida during the bitter cold winter

break so we can enjoy the warmth of the sun. We have a won-

derful time. I enjoy every moment of it. I never waste a second

because I know that it could be a once in a lifetime chance to

do the things we are able to do.

The first thing we do when we get to our campsite in

Marathon Key, Florida, is set up our tents and get all of our

stuff situated. We love staying at Bahia Honda State Park be-

cause everyone is always kind, and we have a breathtaking view

of the ocean.

When we set up our tents, it gets a little difficult. My un-

cle always becomes frustrated and his face gets as red as a fire

truck. But when we get finished, we remember that every night

we get to fall asleep to the sound of the ocean waves crashing

against the rocks. Everything we once were frustrated by goes

away.

We love to go to the beach to swim and see all the beauti-

ful things that were washed up the night before. We like get-

ting up early in the morning right when the howling wind dies

Winter Vacation

BROOKLYN

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166

down and the sea becomes calm again. I love searching for

shells with unique shapes and beautiful colors. I always end up

bringing a ton of shells home for my collection.

My family and I rent kayaks from the campsite we stay at.

We spend a whole day out around the coral reef. The coral reef

is even more beautiful in person than in pictures I’ve seen. I

definitely want to go back. The fish swim around the kayaks all

day long, and we just watch them chase each other around and

around. Each of the fish looks as if an artist has hand painted

them with their own unique design. Sometimes if we look hard

enough, we can see sharks swimming along the bottom with

little fish swimming cautiously away from the them so they

don’t become dinner.

My grandpa loves to fish, and he’s the one who first

taught me how. He calls me his little fisherman. I’ve been fish-

ing with him since I was six, and now I can catch any kind of

fish. Sometimes we all get a little seasick. When the waves are

constantly moving up and down, I usually start to feel nau-

seous, but my grandpa tells me that getting seasick is all part of

being a fisherman, so I just get over it.

To end most of our days in Florida, we girls love to go

shopping. We take our car and drive over an hour to Key West

to shop for the whole day. We spend most of our time on Du-

val Street—the longest street in the United States. I always end

up buying a ton of stuff and can barely fit it all in my suitcase. I

have to shove everything in there, leaving some clothes bulging

out. In regards of my wallet, may I just say rest in piece.

167

The majestic, red, neon clock on my G-Shock ticked over

and over. Five o’clock, it said. We had been up for hours, sleep

deprived as we rode down the road, passing through town af-

ter town. I managed to watch out the window, on the left the

flowing muddy water, to the right green bluffs.

Ancient trees began to show as farmland became more

mountainous. The road began to shift up, down, side to side as

we approached the Mountains of Tennessee. The signs ex-

claimed, “7% grade. Trucks beware.” Red dusty trails shot off

from the side of the road for runaway trucks to use.

Just over the summit was a tremendous lake. One half of

the lake was superior in every way with a marina full of yachts

and million dollar homes. On the crummy side, lay houses that

looked as if they wouldn’t even be allowed in a slum.

In Tennessee, I started playing the alphabet game. I

scanned out of the car, looking for a word that began with A.

Anything. Anything whatsoever: Apple, Amazon, Arizona, Al-

exandria. I looked and looked and looked but could not see a

thing that started with A. While I was looking, I heard my fam-

Worthwhile Drive

JOE

Written Telepathy

168

ily talking and laughing . “Aeropostale,” I shouted at the top of

my lungs. Everyone looked and stared, confused. I just said,

“Aeropostale was a store back there.” Everyone sat and gazed,

confused still. I tried to explain that we were playing the alpha-

bet game, but it took a while until they said, “We quit playing

that an hour ago.” I laughed and realized that I didn’t know

how fast time had gone by.

169

The pine-scented wind whips through my hair, battering

my face and stinging my eyes. My bike and I speed down the

treacherous slope, my eyes searching for anything that might

cause a surprise wipeout. Rocks and roots seem to appear from

thin air along the trail, grabbing for my tires. They add exhila-

rating jerks to my afternoon ride through the Wyoming trees.

As I finally reach the top of what I thought had been a

never-ending hill, my breath is taken away. There is a field of

golden grass with narrow dirt trails winding through. Huge

rocks jut out of the ground, looking as if a giant had been aim-

ing for a target and sorely missed. I am trembling from excite-

ment as my brother takes off for the granite slabs. Christian is

as quiet as a rabbit but as fearless as a starved coyote. Some-

times his courage is admirable, but in this case, I cautiously fol-

lowed, not wanting to hurt myself this early in our ride.

Granite crunches under our tires, proof of the spectacular

traction it provides. It is unlike anything I have ever experi-

enced. Somehow, I end up leading our small group, and I

come to a rather odd formation. There is a tree that seems like

Wyoming Ride

ASHLEIGH

Written Telepathy

170

a picky toddler, deciding to grow between the two rocks de-

spite the fact that there was plenty of open ground all around.

My dad tries to warn me and suggests I stop, but I just answer,

“No way. This is easy!”

The rock trails split ways, one leading to a thin log bal-

ance beam, so I go the other way. The path I take turns into a

two or three foot drop off, and I begin to panic. My speed is

such that stopping or changing directions is a bad idea. My

only option is to go over, leaning far back on my bike, feeling

as though I will fall over, trying to balance my weight. Had I

sat down, I would have landed on my back tire.

Scarcely keeping control of my bike, I hit the ground with

a thud and coast to a stop. I whoop with joy then tell my dad

and brother to look out for the drop off that I just landed.

I thoroughly enjoy watching Christian and my dad try to

follow me. My brother is so tall that, when he tries to bike un-

der the tree, the tree catches him and attempts to fling him off

the path. He looks as if he hit a brick wall. For once I realize it

was a good thing to be short because neither my dad nor my

brother could get past the first part of the trail.

After surviving the drop off, my confidence levels boost

to the point of being dangerous. Going over a log in the mid-

dle of the path, I try to balance my weight but my front tire

hits the ground, and the wheel twists. One side of the handle-

bars jams into my chest, and my elbow scrapes across the

ground. The air in my lungs rushes out of my body, and I lay

there for a second, gasping for air.

“I’m fine, really,” I assure my dad, coughing and spitting

out the grimy dirt that has found its way into my mouth.

Brushing off my hands, I am brought back to Earth, where

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

171

cuts and scrapes are very real, and decide to take things down a

notch for the rest of the ride.

Section V:

Miscellaneous Out-of-Class Writing

175

My name is Giovanni Vincentiny. I was born June 26th

1880 in Pompeii, Italy. I have two brothers, and a mom and a

dad. They like the life of crime, especially my older and

younger brothers. My family has been the boss of a mafia for

three generations. My dad is like the Italian version of Al Ca-

pone. They say the life of crime runs through our blood like

water runs through a river, but not mine. I am the middle

child, and I hate the life of crime. I want to travel to America

and start a new life, a fresh start, and run my own business.

My schoolmates called me weird, but I never listened to

them. I always got bullied because I was different in every way

possible. Every day I would come home with throbbing

bruises the size of tennis balls.

Years went on, and life was terrible in Pompeii, until the

Mt. Vesuvius erupted. Then it was worse than terrible. The

volcano was the size of Mount Everest, and it was raining

down ash that burned more than a branding iron straight off

of the fire.

American History Immigrant Journal (fiction)

ADAM

Written Telepathy

176

I ran home and saw my family leaving me on the golden

white carriage that had turned to black because the ash. I got

on my donkey that was slower than a turtle even at full speed. I

wish I had the stable of horses my brother had.

The donkey was going as fast it could, but still I felt like

we were running toward the volcano. Looking back I saw my

grandparents drowning in the lava. They were too slow, but

they lived a good life. They were 105 and 102 and died fast and

not painful.

I got away with only a few burn marks. I looked like I

showered in dust. Also I had a few cuts that looked like they

came from a bear. I never found my parents.

After days of travelling, I got to Rome. I knew I could

never go back. I had no choice but to turn to pick-pocketing

and stealing. I guess the life of crime does run through my

blood. I never got caught once. I was notorious in Rome for

stealing. With the money I never bought a house. I saved up to

buy a ticket to America, where my dream would finally come

true.

177

Dear Padre,

We’ve been walking for a month already, and things

aren’t going very well. We’ve been low on water and food, so

every family traveling with us split up to find more last week.

None of them have come back.

One of our mules passed out, so my siblings and I are

taking turns carrying it. We’ve gotten attached to it, but we

may have to use it as food soon, since other food sources are

scarce.

Mama was washing our clothes in her tent, when she was

ambushed by a chupacabra. Good thing I had my trusty shot-

gun handy. I blew that son of a gun to bits. We were stuffed

with wild chupacabra that night.

I think we’re only about 4,569 burrito lengths away from

the border. Hopefully we get there before someone gets stuck

in quicksand or takes a cactus to the eye. As you used say, “It’s

all fun and games until someone gets stabbed in the eye with a

cactus.”

American History Journal (humorous fiction)

DYLAN2

Written Telepathy

178

I’ve attached a picture of me and my shotgun below. This

trek has been hard, I can’t wait to get to America.

With love and luck in the Civil War,

Juan Pablo VII and Brothers

179

June 30th 1847 Never Land, Florida

The blistering hot air kisses my back as I bend down

sweating, barely able to pick the next cotton boll. My name is

Wondo, and I am twenty-three years old. I do not really re-

member who my family is. But I remember the distant face of

my mother crying as I get ripped from her hands. I am a field

slave. I work picking cotton all day, just trying to get a break.

I have fade friends here at the plantation. I have Auntie

Mary. She is my favorite. She practically raised me. The work-

ing conditions here at the plantation are worse than a pig pen

where the mud is boiling. Master Pete never gives me a break.

He even cuts our Sunday short.

I live in a small cabin, about as small as big as a four per-

son tent, with five other slaves. They are all nice, but a couple

are thinking about running away.

Our clothing is very rough on our skin. It feels like we are

wearing potato sacks, and we can’t even wash the clothing.

American History Slave Journal (fiction)

BRENDEN

Written Telepathy

180

Me and my Auntie on Sundays husk corn together. We

sing songs and make music.

Sometimes Phill (he and Auntie Mary jumped the broom)

comes and plays the banjo for us. One day I hope that we will

do this when we are free. My Auntie always says that one day

all of us will be free.

The master is coming. I have to wrap this up. But one

thing that I think that everyone should remember about slav-

ery is that slaves are humans. Slaves should be treated like hu-

mans. We have to rise up and show the people.

181

The dark.

The dark. The dark.

It swallowed the small bedroom. The air was stale.

It smelled of death. The girl sat.

Listening to the creaks of the night. The moans.

The wind blew. The air chilled. The dark.

The dark. The dark.

It was a beast.

Eating away her sanity. Pitter-patter.

Footsteps. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter. Pitter-patter.

The girl reaches for the knife. Under her pillow.

The door opens. She throws.

A wail.

The dark surrounds the monster.

But not a monster.

Just her father.

The Dark (fiction)

MARYAM

Written Telepathy

182

Dead.

By his own daughter.

The dark.

She smiles.

183

Some days I can’t seem to get a song out of my head. My

family called them earworms because they wormed their way

into your ear and then your brain.

Creepy, right? But nothing like The Invasion—tiny para-

sites crawling their way into your ears and eating your brain.

Mini zombies. As long as you were careful and cleaned your

ears, you were fine, right?

Wrong. At first they were only located in Africa. Because

you know, Africa. Then they moved by some guy’s ear in an

airplane. But it’s not like you touched ear to ear, right?

Wrong, kinda. The parasite was first just a microscopic

cell that you couldn’t see. It was transmitted by hands, eyes,

mouth. You touched the infected’s hand then your ear and,

boom, you’re infected. Two hours later, dead.

Earworms, you gotta love ‘em. It became a problem. But

just a little one (she says with sarcasm). Like, in hours. My

mother, gone. My father, sick. My brother, missing. Me, sitting

at home, rocking back and forth.

Earworm (fiction)

MARYAM

Written Telepathy

184

I held a gun in fear, ready to shoot anyone who came

close to me. I was about to fall asleep, when I heard a tiny

voice. “Don’t sleep,” it whispered into my head.

Crazy, I thought but it then said, “Not crazy, not crazy.”

I shivered, was about to touch my ear, when I remem-

bered. Nope. Nope.

“Do it,” the voice murmured.

It kept repeating it over and over again. I screamed, claw-

ing out my hair. I grabbed my earbuds and turned them onto

the highest volume, trying to drown the voice. The song came

on but the lyrics were garbled and staticky.

The voice multiplied into dozens. Then hundreds. I

yanked out the earbuds. Screaming, I threw my phone. That

must be another way they transferred.

Earworms. I half cried and half laughed.

Giggling hysterically, I grabbed my gun. No, no, no. Not

this. Throwing it down, I ran outside. All I could hear were the

whispers, softly eating my sanity. I fell onto the ground and

shivered uncontrollably.

I didn’t feel anything after that.

185

When I look into a mirror, there is a different person. A

girl who looks just like me, but she has a different expression

than I would ever have. She looks confident.

She’s the face I used to wear when I went outside of my

room. Proud, free, and fake. Then something happened. I did

something bad. I played with matches. I didn’t mean it. It was,

well, umm … an accident. I didn’t want them to lock me away.

That’s when she came out, proved them all wrong. I was free

again. She was my best friend. She was perfect. Perfect smile,

perfect eyes, perfect hatred. Hatred. She’s me but better. 2.0.

Ha. 2.0. Ha. Ha. Ha?

She scares me sometimes. She creeps into my mind. She

takes the little pieces of sanity and eats them. I am insane, like

the doctors said.

So funny.

Giggle.

She calls me worthless. She tells me I need her or they’ll

take me away. Far away. Like, like, like Cinderella. Meeting my

I am the Darkness (fiction)

MARYAM

Written Telepathy

186

prince. Dancing away. While she does the work.

I like her. I don’t have to do anything ever again. But I

don’t like where she locks me up. It’s cold and dark. Scary.

There are thousands of people screaming. I crumple into a ball

and put my hands over my ears, but usually it doesn’t work.

The screams are in my head, clawing their way out. They burst

through my skull and surround me. I don’t like them. Then a

piece of light, her hand. Pulling me out. Smiling and giving me

my mind back.

Good.

She wants to kill me now. I heard the whisperings outside

of the mirror. No, they can’t come here. She wants my body to

herself. That evil backstabbing witch! I hate her! She made me

like this. She tore me apart. She changed … me.

She doesn’t deserve me. She came out and asks for my

mind. I hid the match behind my arm. Smiling, I reach out to

touch her. Then I strike the match against my wrist. I throw

the fire at her. She screams. I smile. Her body burns away leav-

ing an inky darkness. I gasp in shock. The darkness slips down

my throat.

I am the darkness.

Oh. Goodbye.

She opens her eyes. They are completely dark. I am

trapped forever. Forever in the mirror. I stare at her, begging.

She grins and leaves. Never to be seen again.

187

into this world we come

out this world we go

it all happens in a matter of time

we come in good and pure

knowing nothing

but then it goes down hill

we mess up

we mess up a lot

we mess up too much

eventually we should learn

what to do

what not to do

that doesn’t happen very often though

its the same mistakes we keep making

the same mistakes we keep repeating

Into This World We Come

BROOKE

Written Telepathy

188

and never learning

but the few of us that do learn

live a good life

trying to be pure and good

doing what’s right

realizing what’s wrong

but its just a matter of time

we’re all going to be gone

no one is going to remember

but people remember a lot

a lot is remembered when you’re still here

living this life you were given.

189

The scarlet fire slowly ate away at the plump logs. The

glowing embers proved the fire wouldn’t die anytime soon.

Kicking off my boots uncovered my sweat-drenched feet that

smelled like they had been through the sewer. After peeling off

my socks, I planted my feet on the soft grass. I pierced a

marshmallow and stuck it in the middle of the flame. It was

still on fire when I pulled it back. After I blew out the flames, I

bit through the charred skin, reaching a gooey interior.

There was a scream not too far away, coming from the

girls’ campsite. Arin was the only other one who seemed to

notice. He said, “The Pedra must be near, by the sound of it,

he found a dinner of teenage girls.”

All he got was blank stares and the low hum of others

having their own conversations.

“You haven’t heard? The Pedra has been running wild in

these woods for over fifteen years. It’s like bigfoot, but bigger

and like Nessie, but slimier. One night every year seven people

disappear and are found dead the next day, each with their

Pedra (fiction)

ELLA

Written Telepathy

190

right leg severed and claw marks down their chest. He gets his

name, meaning stone in Galician, from the stone imbedded in

the corpses’ skulls where the brains should be. And if you

don’t think I’m serious, follow me.”

None of us believed in mythical creatures, so we followed

him into the thicket towards the girls’ campsite. Sure enough,

there was no one there. The fire was still lit, and all the hiking

gear was strewn about. I gripped my rifle. If Arin was telling

the truth, which I now was starting to believe he was, there

had only been six girls at the campsite, which left one more

person to die, and we were the only people in these woods for

miles.

We conducted a search, everyone going a different direc-

tion with a partner. I was with Joey, who would probably go

running back to camp at the slightest movement. We walked

for about a half mile, and finding nothing, decided to turn

back. I heard a twig snap and shot my weapon blindly. The

sudden burst of sound left my ears ringing in the silence that

followed. Some squirrels skittered up a tree, and I realized I

was just being paranoid. My sigh of relief was interrupted by a

shriek from behind me. I turned to see a large creature drag-

ging Joey away.

“Your gun Fox, use your gun!”

Coming back to my senses, I shot at the creature, which

then flew to the ground. Joey lay motionless, missing a leg,

gashes slicing through the flesh on his chest. He was still

breathing but unconscious. I used my jacket to wrap around

what was left of his leg, to stall the bleeding.

My hands were shaking so hard I had trouble pulling out

my walkie-talkie to signal for help. When I finished explaining

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

191

what happened, I crawled over to the beast. It had slimy skin

and greasy hair. It looked to be about eight feet tall, and blood

was seeping out of its chest. Dead.

The bleeding corpse made me realize that there are mon-

sters out there, in the woods, in the ocean, in the worlds be-

yond the stars. I had always wanted to believe, but it wasn’t

until that night that I realized the truth is out there.

192

You’re the one for me

Only if I had the courage to tell you

I wish I could be always next to you

I hope you would tell me how you feel

I believe I’m the right one for you

I write These poems like its nothing

I write down my feelings because they’re true

They’re not just words to me it’s what I feel

You’re the one for me

I’m the one for you

I don’t know what love is but I know I can express it

The day I man up is today

I’m here and next to you

I saw you I wanted you I got you

Now I’m not losing you

Poems

BRELIN

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

193

I want therefore I do

I want to be the one

I want to be on the team

I want to tell you the truth

I want all of it

But I can’t

I can’t cause I was told I’m not the one

I can’t cause I’m not good enough to be on the team

I can’t cause I have everything standing in the way of my destiny

But I realize I can

Therefore I tell you I have feelings

Therefore I keep trying to make the team

Therefore I blast through all my challenges to prove my destiny

Confessions

I have ADHD

I’m doing my best

I love all my friends like they’re my brothers

I have the kindest heart in my family

I do confess

But let me ask why do I stress

I’m brutally honest

I say what I think

I say what I want

I say how I feel

I say who I am

Why do I confess I just confessed to relieve my stress

Written Telepathy

194

A peace of mind

I’m going to say

I’m going to spit game at the girls

And The day I do I’m going to be heard around the world

I was told to make good choices

I messed up I lied to the woman who loves me the most

Now I’m at a new start

I’ve got to skip over that dumb brain fart

And now we got a person who really understands musical art

I’m here with a piece of mind to give

195

I lay on the ground, staring at the sky as ribbons of lightning allow

me a glimpse of their dangerous tango. The land becomes illumi-

nated for a moment, enabling me to catch what cowers under the

shadow of night. Though I am, we are, always the prey.

The harsh rain pierces me. Cleansing me, washing away my past so

it trickles off my body like sweat and is absorbed by the Earth. After

all, it is our actions that have molded the once pure planet into the

decrepit state it revolves in.

So now I lie, vulnerable without the cloak of past events to shroud

me from the truth. Now they can see what I really am. Without a

story I am just a thing devoid of meaning. A human. Without stories

we are empty. But with them we are just small meals for the hungry

universe. They watch we narcissistic fools wander the earth perceiv-

ing ourselves as the dominant species, when the only one who has

utter dominance is the universe herself.

Ramblings From the Night

JULIA

Written Telepathy

196

I embrace the powerful thunder and let it engulf my spirit so I can

share its lonely rage. We choke on the same glass of sour truth. It

too knows that our presence makes too little difference in the unfa-

thomable girth of space. Whatever great deeds, whatever horrific

deeds, we accomplish will be diminished, and gasp for air until they

emit a dying breath, until they are forgotten. A deed carried out by

the universe.

But

May the thunder be my herald?

It rattles me so I am aware that from my perspective I matter. Per-

haps people need to realize that we may not matter to the universe,

but we matter to each other.

Anyways,

It’s all

perspective.

Or

May the thunder be my savior?

Is the thunder trying to awaken us from the lucid dreams we are

living?

A reminder that few of us will go down as a name remembered.

Is the thunder saying that if the universe can’t speak our names

what are we to do?

Whatever the true answer may be,

It will be interpreted differently.

Anyways

It’s all

perspective.

197

Officer Ronald J. Kergowits waited outside the city bank

in his cruiser. The precinct had gotten an anonymous tip that

there would be a robbery, and it was his shift for watch. His

partner lay sound asleep in the passenger seat. Across the

street from him sat another cruiser with two more officers.

The plan was simple really: wait until the robbers showed up,

and then apprehend them, hopefully without injury.

His palms were sweaty. He had been on plenty of stake-

outs before, but this one felt different. Something didn’t sit

right with him. Movement. He saw out of the corner of his

eye. He turned his head until his gaze landed on a black car

with tinted windows. Four men stepped out, carrying duffel

bags and Thompson submachine guns.

Ronald woke up his partner, and then got out of the car.

He made his way over to a concrete barrier and hid behind it.

He peered over the concrete and saw the men at the door.

They were matched one for one. He took aim at one and

yelled “Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!”

The men stopped in their tracks and turned around to

Stakeout (fiction)

BRETT

Written Telepathy

198

face him. They exchanged a look. Then the unmistakable

sound of firearms cocking. They opened fire on him. He

ducked, hearing the rapid stream of bullets tear apart the top

of the concrete.

He had to come up with a plan. Depending on the model

of their machine gun the clips were anywhere between twenty

and one hundred rounds. He needed to get another look.

Then he saw the red dot of a laser sight. There was a

sniper in the vicinity. He rolled to the side as a large round

took a chunk out of where he had just been sitting.

Ron pulled out his radio and called for backup. He

peeked above the slab again, and saw they had drum maga-

zines, likely to be one hundred rounds. This meant they could

fire for ten seconds straight before reloading. He radioed this

to the other officers.

The sniper had his dot back on Ron’s chest, and once

again, he dodged to the side just in time.

The men with the machine guns opened fire, spraying

wildly. Ron risked another peek. He decided that closing in

would be the best course of action to get the jump on this guy.

So he made a break for the next closest cover, trying to ad-

vance on the singular gunner.

He waited for the gunner to empty his clip, then ran once

again to new cover. He repeated this pattern until he was al-

most on top of the man. Then a shot from the sniper rifle in-

terrupted his path. Ron quickly doubled back. The sniper had

missed him three times. That would be unbelievable luck, if

Ron believed in luck.

There was only one gunner between him and the bank,

one gunner and the sniper. He radioed the other officers to

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

199

make a semi-circle surrounding the man.

“We’ve got you surrounded. Freeze,” said one of the

other officers.

Then the heavy bank doors opened and the other three

men ran out.

“By order of the law, we command you to stop.”

The gunners were back at their car, and leaving the scene.

Ron took aim and shot at the tires, missing every shot.

Once again Ron was on his feet, moving toward his car.

He opened the door then hopped in. The chase was on.

200

The question of why I want to go to college is a tough

one for me to answer because there isn’t just one reason I want

to go. It’s a whole array of experiences, teachings and pres-

sures throughout my admittedly short life, but just because I

haven’t lived very long in the grand scheme of things doesn’t

mean those lessons are any less important.

As a young child, most kids are told they should go to

college so they can get a good job, be able to support a family,

and all that other stuff. It gives a kid the idea that in order to

have a good life, you need to go to college.

Then, as we grow up, and we move on from wanting to

be cowboys or princesses to dreaming of being actors, scien-

tists or athletes, we learn more about the reality of college. We

start learning that there are plenty of jobs out there that don’t

need college, but those beliefs that have been ingrained into

our heads since we were kids are still there, so we continue

feeling the need to go to college. We continue refining our big

aspirations, most of us still set on the path of going to college.

As we exit childhood and enter adolescence, we are told

Why I Want to Go to College

MALIK

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

201

to start thinking seriously about our future, about our lives, but

then there’s this pressure on us, coming from everything

around us—pressure to succeed. It comes from T.V. and mov-

ies, our families, our teachers, and our mentors. It comes from

our peers, most of whom are probably having the same crisis,

and it even comes from ourselves.

By this time, we know that there are jobs out there that

don’t need a college education, but the pressure keeps us striv-

ing for it. For some of us, this pressure creates shining dia-

monds, but the same pressure can cause others to crack.

But for me, and probably a lot of other people, the pres-

sure from the outside isn’t the only thing that propels me to-

ward college. For us, the people who know what they want to

do, our dreams drive us. They are the things that don’t just

push us to go to college, but pull us to want to take the steps

to accomplish our goals. And isn’t that what college is about?

One extra step in furthering our education that we need in or-

der to make our dreams reality?

The importance of college, though, goes well beyond

education and achieving dreams, it’s much deeper than that.

People often say that our teenage years are a time of exploring

ourselves, but I believe that college is an even more monumen-

tal time of exploration. It’s a time for us to explore the possi-

bilities and limitations of our newfound freedom. It’s a fresh

start away from the reputations we may have made for our-

selves back home. It’s a time to make new friends and meet

new people—the first place where we can truly be an adult

(though we may still act like children).

I’ve spent this whole essay writing about what I think col-

lege is, but not much on why I in particular want to go. It’s a

Written Telepathy

202

simple question with a not-so-simple answer. The easiest way

to answer it would be any of the reasons listed before, from

the teachings ingrained into my head from an early age, the

pressure to go and succeed, or my own want to accomplish my

dream of becoming a chemical engineer, but to be honest, I

don’t know the reason I want to go. I don’t even think there is

a singular reason. It’s a combination of everything I’ve learned,

and all I’ve gathered from life so far. It’s the push of expecta-

tions and the pull of dreams that have yet to be achieved.

203

This year I was lucky enough to have a teacher who had

one main goal: to make sure that none of his students were

stupid. He wanted to make sure everyone applies his/her

knowledge to everything they do. Throughout the year he said

many things that are vital to make sure everyone uses their

common sense. To make sure that nobody else has to suffer

from stupidity, I have compiled a list of some of his best

pieces of advice for writers.

Make sure, when you are describing a person who is

doing two things at once, that people can actually do

the two things at once.

Example of what not to do: As I opened the trunk, I quietly

closed the door to the car.

If you have an idea, go with it, especially if it is odd and

unusual.

Example of what to do: If the topic is places where people

gather, and your idea is a concentration camp, go with it.

Wise Words of Mr. Horton

EMMA

Written Telepathy

204

You shouldn’t name your fictional evil corporation

something not evil.

Example of what not to do: The Fluffy Bunny Corporation

Don’t put commas everywhere you would naturally take

a breath; there are actual rules for where they go.

Example of what not to do: He walked, all the way home, he

shut the door.

Don’t name a character two things that are pretty much

the same thing (unless you explain why in the story).

Example of what not to do: Rain Storm for a girl, or Cliff

Stone for a boy.

Ain’t is in fact a word. It is a contraction of the two

words am and not. So do not say, “You ain’t cool” be-

cause that is not grammatically correct.

Example of what to do: I ain’t going.

Sentences can start with And, But, and Because (if you

know what you’re doing).

Example of what to do: Because you don’t listen, you will get

in trouble. And you will deserve it.

You must have a warrant for every claim you make.

Don’t force people to question your credibility.

Example of what not to do: The first thing colleges look for on

your application is student council. (Well, you’re going to need

to prove it.)

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

205

If you can’t choose everyone who is qualified for an

award or whatever it is, then it probably is an unfair

thing.

Example of what not to do: Give out school awards without

clearly defined criteria.

When using onomatopoeias, make sure that they don’t

sound like bad comic book effects.

Example of what not to do: Whaaaaaa-hoooooooooaaaaaa.

Do not use exclamation points every time you have dia-

logue. (Save them for when characters are screaming.)

Example of what not to do: “Hey! What are you doing?!”

When someone asks you for feedback on something

she’s made, and the truth could be hurtful, always, al-

ways see if she is ok receiving that kind of feedback,

before you give it to her.

Example of what not to do: Point out all the flaws in their

writing after it is too late to revise the corrections.

You should be able to persuade your side of the case

for anything and everything.

Example of what to do: Persuading people to change your

grades with real, specific evidence that makes sense.

In dialogue attribution, always use the verb said.

Example of what not to do: Using the word hissed instead of

the word said. (Unless you are Harry Potter and you actually

do hiss—you know, parseltongue.)

Written Telepathy

206

Don’t shout in a whisper or have characters do other

oxymoronic things.

Example of what not to do: “Oh my!” he shouted in a whis-

per.

Never loosely base a story off yourself, so that people

you know would realize it is pretty much your life

Example of what not to do: Write fiction where you are the

protagonist and are living a fantasy version of your life. (No

Mary Sue or Gary Stu, especially if they’re really you.)

Never air quote in your writing because you likely do

not know how to use them correctly.

Example: When you air quote it’s “stupid.”

This isn’t anywhere close to all the pieces of advice that

Mr. Horton has given us this year. But, it is some of the funni-

est and most important. And we should all try to make sure

that we follow these few simple rules to make our lives easier

are and less stupid.

207

Zombies. This word makes people think of the beloved

holiday Halloween, along with ghosts, goblins, witches, etc. Or

maybe the cartoony brain-eating zombies featured in the 1988

animated show Scooby Doo and the Zombie Island. Many movies

and television shows involve these mythical creatures: Night of

the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, and several others.

In 2010, people saw the new image of the dead. They

saw walkers on the AMC original show The Walking Dead. The

show started on October 31st 2010. This show gave new names

and faces to these zombies: biters, walkers, geeks, roamers,

snappers, lame brains, floaters, cold bodies, lurkers, rotters,

skin eaters, and a big one, monsters.

Are there chances of these monsters existing? A person I

know doesn’t think so, but if there wasn’t, why are there pre-

cautions for outbreak at the Center for Disease Control, CDC,

and also the Pentagon.

March 12th, 2014, The CDC announced a zombie prepar-

edness plan. After this announcement, the Internet was boom-

ing for the next year. With booming articles, links, and rants

Zombies

MADDIE

Written Telepathy

208

about the living dead precautions.

It wasn’t long until the Pentagon released a rising dead

plan. Two months and a day between the announcements of

the plans. News channels broadcast about these for weeks,

spreading the word to others who hadn’t heard.

If these two large, government organizations have these

plans for a zombie apocalypse, they must believe something

could happen. The CDC and Pentagon are always a step or

two ahead of the rest of the Untied States.

Who knows, the dead may rise up on us, in a day, week,

month, or year, and we will be the ones calling them walkers,

geeks, lame brains, etc.

209

Zombies are fake. I have no problem saying that.

If a green thing with guts spilling out was coming at me,

couldn’t I just walk away? It’s dead and rotting. How is it going

to eat me? Plus, how is it moving?

Don’t worry that you can’t kill it, just wait till the flesh is

done rotting, then all they would be is a pile of bones.

Please don’t say, “What if it’s a worse version of rabies?”

If it’s a worse version of rabies, they won’t be eating me, and

they’ll be dead very soon. Not to mention the fact rabies

causes an irrational fear of water. So build a moat.

You can’t walk with rotting legs. Muscles are what make

you move, not some invisible disease causing you to eat peo-

ple. If the leg muscle is not there, you can’t walk, period. Have

you ever seen a beanbag? That’s what they’d be with no leg

muscles—growling beanbags with rotting flesh. Now how

scary is that?

Some people mention a fungus that controls the mind,

and I say, “By that point it would be way too late, and that’s

not zombies. That is a regular fungi that kills regular people.”

Zombie Not

MINNA

Written Telepathy

210

The world’s not out to get us, so calm down. Plus ants

have dealt with this so-called zombie fungus for hundreds of

years, and look at them. They’re still here.

Being scared of rotting flesh with teeth is a silly and

somewhat stupid idea. After death your muscles tense up mak-

ing it hard to move, and your eyes will rot away within a few

days. Have you ever tried to chase someone with your eyes

closed? Not good.

Your brain will turn to mush within a few hours, and you

will be unable to even flex a pinky, much less tear through

skin.

So don’t worry if there appears to be zombies outside.

Put on your snowsuit and cover up your face. Try to kick them

over; the rest will take care of itself. If that doesn’t work, hop

in your car and go to the store. Get some food and wait it out.

Section VI:

Predicted Endings to The Rag and Bone Shop

At the end of first semester, we read Robert Cormier’s

novel The Rag and Bone Shop. We stopped short of reading the

final chapter—Jason’s denouement—so that we could predict

the ending and write our own versions in the style of Cormier.

***SPOILER ALLERT*** It is the story of a twelve-year

-old boy, Jason Dorrant, who is wrongfully accused of murder-

ing his eight-year-old neighbor. A world-class interrogator, Mr.

Trent, is called in to help get the truth. Instead, he uses ma-

nipulative questioning techniques to force a confession from

Jason, even after he is certain of Jason’s innocence.

After the ordeal of the interrogation, culminating in his

confessing to a murder he did not commit, Jason is in a trou-

bled state of mind. Thoughtful readers might have considered

him to be suicidal. Given that and the knowledge that Cormier

rarely writes happy endings, it makes sense that they would end

their versions with Jason’s death. In fact, I suspect Cormier

wanted readers to think the book would end that way, though

in his version, Jason does not commit suicide.

***WARNING***

The following endings may not be suitable for younger readers.

213

Jason lay on his bed, tossing a baseball in the air, even

though he found little interest in the way it spun back down.

He began to think about Alicia Bartlett’s murder, the interroga-

tion with Trent, and most of all, confessing. The thought that

he could be guilty of such a deed terrified Jason beyond any-

thing he could ever have imagined.

The dusty ball struck Jason right in the forehead, falling

to the ground. It rolled slowly along the floor. In a way it ech-

oed how Jason had been feeling over the past week, first low in

the final days of school, then high, when summer began. After

Alicia’s death, his spirits plummeted, then just kept going

down throughout the interrogation, until reaching the slow lull

they were now.

He couldn’t shake the memory of Trent’s wan smile. The

tone of voice that only implied, never accused, made Jason

want to scream and throw things. He wanted it to end.

Word about the whole situation had obviously gotten out.

The few classmates he did see now acted strangely when they

Predicted Ending (fiction)

Jason Dorrant’s Denouement

THEO

Written Telepathy

214

saw him, picking up their walking pace and avoiding eye-

contact. It was the first time he ever felt he was truly noticed,

and he didn’t like it. Before the interrogation, Jason wanted to

be treated as a normal kid. Now it was apparent that was never

going to happen.

There was a rustling from downstairs. It must be dinner

time. Jason glanced over at the clock. The time read 5:48. He

heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Seconds later, the door

to his room creaked open.

“Jason, are you in there?” It was his mother’s voice. It

used to seem so calm and comforting, now it just made Jason

think of how she hadn’t been there in the interrogation. No

one else was there. No one had helped. It had just been him

and Mr. Trent. Jason decided to ignore her.

Jason heard voices next door. It sounded like Emma and

his mother were having an argument. His mother seemed to be

winning. Now there was loud stomping out in the hallway.

Emma threw the door open and barged in.

“Jason, you need to come out now! We all know you’ve

been through a lot, but seriously, you haven’t eaten in like two

days.”

“Just go away.”

“Why won’t you come out of your room? You can’t just

spend your whole summer locked in the dark.”

“Just go away!”

It made him angry that she didn’t understand what he

was going through. She didn’t know what it was like. How

could she boss him around? She was starting to make him an-

gry. Almost angry enough to …

No. He couldn’t possibly do that. There were people in

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

215

this world that cared for him, loved him even. Could he really

throw all of that away?

He never really had friends, except for Alicia of course,

but she was gone now. His family cared about him, and would

be devastated if he were gone.

Jason heard the front door open and saw Emma run

from the room. There came a flurry of footsteps downstairs,

and a jubilant yell of “Daddy” rang throughout the house. His

father was home.

Jason’s parents did some quiet talking, but Jason’s door

was still wide open, so he could hear their whispers. Jason

heard his father’s heavy work boots coming up the stairs.

“Hey Jay, I heard you’ve been having some tough times.

Want to talk about it?”

Jason silently nodded his head.

“I’m all ears.” His father said.

After a few seconds of silence, Jason began to talk. He

told his father about Alicia and Brad. The evil things Trent had

done to him. All of it. The reality started taking hold of him,

and his chin quivered. He could feel tears welling in his eyes

again.

It was then that he broke his vow. It was the first time he

had opened up since the interrogation, and the first time he

had cried since the incident with Bobo Kelton. It felt so good

to finally have that weight lifted off his shoulders.

216

Jason woke up sweating. For the past couple of weeks he

had not been able to sleep for more than a few hours, waking

each time with sweat covering his entire body. He lay on his

bed trying to calm himself and reduce his heart rate. The night-

mares came every night since the interrogation, forcing him to

see a sleep specialist twice with no progress. He couldn’t stand

to answer her questions. It reminded him too much of the in-

terrogation. He could remember every painful moment from

the suspicious questions at the beginning to the “escape” and

finally, the confession.

He had confessed to the murder of his seven-year-old

friend, Alicia, who was just a kind, smart, and innocent little

girl. He didn’t quite understand the words he had said. They

kind of just happened. He felt manipulated, taken advantage

of. He felt so stupid after realizing everything Trent did was

for a reason. It had taken him longer to figure it out than it

should have.

He regretted so many decisions: agreeing to help the po-

Predicted Ending (fiction)

The Rag and Bone Shop by Robert Cormier

DYLAN1

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

217

lice, not accepting an adult to assist him in the questioning, and

mostly, confessing. The pressure of Trent’s words had hit him

hard. Trent had made it sound like the truth. Trent made it

clear that, without a doubt, that Jason had done it. He had

even started to believe it himself, thought maybe he had amne-

sia.

He remembered the scene after he confessed. Trent had

stood, picked up the tape recorder, and walked out of the

room, closing the door behind him. His face had looked as if

he was fighting an internal war. Trent looked happy, like he

had succeeded at his job, but at the same time he looked as if

he had done something he hadn’t intended. Jason had been in

a state of shock. He didn’t know how long he had sat there,

everything around him blurred out to his own thoughts. Even-

tually he too had stood up, his legs numb from sitting, and

walked out of the room.

Trent had not walked very far, just about ten meters

down the hallway, where he’d started talking to a tall, slender

woman. With the tape recorder in hand, he had extended his

arm, trying to give it to her. She had shaken her head, said

some words in anger at Trent. Then Trent had stiffened like a

stone. He had slowly turned around and rested his gaze on Ja-

son.

This had made Jason feel uncomfortable. He hadn’t liked

being the center of attention, thought maybe his sentence

wouldn’t be reduced as Trent had promised, even though he

had confessed. He had considered sprinting down the hallway

in the opposite direction, but his legs had not allowed it. They

had felt like molasses. Tent had slowly approached him, the

woman watching. That was when Trent had opened his mouth

Written Telepathy

218

to speak, the words that changed everything.

“I was hired to get a confession out the suspect, which

was you,” Trent had started. “At the same time as your inter-

view, other professional interrogators were interviewing Brad

and his friends. Brad’s alibi broke down with his friends, and

Brad confessed to the murder of Alicia. You were not the mur-

der of Alicia, and so you are free to go, with no charges.”

At that moment, Jason’s whole world had collapsed

around him. He had fallen to the ground in shock, clutching

his arm.

That was two weeks ago, and he had spent every moment

since reliving it.

He decided he couldn’t live with the pain of it any longer.

He got out of bed and headed toward the garage. Opening the

door to the garage, he could see the two-inch thick steel safe

sitting in the back corner. He strode over to it and entered the

password, which he had found written on a piece of paper on

the underside of the safe a few days before.

After the click of the lock, he pulled the door open. In-

side lay a Cooper M52 hunting rifle and a Glock 22. He put his

right hand on the handle of the Glock, feeling a sense of

power envelop him. He pulled the gun out from the safe and

examined it.

It was time. The barrel of the gun turned toward him as if

it were turning on its own. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the trig-

ger, feeling a sharp pain, and then darkness.

219

Jason sat at his desk for he didn’t know how long. Over

the past week, he had not gotten the courage to do anything

but sit there thinking about Alicia. The thought of her nearly

drove him insane.

He counted the stained glass pieces on the vase that

stood on the other side of the desk. The counting kept him

calm somehow, easing his pain.

He noticed a crack in the vase, and the crack reminded

him of Alicia. He didn’t know how it reminded him of her; it

just did, and he hated it for that. With a burst of anger, he

knocked the vase to the floor.

There was an annoying, harsh pounding at the door—

Emma’s her signature knock.

“Go away, Emma.”

Emma rushed inside my room and looked around. “What

was that?”

“My vase broke.”

“Aren’t you going to pick the mess up?”

Predicted Ending (fiction)

The Rag and Bone Shop by Robert Cormier

REAGAN

Written Telepathy

220

“It’s been there for like two seconds.”

“You could step on it and hurt your foot.” She

looked like a little angel, but he knew it was an act.

“What does that matter?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Get out!”

“I’m not leaving until you pick up the pieces of the vase.”

“Yes, you are.” He yanked his sister’s arm and pushed her

out of the room.

Jason walked out of the house, across the driveway, to

the sidewalk. He walked past house after house, remembering

all the good times he’d had with Alicia.

The thoughts got brushed away as a squirrel jumped in

front of him, scaring him half to death. Oh death, he thought,

that honestly sounds better than being alive right now.

It would have been better to have died with Alicia than to

have been interrogated. All that Trent put him through had

broken him down inside. How could that man have gotten him

to confess to murdering his one beloved friend? That man was

a sick, manipulative person that who had told Jason everything

would be okay, even when they both knew that it wouldn’t.

Jason started walking again, remembering how Mr.

Trent convinced him that, if he said he was the murderer, eve-

ryone would accept what he had done, so he had said it. Now

he couldn’t live with himself, knowing he confessed to a crime

that he didn’t commit? He wondered how Trent could live

with himself, knowing he had made an innocent boy confess

to murder?

This walk was taking forever. He just wanted to be in the

forest already, to put his mind at ease. He wanted to be at

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

221

Alicia’s deathbed, the place where she took her final breaths,

spoke her final words—the last place she was alive.

Jason wondered what the murder weapon had been. He

knew the police thought it was a rock, but there was no true

evidence. And the police had made many mistakes before. Af-

ter all, they thought he had killed Alicia.

Thinking of her murder made him think of Brad. He

knew Alicia and Brad had been fighting that day, but he could-

n’t believe that Brad had a reason to kill her, his own sister.

Was her murder premeditated? What was his side of the story?

It had been hours, when he realized he had been thinking

to himself staring at Alicia’s deathbed. He jumped up to grab a

flower that was blooming in the tree above him. As he did so,

he felt a scorching pain in his mid-thigh. He pulled up his

shorts to see that his leg was bleeding. His pocket knife had

somehow come open in his front pocket.

The knife was perfect, he thought to himself, just perfect.

The wind started to gush and Jason lost his balance. He

fell to the ground and lay there, helpless. Laying there in the

leaves and sticks on the spot where Alicia died, he felt a certain

sense of warmth as if he were being hugged by Alicia.

He held the knife above his head and thought of Alicia

one last time.

The leaves started to rustle. A tree branch snapped. He

could hear faint voices in the distance. It was his family. They

were looking for him, shouting his name. They would soon be

upon him.

If he didn’t act now, they would stop him, and he didn’t

want to be stopped. He just wanted the pain to end. With

fierce determination, he put the knife to his throat.

Section VII:

Excerpt from Novel

***WARNING***

The following excerpt contains mild profanity.

225

1 - Ruby

Lucy and Preston are kissing.

“Really guys?” I say. “I got up at, wait, what time is it?

One o’clock. I got up really early just to get breakfast, and of

course I run into the two of you kissing. In the kitchen no

less.”

Preston is about to say something, but me being me, I

interrupt. “Sure, I shipped the two of you back when I actually

knew shit about shit , but now I just want to get cereal in

peace.”

Lucy says, “Good morning Ruby, and thank you for that

lovely morning rant.”

“Should we tell her the secret?” Preston says.

He’s using the same suspicious voice I remember from

ninth grade.

I roll my eyes. “The last time you told me a secret, it was

that you had to go to the restroom.”

Novel Excerpt

ELIZABETH AND BELLA

Written Telepathy

226

“This time it’s a real secret, and it’s one that you will

like.”

“Okay, go ahead and tell me, but hurry up. There’s a

whole season of Doctor Who waiting for me in bed.”

All of the sudden, someone pounces on me from behind.

“Holy shit!”

Preston glares at me as I turn to see a rather smug Emma.

I practically take her down in an attempt to hug her and get

revenge at the same time.

“Bloody hell, Emma. You scared the shit out of me.”

She smiles. I laugh. “Damn it, I was trying to be mad.”

“Was that a good enough surprise?” Preston says.

“Listen carefully. I’ll only say it this one time. You’re

right.”

Turning to Emma, I sigh. “I suppose you and Preston

are going to force me to actually spend time outside of my

bedroom.”

They respond with a look that I thought only parents

could give. To be perfectly honest, it scares me a little. I sulk

off to my room to get ready.

Once I finally decide what to wear, I emerge from my lair

to figure out what exactly we are going to do. I am not too

shocked to find that Jack has made his way over. He and

Emma have had crushes on each other since seventh grade,

and let’s just say when Preston, Lucy, Jack, and I moved to

London from boring old Canterbury, the fact that Emma did-

n’t come along crushed him. I stand behind Jack and curl my

fingers into a heart behind his head so that only Emma can

see.

“Good morning, Jack” I say, surprised at how happy my

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

227

voice sounds.

“I believe the correct word is afternoon,” Emma says.

“Well, yes, I suppose it is the afternoon, Emma. Thank

you for correcting me. Do any of you have any idea what we’re

doing today?”

When all they do is giggle, I know something is up.

2 - Ruby

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes!” I hear Lucy yell from

the first floor.

I am upstairs in Precy’s bedroom, where I managed to

sneak without anyone noticing. As always, Preston has left his

phone charging, completely unguarded. The voice in my head

cackles with glee. It creeps me out a little. I know Preston’s

password because he never bothers to see who’s behind him

when he types it in. It’s @mp3rs@nd.

I giggle, remembering the ampersand god and our school

mascot—an innovator.

After checking his reminders and finding only a two-year-

old appointment for a doctor’s visit, I check his texts. The last

person he texted was Joe. Why did it have to be Joe?

Unpleasant memories of ninth grade flood my mind.

Hesitantly, I click on Joe’s name. The text reads, “K. Sounds

gr8. CU @ 2:30”

“Shit,” I whisper. This is worse than I expected.

Written Telepathy

228

3 - Ruby

Here comes that annoying little voice in my head again,

spewing curse words that would horrify Preston and probably

land me in curse corner, which not coincidentally, is my bed-

room.

I hear Preston walking up the steps towards Precy’s bed-

room. There is no time to escape. My brain reacts by throwing

the phone on the bed and running for the closet. Brilliant.

Almost before I pull the door within a crack of closed, I

hear Preston come into the room, and his FaceTime rings.

Preston answers. “Hi Joe.”

I hear Joe say, “You guys left yet?”

“We’re on our way out the door. I just need to find Ruby.

She’s probably hiding in the basement or something. As soon

as she shows up, we’re gone.”

“Sweet.”

They exchange goodbyes and Preston leaves, obviously

looking for me. Hopefully I can convince him that I have just

been in the bathroom.

I rush downstairs and slip as quietly as I can into the

bathroom . I flush the toilet and turn the sink on for a little bit,

then come out.

Preston is waiting for me. “Oh, there you are. It’s time to

go.” There is a mysterious glint in his eye.

“Okay. Where are we going anyways?”

“That,” he dramatically pauses, “is a secret.”

I roll my eyes, grab my coat, and head to the door.

“Fine, fine.” I sigh. “Will I ever find out?”

Writing From the Minds of Eighth Graders

229

4 - Joe

I am so nervous. The thought of seeing Ruby again

makes my heart go wild. I know it shouldn’t. I love Cassandra;

she’s a great girlfriend, but Ruby is Ruby.

My phone rings. Cassandra’s ringtone. I pick up.

“Hello love,” I say feeling guilty, hoping she can’t tell

something is up.

“Are you at the ice rink yet?”

“Yes, well almost.”

“I’ll be there a little late because of work, but I should

have plenty of time to skate.”

“Sounds good. I’m here. Gotta go. Love you.”

“Love you too. Talk to you later.”

She ends the phone call. Thank god she doesn’t suspect

anything. I grab my things and walk into the rink.

5 - Ruby

I’ve been staring out of the backseat window like a tod-

dler for at least fifteen minutes, when we finally pull up to the

ice skating rink. I literally gasp and clap my hands like the two-

year-old I really am. Preston and Lucy give me a look of pure

What is wrong with her? I see them thinking I’m insane.

I break the silence. “Okay, I’ve really got to give you

props for thinking of this. I haven’t been ice skating in such a

long time.”

“That’s not even the—” Preston starts to say, but Lucy

quickly interrupts.

Written Telepathy

230

“We should go in and get our skates. Come on every-

one.”

Emma, Jack, Preston, and Lucy trudge towards the door

like a trio of mall-walking grannies, watching me run ahead. I

throw on my skates while the rest of them dawdle. I am start-

ing warm up laps before they even start lacing their skates. On

my third time around, I see Joe in the bleachers. And damn if

he looks as handsome as ever.

Everyone here knows some of what went on between me

and Joe freshman year, but only Emma knows the whole story.

Hopefully I can pretend to be happy to see him, instead of

scared and nervous.

“Shit. This is going to be hard.”