Staining Pages6-8 Literary Arts

Pittsburgh CAPA 6-122012-2013

Staining Pages6-8 Literary Arts

Pittsburgh CAPA 6-122012-2013

Acknowledgements

The 6-8 Literary Artists would like to thank the following people for their support.

Ms. Pearlman, Principal Ms. Murphy, Director Ms. Cregan, Literary Arts Chair Ms. Donnelly, 6-8 Literary Arts Adjunct Ms. Kovacic, 6-8 Literary Arts Adjunct

2013 Copyright by the Authors

Table of Contents: 8th Grade

Zainab Adisa--Haven’t Been

Lily Buchanan--Mind Games

Leah DeFlitch--Oh No

Elsa Eckenrode--Heavy Heart

Zada Fels--But Inside

Arwen Kozak--A Note to Obsession

Ruthanne Pilarski--Rose For Love

Rebecca Stanton--Pulsing

Taylor Szczepanuik--The Exciting Lecture About Detention

Karolin Velliste--The Butterfly

Haven’t BeenZainab Adisa

“It’s this way:being captured is beside the point,the point is not to surrender.” ~Nazim Hikmet

I haven’t been back home in five yearsone thousand eight hundred daysand to many seconds too count.

Time slips in and out of the canvas thatwas once painted so delicately andcherished so deeply.It holds the firm structure of my childhood.

The walls of unforgotten memories begin to crack openleaking out the precision of my nightmares.Reality becomes a dream and dreams becomenightmares with every word that should have been spoken.

It slowly cascades out of my being and taunts mewith memories too good for any one person.They live deep in the hollows.Which we humans and don’t forget spectatorshave taken to calling a mind, or should I say, home.

Mind Games Lily Buchanan

Maybe theangerI feel is just my wayof mourning you.

You and your quirky words – quintessentially classy,

building buttressesto support your cascading lies.

I was the one scrubbing the opaquewindows of your translucent mind.

Using sandpaper and sweat,albeit mental,

I worked, but once you heard the whispers of reason in your agoraphobic mind,

I think you lostthe mindand kept the fear.

Oh No Leah DeFlitch

I am stumblingover words that dripoff my lips,(with the idealistic framework of tranquilization),stumbling from your stable jaw line and those blue cuts and obscured intentions.

And your gums probably taste like champagne,too, don’t they?Placid shouldersskim under my sigh(these are just anotherjuxtaposition of paraphernalia and paradisiacal thoughts).

Oh all this pretending is just so easyand you are so hard.a supernova of morphine dripsthat numbs the pain.

Notice me;clutch my palms and whisper,“look at what you have done”(like those melodious honey personas) and maybe theseblack veins will run red,maybe your love is an illness I subjected to myself,

a sort of unintended neurosis.

You’ve misled me in between delusion and perfection,(which are both wonderful traits)by tracing circles in soft skin,I amlosingmeoh no.

oh no.

heavy heartelsa eckenrode

“It’s psychic. It’s the age. It’s chemical. Go see a shrink or take a pill, or hug your sadness like an eyeless doll you need to sleep.” —Margaret Atwood

skin picking itself away,you head butted him—“he’s scary.”you need help.i don’t understand how bruised, bandaged armsare acceptable to you, or society.

and he says it’s fine,but the pain he depicts says anything but fine.

he once tried to get help but the doctor thought lies were spewing out of his mouth, travelling from a voice box that should never tell a lie. he goes home to relieve himself from the madness he feels. FINE!the word etched into his skin soon to scar on his leg.

but it’s not fine, no,it’s not fine. days later,in the mail,in big, bold letters, his nameis printed on a prescription bottleafter a second appointmentwith another general practitioner.

numbed by pills!

Is this really the answer? you splutter such words,nonono,i can’t hear you,i won’t hear you.remember?

remember—just how much you did mean to me, okay?i guess then doesn’t matter nowand maybe i’ve just been lost in the seaof “you’re not my favorite anymore,” and I guess you didn’t see mefall apart.do you remember watching mefall back into my void of seclusion?daily, hollow confusion, screamingout lost prophesies, wearing delusion, but alljust an illusion of an imaged reality and whatlove really feels like.

and the tally charts on my wrists—only pieces of the past sewn together, the sutures seepinginto my heart, weakening, weakening.muscles are supposed to be strong, love.but my emotions just comepouring out,in lists like these.

But Inside Zada Fels

But insidethat’s a whole different storyas I see you, as you see meI don’t think you doit is too hard to describe.The way that the moths are attracted to flames,that even as I sit, watching old MTV re-runs,I can hear then buzz in the porch lightstheir tiny wings flapping,a beating heart,until one day they get too closeand shrivel upgone,into dust.And this one timemy grandma gave me a jewelry boxit made noises andhad a butterfly in the centerthat would rotatewhen you wound it up. One day I was madI took the wings off the butterflyand flushed them down the toilet,along with a watch that was my mothers.It is in remembering these thingsthat I wonderif my family was ever whole.

A Note to ObsessionArwen Kozak

Knotted blue clouds my lungs,and you scream in my earand I know that you knowmy self restraint is tampered after nine o’ clock at night.

The stringstangle when they reach the beats,just like my brain.Shivers sent up my back fall jagged, failing,monitoring my heart with a faulty machine.

Tightening the space,like a wrench you pull and you pulland pullthe pen across the page,edging closer and closerto something morebut it stops,right before I can reach it.

And the colors, remember?They are like three brotherslet loose in the kitchen. And there are suds everywhere,and I try to walk across but I’m slipping and I try to get to it,

because don’t you know it’s nearly nine o’ one now?

So I cut off the purpleand put it away just like you knew I would.I plug it inand watch as the beat slows to a pulse,and then a hum,charging…charging…

And you knewI would understand. Me of all people, I know. Never the obsessivebut now I’m possessiveand anything you say I sayand anything you doI knowand I hate that you’ve takenmy life from me,but I know that you knewthat this would happenbecause every child has a dream,and you knowthat I knowI could never tell you to stop,pause,hold,no, because if I let you gothere will be no one waiting for me anymore.When I unplug it all all those empty spaces

will be filled with nothingnessand all the hope I hadwill be gonebecause right now all my dreams lay in your hands,and I have taken your wordsand made them my ownand I can’t face you anymorebut it’s almost nine o’ two,

and I will anyway.

Never once did you stop to realize-I never stole,you just gave me a virus.

Rose For LoveRuthanne Pilarski

Emptiness and blood not pumped boils beneath sheets of thickened ice,curling with a disturbing intensityat the edges.

Eyes fall deeper, now on the verge of red glowing through the wall of water.

My coreguides me as the weight of the water and the ice drags me down.

A light the color of a jade rosewhich are powerfully strongdurable and beautifuland I know that because roseforlove.com told meand too bad the roses get all the loveand not people who need it.

Slices of hard light cut throughthe cushion of securityI thought I could rely on.

The light shines in the distance, beckoning hearts that are so charred they can no longer hear the voice of the future,eerie as it may be.

Expectations have been wiped out. I do things with half the effort I used tobecause I have no standards to meet anymorebecause it isn’t me who mattersthis timenoit’s everyone else.

Crystal, miniscule flakes of snow smaller than the fraction of love I still have left.They fall into the heat and the popping sound is their bones cracking and the sizzling sound is their hearts breaking and all is lost.

Just like me.With broken bonesand a shattered heartthe epiphany begins-I am lost inside my mindbut this time there is no way out.

The light grows brighterstrongerdurable through the storm of my wordsthat escape without warning.

The light flickers out.

The world is dark.

My blood flows again.

It spews thin and wary liquid

smooth and running in deformed bubbles throughicy sharp veinsthe color of the special roseand don’t ask me who named it because I don’t know.It’s the onewilting alonein the vase on my marble counter topstained with dried milk.

They call it the queen rosefor romance and affectionand I know that because roseforlove.com told meand it’s really too bad that the roses get all the loveinstead of people like me.

Pulsing Rebecca Stanton

When it’s pulsing bloodSo hard so fast, I don’t think a wounded heart can be patched.Not well enough at least To keep the stitches From bursting And filling your lungs And suffocating me.

Fires burn in the hearts Of the unexpected.

Human matter contracts Leaking from the flutter of my eyelids,Calls of unconsciousness Bounce off the hollow walls.My soul is seeping through my breath.Inhale.Exhale.Emptiness is a dreadful feeling.Though fullness Is almost too unsatisfying To even try for.

The Exciting Lecture About DetentionTaylor Szczepaniuk

Isn’t it funto comehome froma hard day of schoolto be lectured?

Especiallywhen you’re stuckat thatplace, laterthan usualbecause of detention.

As soon as I walkedinto the doorof my house,my mother was in my face.

I sat down at the kitchen counter, and let her drone onabout detention.

She talked,talked,talked,and talkedabout consequences.

Like I care,it’s just school.

She told me that if I getone more detentionshe’d takethe poolaway from me.

Not possible.Then she said she’d take myboyfriend.Not possible.

She threatens,threatens,threatensand threatensto take everything away.

But I’m busythinking, thinking,and thinkingaboutwhat I am goingto get detention for, next.

The Butterfly Karolin Velliste

“the whole world is a sky-blue butterfly/And words are the nets to capture it.” —Muhammad al-Ghuzzi

She was afraid of pens. She didn’t liketo write things downwithout being able to erase thembecause nothing that came outon the pageseemed right.

So she turned to the eraserfor comfort, knowing that it would neverbetray her, never ink out harmful words,words that hurt because of how bad they sounded.She knew she wasn’t a poet,she knew. But the eraser intrigued her;it kept her secrets.

So she grabbed a sheetof lined paperand rubbed and rubbedthe eraser across the page, knowing that she needn’t be afraidof what she might write.The eraser was her friend.

At least, it wasuntil the friction ripped

a hole through the paperand the eraser looked stubby and she didn’t know whyit was trying to hide from her.

She put the eraser downand gingerly lifted up the pageand looked through the hole,and the page fluttered as she inhaled with a gasp. The whole worldhad seemed to open upbefore her, like a butterfly spreading its wings. The paper showed only a fragmentof the room around her, so detailed, so small,but so importantbecause that tiny fragment meant the whole world and before she could stop herself her hand found a pen and words came flowinglike blood from her heart, the pen tracing intricate lines,creating nets to catch that butterflyand keep it for her own.

Table of Contents: 7th Grade

Ryan Andrews--Away

Maisha Baton-Stawson--Abandoned and Condemned

Weston Custer--The Abyss

Eva Dregalla--Scene One from her play, Papa Slendy

Suhail Gharaibeh--Fireflies

Dominique Green--Life

Jessica Kunkel--The Middle

Caroline Molin--Starchy in the Candy Castle

Bridgette O’Neil--Oscar’s Birthday in a Can

Ciara Sing--Identity

Savannah Staab--The 70-Year-Old Episode of Dora the Explorer

Will Thayer--Mother

Isabella Victoria--They Dream, I Dream

Aurora Wise--Wild, Wild Life

Away Ryan Andrews

A lot of Saturdays I spent at your one-story housenestled on Linda Drive. In the summer with our short-sleeved shirtswe would continue the play station, or go outside. We would put pizza bagels in the toaster oven and eat a bunch of them. Friend.

Paul Blart: Mall Cop was a movie that we saw together. Our muscles were relaxed in the mall seats. The old, wrinkled lady who sold us the movie tickets was ma-niacal to the world,but not to us, because we did not know what that word meant. The first scene: An overweight mid-30’sman running and falling.Training to be a normal cop, but instead he’s a mall cop.He rescues everyone from getting killed, and everyonerealizes that he is more.The funniest part for me, is when the mall cop borrowsa cell phone, and plays “my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.”

My dad was out of town working, in Austin, Texas. I remember the time when I had a birthdaywithout him. It was just my mom, my brother, and me. I’m pretty sure I had a bowling party that year, and you where there. Now my house consists of my dad, who no longer works out of town, but for the Pittsburgh Pub-lic School District. My grandma now lives with us, and there is one more child.

We are all older and more mature, but for me at least,your frozen

in my head.You’re away though…

Abandoned and Condemned. Maisha Baton

Shards of glass shattered across the ground. The chatter of pigeons flying everywhere is surrounding me. Moldy uniforms, decaying shoes, thrown into rusted makeshift lockers.

Honeysuckles growing in through the window spiraling down, making perfect spirals.Delicate, soft spirals. The whisper of leaves rubbing against chipped paint.

Spider webs, glistening in the sun. Rainbow oiled dewdropsin polished perfect crystallized balls glittering in the sun.

Sinks, split in two, on the floor.The once mildew green sinks, are nownow two piles of rusted metal scraps.

Rats’ red eyes glimmering in the dark corners. Huddling close to whatever it is they have left.

Dust gathering across window frames. Traveling through the air looking at the dust particles in the sun as they’re ridden by the pixies.

Everything is at peace here. A place where smog used to pollute the air, and all living things on the premises would not be living for long.

Once a dark, dark place where the people slaved for 13 hours a day for 7 cents an hour.

Once abandoned, condemned, lost. Then foundby new management, Mother Nature Corporations.

The Abyss Weston Custer

The buildings stand like a miragea testament to the jubilant sadismhidden behind white walls(Shhh, there’s nothing here)(Nothing here at all).

The divine alluredrags you in and although you fightthey remain tranquil, eloquent.Why should something happen if it doesn’t need to?There is nothing to be afraid of.All you need is right here.

They make you watch, aghast,their malevolent consumerism,massive mass production.This is their work and their glory.And with a weeping and a wailing and with a gnashing of the teethis it carried out.

And although you try you will never break out.

Papa Slendy Eva Dregalla

Characters:Liz Macnotfork: 16, granddaughter, she’s really sweet and kind.Marylint Macnotfork: grandmother, she’s very chatty, she has good intentions but can be annoying sometimes.

Setting: The woods. It is very dark. Trees surround them.

Scene 1It’s in the summer, but the air is still chilly. Grandma Mary and Liz are collecting firewood. IN THE DARK!

LIZHey Grams! I found a weird note! (waves paper in the air)

GRANDMABring it over here, child.(Liz walks over, note in hand, also carrying firewood and flashlight.)

GRANDMA That is very unusual.

LIZIt says NO NO NO NO NO NO NO NO. And it has a picture of a stick figure wearing a suit. He has unusually long arms.

GRANDMAIts probably some infantile teens playing a prank. Kids these days. When I was your age, everybody was well behaved. If ya weren’t, you’d have to go sit in the corner with a dunce hat on, and then… (Grandma keeps chatting, more to her-self, while liz walks away to collect more firewood)

LIZ

Aw man, my flashlight keeps flickering. Shoot! I shoulda changed the batteries. Grandma, why didn’t we do this ear-lier? Maybe we should go back, its pretty dark. (looks around ) Grams! Grandma?

GRANDMAI’m over here!

LIZ(runs over to grandma) Oh jeez, you scared me, I thought you got kidnapped or something (giggles nervously)

GRANDMA Do ya see that building? (shines flashlight)

LIZ Oh yeah. I see it. that’s kinda weird… maybe we should go back to our camp.

GRANDMA Oh come on, don’t tell me ya aren’t just a little curious.

LIZI guess…

GRANDMA Oh by the way, I found another note. It says DON’T LOOK OR IT TAKES YOU.

LIZSomeone obviously boarded the crazy train a looong time ago.

GRANDMAOh you kids and your silly sayings, anyways, lets go to the creepy building.

LIZOkaaaaaay…

Fireflies Suhail Gharaibeh

Under the shade of a shimmering oak,its trunk peppered with fungus,its boughs feathering like cottonacross the golden aurora that precedes twilight:the kind of twilight you can feel,horses of moonlight trample the slivers of weak sunlight leftin the day.

The oak’s leaves,glossy and ripe in midsummer,are the color of raw broccoli.

A gust of wind combs through the leaves,leaving them prancing in awe at its wake.They resemble forest starfish.

After the sunset has hidden behind the hills,the fireflies come,like mystical lanternsmanufactured by Godto guide you home.

Their humming resides,and the absence of their glowtucks us in to bed.

Life Dominique Green

Poetry is like waking up to a pink Hello Kitty alarm clock that you can never get rid of because someone special bought it for you so that you can see what awaits you In the morning Poetry is like talking five minuets to do your dark brown curly hair trying to find the right style, which ends in a messy bun Poetry is like when your mom yells “Come down stairs” which means get your gourmet lunch and your heavy old book bag and go to the busPoetry is like every Saturday when you have to do all your gummy crummy chores like the whole entire bathroom until it shinesPoetry is like riding your big red bike down the street to the playground where the football and basketball yards are While you smell the hotdogs and cheese friesand the crowds cheering while people play their gamesPoetry is like when you enjoy every moment you have to goof off joke around and have fun

The Middle Jessica Kunkel

I’m not the girl who hates the worldsitting in a cornerwith heavy metal music blasting in her ears.I don’t raise my voice at every moment possiblejust to get people to noticeor to listen.

I don’t go around saying hi to everyone I know,or hang out with fifty people at once,but I’m not an aloner.

I don’t cringe at the opportunity to goto a beer-and-snacks-infested,crowded, loud hockey game with my scary,bald 200-plus-pounds-of-muscle dadjust because I’m “afraid.”I don’t make an effort to eat hot wingsor big juicy burgersor fries with a forkonly to be “appropriate” in public or at home.

I’m not your cool cat,or your fight-starter,or your scream-and-run-away-in-fear type girl.I’m not always wearing pink,I don’t smile and bat my eyelashes at boys,and I will never say no to meatjust because the animals are cute.

I’m not loud, but I’m not super shy.

I don’t scream at the sight of spiders (anymore).I don’t post every single part of my life on Instagram or Facebook or Twitteronly for people to fill up my newsfeed with Likes.I’m not on the social media every second of every day,and I hardly text more than two people nonstop.

I’m not a soulless zombiejust because I don’t smile at every little thingor laugh out loud every minuteor cry at the sad parts of movies (mostly).Just cause you don’t see my feelings doesn’t mean they aren’t there.

I don’t hate the world itself, but I don’t love it.I don’t hate people themselves, but if they’re annoying I won’t wanna talk to them.I don’t hate being alone,but I don’t want to be alone all the time.I don’t hate veggies, (which my mother doesn’t believe)but I don’t love them.

I haven’t written myself off as nothing,or not important,and I’m not a chooser of sides.I don’t worry what the peoplewith the bitter hearts are gonna say,and I know I can be better offjust being myself,knowing that it doesn’t matter

if it’s good enough for someone else.

I’m in the middle of the ride,in the backseat taking in the scenery,and my destination, my legacy,is waiting for me.

Starchy in the Candy Castle Caroline Molin

Everyone else in this candy kingdom is candy.Princess Bubblegum, Peppermint butler, Cinnamon bun.I’m a malted milk ball mixed with a potato with a fluffy moustache, a blue janitors hat, and sometimes a shovel.How much more could a person want?At least I have eyebrows and round eyes like nobody else. They make me explode and dig graves on TVEven though I’ve only been on a few episodes. I dig graves. I see at least ten dead candies a day.You want me to do more?In your dreams, you freak. And than of course the princess didn’t remember me, Princess? It’s me; Starchy the Grave Digger. I brought you a larger corpse shovel. Princess? Well, I’ll just wait for you here then, by the Mausoleum, with my back turned and my defenses lowered.Princess,stop playing with chemicals. You know how easily confused I am.Listen here, last Halloween, I was possessed by flying zombies, Remember that? Bet you never realized what happened to me. “Oh my, there are a lot of zombies down there. Starchy’s glad he’s safe up here.”And than I danced like an idiot and got swept away. I was a zombie for a while. I mean, I can’t help it. Flesh is delicious. Than pineapple guy threw me through a window,with splintery pieces of wood nailed to it.

That really hurt me, but the seven- year- olds at home laughed,insensitive jerks.At least I’m better now. I’m feeling healthy again.A little too healthy if you ask me. But seriously, that whole zombie incident was shortly after I exploded out of terror after seeingsome strange demon coming out of the ground at my job,also, Princess Bubblegum’s fault,And I’m sitting here, barely getting any attention,for doing what I do best.Finn, stop saving everyone for attention.It’s annoying,And you’re giving me more work to do.By the time I’m 100 years old I will have thrown my back out, thanks to you. Yeah right, if Starchy survives that long. The more villains the more graves to dig.

Oscar’s Birthday in a Can Bridgette O’Neil

“Well hey there, guys! Don’t forget to be nice to everyone around you, unlike me here.For I’m grouchy and I just live in this stupid,old,trashcan!”Well baa-humbug.I’m sick and tired of all these snobby nosed directors,and numb-skulled children.What do you want to teach them?“Kids, don’t live in a trash can!”Yeah.Very helpful.I’ve been doing this for 44 YEARS.I’m getting grouchier by the minute.No one’s wished me a “grouchy birthday.”And I hate it, just like I hate this show.You got Elmo who just sings about goldfish and crayons all day.But he gets a happy birthday.You have cookie monster,who’s just fat and I’m pretty sure he hit puberty when he was born.Oh, and don’t get me started on Big Bird.What kind of name even is that?It sounds like a rapper title.He could rap the song black and yellow.But everyone knows he’s just plain yellow.But I’m green.WHAT’S WRONG WITH BEING GREEN?!Grass is green, but you like that.So why am I all of a sudden a threat because I’m green?

I probably eat more green vegetables than you.And parents want their kids to eat vegetables, right?So therefore I think,I should be the lead character in the show.44 years is a long time people!I’ve had the same cake layingin this same trash can every year.Happy birthday to you Oscar,Since no one else wants to wish you one.

Identity Ciara Sing

I am not the gum on the bottom of your shoerotting away, while picking uplint hairs, little pebbles and tiny tacks.I don’t get chewed up,spit on,or thrown away.I don’t freshen you up,clean up your mess, or eat away the bacteria around you.

I am not a size 00.I’m defiantly not the Barbie dollthat you played with when you were a kid.I never got my hair perfectly straight,but instead it’s a frowith tight curls descendingdown my back.I never could walk in heels,so you can cross Runway Modeloff that list.

I’m not a one-color, monochromatic picturehanging on your grandparents’ wall,collecting dust.

I’m not the X in the boxlabeled as “other,”the miscellaneous objectyou discard in the drawer.I am not an Oreo.I am not a mulatto,or the random paint splatterson the wall.

I’m not the flashing strobe lightswith neon bright colors.in the window of a storealluringcravingattention.Instead I’m the girlhiding behind glassesand an authentic smile.

I may strive to get 4.0but that doesn’t meanI don’t like 3 pointers.I may not carry a biblewith me everywhere I gobut that doesn’t meanI don’t love God.

It’s time to get rid of this illusionin society.I’m biracial and I’m proud to bebut then again, you only see what you wanna see.

I’m gonna have my name engravedin a black granite square,sitting on the unsullied grass besidegreat leaders of the worldwho used their race as their ambition.

So don’t look for mesqueezing in aminitight dress or

on the bottom of your shoe,but standing above the rest.Just remember when you look at melook throughto me.Not only my reflection.

The 70-Year-Old Episode of Dora the Explorer Savannah Staab

You know, exploring all your life can be a real pain in the butt especially when you have to have a 5-year-old monkey following you along the wholetime talking to you the wholetimewith that pip squeak puberty voice he has.Then on top of that,All the peoplenagging you to go exploring again just for“the kids’ sakes.”

Oh and the waiting! tenlongheart poundingsecondsI wait for millions of children to answer, is sometimes just to longbecause they don’t answer like they used to.

Am I supposed to be speaking Spanish the whole time?You mean I came all the way here

to just speak English?Because face it:I speak Spanish three times in that show and the rest is English. De nada! Gracias! Adios!De nada! Gracias! Adios!Uno Dose Tress…What’s the rest? Same. Same. Same.Is this all they expect me to say in my native tongue?Because I don’t think that’s all of it. I think it’s time to take it up a notch.

It is too bad that pesky fox is dead now. He got run over by a car last May.Sure is a shame.That car swiped his life!

And is my head shaped like an American football for a rea-son?How is it that when I was seven, I had ultimate freedom to go in the middle of the junglealonewith a 5-year-old monkey?I mean tell me,is this normal?Now I am stuck with the cane and I have to have a nurse walk by my side to make sure I will be okay in the jungle.Why not when I was seven?

And who names their child Dora?I mean come on.It is common sense.

Get away from me monkey!I don’t want to go explore again.

Mother William Thayer

Pale sunlight seeped through an eggshell curtain,revealing billows of dusty air only to choke on.Russet curls, glowed gold, bounce on her shouldersas she sings tunes long before her time.She loosely grasps the wind-up mixer, folding in unwanted spinach into an already ill-pleasing batter.

She was never good at cooking.

As she hums, she turns like the record does, almost danc-ing across the plastic-tile flooring. Reflecting washed rays of sunlight in my directionshielding my eyes, her silhouette is like a seraph.Amid angelic twist she notices me, and a wrinkle of a smile appears, but not to stay. Her eyes saddened, She tenses her smile into a frown and she turns away, slowing her into sadness.

Her love was always a riddle.

The dusty apron upon her, to dirty to read,vibrated with the sound of “Hit the Road Jack” amplifying it to Wilkinsburg,all the way to Judy’s house in Philadelphia.Probably breaking glassall along the way.

She was never good at singing .

Forbes was the longest Street in PittsburghYet where I lived, it seemed most barren.

The sheer quietness of that year scared me to death,at least it almost did.All the story books in the world couldn’t really hid the sad-nessshe tried to drown in me.

Although that day my mother was most happy,It was the saddest she’s ever been.

They Dream, I Dream Isabella Victoria

I know it, we allhave dreams.Ideas swirling around in our headslike a fruit smoothiein a platinum blender.We can make them come true,we can.

Some people dream to be amodel strutting down the runway in those stilettosYeah, those ones. The ones that haven’t even been released yet.Hair in a fancy up-do,face gleaming with cakecolored makeup.

I don’t dream to be one.I dream to be a personwho helpsand loves.I don’tdream to relax in my riches.I don’tdream to cool down in my cash.I don’tdream to be drowsy in my dough.

Some people dreamto live in New York, bright lightsshining from the spotlight.Hurting their eyes,but they don’t care,not when they finally get to where they want to be.But,I know whatI want to be.I want to be happy.They can dance down Easy Streetallthey wantbut I,I just want to be loved.

Some people dream to stick out,they want to be the most“It” thangin the Wall Street Journal.Some want to be as well known as Nicki Minajbut I just want to see my old best friendNickywho lived acrossthe street.

I may grow wrinkled and oldwithout ever becomingfamous and richin style,

but that’s not my dream.My dream is to behappy.

Wild, Wild Life Aurora Wise

The sowambling around.Taking melancholy stepstowards what is constant.Ever so carefully chewing her mush.Chewing what there is to chew.Chewing and mulling.Mulling over where the sun has gone.It vanished with her children.But as one light extinguishes,another pops on.This one doesn’t glare.This one clinks and laughs and toasts and grins and sighs in jovial satisfaction.Is this what her life is for?

The steerclashes horns with another.The ringlets of steel atop their headsclang and crack.The fight is quickly broken up and soft coos are released in the air.He is brushed and petted and told of his worth.He shimmers like the illustration in the Time magazine spe-cialWhat’s really in your Happy Meal?Does it make him happy?Happy that he and the blade shine one in the same?Is this what his life is for?

————

The dameher breath echoing over the empty castle.

Blowing the dust off of the unread novel.No wind blows through the wilting palmetto out back.It reminds her of the beach.How it droops and frowns.How she gazes at the cougar,just passing through.He keeps walking, tries not to grant her a second look.Her wild, wild life.And her blouse ironed to a sheet of stainless metalbecause isn’t that what her life is for?

The manwith the masculine shoulders.Raise his fists to anyonebecause he is just a mammal,flesh, blood, sweat, and tears.For he is just an idea.A cliché.His punches go right through you.His gore seeps into the floor.A mandatory funeral,not a second thought.

Is this what their lives are for?

Table of Contents: 6th Grade

Tess Buchanan--13 Ways of Looking at a Magnolia Tree

Julia Coblin--Reading is Everything

Brianna Costa Kline--Subway Dreamers

Louise Finnstrom--Broken Dreamland

Zoe Fuller--The Mountain’s Hum

Rebecca Glickman--I am form Rubber Ducks

Lillian Hosken--A Place to Call Home

Jora Hritz--Where I’m From

Kalin Jeffers--Kinderhook

Zoe Magley--Broken Hearted

Katrina Mondor--Man at the Window

Sarah Touster--Hunter

13 Ways of Looking at a Magnolia Tree Tess Buchanan

1I am gazingat the pink and white castle,its outermost branches’ bloomsprotecting its realm from any outsiders.2Every springthe magnolia tree blooms,the flowers making a shield around the inside,and then it cries its blooms to the mud groundleaving the trunk bare. 3The magnolia tree is resting,keeping its energy all winter long,preparing for the big spring show.4The old, worn bark on its trunk,its eyes that have seen so much.Watching over everyone and every thing,like a caring mother watches over her children. 5Looking out my window every morningand seeing the flowers ever so slightly bigger,like the fast motion parts in a movie. 6The danger.The protection. First it sprains someone’s wrist, and then it saves someone from falling. 7I walk through walls of leaves,everything changes.My eyes see gorgeous pink flowers.Green leaves whisper to me,

as I climb up the ladder into the tree. 8The magnolia tree is a butterfly coming out of its chrysalis.Exploring out little at first,but then fluttering away after time. 9Walking through its branches to what is hidden underneath is as mysterious as that girl who sits in the back of the classroom without ever speaking,you have no idea what is there until you actually look.10The magnolia tree is alive.While I sit in the tree house,it talks to me,it tells me its problems.It cries to me when it’s feeling down,and I comfort it.11Wisssshhh,wooosssshhh. That’s what it’s like in the wind.During a spring shower,making a tornado made of petals. 12The magnolia tree is history.It is the memories of laughing and drinking juice with my friends,and daring each other to jump off. It is the memories of the birthday partiesand temper tantrums.It has so many memories because it has nothing better to do.13The magnolia tree is a piece of artwork,it belongs, it fits in to the world.Its beauty doesn’t need to be pronounced

It is the piece that completes the puzzle of my world,my life.

Reading Is Everything Julia Coblin

Reading is home.In its dusty pagesI have found peace,I’ve known the characters like they were my best friends,and saw the settings like I’ve lived there all my life.

Reading is a ticket to anywhere you want to go.There is nowhere it can’t take you—across oceans, to or to the coffee shop right down the street,even somewhere the eye can’t see.

Reading can be anything:information,entertainment,advice,a reflection, or a place to hide.

Reading is a journey—sailing on a ship over the stormy seas,clouds of story brewing.You may go on a hot air balloon—up, up and away goes your imagination.

Reading is a treasure.Without it life is dull.I’d dive into the sea, search the dark depths, and battle the sharks and squidsfor a chest of books.

Reading is an adventure.Dive into the book.Feel the fear bubble up inside you

as the lava churns around in a pot,just below where your favorite character is hanging.

Reading is a vacation.Take a break from the dark world,your problems and troublesand oh!There are so many places you can go!

Reading is a safari.See the wild thrills of other worlds,the wildlife of books.I’m wild about reading!

Reading is what frees my imagination.I become a magician,a superhero,a spy under the cover of a novel.

Reading is my life.Without it I’d be nothing,an empty shell of a soul.I wouldn’t be the person I am today.That is why at any spare momentyou can find me reading,on top of the church steps,in the back seat of a cab,or even in the branches of a pear tree, swaying in the evening breeze.

Subway Dreamers Brianna Costa Kline Go to New York City. Travel to Times Square. Walk down to the subway. Look around. When you find a small corner, dark with dirty water dripping from a leak in the pipes, you will see a little boy, maybe eleven or twelve. He is skin-ny, as if he has not had much to eat in a long time. His skin is pale, like he has spent most of his life in the subway. Dark shaggy hair falls into his chocolate brown eyes. Looking into them, you feel like he understands everything about you. He holds a small, dirty, old violin. His eyes scan the crowd, as if looking for a friendly face, or a watchful eye. Then he starts to play. The beauty of his music cannot be expressed by words. It is such an enchanting tune that almost everyone in the station stops for a second to listen. Even the busiest of adults pause to wonder what could make such a lovely sound. If you did go to New York, travel to Times Square, and walk down to the subway, and see the skinny, pale boy with the brown hair and soft brown eyes, and you listened to the music, and you were a dreamer, you would be en-tranced. His music would wrap you up in a blanket and lull you to sleep, where you would dream of leaping from star to star, and resting on the moon. But the music from the boy is sad, as if it has been scarred by tragedy and pain. His music tells a story, a beau-tiful, but sad story. At the beginning, the notes are drawn out painfully. Later, the music speeds up and screeches, telling of a story like war: fast, chaotic, and hurtful. The boy slows down again, holding out a long note, stopping suddenly, suddenly ending. You feel for the boy, and even though you have just met him, you wish to help him, to learn more about him. To become friends. You wish that he would keep playing his sad song, wish that somewhere there would be a happy, cheery line. You even wish that you could be the person to turn his song joyful. All those wishes, for one poor

little boy. Yet no one drops money in the little boy’s case. His chocolate eyes fill with tears, that soon spill out onto his cheeks. He quickly wipes them away, with the back of his hand, the dirt smearing the salty tears across his childish face. All the people pause for only a second, entranced by the lovely music, but not a penny to spare for a poor little boy in the subway station. Everyone is too busy, lives too fast, for him. Hunched over, the boy packs his violin away in an old, worn, faded black case. You wonder what he goes home to, if he even has a home. Where does this dirty little boy in the subway station go after he is finished playing? One last time, the boy looks around, as if he is hunt-ing for something he had lost a long time ago. This poor little boy in the subway station, with pale skin, messy hair, and soft, kind brown eyes, searches for something he will never find, someone that will never come back. You wish that you could be the person he is waiting for. You wish he knew that you understood him, that poor little boy in the subway sta-tion.

Broken Dreamland Louise Finnstrom

The sun did not sweep or weave through the cream blue river of sky today. It soaked into my skin flooding from my tousled hair, faded summer blonde and brown, into my soul, my skin, my arms, my legs. It was warm as chamomile tea, lighter than a feather, in fact, weightless. Finally, it ab-sorbed into my feet, lying lazily on the vast, soft green blan-ket of nature. I was in a dreamy blur, almost thoughtless, but still, I could see the colorful world all around my sweet little hill. Suddenly, I heard the low stirring hum of a bee. I mustered the effort to turn my head in the direction of the sky. Somehow, day had quickly wisped into sunset, melting gorgeous reds and purples into the falling night for a brief, beautiful moment. A tiny moving light shone bright beneath the moon hovering in the sky. I squinted, noticing it was an airplane that seemed tiny from my low spot on Earth. I felt a swift, light breeze, and a chill ran down my spine. I stood up, hugging my arms with my hands to get warm, because the air had become considerably cold in the matter of seconds. Then I took a few small steps toward the bottom of the hill. From there, I could see the town below made only of a few small, old orange-brownish brick shops lined up in a semi-circle. I counted. Five. And not one house to be seen. A man sat on a stool in front of a bakery with a crooked wooden sign engraved with delicate pink writing, hanging only onto one nail. His wrinkled face held sleepless-ness and longing, and his shirt was light blue and a little baggy. In his hand was a wooden ukulele he strummed softly with his rough, callused fingers. Nearby, African women dressed in brightly colored patterned skirts and blouses danced happily and sung clapping their hands occasionally to a steady rhythm. I watched as the man strummed his uku-lele, and the womens’ mouths moved up and down as they clapped, but yet, I couldn’t hear a thing. They weren’t actu-

ally making any noise at all, but they didn’t seem to know this. And they never stopped, or looked, or noticed me sitting at the hill’s edge. I wondered if this is how they always were, trapped in time, in a single repeating moment. I wonder if this was how they lived. I decided to shift my gaze past the town to see, in my surprise, land stretching on endlessly, with pathways swirl-ing in mazes over small, crystal-clear pools of water crossing over each other, and swirly sherbet-colored Lorax trees here and there, their tops like Trix cereal. Water from the pools fell from the sides of the land, and I wondered where it went. What if it simply fell forever? It was a magical, mystifying sight. I had never seen anything like it. I had come to this world to escape. An amazing world of endless discovery: the world of imagination. I realized that I needed to make a difference in this world, to give it music, flight: for that sad man to smile. I could make their lives bet-ter, clearer, more full of light, more full of things they seem to have lost. Even in such a beautiful place, these people didn’t truly live life fully. They didn’t know what they were miss-ing. It was a mystery in its own, this broken dreamland. As I drifted back to reality, I realized, I’m the one who was meant to find the key.

The Mountain’s Hum Zoe Fuller

Hazel stood on a small hill. The grass beneath her prickled at her lightly, as her tan legs sat in a crossed entanglement. A small blue dress with little daisies on it lay just above her skinned knees. A soft wind fluttered past her auburn hair, making it dance and twirl along the spring breeze. Her eyes were closed, as if she was dreaming about the land below. Her lips pursed against the wind, as she whistled a small tune. It was the lulling tune that had brought her up to the top of this hill. An airplane buzzed softly overhead. A bee sat on a dandelion next to Hazel’s wrist. It darted from petal to petal, determined to collect its pollen. Hazel looked down at the little town below. The people walked to and fro from their little houses. Pastel paint covered their little buildings, mak-ing it look like little blobs of cotton candy. Hazel wondered to herself why she had come her. She thought of the lulling tune that had entranced her and brought her to this hill. She hummed it again, tilting her head back and again closing her eyes. She listened for the tune. She focused on the words.

Above the mountainsAnd belowThe innocent sitIn awe and woeThey hear the sweet tuneAnd melodyOf the mountainsThe harmony

“Why have I come here?” thought Hazel. “Would these words show me why I came here?” She leaned back onto the grass and continued to hum the tune.

I am from Rubber Ducks Rebecca Glickman

I am from rubber ducks, squishy yellow oneswith orange noses and feet.From Haagen Dazs and Edy’s -- chocolate flavorAll guiding me through the path, leading me to where I’m from.

I am from the rotting banana under the couchgreen, molding, discoloring, it smelled like carrots and throw-up.

I am from the Canadian maple, full of sticky brown syrup.The red oak, with shedding, sharp, green leaveswhose far-reaching branches I rememberas if I carried them in my backpack, on my journey to where I’m from.

I am from flip-flops and cake,not from the evil monster with blue eyes,and the purple grin on his face. Fluffy fur, guides through the path, leading me to where I’m from.

I am from the eat-it-allsAnd the ne’r-do-wells.From sit down! And stand up!

I’m from “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.”A slab of steak, juicy as ever, a red inside.And fifteen poems I can memorize myself.

I am from Glickman and Kline’s branch,French fries and hot tea,Making my breath smell like sweet lemons from Georgia--tart and moist.

I am from the ankle my mom brokeTo the dance camp at Point Park.Not from the freezing, icy, white snowon the ski trip this January.

Under my fridge was a toolbox, red, and rustingSpilling dusty tools, smelling like pears and mildew.An arrangement of wrenches, and a screw or two.to remind me of old memories. Good ones.By the purple dandelions growing in the yard. Full of pollen.

I am from those good times--Made before I was arisen--Leaves grow from the family tree.Where I’m from.

A Place to Call Home Lillian Hosken

I lay stretched out on the top of a treeless hill, and felt the beaming sun on my face. I had never been this far away from the forest for so long. I brushed my hands across the soft and bristly grass, full with glee at the thought of my free-dom. The feeling of freedom never gets old, never.

About two years ago, my thick dark hair, that would have been pulled in a tight, painful bun, was now gathered in a low ponytail. About two years ago, my skin, that would have been soft and paler than ivory, was now tan and at least a little bit leathery. About two years ago, I would have been forced into a horrible fancy dress that was too poufy on the outside and far too tight on the inside, and been forced to sit prim and proper. Now, I was in a man’s shirt and a pair of overalls that I had stolen from the mansion, and I was sprawled on the grass.

I heard the buzzing of a dragonfly that had landed on a daisy by my ear. The buzzing was loud, but felt calming. The buzzing got progressively more distant as the dragonfly flew away.

Yes, life had certainly gotten better ever since I ran away from the mansion I had been strictly raised in. I had never seen a human since then, which due to the rich, snotty people I had to live with before, was a blessing. I have been living wild in the Pennsylvanian forest since. I didn’t even know what year it was, 1894, 1895? Either way, it didn’t mat-ter, I was happy.

My thoughts were interrupted by a sudden noise in the sky. It sounded like the call of a bird. I opened my eyes to look at the bird, and then, I suddenly had to shade my eyes from the sun. Through the white glare, I saw the silhouette of a hawk.

Intrigued, I sat up and turned my head to see as the hawk flew away. I couldn’t see the bird too well, but I looked down from the hill, and in the valley, was a town.

It wasn’t the kind of town I knew with tons of mansions and millionaires; it definitely wasn’t that kind of town. At most, the town was a mile in area, and its buildings were next to min-iscule, all the rooftops were light brown. There were houses, and shops that all sold different goods for living. There was one candy store, and one saloon.

There were people walking around, all greeting each other, and smiling. Women carried baskets and were running shop-ping errands. Men were working at shops or were winding down in the saloon. Small children skipped around, playing games; some children licked lollipops or ate chocolate. They were all so joyful.

I suddenly realized how much I missed home-cooked meals, sleeping in a bed, and seeing another human face. I real-ized that I was living in a forest, when I needed a home, but not a home like the mansion where I was forced to be like everyone else, when no one understood me. I needed a real home.

I wanted something from the town, and I wanted it badly. I wanted the town to be my home. I felt like it was the one and only place I would ever fit in, and the only place I would ever want to fit in. I didn’t know I was doing so, until I was run-ning down the hill, to the town. Rushed by wind, gravity, and destiny, I knew I was on my way home.

Where I’m From Jora Hritz

I am from the strong smelling spices in the kitchen that will make my yummy dinner.I am from the tired mother,yelling at my brother to wash his hands, and to eat every single thing on his plate.I am from the music of the guitar strings that make no sense. Just chord after chord after chord, strum after strum, playing no real song.

I’m from “Well I’ll be darned!” which really sounds like “Woopy darn!” I’m from “Yello!” when my dear grandma answers the phone.I’m from the twisted spaghetti noodles that get entangled in each other’s arms every Monday night.From the powdered snowballs that look as if they just fell from the snowy, gray sky, but really taste so good and delicious.I’m from the strong anise in the Easter Bread that sometimes gives me headaches, but demands that I eat more.

I am from the slippery ice down in PPGon Christmas Eve where everyoneis having fun with their families, falling into each other’s arms, laughing and singing and wearing Santa hats, rocking around the Christmas tree.I am from the wrapping paper that covers the cozy pajamas on Christmas Eve, the ones I will wear that night and wake up excited to open presents in the morning.I am from the hot August sun that beats down burning everyone’s shoulders.From the cool water that splashes over my bodyas I slip down the water slide.

I am from the cool October winds blowingthrough my air as I pick out the best pumpkin ever.

I’m from imaginary friends, who are the ones who always agree with you and make you happy.From dreams made by The Sandman that make you happy.I’m from the little flower that sprouts beginning as a seed,and from the clouds up high that flow rain whenever the fluffymarshmallows need to go to the bathroomI’m from a bursting bubble of joy and bounciness I’m from my own little world that nobody else knows about,a world inside my head where I go to cry and smile,shout and whisper, sleep and jump, a place where nobody cares what I do because it is all mineI’m from my imagination.

Kinderhook Kalin Jeffers

I am from the sweet smell of dustfrom the small shop down the road.From bright juicy cherries, peeking through the dark green leaves in my backyard.I am from the murky brown waterof the creek I learned to swim in.I remember the ice cold so vividly,it still raises goose bumps on my skin.

I am from hot fresh bagels,layered with bacon and cheese.Just the thoughtof them makes my mouth water.I am from watching it snow for the first time out the windowat the beginning of every winter, the thick white packed on top of the dimly glowing street-lightsas I sipped my hot chocolate.

I am from beadsgetting stuck in the boards of old picnic tables.They were stubborn little beads,refusing to budge.From Stewart’s creamychocolate ice cream, cakedwith sprinkles and whipped cream.We were treated with this on hot days,or awarded it for good grades.I am from the old tire swingthat we twirledand swirled around on right above the park’s dust and wood chips.

I am from the swimming pool at the country club.

When we jumped in the water at the sight of a bee,Splash!When we snuck off to the vending machines to get Three Musketeers bars,the marshmallows were the best part.I am from screaming and running when we found that snakein the garage.I can still hear it’s tsssssssssssk, tsssssssssssk.

I am from dancing in the rainin shorts and a tank top,with the pit pat pit patof the rain drumming on my head.From falling off my bike for the first time.From getting sunburns on my cheeks,and only my cheeks.

I am from my happy little village,that no one knows about.From the water, from the rain,from the happy,and from the pain.I am from the memory of my happy little village,that no one knows about.

Broken Hearted Zoe Magley

A single tearfrozen on her cheek, is all I’ll ever see of her. Dark grey eyes,glazed over and unfocused.Prominent cheekbones, and thick eyelashes…wet with water from her tears.A look of sadness painted like a mask across her usual smile.A long lock of silvery white hair, bleached from sunlight,straight and perfect,framing her pale face.Just a single bittersweet drop, down, down, down, tracing a path,all the way to her lips. Still and silent.

Features of a face I’ve been searching for forever.The same mental image,swimming in my mind, that always seemsto slip out of my grasp once I’ve found it.Why? Why is there a tear? What is it that causes such sorrow?I think she is colorblind, for her eyes show no sign of brightness and joy,no recognition of the beauty of her world.

That must be why.Why I see her in black and white,for she herself is black and white. Black and white. White and black. No color,no life,no joy.She will never be ableto see her true beauty.Only her black and white self.But sometimes, true beauty is on theinside. Or so some people say.Does she cry because of the only two colors in her life?Or something else?What makes her so sad?Inside,she feels sorrow,I’m sure of it.But for somethingI cannot unearth.Something I cannot find.

She yearns forpeace. Not to be surrounded.Whether by friends, or family or thoughts...Her thoughts are about loss.She has lost herself.She has hidden herself.Far, far away, where no one,Not even herself, can find her.And the thoughts tear at her, They rip her apart.Break her into pieces.So many, that she never may find them.

And that she may never be whole again.

She’s looking at me,her eyes full of desperation.She needs me, and I need her.Why can’t I reach her?Why can’t I get to her?Who is she?Who is the girl that floats through my mind?Twisting through my thoughts,opening a whole new level of wonders?With hair like the pale white moon,and eyes like a cave reaching into the depths of the earth,the girl in my mind will forever be a mystery.

Man at the Window Katarina Mondor

Part I

I gaze out my foggy window.A small sad man is sitting on my doorstep.He sees me and walks towards the window.I see a look of confusion on his face.He raps quietly on the glass. His eyes red, I think he was crying. I want to reach out,to call to him,but I can’t;he is so close and yet so far.I can’t do anything,just watch.He stares at me sadlyI look back at him trying to tell him I was there.He takes out a checkered handkerchief and blows his nose.I think he gets that I can’t do anything for him;can’t open the door,let him in,let him warm his feet by the fireplace that lights the small room.I watch him straighten up,button the top clasp on his raggedy jacket, give me one last bittersweet look,then walk away toward dusk,leaving me standing there,never to hear of him again.

Part II

I walk away.

To where I don’t know,but I can still remember the young girl’s face;her dark hair and soft eyes.Her eyes;they looked at me sorrowfully, like she wanted to help.But there’s no way to help me.I wipe my eyes. she didn’t see me cry.But now I try to think about the future.What will I do?Where will I go?What will become of me?But all I can think of is her wide dark eyestransfixed upon no one but me. She was a beauty,and I’m sure intentions were as pure as her heart;but she seemed so confused,by me.I remember what the house looked like through the foggy window:a small blue couch,a wood rocking chair, with a open book lying next to it,a fire place heating the cozy room.I wish I could have stayed could have been reading that book next to her.But a fear stopped me,a fear that if I came inhad a cup of cocoa and started reading a book,that I wouldn’t have the strength to stop,and then my horrors would fall upon her shoulders too.It is better this waybetter that I just left.And never come back.

Hunter Sarah Touster

The cacophony of howls deafened me. The barks were chilling and the wolves’ eyes burned like fire. That was why I despised wolves. Also why I had to get to the top of the hill before they decided they were hungry. The sun was warm; the breeze carried the smell of rose and ash. I finally made it to the top getting one last look at the sprawling forests, before I turned back to a dizzying view of the sky and tiny landscapes. The grass waved in the wind, flashes of light flickered off the dew. There was a smattering of strange flowers that moved like water and were just as blue. Peeking over the cliff I saw a village. It looked peaceful with cobblestone roads, brown wood facing, flower boxes, and cottages. But there was something off, just wrong. I shuffled a little closer to the edge looking out, tripping slightly on loose pebbles trying to get a glimpse at any people. Two girls strolling along caught my attention. They looked normal enough, clad in loose dresses and bonnets, hand-in-hand clutching wicker baskets full of market goods. I leaned even farther over the edge and brushed a stone with my foot in an attempt to balance. It fell, rolled down the hill, and hit the ground with a thump. In unison the two girls whipped around. I stumbled backwards. Their eyes held sadness so intense I could feel it seeping. I had never seen that look on children. I had to find out what had happened. I ran forward, free falling.