The Red Raven

Liam O’Connor, Grade 7 “The Raven”--monoprint

MS Literary & Arts Magazine Trinity Preparatory School

The Red Raven Staff 2012-2013

Agatha Advincula Jenna Chen Ava Hickman Teagan Hosebein Lauren Lee Alexandra Lipton Ayla Maugans Zoe Myers-Bochner Hayley Nash Roland Spillmann

Faculty Advisor Mrs. Leanna Bird

Special Thanks Mrs. Margaret Griffith Mrs. Kymberly Moreland-Garnett Dr. Barbara Clanton Trinity Preparatory School

Table of Contents

Mackie Clarke The Beggar 6

Lauren Lee Winter Death 9

Thidarath Sukserm Unforgettable 10

Diego Santiago Think Outside the Pencil Box 13

Delaney McLinden Autumn Magic 14

Susanna Lowndes Bookworm 16

Kayla Peck Childhood 17

Michaela Issacs Superman 18

Summer Heidish Flag 20

Teagan Hosbein Red 21 Murder at Topaki Palace 34

Jenna Chen Brackets 21 Rain 40

Karishma Patel A Forest of Trees 22

Lara Boerth-Dryden Where I‟m From 23

Alexandra Lipton The Angel Saga 24

Caleigh Griffin Punching Holes 26

Rakhi Patel Serverus Snape 27

Prianca Nagda The Big Picture 29

Tyler Covington Killer‟s Misery 30

Haley Nepple Once Upon a Time 32

Ishan Perera Moments from Memory 41

Suzannah Evans It‟s the Cat‟s Meow 42

Ayla Maugans The Age of Man 45

Rachel Sharp Vera‟s Victim 46

Matthew Johnson Do You Get the Point? 48

Haley Nash The Last Song of a Mockingbird 49

Index of Art

Michaela Issacs The Dark Night 8

Samy Asfoor Star 12

Rose Millson Pumpkins 15

Michelle Ohlwiler Embrace 20

Lauren Hongamen Enchanted 28

Sarah Martino Hearts over Secrets 31

Maya Ilagan Mama Giraffe 33

Mandy Feenstra Blue Fish 40

Kenny Spence Monarch 43

Charlie Tang Skull 44

The Beggar

Mackie Clarke, Grade 8

The arms wrapped around an unkempt body rearranged the tattered, shabby remains of a coat fluttering gently in the wind. As a man walked by, the coarse face of the beggar was raised, a croaking voice forced over lips gone stiff with cold. “Spare a dollar for a soul down on its luck?” The man stopped and turned slowly around. His face was a mask of anger. “I am a man. You are a man. We had the same chances in life, I being born a beggar, like you. But unlike you, I came to the terms of my sad, homeless, lazy life, and I changed. I worked. I will—” the next he said in a sing-song voice, sneering, “spare you a dollar, if you spare me your trash.” With that, and a last disdainful look, he spat at the feet of the beggar. The beggar shuffled closer into himself, his crusted eyes full of pain and sorrow.

Another breeze whistled past, keeping pace with the next passers‟-by quick, footsteps. A father and a son. Again, an upturned face with pleading eyes, a rasping, imploring tone. “Spare a dollar for a soul down on its luck?” The child jumped back in shock, horror plain on his face, clutching the coarse but familiar tweed jacket worn by the man. The man turned slowly toward the beggar. “I am a man. You are a man. Life must have been hard to you.” He kneeled, getting closer to the beggar, directing his whole self toward the poor man, and pulled out his wallet. “I beg of you—take this money and find yourself. Emerge from the hole of your current life, as a new, better

man!” At the end of his little sermon, the man‟s eyes glow with excitement and a sweet hope. He placed a twenty dollar bill into the rough, lined hand of the beggar. The beggar, looking down, accepted the money. He did not thank or even acknowledge the presence of the man. The father stood. He took the child and lifted him to his chest. He looked at the beggar for a moment with eyes dark and wet and pained. A choked puff of cold white breath left his mouth as he lifted the child to his face and shoulder. He walked away.

The beggar lifted his head almost mechanically, with dead eyes. His voice, on par with his eyes, was monotonous and distant. “Spare a dollar for a soul...” His arms no longer hugged himself, but hung loosely by his sides, slightly away from his body, like a wingless bird that wanted to fly. A passerby, who had put her head down and tried to hurriedly pass, suddenly stopped. She turned around, slowest of all, eyes wide and wet. “John?” “… a dollar…” “John! It‟s Clara. Your sister! I haven‟t seen you in…Let me get you home! Come! John?” For the beggar had fallen to the ground. The woman, now quiet, kneeled and took the beggar in her arms. His wide eyes were quiet, his arms stiff—as if gliding—as if he had flown. The woman bowed her head. Her eyes shone with peace. She gently closed the beggar‟s eyes, which only now were at rest, since all worries were gone. The woman wrapped her arms around an unkempt body rearranged the tattered, shabby remains of a coat fluttering gently in the wind.

Michaela Issacs, Grade 8 “The Dark Night” --- monoprint

Winter Death Aviline, Grade 7

The chills on her arms, The blanket of winter encasing her in a tomb, For she is no longer part of the living.

She turns her head To see the last breath of life Escape her lips.

Then, It is blackness Swallowing her whole.

Blackness - The one thing that is her friend, Her only friend.

She no longer laughs at jokes Or prods her finger in your side. She is gone.

Will you weep? Will tears gush From the corners of your eyes?

I know you loved her, But will you Join her?

Unforgettable Thidarath Sukserm, Grade 8

Never in my entire life have I walked into such a breathtaking sight. The intricate carvings making permanent memories in the sleek walls capture my baby blue eyes. I am unable to turn away. The gentle breeze brushes across my face, blowing my golden brown hair back behind me. Not too hot, not too cold. The weather is perfect. I can hear tiny birds chirping in the trees as if they were singing a song to me. I feel so open to the world in a comfortable, loving way. The gleaming floorboards are a pleasure to walk upon. My ears can almost catch them welcoming a shy, little girl into their presence. I slowly walk over to the balcony as the wind whips my dark brown hair back. Looking out towards the distance, I see pink flower petals fly through the wind like airplanes. I turn towards the bare walls and think about how many memories will be engraved within them.

Walking across the icy floorboards sends a chill from the bottom of my feet all the way up my spine. Outside, the beautiful, lush trees have been stripped of their green leafy clothing and left with naked brown branches. Me with my tan skin covered in goose bumps and purple, chapped lips, I shakily walk to the balcony and wish for the sun to manifest itself, to let me know that it hasn‟t abandoned me forever. But, it never comes. A million little drops of frozen rain falls from the sky, racing each other to touch the ground. The weather is cold enough to turn water into ice within a matter of seconds. I step away and look at the north wall. My big blue eyes lay upon a single picture. It‟s of my parents on their wedding day. Black and white smiles light up the picture as the bride and groom

hold hands. It brings a smile to my face every time I look at it. Who knew that a single picture could make my day?

The old, rickety floorboards creak as if crying out in pain under every step despite the fact that a feather of a person is lying upon them. Hobbling ever so slightly, I‟m afraid that I‟ll fall through the floor if another step is to be taken. I brush a strand of stiff gray hair behind my ear. Without the protection of mahogany walls in various areas, the atmosphere can make even the toughest soldier feel vulnerable. In the raging heat of the day, perspiration collects upon the back of my neck and face. Sometimes I wonder if the sun is trying to punish those of us who‟ve committed a sin. The dilapidated wooden structure is a plant dying of thirst. They‟ve been neglected for who knows how long- slowly withering away to non-existence. The surrounding pieces are peeling away like orange carcasses. Aged pictures sit upon the walls with their yellow sun tan capturing the smiles from all over the world and bringing them together as one. How a single place can hold so many memories never fails to amaze me. I will keep the image in my mind until the day I die.

Samy Asfoor, Grade 7 “Star” --- monoprint

Think Outside the Pencil Box Diego Santiago, Grade 6

Let me start by introducing myself. My name is Buddy, and I am a yellow #2 pencil. I live in a blue pencil pouch with my three pencil brothers, my cousin the ball point pen, and my arch nemesis, the evil pink pearl eraser. We were all anxious for Diego‟s first day of school, and we all wanted to be the first to help him. As he carefully opened the zipper of his pencil pouch, I decided to take matters into my own hands (a very difficult task considering I have no limbs) and poked my freshly pointed head into the light. He quickly grabbed my thin golden body and began to write his name in the corner of a blank, loose-leaf paper. From that moment on, we were inseparable! I get to give life to Diego‟s imagination. There is nothing better that I could think to use my lead for. From dinosaurs to dungeons, I enjoy transforming his thoughts into written masterpieces. I honestly don‟t understand why it says #2 on my body because clearly, I am Diego‟s #1 Buddy!

Autumn Magic Delaney McLinden, Grade 7

I was riding my bike on a cool November day, as puffy, white blobs danced across the sky in swift, sinuous motions. The leaves from the trees spun and fluttered along with the breeze. It may not seem like much, but this day gave me warmth inside. This day was one I will never forget, because it made me realize how beautiful the world really is. It was an average Tuesday morning, two years ago. I didn‟t have school, because it was Thanksgiving break. I slept in late and watched television most of the day. Late into the afternoon, I had a strange urge to go outside. I rarely ever used my bike. It sat in the corner of my garage, covered in spider webs. The webs had the most intricate designs, weaved back and forth in a spiral pattern. Carelessly, I pulled the bike from the wall, regretfully destroying the beautiful masterpiece belonging to the spider. Slowly waking up from my daydream, I felt the air succumb to an unusual stillness. There wasn‟t a single sound. Time seemed to stop, and everything around me seemed to freeze. I ignored it and quickly pedaled out of my garage and into the light. It was 20 minutes into the bike ride when out of the blue, I unconsciously stopped. I remembered that the sun shone perfectly through the trees and cast bold shadows against the newly paved road. The trees looked like they were in a trance swaying back and forth simultaneously. The wind picked up speed and all the reddish-orange leaves that were once on the ground were now soaring in the blue sky, swirling and dancing. It was magical! The coolness of the air sent shivers up my spine. It sounded like it was raining because of the wind taunting the oak and magnolia trees all around me, forcing thousands of leaves to brush against each other

14 as it threatened to blow the off the leaves. I whipped around to see if anyone was looking to see what I witnessed. No one was there. I was alone, enjoying the beautiful scene. The flying leaves tickled my skin and warmth bubbled up inside of me, even though the air was cold. It was so peaceful. Why did I stop my bike? Was I meant to see this? Am I the only one who has experienced this? Are flying leaves normal? Still thinking, time slowed down. The leaves gently fell to the ground. The once strong wind faded into a slight breeze, and the trees woke up from their trance. The sun, still casting marvelous orange shadows, sank lower into the horizon.

Rose Millson, Grade 7 “Pumpkins” --- mixed media

Bookworm Sussana Lowndes, Grade 6

I went to the library and thought "What should I get?" Maybe that book by Robert Snet, Or maybe the one called My Life as a Pet. I looked through the ones by Alicia Catoto, But then I thought, "I'd rather eat a potato." My friend said that this one was great, But I read the back and it was by an author I hate! But then, I looked back, and saw there was a bestseller there, But I read the first page and it was about doing your hair! Then I looked sideways and what did I see? A sequel to my favorite book by Bobby Mcgee! I rushed over to it, grabbed it, checked it out, ran to the car, And read the whole thing; it was amazing and bizarre.

Childhood Kayla Peck, Grade 8

Every now and then she tends to find me, The fledgling of a girl I used to know. I'd sworn I would put my past behind me To clear the path down which I'm forced to go.

Yet still, from time to time, she takes me back To times that were much simpler than these- When I had trust that, nowadays, I lack And once I'm there I never want to leave.

So, now, I'm bound to all these memories And choices made that lost what could have been. Like tender songs with broken melodies, I fight a war that I can never win.

And now, for fear of bringing back more pain, I cannot bear to see the girl again.

Superman Michaela Issacs, Grade 8

Deep blue eyes pierced the shadows, gaze locked on a small town. The barren grassland‟s winds were humid, rustling short brown hair. A hand raised and contorted into a sign. The soft crunching of leaves followed soon after. But the hand-raiser stayed behind, a crease forming between his eyes. As gunshots rang through the air, he ducked further into the shadows of the trees. He should be out there. It was his duty to fight along his comrades, to make the world safer for his children. But when the battle was against innocent civilians, it was less of a fight for world peace than it was a slaughter. Fire, gunpowder, and blood flooded his nose, pushing bile up his throat. This was wrong. So, so wrong. These people didn‟t have any defense. All they‟d done was build their homes on an invisible line, one that didn‟t even exist. His superiors had called them villains, but truly, they were the heroes in this fight. A shaky breath tumbled out of his throat. This was treason; what was he thinking? That he could save them somehow? Rebel against his comrades to save people he didn‟t even know? But hadn‟t his children always called him Superman? The good guy, the hero, the man who does no wrong? If he left the safety of the trees, he‟d be betraying his children. He wouldn‟t be their Superman; he‟d be the nameless pawn in the background, following orders without a thought of his own. And what kind of father would that be to look up to? Sweat ran down his face in rivets as he hugged himself, posture tight and rigid. If he fought against his comrades, his

green padded vest wouldn‟t help him. One gun against a hundred, even if those guns were previously friendly, would do little. The helmet may as well have been a joke. With so many other vital parts of the body to hit, why would someone aim for the top of his head? If he didn‟t succeed in his rebellion, he wouldn‟t be there for his children at all. So, would he stand by his country or his children? A giant decision, with less than a minute to make it. Someone would notice his absence soon, he knew. To think he was once proud of his promotion. His posture remained tight before melting, his arm fluidly swinging his gun over his shoulder. He rubbed his fingers over the silver dog tags hanging around his neck. They wouldn‟t be put to use today. Today, he would live. Live for his children and lift his guilty heart with their bright smiles when he came home. What they didn‟t know wouldn‟t hurt them. Gun braced against his shoulder, he came out from behind the safety of his tree. None of the civilians survived that day.

Michelle Ohlwiler “Embrace” --- monoprint

Flag Summer Heidish, Grade 7

A flag is like an ocean, sometimes still, calm; other times wild, thrashing about, creating its own waves.

Red Teagan Hosbein, Grade 7

Royally waves her hand as she steps out of the gold trimmed carriage to signal her arrival to her people. Elegantly bows and proceeds up the marble stairs of her palace to prepare for the ball. Delicately dancing around the ballroom, as light as a feather, she‟s beautiful, but watch for her temper.

[Brackets] Jenna Chen, Grade 7

Do brackets have baskets And play tennis with rackets? Do they play in the snow With their warm wool jackets? Do they wear skirts with plackets And play all the day? Do they work „til they‟re worn Or read blue poetry packets?

A Forest of Trees Karishma Patel, Grade 8

The air begins to warm and the temperatures slowly rise as the days get longer. The trees whistle when the wind blows. As the bees begin to swarm and the butterflies begin to flutter around the opening buds, the birds sit in their nests and sing their harmonious melodies. The sun shines brightly through the branches providing gleeful warmth to all the animals. The trees are full with leaves of green. Hanging from their branches are ripe fruits and blooming flowers.

The forest is full of bright reds, oranges, purples, yellows, browns, bronzes, and dappled grays. The air is crisp and fresh. It is warm, yet there is a steady, cool breeze that blows through the forest. The trees‟ leaves rustle like restless children. The vibrant leaves float to the ground like dancers waltzing. As the wind blows, the trees stand tall and strong. On the topmost branch of the tree, squirrels scamper around in search of acorns for their upcoming period of hibernation.

Snow falls lightly on the trees‟ bare branches. The bare winter trees are skeletal hands reaching out of the snow covered ground. Their bare branches hide nothing; they have no secrets. Icicles reflect the cold image of the forest. It is cold, but somehow the forest gives off a kind of warmth due to its peace. There is snow everywhere, filling any gaps. There is not a place touched by white. There is no sign of life. All are asleep in their homes for the season. There is no sound, only stillness. All is quiet and calm.

Where I’m From Lara Boerth-Dryden, Grade 6

I am from leotards, from G.K and Snowflake. I am from my room which smells like pages of books, so old and dusty it is hard to breathe. I am from the fairy tree which is filled with sprites and pine needles; I climb as high as I dare to see their world. I am from homemade ice cream and short heights, from Stephanie and Robbie. I am from the smarties and the readers, from following your dreams and trying your hardest! I am from the Christian family and I can always Feel safe and forgiven. I am from Oviedo, Florida coffee and ice cream, From the day I adopted my siblings to the day of my first words. Down the hall the wall is crowded with pictures of the past. All of those familiar faces that fill my dreams with happiness I am from those moments- a leaf falling from a tree, and Allowing the wind to take me away.

The Angel Saga Alexandra Lipton, Grade 7

Some people think that all eleven-year-olds are kids who know almost nothing about the world. They have bad attitudes, immature minds, and a knack for getting into trouble. That’s true, mostly. I see eleven-year-olds all the time. In fact, I seem to be one. But I’m not. I am wise, powerful, and immortal. If everyone knew that, they would run for their lives. My name is Rose, I am three thousand years old, and I am an angel. I was born in the early 1000s (B.C.E.). My parents were mortals. On the day of my birth, heaven and earth touched for the quickest second. In that second the sun and moon and the powers of heaven and earth were at their strongest. You may have already figured this out, but in that second, I was born. As father held me in his hands, I began to glow. I turned into a yellow silhouette of a baby girl. Father’s jaw dropped, and he allowed me to slip out of his hands. I landed on the ground, got onto my feet, jumped, and flew up to the ceiling. By this time, I was a blinding white orb of energy. I came down slowly and flew right back into Father’s arms. He handed me to Mother, who was too proud of her two-minute old daughter to speak. As I gradually stopped glowing, Mother cradled me and kissed my forehead. She loved me. Father never did accept me as his daughter. When I flew over to him every afternoon, he would grunt, nod his head once, and go back to what he was doing. I loved him anyway. I tried to impress him by walking or having intelligent conversations, but to no avail; he would grunt, nod his head once, and go back to what he was doing. So, my life was not handed to me on a silver platter. When I had grown up, I was five feet tall with beautiful, curly auburn hair and no flaws. I did have something bugging me: my powers. I never spoke of my powers in front of my friends. Who knows how they might have reacted! Ignored me? Spread rumors about me? Taken advantage of me? It was just too risky. I had to live with the secret. And I did. I could get by with my powers until I turned 60. My parents died a long time before, so I was alone. The problem was that my friends had aged, my co-workers had become older, and time had passed. In spite of all this, I was trapped inside a young person’s body, which was not always a bad thing. I could still do all the things a young person could, as if I hadn’t aged at all. The only downside was friendship. I could not have long-term friends because I always stayed the same as they grew

24 older. Imagine living forever and having a great time, but never having one person with whom to share the stories. Each of my friendships lasted about three years, so nobody became suspicious. Now that you know a little about my background, let’s get to the story. In the late 2000s, I lived in Georgia. Every morning it was the same routine: get up, go to work, go home, go to bed, and repeat. Not this morning. This morning, when I woke up, sirens were going off all around town. I turned on the news, and the television reporter was shouting into the camera, “We are experiencing a world-wide lock down! The storm you see behind me is a monster! 2,385 miles wide, this storm is ripping apart everything in its path. So far, there have been a total of 3,628 casualties. The hospitals are full. We advise that you stay put until further notice!” Then the television went fuzzy. I decided that I would not be going to work that day. I rushed downtown. The streets were deserted. Every couple of buildings, a face peered through the window, attempting to catch a glimpse of the activity. The majority of the town was inside the market, stocking up on necessities. As I opened the door, a family came up behind me. There was a mother, a father, a toddler, and a baby. They yelled at me to get out of the way, and as soon as I did, they bolted inside and yelled at others to move so they could buy food. Once I had finished watching this phenomenon, I went inside. The shelves were mostly empty, and the check-out lines were backed up tremendously. I could not believe how many people there were; I didn’t know that our town was this populated. I went back to the meat section, but there was nothing. I went over to the dairy section, but it was empty. I realized that if this storm had come to blow my house over, the chances of me surviving were very slim, anyway. I didn't need more food, and neither did these people. I went back to my house. As soon as I reached my front door, the storm hit. The wind blew, and my freshly raked leaves flew everywhere. I dashed inside, but my front door wouldn't close because the wind kept it open. My house made strange creaking and groaning noises, so I moved to the basement. When the storm grew worse, I went back up to the living room and looked outside. A bright white light circled my house. The storm ceased around me, and I was sure that I was flying. My life flashed before me. I saw the light. In one instant, everything changed. I was back with my mother and father, with all the friends I had met, and with all the people I cared about. I knew that I had died, that my time had come, but it was all right. I was with the people that had played a big part in my life. I was in a wonderful place, a place that I should have been a long time ago.

Punching Holes Caleigh Griffin, Grade 6

I‟m a normal hole punch. I started in the store, brand new, and my metal was shining. The very next day I was bought and moved to Mrs. Anderson‟s class room. The next morning, after only three uses, I broke. Well, I guess that‟s what you get for being cheaply made. I was later thrown away, and I thought I was done for, but that was not my ending after all. I was picked up by a handyman and fixed with some tape. Anyway, I wish I had been left there because I then moved to a class room of seventh graders who hit the top of my head so hard I was afraid I would get a concussion. From the amount of papers put in to the force of being hit, who knew when the tape would break? Certainly, not me. Almost two months later it finally broke, and I really did meet my maker. Actually it was a recall notice because the springs were defective and had been launching out at people when they were hole punching. So that was the end of me, tossed out to rot in the trash and replaced by a fancy hi-tech industrial strength hole punch.

Serverus Snape Rakhi Patel, Grade 8

Severus Snape was so slimy and greasy, Just like a striking slithering snake. But an actor oh! an actor of great For his master, Dumbledore‟s, sake.

The order of Phoenix thought he was bad; He was the slayer of Albus Dumbledore Voldemort‟s side thought he was good, A spy and possessor of brains that soar.

The wand Voldemort was using didn‟t work, For him, at least, and thought to kill Snape who he thought was the true owner, But Harry was watching, as if from a sill.

A great giant snake clambered forward Its name hissed, “Nagini. Dinner,” And she towered over another snake. Still and quiet, the slave looked thinner.

Nagini struck, making that snake gasp out. Nagini raised her ugly head And followed out after her master. And the silent snake, Snape, was dead.

Blood mixed with white silvery stuff, Harry took the memories that had been signed And looked into them with a deep heart And saw that loathing man had been kind.

Lauren Hongamen, Grade 7 “Enchanted”---monoprint

The First Picture Prianca Nagda, Grade 8

Darkness swallows the room, making me feel small and alone. Sound roars from around me, as I swivel around trying to locate the source. The surface in front of me slowly begins to glow with a white light. A picture begins to manifest itself, along with an epic melody. Snow begins to fall as a fast object, as red as the berries which you may find on a brush nearby, speeds towards me. I feel my palms get sweaty, and I stifle the need to flee as it comes rushing towards me. I gasp and avert my eyes as it becomes apparent that it‟s headed straight at me, and I will not be able to run. And then I am behind the object. Perhaps, it has gone straight through me, or has it just avoided me? It makes a noise, almost as an elephant talks through its long trunk. A girl with red, rouged lips, a short bob, and a sparkling headpiece leans out and waves at me. I lift my hand, but before I can do anything it speeds off on the straight string, going straight to the small sun that lies ahead! Clouds spout out the back end of this monstrosity, and the reeds and grasses swayed in its wake, leaving me with only wonder about what just happened.

Killer’s Misery Tyler Covington, Grade 8

As Jacob‟s fist flies through the air, curled around the long knife handle, going back in a curved arc, an image flashes through the killer‟s mind. He witnessed this happen to another woman. He saw a man with the same knife, the same evil eyes, and the same mind yank a woman into a dark alley and demand money from her. The man saw the killer throw the woman to the ground after she refused to give him any money. He saw her try to fight back, and he did nothing because he was scared of what would happen to him. He was a child when he saw this, after all. But now, as the man he is, he recognizes that doing nothing was cowardice. The woman was his mother. As the killer looks into his victim‟s eyes he sees the same fear that he saw in his mother‟s, the night she was brutally murdered. What he doesn‟t see is the hatred that he saw in his mother‟s eyes the night she was killed. She had hatred in her eyes because she hated scum like her murderer. The killer does not see this hatred in the man‟s eyes, but sympathy. He sees how the man feels sorry for him, for whatever had happened to him in his life that drove him to mugging people on the streets and killing people to survive. As the killer looks into the man‟s eyes, he releases the knife and it clatters to the ground in an eruption of echoes that not only sounds in the alley but in the killer‟s conscience as well. This is the loudest noise the killer had heard since his mother‟s scream when she was stabbed. As the knife clatters to the ground, the killer releases the victim and apologizes for his shameful and hideous actions. He tells the man how his mother‟s death before his eyes drove him to insanity and made him become a terrible man. The victim apologizes for the killer‟s loss. He pulls out his wallet and offers a wad of cash to the killer.

He says, “Take this. It is a reminder that even though there are evil people in this world, there are good people as well.” The killer accepts the money and thanks the man for his generosity and kindness. The man pats the killer on the shoulder and walks away. The killer is left in the alley to weep in sorrow. He weeps for his loss and he weeps for his mother‟s.

Sarah Martino, Grade 7 “Hearts Over Secrets”---monoprint

Once Upon A Time Haley Nepple, Grade 8

She walked into the room. There were millions of books stacked on top of each other, so many that if someone touched them too hard, an avalanche of books would pile on top of her. People were everywhere—sitting, lying down, standing, all absorbed in their books. She knew where she was going; she always has. She went to the back were the genre Fantasy was written. Below was a shelf, fresh and new. She picked up a book. Its brown coat looked like creamy chocolate, and the title shined like the sun. She slowly began to open the book; It smelled fresh and new. The binding was strong like an ox. She read her favorite words, “Once upon a time”, and just like that, she was absorbed in the book. Images flashed through her head of the protagonist coming to the rescue. She couldn‟t put it down. She sat and read all day until the library closed. A young lady walked in. Computers and Kindles were spread around the room. Few of the people were reading books. She goes to the Fantasy section. Her polished fingernails pull out the same old book. The color has dimmed, the title was losing its shine, but she didn‟t care. It was worn out but still in good condition. To her, it was new. She opened the book. She was pulled into the story. Some stared at her. Others never looked up from their screens. She didn‟t care; in fact, she didn‟t even notice. When she was finished, it was as black as midnight outside. This didn‟t bother her, as she was use to it. The women at the desk told her what to do. She locked the doors and headed to her car. Everyone stares at her. Some are too busy playing a game to notice. That doesn‟t bother her. Everywhere she looks there are iPads, Kindles, computers, and Nooks. Many of the books were gone like the wind, without a trace. Many people didn‟t care. They wanted to use the new high tech gadgets. In the back was a

“

Maya Ilagan, Grade 8 Mama Giraffe”

monoprint

sign that read Fantasy. Below it was a shelf, covered with cobwebs and on the shelf sat a dilapidated book, covered in dust. She gently picked it up, in fear of it breaking in her wrinkled hands. The cover was molded and smelled rotten, but to her, it was fresh. If there was a title, you couldn‟t see it. She slowly opened it, the binding barely holding itself together. Some of the pages were gone; it didn‟t matter. She knew the words by heart. She started with her favorite words, “Once upon a time.”

Murder at the Topkapi Palace Teagan Hosbein, Grade 7

Matt Walker slipped into bed after a hard night of searching the streets of New York City for a notorious gang, but instead of finding the one he was looking for, he found two others. He massaged his sore jaw, which had caught the blow of one of the thugs and rolled over. He was just nodding off to sleep when his cell phone rang. He picked it up. “Matt Walker,” he said drowsily. “Matt, this is very important.” Matt recognized the voice on the other line, which had a slight Turkish accent, as his old buddy Yavuz. “I think that the Topkapi Palace dagger will be stolen soon.” Yavuz had been a security guard at Topkapi Palace in Istanbul after Matt had gotten him out of a tough situation regarding his previous job and boss. They became good friends and still kept in touch after two years. “What’s wrong? What happened?” Matt asked. He stood up. “I can’t tell you on the phone, but I think that my life is in danger, too. Just get over here as quickly as possible. I want to show you a few things.” “Yav”- He hung up. Matt put the phone in his pocket and quickly packed a small duffel bag. Then he ran downstairs and hailed a cab for the airport. Kennedy was packed, as usual, even at 2:30 in the morning. Matt took out his CLEAR card and made his way through expert flyer security. He presented his recently bought ticket to the attendant and… slept for the next thirteen hours. “We are now landing in Istanbul,” the flight attendant announced, jerking Matt awake. “Please make sure you have all your personal items. I hope you enjoyed your flight. Matt zoomed out of the airport and boarded the next bus he saw. He got out thirty minutes later and hurried through the Topkapi palace courtyards. He took no notice of the police cars parked on the palace lawns. He navigated through the display rooms and finally ended up in the dagger room. A heavy blockade of police officers surrounded the case that displayed the dagger. Matt instantly knew that something was wrong. He immediately assumed the worse; the dagger of Topkapi had been stolen. He pushed through the police talking amongst themselves and found himself in the center of the room. Broken glass covered the floor. As he had suspected, the dagger was gone, but there was also something he hadn’t suspected. On the floor lay the body of Yavuz. Matt hurried to his side where some policemen were emptying his pockets of his possessions. Matt showed them his personal investigator badge and began sifting through the things.

“Boy, he carries a lot at once,” thought Matt as he picked up a nail trimming kit, wallet, paddle board, pepper spray, dog treats, Charlie Brown keychain, and notebook. “Ooh, notebook,” thought Matt, flipping through its pages. Nothing caught his eye. All it contained was a lot of appointments and grocery lists. He was almost about to put it down. Then, he flipped to the last entry. It looked to be a normal list of sorts until he saw the title: Places to Take Matt When He Is Here. The list was of random places, many of them in different countries, such as Quebec, Mount Everest, and underwater. What was peculiar about the list was that all of the capital letters in the list were underlined, like Yavuz wanted to put an extra emphasis on those particular letters. Matt pulled out his cell phone and took a picture of the small page. Then he set it down and kept looking around the room. Aside from the body and the glass, Matt noticed a large, smooth stone. “Obviously this was used to break the glass,” Matt thought. “It could also be the murder weapon. But no one will know until they do an autopsy.” He went up to one of the police and asked him in fluent Turkish if there were any suspects yet. The cop answered him, also in Turkish, “Yes, a woman who visited the Palace every day. She especially seemed interested in the dagger room and spent most of her time here. The other suspect is a man. He was a security guard here, but he quit two months ago.” “Anyone else?” asked Matt. The police shook his head. “Interesting,” Matt said under his breath. “Thank you. Do you also happen to know where I can find them?” “The lady is visiting from France; we have just been notified. She is staying at Kucuk Ayasofya Caddesi 25 on Istanbul Provence in suite 415. The man has a house on Oyuncu Sk and his number is 1820.” “Thank you so much sir. Goodbye.” Matt scooted through the wall of police officers and strode quickly onto the grounds. He waited down by the road and boarded a bus which took him to the Topkapi Sarayi Muzesi Hotel where he checked in. He hurried up the stairs and entered his room. It was a comfortable room with a window on the far corner and a full bed with a red and yellow patterned quilt. A fancy mirror faced the bed and underneath it was a small chest with a few drawers. The bathroom was fairly large, and it had a stone sink. Matt flopped onto the bed. He pulled out his cell phone and reread the list he had taken a picture of. The places were obviously not for Yavuz to show Matt. Matt had a feeling that Yavuz knew that he was going to die. He probably knew that Matt would find it so he would make it easy enough to figure out, yet hard enough so that the murderer wouldn’t think that it was strange when they searched their victim’s pockets. From his phone call, it seemed like he just wanted to get Matt over there as soon as possible to find the murderer. It had been a long day. Matt changed into his pajamas and climbed in bed. He went to sleep almost immediately. He slept soundly until the next

35 morning. At 7:00 his phone started playing “Viva la Vida.” He rolled over to the bedside table and turned off the alarm, set to Istanbul time. After he had dressed for the day, he asked the clerk at the front desk where the police station was. Then, he walked three blocks down, turned right, and headed up the stairs of the Istanbul Police Station. He walked up to the desk and asked the police if anything else had been found about the dagger theft and the murder. “The fingerprints don’t exactly match up,” said the police. “One has been identified as Yavus and the other is unclear. It appears to be smudged.” “That would make sense if the murderer is the least bit intelligent,” thought Matt.”They would wipe off their fingerprints. Have they done an autopsy on the body yet?” “Yes, the cause of death seems to be… a blow in the head,” said the police sifting through the papers on the desk. “It was apparently the stone that was used to break the glass which caused the blow.” Matt raced down the steps and got in a bus which took him to the Kucuk Ayasofya Caddesi 25 Hotel and raced up the stairs to suite 415. He knocked and the door opened partially to reveal the face of an attractive woman with black hair. She wore a blue dress. “Hello, my name is Mason Walker,” said Matt. “I’m a Private Investigator and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.” She stared at him for a few seconds then said, “Very well.” She opened the door to reveal an elegantly laid out room with a balcony on the far wall, a large kitchen area that was backed against the corner and a leather couch in the center of the room facing a stone fireplace. The woman sat on the couch and gestured for Matt to join her. “First of all,” said Matt,” what is your name?” “First of all, Mr. Walker, first I would like to ask you your reason for questioning me,” she said. “The Topkapi dagger has been stolen and you are one of the prime suspects. I understand that you visited the Palace on a regular basis, almost every day, and that is the police’s motive for suspecting you,” said Matt. Monique nodded her head, “And also, sir, you sound American. Did the police hire an American detective to solve a Turkish case?” “No, mademoiselle. I sort of hired myself. You see, besides the theft, a man was also killed at the palace. He was a good friend of mine.” “Oh,” the woman looked startled when Matt mentioned murder. “What is your name?” Matt asked again. “Monique André.” “Where have you lived over the course of your life?” Matt asked. “I was born in France but moved to America when I was seven. I lived in Helena, Montana until I graduated from high school. I went to college in Colorado. Then I moved back to France to find a job. I’m a journalist, you

36 see. I am trying to write a story about the Topkapi Dagger. Since it was stolen, I decided to go back to France. I have a plane back this evening.” Matt nodded then continued his interrogation. ”Do you mind if I look around a little?” “I would prefer you not look in my room, but you may inspect the rest of the apartment.” Matt got up and walked around the sunny room. He did not appear to actually hone in on a particular spot of the flat, but in his mind he was thinking, If I had stolen the dagger, where would I have hidden it? Obviously the bedroom came to his mind immediately, but he also thought of a cupboard or drawer where it could be hidden. After a few minutes he thanked the woman for her time and left the hotel. He walked across the street to a restaurant and ordered a lamb kebob and some baklava for desert. After lunch he drove down to Oyuncu Sk where the man in question lived. It looked like a rundown neighborhood and was extremely quiet in contrast to the usually bustling and noisy Istanbul. He walked up to number 1820 and knocked. He waited outside for a few minutes. He could hear bustling inside the house and a voice saying “Coming! Coming,” in Turkish. The door opened to reveal a dark skinned man with an unshaven chin open the door. He was wearing a pair of pajamas even though it was past one o’clock. From the look of his face he appeared to have just gotten up. He had a dazed look on his face which made him look as though he was drunk. A large belly protruded out of him like a fully inflated balloon. “What do ya want?” He spoke in a hoarse nasally voice. “I am a private investigator, and I would like to ask you a few questions. “It’s about that guy who got killed and the dagger stolen ain’t it?” “Yes,” Matt wondered how he knew about the crimes. “Well I just got to tell ya…I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. I quit for my own good. I quit because…” he looked up as if trying to remember something. “My wife and me were gonna move some place, but she left.” “I’m very sorry. Why did she leave? What was her name? And what is yours?” “I’m Fahim. My wife’s name was…” he looked up again. “Acalya. Her name was Acalya. I don’t know why she left, but she did and now I’m alone again.” “Thank you for your time, sir,” Matt walked away from the house and left Fahim standing in the doorway with a quizzical look on his face. Matt returned to his hotel with answers in his mind. He knew that Fahim was hiding something, though he wasn’t sure what. He didn’t exactly seem like the kind of person who would murder, but he did seem like he would do something for money. Even though Monique sounded very open, he felt that she was hiding something too. He lay on the bed and pulled out his cell phone. The underlined letters were Q, M, I, N, U, E, and O. The letters mixed around in Matt’s mind, combining them to form mismatched words:

Uminqeo, Inoqume, Oinequm, Moniqeu. It clicked. Monique. The word was Monique. It all made sense. There had been stories in the news lately about many famous artifacts which had been stolen by a gang of art dealers in France. France. When Monique moved back to France, she took a job with the heist. Then, she paid Fahim to quit and she was threatening Yavus to do the same. Eventually, she just decided to kill him and take the dagger. Matt had to stop her before she got on that plane. He raced downstairs and ran out into the street forcing a bus to stop for him. He got in and paid the driver 50 lira to get him to the airport immediately. He practically dove out of the bus and rushed through the security line with the guards racing after him. He raced through a terminal and saw Monique presenting her ticket to the attendant. “Stop!” he yelled, calling all eyes to the man dressed in his pajamas running through the terminal. Monique’s eyes widened as she realized what was happening. Matt was only twenty feet away from her, and she would look extremely suspicious if she ran to the plane, so she decided to play it cool. She thanked the attendant and started walking down the ramp to the open door of the plane. “Stop that woman!” screamed Matt. Immediately, security guards grabbed Monique. She broke free and pulled a gun out of her jacket. Her eyes were wild and her mouth was twisted into a sneer. “I am getting on that plane,” she yelled. “And he,” she said pointing to Matt, “is not going to stop me.” She cocked the pistol and fired. Matt, being only ten feet from her now, knew he was dead. His knees crumbled and he fell to the floor. A woman screamed. He opened his eyes and closed them again. Then he lay there motionless. Monique walked over to him. No one spoke. Then Monique said the words which would seal her destiny, “But, it was a misfire!” Matt lunged up from the floor to stand in front of Monique. “You should go into the acting business.” She laughed a horrible icy laugh. “But now I know that you’ll be dead,” she cocked the gun again. Matt had been standing motionless in front of her until that point. He reached out his hand with the speed of a bullet and took the gun from her grasp. She didn’t have time to react. “It’s over,” Matt said. “Go and get her luggage. You’ll find the dagger there.” “You are not correct, Monsieur,” said Monique. “I have shipped the dagger directly to the heist. “Why did you tell us that? Now we can track the package and arrest them too.” Matt said, a smile crossing his lips. “Wow, Monique, I thought you were a bit more intelligent.” “Once I get out of jail, I’ll track you down and kill you, Walker!”

“Sorry, you already killed someone remember. You won’t be leaving jail any time soon. And if you were, I would know it. You really didn’t plan this one out.” The police escorted her away. As Matt was leaving the airport, another policeman came up to him. “How did you do it sir? How did you know it was her?” he asked. “It was just a matter of luck; I think somehow it just clicked. Luckily it did or that would have been the last we’ve seen of the Topkapi dagger.” Just then another police came running up to the two of them. “I have just telephoned the shipping company,” he said, “Monique did not make any shipment of the kind she claimed.” “She didn’t ship it?” said Matt and the police nodded. “Oh boy, that’s excellent,” Matt said sarcastically. “How nice of her.” Then something clicked again. “I know exactly where it is. We’ve got to get to the Kuyuk Ayasofya Caddesi Hotel immediately. Those French thugs might already be there.” Matt and the two policemen got into a police car and sped down the road. Sure enough, just as they were pulling up to the building they saw two suspicious looking men, one tall and fat the other one short and… fat as well. “Let’s stay in low profile and follow them. We won’t find the dagger if they don’t show us where it is.” The three of them scooted into the hotel after the men and followed them op the stairs. The men were talking among themselves and did not seem to notice the police and the man still dressed in his pajamas following them. The men, sure enough, entered Monique’s room. The trio followed them into the room. As they entered they saw the men crouching by a plant. They seemed to be fiddling with the leaves, which appeared to be stiff. They jerked them this way and that and finally, something happened. At first, there was a low buzzing sound, as if a contraption was being turned on. The police/pajama man trio crouched behind the kitchen counter, watching. The wall folded in on itself and through the gap (which was getting larger by the second now) a huge room could be seen. The police officers knew that this was their time to act. They sprung up from behind the counter and held out their guns. “You’re under arrest,” said one of them. The men wheeled around and yelled in French. Matt stood up and said, “Why don’t we all come downstairs.” The men went. Once they had disarmed them and drove them away in the police car, Matt headed back to the hotel he was staying at. He slipped into bed and smiled. “The case is finished,” he thought, and he rolled over. He was just nodding off to sleep when his cell phone rang. He picked it up. “Matt Walker.” “Hello Mr. Walker,” said a woman’s voice. “I need your help. I need you to find out who killed my father.”

Rain Jenna Chen, Grade 7

Rain is little parts of the ocean, the lakes. Clouds are fog and mist united in the sky. When clouds cannot hold any more, They squeeze themselves like sponges, „Til all the water is gone from them. The water separates into little droplets called rain, Falling from the sky „til they hit the crust of the Earth. The Earth soaks up the rain as bread soaks up water, When they hit the ground, they cry out, for the impact hurts, But the people just hear the splipity-splat, the pickity-pat ‟Til the rain is gone.

Mandy Feenstra, Grade 6 “Blue Fish”---Gyutaku print

Moments from Memory Ishan Perera, Grade 6

I am from the tennis racket, From Nike and Babolat shoes. I am from the swimming pool. (Glimmering, tastes like chlorine, fresh air, and liquidy.) I am from the evergreen plants and the swaying trees, Colorful flowers, Rusty Iron, and red bricks.

I am from the West Palm Beach celebrations, From Kyle and Shehani. I am from chocolate lovers and sweet Tooths, From trying hard and be your Best! I‟m from the beliefs of God, kindness, and being your nicest.

I am From Waukesha, Wisconsin, The yummy Angel cake and Pudding. From Daddy and his chess stories, Mom and Dad‟s duck tales, and their good old days. The sunshine photos of Yellowstone in the Hallway, and the Rocky Grand Canyon‟s on the Table. My family means a lot to me and I love them all. I am from those moments- when I am alone with them and will be forever more!

It’s the Cat’s Meow Suzannah Evans, Grade 6

A comforting and familiar hand strokes my head, and I let out a tremendous yawn, mostly to show off to my human how large and sharp my teeth are. My human coos to me, exclaiming how cute I am, as if I didn‟t know. I slowly peek open my eyes and watch as my human rushes about the room, cleaning and getting ready for her day. I decide to get ready as well and give myself a nice long grooming until I am satisfied with myself. Then I slowly move toward my food dish eyeing my human, signaling to her that I want food…now. At first she does not notice, so I let out a long and loud meow, something my Big Cat ancestors would be proud of. My human notices immediately and apologizes again and again and even sneaks in a couple treats. I praise her with some purring. After finishing my meal I stroll through the house making sure my territory is safe and secure. Unfortunately I just so happen to run into him. He is my human‟s offspring, and he is my nightmare. I quickly hightail it out of there, but he follows me. He chases me for a while until he finally runs out of breath…and good thing too, because I was also starting to get tired. Just in case he tries to come after me again, I trot to the door and spring outside through the cat door. For a while I just lounge outside and watch the day change, until something catches my eye in the garden. I stare intently from my spot on the porch. As I target the movement I can see it‟s a nice big lizard. I crouch down slowly moving toward my prey until I‟m close enough to see its chest move in and out from its quick breaths. I stalk it for a while, hiding behind some of my human‟s favorite flowers until I am ready to make my move. I paw the ground for a moment and take off. The chase is

42 glorious! My legs speed off faster than a Cheetah‟s, and my sharp claws instinctively grab my prey with ease, and in the blink of an eye the lizard is in my jaws. I shake it a couple times just to make sure the job is done. I set it down in front of me, extremely proud of my kill. Why I bet my ancestors couldn‟t even catch a creature like the one I have just caught. As I stare at my prey in awe, an idea hits me. I should give my kill to my human, just as she gave me those treats. I pick up the tasty lizard and half sprint to my bedroom where my human also sleeps. I carefully place my fine catch on her pillow. Feeling proud of myself for being generous enough to give my human my extraordinary catch, I jump down from her bed and curl up on my own bed and fall into a deep catnap.

Kenny Spence, Grade 8 “Monarch”---photograph

Charlie Tang, Grade 7 “Skull” ---pencil drawing

The Age of Man Ayla Maugans, Grade 7

Adam tastes the apple And the age of man dawns, And the river flows on, And the river flows on.

Kings rule their people With their brutes and their brawn, And the sky stretches on, And the sky stretches on.

The people make war And rebellion spawns, And the sea rages on, And the sea rages on.

The battles continues, Spears are raised and swords drawn, And the mountains rise on, And the mountains rise on.

While men walk the earth, True peace is gone, But time carries on, But time carries on.

For we are human, we fight, As before us the centuries yawn, And the river flows on, And the river flows on.

Vera’s Victim Rachel Sharp, Grade 8

She looks into the shattered mirror pieces that lay on the floor, tears of blood from her hands spilling onto the fine shards. The stench of her late husband‟s corpse fills the room like a repulsive yet sweet perfume. A small smile spreads across her rouge lips and from them slipped, “Til‟ death do us part.” A small chuckle soon came after. She stepped over the body, took her diary that the corpse held, and tucked the slender silver knife into its sheath. She took the silk robe from the boudoir‟s small chair and slipped her slender arms through the sleeves. She cleared her throat and let out an ear splitting shriek and watery tears escaped her eyes. Soon after, the doors were opened by several butlers with shotguns. Two ran towards their master and one of them held her, hiding her coal eyes from the corpse.

“Shhh, everything will be fine missus. Everythin‟ will be fine. We‟ll get the coppers o‟er here and they can look o‟er it,” said the young butler. The woman wept into his shoulder, and yet a smile played over her lips. Perfect, she thought.

She held the handkerchief to her chest; her slightly curled gold hair spread across her shoulders. “Now Vera, that is your name, yes?” the young, naïve detective asked. She made a small nod. “What happened tonight? Could you tell us what the murderer looked like? Did you see the murderer?” She looked blankly across the parlor room. Midnight blue and gold striped walls, a beautiful, yet somewhat morbid broken and dusty and chipped black piano, a small black chandelier that illuminated

the walls and made the stripes look like waves of the sea, crashing against the long golden isles. She brushed her elegant fingers across the velvet couch and took a shaky, deep breath, “I didn‟t see the murderer, I was in the bathroom getting ready for our first night as husband and wife, I heard something fall to the floor, and…and…” She didn‟t finish her sentence and burst into newfound tears. The detective stood up and nodded, patted her shoulder and walked out of the parlor. She continued to weep until she heard the black heavy door shut. She turned around, and he was gone. A smile played onto her lips. “Fools,” she said with pride. She stood up and placed her fine hands on her small, corseted waist, her robe gliding across the musty carpet. She looked into the glowing obsidian fireplace. She grabbed the poker from the side and looked at it with pleasure, “So easy, and yet so enjoyable.” Her smile grew wider until it looked painful, as if blood may run from the edges for being stretched so far. “Who knew that marriage could be so…profitable.” With that she stabbed the wood with the poker, making the flames grow larger, consuming the wood. There were thirteen pieces of wood, now thirteen husbands gone; one flame, and one woman.

Life is full of coincidences, or at least that‟s what they‟re always telling us, our elders. The slender silver knife glinted against the fires light, making it smile in the dark room, ready to claim another victim. If you happen to cross her path, and get in the way of her „business‟ too, it may next, be you.

Do You Get the Point? Matthew Johnson, Grade 6

“Ugh,” another day of being the classroom pencil sharpener. I‟m one of the sharpeners that people have to turn my arm around in circles to sharpen all of their pencils. Today was no ordinary day. The teacher made her class write a fifteen page essay about how to behave during class. So, you‟re probably thinking that that‟s only hard on the kids. Well it‟s not. Can you imagine how many pencils will need to be sharpened during a fifteen page essay? Before the kids started they had to sharpen their lousy pencils. One kid was having a really hard time sharpening, so he cranked my arm really hard. My arm fell off and landed right on the ground. The teacher had to call in the maintenance man (the doctor) to come and fix my arm. He came in and screwed my arm back into place like it was a delicate surgery. My arm was healed and the kids went back to sharpening. After they finished their essays, my arm was very sore, and I was so full that I felt like I was going to explode! Then, I realized it was time for the next six classes.

The Last Song of a Mockingbird Hayley Nash, Grade 8

The last song of a mockingbird For a long time will be heard By the chipmunks and deer And the long, furry rabbits‟ ears By the mice and by the men Working in the fields once again By the children playing with glee And the sparrows up high in the trees By snakes sliding on the ground Who travel fast without a sound By the wolves howling at the sky And by the baby bats learning how to fly By our planet earth, the sun, and the moon Who know that another mockingbird will sing again soon.