Young Southern Student Writers, Winners 2015-16 by Joe Wilferth

Young Southern Student Writers Middle and High School Winners, 2016 Sponsored by

[ A Quick Word ] First, what a joy it's been to chair this year's YSSW contestâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;from interacting with our region's outstanding teachers and facilitating judging at UTC to assembling this collection of our winning submissions. All is done with an eye toward promoting the literary arts and the creative energy of young authors. Reading the submissions this year, in my experience as a judge and in reports from other readers/judges, has been an exercise in both humility and hilarity. The submissions, especially the winning submissions that follow, demonstrate good writing and provide a glimpse into the wild imagination of young minds. So, I thank this year's young writers and their teachers! You've given me much to laugh about, much to enjoy, and much to appreciate. Many thanks, too, to the Board of Directors and staff of the Southern Lit Alliance, particularly Darcy Welch (Executive Director), Rhett Reeves (Director of Programs), and Ann Johnson (Director of Operations). This group and these individuals deserve our thanks for their generosity and for their support of this area's outstanding young writers. Their leadership at the Southern Lit Alliance and the partnership with UTC's Department of English combine to lift up and celebrate the literary arts in our region. I am grateful for the Southern Lit Alliance as a partner in this contest. I also thank this region's dedicated teachers, K-12, who work tirelessly to instill in young minds and hearts the value of literature and creative writing. I am grateful for their efforts as they teach young authors to enjoy the craft of writing. Without our elementary, middle grades, and high school English/Language Arts teachers, along with parents and guardians, we would not have such fine work from these young people. I am also grateful to this year's readers and contest judges. It is true that every submission is read by a faculty member of UTC's Department of English. Our faculty serve in this capacity with pleasure. In fact, it's not uncommon to hear our teachers sharing with one another submissions that are especially funny, creative, or inspiring. It's another way in which we contribute to this wonderful city and this region. I appreciate the time and care with which my colleagues read every submission. It is worth noting that more than 4,000 students from schools in the Chattanooga area submitted entries this year, so it's no easy task to manage, but our judges did so this year once again with grace and enthusiasm. Likewise, I thank Emily Selleck, who provides administrative support for UTC's College of Arts and Sciences. Emily spent countless hours managing the contest and collecting the winning entries for this publication. She was dedicated and tireless in her efforts. Now, read and enjoy! Joe Wilferth, UTC English Professor and YSSW Contest Chair

[ Table of Contents ] Grade 6 Poetry

………………………………………………………………….. 4

Grade 6 Prose

………………………………………………………………….. 15

Grade 7 Poetry

………………………………………………………………….. 31

Grade 7 Prose

………………………………………………………………….. 39

Grade 8 Poetry

…………………………………………………………………… 60

Grade 8 Prose

………………………………………………………………….. 78

Grade 9 Poetry

………………………………………………………………….. 107

Grade 9 Prose

………………………………………………………………….. 113

Grade 10 Poetry ………………………………………………………………….. 125 Grade 10 Prose

………………………………………………………………….. 133

Grade 11 Poetry ………………………………………………………………….. 138 Grade 11 Prose

………………………………………………………………….. 140

Grade 12 Poetry ………………………………………………………………….. 148 Grade 12 Prose

………………………………………………………………….. 153

Verbie & Hugh Prevost Award for Outstanding Poetry …………… 150 Verbie & Hugh Prevost Award for Outstanding Prose …………….. 157

Winning submissions are arranged in what follows by grade, category, and alphabetically according to the authors' last names. Use the search feature at the bottom of this website to find individual authors.

[ Grade 6 Poetry ]

Beach Sand in my toes. Salt in my hair. Sun in my eyes. Waves I hear in the distance. Seashells I feel in the sand. Palm trees I see. Sitting with my family. Life is good. Callie Anderson, Grade 6 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Dina Couch

Art Is My Sport You may think it is easy, guess again I’m not talking about art class where you do collages and projects that are made for everyone I’m talking about real art You have teammates that tell you that you did a good job We have ourselves to tell ourselves it could be better You have coaches that tell you what to do and how you do it We have to rely on ourselves because art is your own perspective, not the teacher’s perspective You have fields, jerseys, and equipment We have pencils, paper, and our own imagination You complain about your practice schedule We complain about how many weeks of practice it took You grumble about your arms, legs, and knees hurting We grumble about calluses, blisters, paper cuts, our eyes hurting, graphite marks on our hands, and whether or not the paint will come out of our clothes You say you’re tired after a game, meet, or tournament We say we are tired after making sure that every last detail of our art is pure perfection, because to us, it has to be You say art is not a sport Try it, I dare you Maggie Blevins, Grade 6 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Dina Couch

Trees Two of the greenest green trees I ever saw, Ought to fight the wind but lost and decided to fall. Its green beautiful leaves tread away in the rushing winds. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s really a shame that I will not see those beautiful trees again. But luckily in the later future the most beautiful sights to see. Are two of the most beautiful trees Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve ever seen. Bradon Bolen, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Leighton

Snow Snow as white as angel wings. As cold as ice. Softer than a pillow And as small as rice. Snow the thing that calls winter to all. Aiden Buchannon, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Leighton

Anxiety

Like a swerving car, I twist and turn at comments. Firing away at me with their provoking opinions. A goody or a rebel, maybe in between. My heart may be telling me something, that it's not what it seems. Glancing eyes in my direction. Signs of mistake, or inspiration. I was good at reading faces in the past, but now they are a blank slate. Maybe it's my job to draw on their thoughts. No. Never mind. I messed up. Ponder, pondering, pondered. Some days I feel like a ballerina, full of courage (although I'm pretty sure I look like a crippled giraffe), and some days a piece of paper. Wadded up and burned. Never given a second thought. People tell me I'm beautiful, awesome, loyal. But most of the time, I'm not so sure. Sometimes I need a magic mirror to show me right from wrong; Although the Lord is always with me. And then that buzzing wave of guilt, excitement, and fear washes over me. Soaking my clothes and hair, not thinking. Then it's back to square one. As if it's a personality test, with the question: Which word would you choose to describe yourself? My answer: _______ Next, Everything. It's a cycle I suppose. Sarah Cate, 6th Grade CSLA, Melissa Striker

Little Girl in the Rain Little girl in the rain, I am envious of her, because she doesn't have a care in the world. She dances quietly through the streets, like a ghost. She watches the imperfect raindrops fall, wondering, just wondering. She splashes through the small mud puddles that formed overnight, wondering, just wondering, without a care in the world. Frances Crowe, Grade 6 Normal Park Museum Magnet, Grant Knowles little sisters they fight, they scream, they pull your hair, they have that evil glare when they stare, they tell, they yell, they even smell. Sofie Flynn, Grade 6 Normal Park Museum Magnet, Grant Knowles

The Creature The stars in the sky are bright like its eyes. The sky looks like its fur for it was once colorful. The moon is also like its eyes for they are wide. The creature we wish with were we wanted to stay is no longer a stray for we are friends from the dead who people dread for we are dead. Now we run for we were done and no one wants to see the dead for we are dreaded. The creature is now a reaper for he has left the rest to us. Eduardo Garcia-Alvarez, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School, Mr. DeVore The Pond A man was lying in the pond Surrounded by creatures of the pond The creatures were testing if he was a rare creature The man woke up where he was He realized he was surrounded by the creatures Then he gave them all a hug for saving him Crescens Homes, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Leighton The Dark Enhancement Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s me under the tree Sitting in darkness While you see I burrow in fear With many tears Wondering how to keep going Without falling to deep Into the abyss I caused Dante Keoke, Grade 6 Hixon Middle School, Mrs. Leighton

The Sparrows Down by the old creek Behind my Grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s house A spot where me and my brothers Would play but my favorite part Is when the nest of sparrows would Visit us each spring and summer I hope I get to see them next year And many years to come but If not it would be quite a bummer. Elizabeth Kokinda, Grade 6 Hixon Middle School, Mrs. Leighton

The Truth I was empty; I was soulless; Why was I here? No one quite knew; What was I? I couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t tell the truth; No one believed me; No one could know, that in truth, I was a monster under the hood of innocence. Lillian Mayfield, 6th Grade Hixson Middle School, Mr. DeVore

Chicken T’was the day. The day of the great feast. The day that all of my kind dread. I think it is called “Panksbibing”. The day that our cousins, the chickens, Would be fine with. That is when I saw the farmer. Immediately, my gobbler, once full of courage, Dropped down He had what I think is called a “bashet”. He grabbed me by the neck. You didn’t need to tell me where I was going, Because I already knew. Cody McCoy, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School, Mr. DeVore

Bama Girls Sassy, classy, and full of style Hounds tooth wearing, Clean mouth swearing We love our team, The winning team We scream “ROLL TIDE“ whenever they come by We are the girls, The mighty Bama Girls so Grab your pom pons, Grab your spirit Today is game day, time to cheer it Grab your drinks, Grab your nuts It’s game day don’t want to miss a play It’s game day let’s watch our favorite team play and they say We beat them tigers We beat them bulldogs So bring it on Spartans we’ll beat you too Then we’ll go to the nationals, And win the nationals Cause we are the Tide, the fighting crimson Tide Now here comes the quarter back He makes passes, He makes throws He’s the quarterback of the year We all know him, We all love him He is Derick Henery the pro Gabby Miller, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School, Mr. DeVore

Fall crisp, cold air blue skies leaves like flames in the trees red, orange, yellow, and green making leaf piles jumping in sipping apple cider in front of the fire Naomi Oster, Grade 6 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

Hope for Tomorrow Today I feel like sleeping I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to hear my alarm beeping I start reaching for my slippers I push myself to zip up my hoodie zipper I try to keep walking but my body keeps sloping I walk and walk until I see the salt I grab the bread sulking in dread Slowly and slowly I start to drift away Hoping tomorrow will be a better day Grayson Simmons, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School, Mr. DeVore

Image What has image become? It has become a place where you please others instead of yourself. A place where it matters what size of clothes you wear. Instead of how you feel. Or how much makeup you put on until you don't recognize yourself . Instead of how you look on the inside. Or how much money you spend on your clothes. Instead of asking yourself do I like myself ? You will never succeed a perfect image. Unless you aim for your kind of perfect image. Drew Tawzer, Grade 6 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Dina Couch

[ Grade 6 Prose ]

Fireheart

Frost came, spreading like delicate lace across the brittle, black feathers. The milky white eyes, dull and empty, stared bleakly into oblivion. It lay there, untouched by predators, for days. Its blood twisting through the creamy white snow like fire. Crows. They spiraled through the air, lazily flapping their wings. A haunting beauty hung about them as they rather gracefully floated about the snow covered graveyard. Their stark blackness and wildness seemed out of place among the cold lifeless marble tombstones. It was almost comforting to see them among the ethereal Angels, who seemed to be crying tears of frost, hands covering their closed eyes. Extending far past the disheveled gate, the snow swirled in complex patterns to coat the surrounding town. Crows flew there too. Though less obvious, and a great deal less welcome when they were seen. The crows of the graveyard halted their elegant dance, instead perching in and among the ghostly tombs. Bright eyes turned, staring unfazed at the mortal trespasser. A deep cloak hid the strangers form, no silent sobs of grief racked it's body, no tear stained face, no face at all was revealed when a gust of frozen wind threatened to tear the coarse hood from its place. A lifted hand, acknowledgement of shadows, a greeting of the tired souled, and one by one, the eyes looked away, none looked back. Even as the figure disappeared into the endless white, it's footprints leaving sizzling pools of snowy water, the dance of the graveyard crows began anew. Cold, how inadequate the word felt now, how empty and worthless. This was not cold, this could not be cold, she had felt cold, felt it bite at her like a stray dog, felt it leech away her warmth, felt the numbness creeping up her fingers, but never this. Never felt it clamp its jaws around her neck, never felt it pierce her like a sharpened knife, never feared it might be the force to end her. Never. Never until today. She curled into herself, the thin, soft nightgown that was doing nothing to dull the trusting stabs of cold that slid wickedly across her. She closed her eyes, so vividly seeing the arching walls ruby, sapphire, emerald, and gold. How the colors seemed to twist and burn, crawling skywards like flame. How the light had set them aglow with ancient and benevolent power. How she had never been in the dark. Home. Now she had none. Those glittering halls lay in ruins. Shards of her kingdom's soul, of hers, slowly forgotten. Left to rot or shatter. Now she was alone, unwanted. Her gift. Her sacred gift, it was gone to. The fire that had caressed her, enveloped her, had burned cool as water, was gone. And so she who had run the fields of her people shining brighter than the sun in her fuelless fire, would die of cold, cold and darkness, unable to drive it away. And so, because she hated that death, hated that weakness, she reached into her soul. Reached for that blessed warmth. But it was not there. May Bankston, Grade 6 Normal Park Museum Magnet, Grant Knowles

The Experiment It was a very shady night in the city of Athens, Georgia. Not a single sound was heard in the science lab in the forest. Barbed wires surrounded the small lab, and Keep Out signs were posted all over. The tankards were whistling as a flash of light went off in the dark lab. The dogs barked and only strange sounds were heard coming from the lab. The doctors and scientists walked in the room as quickly as they could to tell the 12 parents the results of the test. Avoiding the parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; gazes, the scientists motioned to each other in an attempt to not keep their gaze on the parents. Finally, one of the scientists replied, "We don't exactly know where they are." All 12 of the parents said they would sue if they didn't find their children soon. With their heads down, they promised that they would find the children. All the scientists with good intentions agreed that the children should be found, except for Rob Gilman. I'm Zander, and I, for one thing, never knew who my parents were. I was found with two other kids when we were just born in a small dark alley. We were set up for adoption, and I was taken by a new guardian. My guardian and I lived in a small apartment together in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. I lived next to the two kids I was found with. I'd had a pretty normal life, having my neighbors as friends: Pete and Annie, and me, Zander. We'd all grown up together like siblings. Pete, Annie, and I had always known there was something different about us, but we were never able to figure out what. It was finally high school, and one thing we realized was that Annie was unbelievably smart and had a plan for literally every situation. As we got older, I realized Annie was less of a sister and more like someone that I started to fall for. Our 16th birthday was nearing, and the only thing on my mind was Annie. Little did I know that Pete felt the same. We were three days away from our birthday, and every year, each one of us would go out on a day and get our presents. Annie and I were walking behind our school, and I had to finally tell her how I felt. I told her, "I love you," and we kissed. We were kissing for so long that we didn't notice Pete standing there watching us. He dropped his bags in front of us, and in his intense rage, shot a torrent of water out his hands, directly at me. The force was so intense that I was sent flying, smashing my body against the school wall. I was so baffled at how Pete had done that, but I managed to get up. In my own tantrum, I thrust my hands at him and sparks went flying everywhere, sending Pete to the ground writhing in agony. Annie had finally stopped our quarrel. Our sixteenth birthday had arrived, and like we planned, we went to our favorite restaurant, Timmy's Pizza. Not a single one of us spoke a word, as we gave our gifts and ate in silence. Our quarrel with our powers had given the mad scientist, Rob Gilman, Chairman of Electro Corp, our exact location to come and find us. It had been a quiet, boring, and depressing birthday. We paid our bill and as we started to head out, we saw some cream-suited men approaching us from each side. "Stop!" one of them said. "Don't move another step if you value your life!" From what I knew, disobeying this man would land us in serious trouble, so we stood still with our hands in the air. The man in the center, supposedly the leader, twisted his lips in an evil smile and slowly went in his pocket, lengthily pulling out a bunch of collars. I wasn't intimidated until he threw one at Annie, and flying like a frisbee in the air it attached around

Annie's neck. She was coming down hard, writhing in pain, until she passed out flat on the concrete ground. In sheer rage, I gathered up all my strength and let loose a shockwave so intense that it broke all the windows on the cars. None of the men seemed to be affected as all three of them laughed. "I truly am getting tired of this game, let us get it over with," said Rob Gilman. I was thinking, "This man is insane!" All he did was laugh to himself, until Pete finally got in the action and charged with water floating at the tips of his fingers. He threw a punch with his water fists but the only effect was nothing! Instead, I saw a collar around his neck, and he went screaming in pain to the ground. Rob laughed and said, "Your friend will be a nice asset to this conquest. I can tell he'll take very little torture until he turns himself to my side." "You're insane, what are you talking about?" "Only conquest over this world, and his powers are all I need to perfect IT," said Rob. "Once I take you, I'll be able to duplicate children like you, and make an ARMY of godly children." I had never heard anything more insane than that, so I knew I had to get away. Before I knew it, there was a collar soaring towards me, but I managed to catch it in time and burn it in my hands. I knew I had to get away, and in my rage, adrenaline, and strength, I cast a whole wall of electricity surrounding Pete and the other men. I yanked the collar off Annie, helped her up, and we ran. I knew Rob would find us, and I knew we didn't have much time, for we had to run away. Shayan Bajestani, Grade 6 Baylor School, Mr. Ward Fleissner

In a Blur The rough texture of the board irritates my knees and elbows. I feel the soft wind in my face and the feel of the cold water on a hot day. The blazing sun shines on the pearly, shimmery sand. The taste of the briny water makes me gag. Florid towels lay across the stunning beach. Yellow and open, it sits right where people can look over and see the water. It's shaped like a U and it's very big. I am sitting on the steps of the villa, waiting for the white bus to get here. I am impatiently yelling at everyone to hurry up so we can all be ready to go when the bus gets here, and I want to get away from the gross fish of smell. We are all cramped on this hot bus. The cushions are very uncomfortable and rough. Four families barely cramped in one, tiny, bus. I look around trying to occupy myself with something to do. We left the side of Costa Rica that has a beach view and villas and now we are in the side that has cows and horses. In the country side, the houses are worn down and there isn't good scenery to look at. The grass is bare and nude. "How much longer?" I ask. "An hour," my dad answers. A loud wave of groans mumble through the bus. We arrive to the beach just in time for our lesson! We are all excited! The beach is a lot nicer than the one that is five minutes away from the villa. This one has clean white sand and no rocks. The other one has hot black sand, and rocks in the water. I look out at the gorgeous beach. The seagulls are flying through the air and the sky and water are clear and blue. We get out some blue, rough, boards and start practicing balancing and how to stand on the board on the sand. I don't really pay attention because I'm too excited to go out on the water. We are now in groups of 5 in the water. I'm ecstatic! The water feels temperate, not too warm, not too cold. The sand against my feet feel like a massage. Our group coach holds the back of our board while we are on it and he finds a perfect wave, then lets us go. Finally it was my turn. I am laying on the board thinking how the board is really rough. I'm nervous but the feel of the water and the smell of the beach calms me down. I find my balance and bend my legs. I'm up! The cool breeze on my face makes me feel like I'm dancing in a dream. I see everything around me, the people in the water and in the sand, the umbrellas and towels, but it all seems to be in a blur. All I do is close my eyes and clear my mind. SPLASHHHHHH! Water squirts up my nose, in my mouth, and in my eyes. That process happens about five more times until I can actually stand up on the board for at least 5 seconds. I can do this, I think, my time has come. I'm up! I feel the wind in my face, the water splashing everywhere, the blur of colors, the feel of accomplishment. We are all back at the surfing hut tired, beat up from the board, with a bad taste in all of the groups' mouths but still everyone is happy on the inside. I'm going to miss this beach. I'm going to miss the clear white sand and no rocks that can cut us. We say thank you to our instructors and we start rinsing off in the shower on the side of the surfing hut. The water is cold, but a different cold. It doesn't feel the same as the ocean water. It's cleaner, but I like the ocean water better. The ocean water stings my skin, but it doesn't hurt. It's refreshing. "Move over!" "How much longer?" Another hour sitting on the cramped white bus. The bus smells like rubber and is very humid. I try to take a nap but on a bus with four other families, it's very hard to do that. We are back in the country side of Costa Rica again. The environment is much different than the beach. The sky around here seems darker than the beach. Everyone starts to quiet down and I sleep the rest of the way back to the villa.

I really hope I get to surf again. It was so lively and rather easy for me once I got the hang of how to balance on the board. The way the water and wind effects my mood really makes me happy. I would do it anywhere. I just want to surf again. I'd rather not use the boards that we did because they hurt my knees and elbows, but overall, I give surfing a 100 out of 10. Loren Floyd, Grade 6 Baylor School, Amy Cohen

[ title ]

I felt I was in a jungle of squawking parrots and lurking creatures. Vines dripped from the moist trees. Green kudzu feasted on all the rocks. I was going to pet a creature with a sting a thousand times worse than a bee. But I didn't know that I would actually have the chance to experience it. It was a warm spring Saturday afternoon in 2009. My grandparents took me on a trip that was supposed to be a fun time to hang out. I slowly walked on the rock path that seemed to grow up and make a dome over me. I saw a poster as I walked past a little glass tank that read: "Tennessee Aquarium, Sinaloan Milk Snake." I shuttered as I continued down the path, leaving some of my zeal behind. As I turned the corner, I stopped at another tank. A white face wiped itself along the side of the tank, smirking. Its beastly eyes met mine as it flipped over to show off its gray coat. It continued to lurk on the bottom. I looked back to make sure that my grandparents were close behind. A baby carried by her mother smiled beside me. I gained confidence on the outside, but on the inside, it wavered. I walked further into the enclosed lagoon that felt like an ocean surrounding me. I tried to keep my head held high. I leaned. Stretching my tan little arm as far as it could go, I felt that if I touched the slimy object, the world would be a better place. The trees' big leaves swayed around me as if trying to warn of what was about to happen. The wind was whispering in my ear, telling me to stop and back away. My small blue and white tennis shoes stepped onto the tan slippery rock that lined the body of water containing the vicious animals. My stomach touched the glass while I watched my two little fingers sticking out, seeking the sliminess. Suddenly, the glass seemed to disappear like a drawbridge about to let me fall into a dangerous moat. I heard the parrots' annoying squawks seeming to make fun of me as I clumsily slipped. I saw my reflection keenly as I fell forever and ever, waiting to slap the molecules holding the surface together. I heard a lady's voice talking about the stingrays' habitat. She ignored my enormous fall like I was an ant on a sidewalk about to get smashed by her shoe. My nose sniffed the fishy surface as I realized that these creatures were going to sting me to death in a split second. The tips of my hair became darker like the strands were drinking up the salty water. I glanced at a two foot guitarlike shape at the bottom of the tank. A guitar shark waited for me to drown to the tank floor so that he could slice and devour me. The water engulfed me. This was it. I was done with my life at only five years old. My body hit the pebbles with a rumble as my head bounced up and back and my legs slowly touched the bottom. I now saw the same sinister, white faces circling around me and a guitar-shaped figure, swimming away. I saw the blurry outline of my grandfather's head peering over the drawbridge that had let me go. His hands reached towards me as I my mind gradually slipped into darkness. The next thing I knew, I was sitting down, my back leaning against something hard. My clothes were stuck to me, dripping wet. I squinted my eyes as they adjusted to the light and I looked at my grandfather scrutinizing me as he mouthed a few words in front of me. I shook my head and realized that he was mouthing my name. "Hannah? Are you okay? Hannah?" I looked around and dizzily stood up to show that I was. I walked sheepishly through all the people as I made a path of drips and a large wet mark on a man that I squeezed past.

We ran to the gift store to buy a new large shirt, long enough to hang to my knees. I was all dry and feeling much better from the dizziness of my blackout. We walked outside and ate hotdogs. I bit into mine, thankful that I was eating lunch at the food truck rather than being lunch in the tank. I wish I had never stepped on that slippery rock. I should have listened to what the wind was telling me. But I still hope that next time, I will triumphantly touch the gray coat without losing my foothold and my pride. Hannah Lane Ford, Grade 6 Baylor School, Mrs. Foster

Grand Theft Auto 5 First, Grand Theft Auto 5 is a fun game to play. You can run around and have fun. You also can swim, race, ride four wheelers, watch TV, and listen to music too. Gta5 takes place in Los Santos. You can do a lot of things in Los Santos. Second, you can do jobs for money. You can blow up cars for money, and steal cars for money to. You can rob banks and steal money. You can blow up safes in banks. You can go mudding in a river. Finally, you can drive cars. You also can street race, land race, and race on water. You can ride dirt bikes and an ATV to do stunts at the beach, desert, and at the airport. You can go off roading with trucks too. You can climb hills, and mountains. Grand Theft Auto 5 is a fun game you should play it. You can go to the military base. You can steal planes. In the military base you can get tanks. You can steal jets, jeeps, and helicopter. Hunter Keltch, Grade 6 Rhea County Middle School, Mrs. Brittany Mathis

What If?

What if? What if everything you loved had disappeared? What if the sky turned black and you couldn't do much about it? In the 1930s, my life had gone from calm to uncontrollable. My clothes had blown away. My mom had died. My sisters were seriously injured, and I - I guess I can say I survived. It had been a usual morning, with the scent of eggs and bacon hanging in the air. I hurried to put on my clothes so my sisters, Mary and Helen, wouldn't eat all the bacon. Too late. At the table, my sisters were busily stuffing down the bacon and giggling. I glanced at the plate as I sat down. ''Two pieces?'' I thought. I glared at my fourteen- year old sister, Helen. She was pretending that she had no idea why I was glaring at her. I glanced at my seven- year old sister, Mary, and she shrugged. "Oh, you guys are sooo on my revenge list, '' I said as I finished my plate. I hugged my mom and left to go to my best friend, Anna's, house. My best friend greeted me with a smile and some apple juice. I thanked her and went to check my hair. It was very windy and my hair had frizzled up. We played some board games and made more charms for our charm bracelet. My dad had made these for us five years ago. He died a year later because of cancer. This charm bracelet was the only thing I had left of my father. The day dragged by and it turned to night. In the middle of the night, I woke up, alarmed, with my heart beating fast. I looked out my window and saw nothing but blackness. The blackness wasn't unusual because it was night, but this black had patches of brown in it as if it had been carried away by the wind. I shivered. This was the beginning of the Dust Bowl. I woke up the next day, sweating. I had a nightmare about my father. He was flying up in the sky in pieces. The wind carried him away; then dropped him into the ocean, and that was the end. As I went into the kitchen, I heard Mary crying. I noticed that my mom had bitten her lip. I gave a questioning look and my mother told me, "Oh, Margaret, sweetie, Ralph, he- he had escaped last night during the blizzard." I gasped. Ralph had been our dog for years. And to think that he had ran away. I hugged Mary very tightly, and, for that afternoon, we hugged each other and cried. The next day wasn't any better. The blizzard was worse and it was very dark. My mother turned on the radio and heard that the blizzard would bring drought and dust and that it was going to calm down before tomorrow. But it didn't. It only got worse. About two months after Ralph had ran away, the dust began breaking through the windows and the force was so strong that no one could go outside without wearing a thick scarf around their whole face. No one could go outside without blinding themselves with dirt and drought. No one could go outside without coughing up huge amounts of dust. And that was how my mom died. My mom had gone outside to milk and check on the cows and other animals. She walked about two yards then noticed glass being picked up by the wind. It was headed her way, so she tried to escape. She yelled. My sisters and I tried to help her up and run, but... it was far too late. "Mother?!" Helen screamed, "Mother, are you okay?!" There was no answer. "Mother!!!" She screamed. We all started crying, not caring about the dust around us. We cried until we could barely move, sitting there choking with the dirt and dust. We had lost our father

and now, this? I had lost any hope of surviving- I had lost hope in everything, but I knew they would want us to take care of the farm. So we gathered ourselves up and took care. After about a year, we were, surprisingly, doing really well. I had lost my father and my mom; there was no way I was going to lose my sisters. But the familiar feeling of loss renewed itself in me. I was now losing my best friend. "Anna, no!" I cried, coughing. She had gone to my house so she could report the news. "I know," she said, coughing up dirt, "But my parents are leaving because they think it's dangerous here, and I just have to go," We cried. We promised that we would visit each other when the storm calmed down. "If the storm ever calms down," I thought. So she left. Everything had been going well, but after Anna left, my life was completely upside down. Throughout this decade, I experienced tears and failure; I fought and lost. But I always had hope; and it was hope that had led me to today. I woke up to see clear sky with no dust floating in the air. It took me a second to realize what had happened, and when I did, my sisters and I ran out cheering along with the crowd. Helen had bruises over her face and a blind eye. Mary had a broken knee and a bleeding finger, but we looked at each other with the same steadfastness had had ten years ago, because- what can I say? I guess we survived the Dust Bowl. Erin Lin, Grade 6 Heritage Middle School, Kim Reeves

[ title ]

If you are not in middle school, please calmly put the book down. However, if you are in middle school, buckle up because this is going to be the craziest ride of your life. In this book, you will experience the life of middle school through the eyes of Hayphia. Whether it’s you buying a new shirt everyone likes, or the time you were walking down the hall when you realized there was a hole in the butt of your jeans, this book will guide you through it all. We all know you’ve had those awkward moments when you thought you’d have to transfer schools. We’ve had those too. The time you accidentally dyed your eyebrow purple… It was an ordinary day when you were in art class and you were dying cotton balls purple with permanent purple hair dye. Your so-called “partner”, turned around the same time as you and got hair dye all over your eye/eyebrow. (Yes this happened.) You tried everything you could to get any of it out. Nothing budged. When you got home your mom jokingly said “You might just have to shave it.” You took it a little too serious and went up to your room, and did. After that, you realized, you have ONE eyebrow. ONE! You’re officially freaking out! You now realize your mom is out of supplies to fill your eyebrow. You need to figure something out and fast! One solution: Sharpie Will you be my Valentine? It was Valentine's’ Day. You were psyched because your friend was having her birthday after school. As soon as the bell rang, you grabbed your bag and started walking down the hall with your friend. All of a sudden you heard your name being shouted from down the hall. You recognize the voice as the assistant teacher. Next thing you know, the hall is silent and you hear “I have your Valentine from Jake. He made it extra special!” For a split second you thought woah… I didn’t think he would ever notice me! Then you realize she was talking about the other Jake who sits in the back of class all day and eats boogers. One Solution: just keep walking like it never happened... When You Drop Your Lunch Tray One day you were casually walking by the ‘cool kid’ table when the janitor was trying to sweep a grape away from your foot. It was too late! You stepped smack on the grape and was trying to balance yourself for at least five seconds when… The cafeteria lady just had to drop a pan, which scared you, so then you fall flat on your butt. You had never been more embarrassed in your entire life...You slipped over a grape. One solution: don't eat grapes Sophia Martin and Hayden Meredith, Grade 6 Normal Park Museum Magnet, Grant Knowles

Stop It: Bullying

In 2011 60% of middle school students admitted to being bullied. If this many middle school students are getting bullied, there must be a larger number of high school students getting abused in this way. Across the United States innocent people are being picked on, normally for very shallow reasons which are normally out of their control. Schools should have anti-bullying organizations to stop bullying because there are more forms of bullying now, bullying can lead to suicide, and organizations do help stop the problem. There are three main types of bullying, physical, verbal, and cyber. Cyberbullying is one of the worst.It occurs when someone uses electronic communication to bully a person. “Cyberbullying” by Genet Berhane says, “It’s become an issue in the last few years, and many parents still aren’t aware it goes on.” If this issue continues and parents do not do something about it, their kid(s) can get can forget about a decent social life. For example, a poor, innocent teenage boy from Canada became a victim of this shallow form of abuse when his classmates got an embarrassing video of him and posted it online. The boy was so bothered by it that his parents filed a lawsuit, he moved learning locations, and he is now under the care of psychiatrists. Cyberbullying caused this because no one intervened. Too many kids have had thoughts of suicide because of bullying. It is true because of survey results from 2011. “Stand Up” by Bluekit, Rockton, IL says, “20% of high school students said they have had thoughts of committing suicide.” If this is just high school students, it would be petrifying to see the amount of middle school students, college kids, and adults that have had the same thoughts. Lastly, school organizations do help stop this ridiculous, unnecessary form of abuse. This is a pure fact because of statistics. “Stand Up” by Bluekit, Rockton, IL says, “Statistics show that over 50% of bullying decreased if the school had an anti-bullying program running.” This shows that bullying does decrease if the school had an anti-bullying program running.” This shows that bullying does decrease if a program is in effect. Programs will also let bullying be brought to the attention of teachers and/or administration. This must happen because only 25% of students say a teacher has intervened in a bullying situation, even though 71% of teachers say they have. The numbers do not match up. Clearly bullying is a huge problem in society. The only obvious answer would be to implement an anti-bullying program. Schools should do so, because now, in modern days, we have to worry about cyberbullying. Physical bullying, verbal bullying, and cyberbullying can lead to kids and adults taking their own lives. Now, putting an anti-bullying program in schools is the only way to stop this problem. Students, teachers, administration, adults, stop it! Stop being so oblivious. Bullying is a real problem that needs a real solution. Emma Parson, Grade 6 Hixson Middle School Mrs. Leighton

The Lego Story “Bye Dylan, the movie is a couple of hours and Erica came by to watch you,” my mom said as she walked out the door. “Bye,” I replied unenthusiastically. I ran back to my room excited about finishing, A New Hope. BOOM! I heard an explosion. “What was that?’ I wondered aloud. Erica burst into my room, “Are you alright?” “I’m fine, what happened?” “I don’t know,” Erica looked away and gasped, “Wait, what is that?” I followed her gaze to my table that my legos are kept on. It was smoking where my Bat boat was supposed to be but wasn’t. I continued watching to notice there were two armies fighting. “My legos are alive!” I shouted. “What happened? This is a disaster! We have to change them back!” Erica said, “But how?” I asked. The two armies had characters from Star Wars, Ninjago, Super Heroes, Pirate City, and Ninja Turtles. One army was the good guys and the other was the bad guys. It was chaotic. Every time a lego was shot, it disappeared. That must’ve been why I couldn’t find my Bat boat. “I don’t know, but we’ll think of something,” Erica replies. We continued watching the fight while we tried to come up with a plan. I’ve got it! We can turn into legos and stop them,” I shouted. “Are you serious?” “Well, do you have a better idea?’ “Fine.” We went over to the table, “How are we going to…” Erica started when out of nowhere a green light descended from above us. “The next thing I knew was that I was in the middle of the war. “Aaahhh”, I screamed as I ran to one side with Erica hot on my heels. Luckily, it was the good guy’s side. “Oh my, I can get so many signatures! Luke Skywalker come here,” I shouted. “We’re here to change them back to normal not for autographs,” Erica told me. “Ughh,” I replied. “Stay here,” Erica told me, then went up to Cole from Ninjago. “Hi, I’m Erica and I’m trying to stop this war by turning the legos back to normal. Can you help?” “I’m Cole and there is a clover charm that controls us. There is a way for it. Someone must have gotten a hold of it and brought us to life. I can show you where it is.” “Thanks. Let’s go.” Cole led Erica to my gungan submarine from Star Wars. She followed him inside to meet up with a robber from Lego City. “No one will get past me,” the robber snarled. Cole ninja kicked him across the room and Erica walked past the robber to grab a clover shaped charm. “Got it,” Erica exclaimed. “Thanks for that Vader, see you around. Joker, how are you? Can I have your autograph?” I asked. “Where are you Dylan?”

“I’m fine.” “Where’d you get that light saber?” Erica asked me. “Oh, it’s from Luke. It has his signature on it too.” I looked up to see a flash of green and we turned back into humans. The legos turned back into toys but I still have my new light saber signed by Luke Skywalker! “Dylan, we’re home!” I heard my mom yell. “Bye,” I replied. I looked at my autograph book with Vader’s, the Joker’s, and more of my legos autographs in it. I glanced over at my legos and Cole winked at me, I would have many more adventures with my legos I sensed. I smiled. Rylan Patterson, Grade 6 Ooltewah Adventist Kindergarten & School

The Wish That Will Change Your Life

What if you could have one wish? Imagine if a mysterious genie came into your room one night, and said you could have one wish. How would you respond? Late one night, Margaret was heading to bed, and as she tiredly reached over to turn her side lamp off, all of a sudden a genie popped out. He said, "I am here to grant you one wish, so what shall it be?" Margaret was stunned; she didn't know how to respond. She thought, "Wow, I can wish for anything I want, but only one thing." The genie said, "Do you have anything in mind?" "I wish that whatever I touched turned into gold," Margaret replied. The genie clapped his hands three times, and her wish was granted. Margaret quickly ran down the stairs to show her mom and dad her new ability, but she had totally forgotten it was 11:00 at night. She ran into her parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; room, and turned on the light, but all of a sudden the light switch turned to gold. She had forgotten about her wish, everything she touches turns into gold. She realized that she should have probably thought about her wish a little more. She thought, "How am I supposed to touch anything without turning it to gold!?" Margaret became scared, so she ran up to her room before her parents realized she was still up. Margaret started to cry heavily, weeping over her bed, trying to wipe the tears off her face. What if she couldn't ever hug her parents again, or turn on the light switch, and most of all, touch something ever again. Who was she to turn to? Her life was over, and it wasn't like there were people who had this ability, too. After she had thought about what she was going to do, she realized that she had to go to school. She got up, got dressed, brushed her teeth, and headed downstairs. Except that everything she just touched, turned into gold, so what is she going to tell her mom when she sees her new look? So she snuck outside and got in the car without her mom seeing her walk out the door. When she reached for the door handle it turned bright gold but she hoped her mom wouldn't see. After waiting for a while for her mom finally came out, but she didn't notice the door handle, just that her daughter was glowing. She sat there and stared, it was like she was in a trance. So her mom finally decided to snap back to reality and drive her to school. As Margaret rode to school, she started to think of a way to reverse the curse, but how? She started to worry, what if it was permanent? What if people find out and want to experiment on her. As she pulled up to the school, she had a sudden rush of fear wash over her. She decided to do the only thing she could do, to not go to school, and that was pretend to be sick. "Mom, I don't feel well, my tummy hurts," and at that minute her stomach was actually hurting from worry. So of course, her planned worked, and her mom replied, "Okay honey, I'll take you home so you can get some rest." Then Margaret thought, "Yes, now I can think of a way to reverse the curse." First she needed to reenact last night. She got into her bed, leaned over to turn the light switch off, but no genie. How was she supposed to attract the genie? She tried to remember what he did last night right before he granted the wish. Then it hit her, she had remembered the little hand clap he did right before. So she tried, and tried, and tried to do it.

It took her three tries but it finally worked. The genie had appeared. Margaret pleaded with the genie to reverse the curse. After pleading with him for a while, he finally decided to reverse the curse. Margaret finally was back to normal and so was all of her stuff. She was lucky her parents didn't ask about what was going on, but most of all she was lucky to have a normal life again. Caroline Renegar, Grade 6 Baylor School, Mr. Ward Fleissner Untitled

The sky grows darker, and the sun hides away. The crickets start chirping and the birds sing softer. I sit in the grass with my dog by my side and the moon glowing bright. Something in the bushes rustles and my dog leaps up and darts towards it. A squirrel leaps out and scurries away. The soft cool wind blows on my face and the owl rings out his call. Above me a bat squeaks and dances around as others join it. The moon gets higher and higher and I get sleepier. Merritt Yarbrough, Grade 6 Baylor School, Amy Cohen

[ Grade 7 Poetry ]

Wind As the cool breeze kisses my skin I wonder where else it has been Who else it has touched How far it has gone What else it has inspired And I wonder why it came to me Alayna Bradberry, Grade 7 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

Gone too Soon Bro told me a story to keep up my road to glory This life is just pain death rates are going insane 3 bodies lay without brains for what, I thought that we all was the same Now on the inside I’m dying hate seeing mother’s crying Their babies have gone too soon man man I don’t need to wake up in a tomb man I don't understand you snakes y’all just don't want food on my plate I'm just try'nna thrive so i don’t die I don't want my momma seeing me up in the sky Man this life is so hard watch out for the wrong ones always try'nna pull your card With my first check I’m giving to my family Gotta keep them going and yes I know the recipe Standing ten toes down I hope I’m the man they wanted me to be Baby maya always laying down tears falling on the ground I grew up in chat town the city that will lay you down I remember all the times watching movies with momma Everyone had a lesson told me to stay outta drama But yeah I don’t wanna leave to soon man Everybody's babies have gone too soon man, I don’t need to wake up in a tomb man I don't wanna leave to soon man I’m sorry if I have hurt you R.I.P Toney man we miss you Later that night I went through pounds and pounds of tissue We can never contend again and that's the biggest issue You was gone u had me wondering what went wrong for real Big bro got a stomach filled of steel Thinking about you being gone it just gives me chills I'm posted on the east but dreams of being on the hills So when I get there mama ain't gotta worry about her bills Their babies have gone to soon man I don't need to wake up in a tomb man Ethan Brown, Grade 7 CSLA, Ann-Marie Blentlinger

Wonder Sometimes I wonder why God created me To just live on earth and then die To not get the full experience To not see what his creation has turned into Why is life so short And why is it full of so many deaths Why does the sun show and then disappear Why does the moon shine and then dim in the morning Why do dreams begin if they are doomed to fail Why do relationships start if they will soon end Why did God create us if humanity is starting to end Why are we here if our time is almost over Sometimes I wonder about these things Sometimes I wonder about my religion knowing I shouldn't Sometimes I wonder about why I'm here Sometimesâ&#x20AC;Ś I wonder Jacob Chapman, 7th Grade CSLA, Ann-Marie Blentlinger

A Peculiar Girl This peculiar girl, She does not believe. She wipes her tears, On her own rugged sleeve. This peculiar girl, Her name is unknown. And the people around her, would leave her alone. This peculiar girl, She ran away. For she gave up again, And did not want to stay. This peculiar girl, She realized her fears. She looked back on her life, On all of her years. This peculiar girl, She took her own vow. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I will never give up, No way and no how.â&#x20AC;? Starr Hinton, Grade 7 CSLA, Ann-Marie Blentlinger

A Celebration Where the vibrant colors dance And the children laugh The flowers cover everything And shoes tap across the concrete as they dance When music is played and thoughts are pointless Where everything is perfect and there is no care in the world When the darkness of night doesn't seem so bad And the stars twinkle in your eyes The people kneel by their loved ones who have passed But look at it as a celebration of the living Where the food and roses are left for the dead The dancing still goes on And they stay up all night until their eyes close shut They wait until day when everyone gathers together again Where the fresh bread is served And the pungent fruit is devoured They know how much to give and how much to take And the candy skulls, The light and the dark Are all lined up in rows for families to eat When the towns come together to feel like a family And play their songs When the sun gets lower And the colors are gone They still know that they always stay happy Mexico Is a wonderful place to be On The Day of the Dead Tess Margio, Grade 7 Baylor School, Carlene West

Just Learning Fruit grows on trees Pollination comes from bees To make honey So we can be lovely The stars are above So we can learn to love To become the ones That make tons Population grows To meet fellow foes So we can learn to love And become special doves To release a certain energy To be together as a clergy To make one world We must all fly like a flock of birds Lily Rosenow, Grade 7 CSLA, Ann-Marie Blentlinger

The Old Manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Ashes The trees rattled and shook The beautiful urn sat on Emily's mantle The Lightning boomed and shook the house There were no other sounds Except for a small mouse The mantle started to shake It started to quake The mouse ran and hid The lid started to wobble The one that was made of cobble It started to wobble and break It slid off the mantle with a start The mouse hiding in the wall The loud break came next Emily thought it was a fake The next thing you heard was a piercing scream The urn was breaking at the seam! The lightning strike and thunder roll And there on the floor, Lay the old manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s ashes Julianna Schuster, Grade 7 CSLA, Ann-Marie Blentlinger

A Break in the Tempest Crashing thunder pounding rain pouring torrent soaked through feeling down crack of blue rays of gold hopes raising spirits soaring life awakened children splashing birds singing diamond studded flowers opening vibrant colors painted scenes cannot compare a tempest broken John Waters, Grade 7 Hiler Higher Learning, Shelley George

[ Grade 7 Prose ]

The Quest for Gordawn Fruit: An Element Squad Short Story

Dagger was flying to class, using his Air elemental powers to get there as fast as he could. Dagger had never really cared about getting to class on time. That is until his Aunt Neeka had started teaching his element class. She was strict, but fun to be around and always came up with cool assignments. Dagger burst into class and flew to his desk next to Timmy, the youngest and smallest kid in class. “Awww, Mark, glad you could make it,” Neeka said. Dagger bristled when his aunt used his real name, but uncharacteristically stayed quiet. “Today, I have a special treat for you guys,” Neeka said, “Please follow me and stay quiet.” Neeka got up and walked out the door. The class followed. She led them to the elevator that went to the top of the mountain. All twelve students climbed in and went to the top. When the elevator doors opened Neeka said, “Okay guys today we’re going to-,” she was interrupted as Dagger ran and jumped off the mountain. “Dagger! Well not what I had in mind but it works,” and she too jumped off, much to the class’s dismay. Dagger loved skydiving it gave him such a rush. He narrowed his body and let gravity take over. When he was just a few hundred feet from the ground he used his power to lift himself. He shot upward, passing Neeka and several other students as they too came flying downward. He made it to the top of the mountain to see the only kid left was Timmy. “Come on ya big wimp, just jump!” Dagger yelled. Timmy shook his head timidly. Dagger sighed and pushed Timmy off the cliff with a big gust of wind. “AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh,” yelled Timmy. “Dagger! Bring him back up hear this instant!” Neeka yelled as she came back over the cliff. “Fine,” Dagger relented and brought Timmy back up in an updraft of air. “Hey Dagger, principal Slice wants to see you,” Ninja, the leader of the water elements and Dagger’s oldest cousin called from the elevator. Ninja was also the leader of the Element Squad, which consisted of six of Dagger’s cousins, plus himself. “What does the old guy want?” Dagger asked. “I have no idea,” Ninja responded. Dagger went down the elevator and headed to Slice’s office. “Hello Dagger, please have a seat,” Slice said as he entered the office. In the office with him were his two cousins and fellow Element Squad members, Sneakster and Sami. “I called you here to send you on a mission. It will require each of your elements to complete. Air,” he gestured to Dagger, “Plant,” when he gestured at Sneakster, Sneakster camouflaged himself so he was blending in with the chair. “And Magic.” “That’s me!” Sami said telepathically to them. “This mission could be dangerous and-”

“He wants us to go get some Gordawn fruit from the Zankinien Rainforest,” Sami interrupted Slice. “Sami! You know it’s rude to read peoples minds when they’re assigning a mission,” Slice scolded. “Sorry,” Sami said with mock sincerity. “You three will fly in to Zankonia airport in the morning.” With that Slice dismissed them. * * In the morning they arrived at Zankonia airport, from there they took a cab all the way to the edge of the rainforest. “Well here we are,” said Sneakster, whom Slice had put in charge of the mission. “Dagger, you fly over the rainforest and search for any Gordawn trees. Sami will be reading your mind, so when you find one, he’ll teleport us.” Dagger did as he was told and soon saw the biggest tree he’d ever seen, with huge coconut like fruit dangling from the branches. He landed on the ground, and Sami teleported himself and Sneakster over. “So do I just, fly up there and get one?” Dagger asked. “Yep,” Sami answered. “One of those fruits is like the same size as me!” Dagger complained. “They’re not the same size as me, your just short Dagger,” Sneakster said with a wry smile. “Why you little-” “Dagger, Dagger, Dagger. Still fighting with your teammates are you?” said a menacing voice with an accent. “Darkly!? What are you doing here?” Sneakster said as their old enemy stepped out of the shadows. “The same reason you are, Gordawn fruit. It fetches quite the price in the markets, considering ‘ow ‘ard it is to get. And you’re going to get it for me.” “What makes you think that?” retorted Dagger. “Because if you don’t, I’ll torch the forest,” Darkly said igniting his entire body on fire. Sneakster cursed, “I forgot about your element.” “Who cares about the forest, let him torch it,” Dagger said nonchalantly. “Dagger, do it,” Sneakster commanded. Dagger flew up the tree a plan forming in his mind. He got to the top and started tugging on one of the giant fruit. After a few minutes of tugging it came lose, and fell toward the ground. Accept it didn’t follow a direct path. Dagger used his powers to guide it through the air, straight at Darkly’s head. Darkly realized too late what was happening and was conked on the head by the giant fruit, knocking him out. Dagger flew down and landed on Darkly’s chest and said, “Dim-wit,” he picked up the fruit and said to his teammates. “I hope Slice doesn’t care if the fruit has any bruises because there’s a Darkly shaped one on the back,” Dagger quipped. “I doubt it, c’mon, let’s go home.” Sneakster said and they all left the forest with their reward; a slightly bruised Gordawn fruit. J.T. Appel, Grade 7 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

Spoiled Rotten

There once was a boy and a girl named max and Lucy. They were 10-year-old twins that came from the richest family on earth. They lived in San Francisco, California. Their favorite time of the year was their birthday on May 27, and Christmas. Their birthday was typically every day because they got everything they wanted every day. Every time a new model of something that they had came out, they got it and threw away the old one that they had. They had piles upon piles, upon piles, upon piles of toys and presents that were given to them but they never play with then after about three days. They were spoiled rotten. The reason that their parents got them everything was because they would throw tantrums if they didn't have what they wanted. They were living what we would say was the best life ever, until one day. There was an odd woman that walked across the sidewalk by their house every day, at exactly 12:00 PM. Every day they watched for her to try and see what she was up to you. They saw her every day until the day before their birthday. It was already 2 PM and she never walked by. They were curious about what happened to her, but they carried on their Day, and went to bed. When they woke up, they were sharing a room that wasn't theirs. It was a white, dull, and plain room with two hard twin size beds, and no electronics or toys. They got up and went out the door. When they walked out, they saw kids there age working and cleaning everything in the house and there was to clean. "Why aren't you dressed in cleaning?" came a gruff man's voice in the distance. "Uh, I don't know where... Lucy was cut off by one of the children working, "You must never speak to the master!", she exclaimed. "I don't even know where we are or what we are doing here," replied Lucy. "Well this is the land of misery and we are here to work for King Rudeth.", the child said. "What is your name?"Max asked her. "My name is Amelia", she answered. Max and Lucy introduced themselves and went to see what was going on. The older peasant girls gave them their uniforms and told them to get to work. "Eww where did you get these, the dumpster?", exclaimed Lucy. "It smells like it.", said Max. They started working on scrubbing the floors with Amelia. "So this is what you guys do your whole life?", questioned Lucy. "Yes, we are all friends now, but we live miserably, serving the king and cleaning his mansion." I'm not sure how we got here but I want to get back to my house and toys!", said Max. "None of us ever had a house or families in the ward financial was full already, so we had to come here." "Is there anyway to get out of this?", Max asked. "No, we were born to be peasants and we can't get out of it.", Amelia said. "I wish that this had never happened and that I was still laying in my warm bed at home!", Lucy weeped. "Well, it's already bedtime so we can talk tonight." replied Amelia. Before it was time to sleep, one of the children was talking to Lucy and told me that Amelia was taken to the new house. Lucy and Max were so sad they ended up crying themselves to sleep. When They woke up, they were in their bed, surrounded by their toys.

They discussed what happened to them and they were clueless. Until the doorbell rang. They answered the door, and there stood the old woman who walked by their house every day. They looked petrified when I saw her. "I hope you have decided to be grateful about all of your toys from now on from being in the slave's situation." She said. "It was you! Wait, how...what...?". They looked at each other extremely confused but when they turned back, she was gone. Avery Butterworth, 7th Grade Silverdale Baptist Academy, Scheloe Woodson

The Forest Breathes

At the beginning of time, there was a bright young girl with a pure heart, gigantic hopes, and an extraordinary imagination. It was a warm August evening, and she was putting her thoughts in an orderly fashion, when she had a brilliant idea. The world was a bright place, her trees here and there, and rain every once in a while from her sister aquamarine, but mostly sunlight from her aunt Celestial. She wondered, â&#x20AC;&#x153;What if I could create a place with no distractions; a place with calm, and quiet, and green. A place where the sun just barely shone through, so that I could just create. I would have unlimited creations; wooden creations. Houses in trees, I can put together lots and lots of trees.â&#x20AC;? She reached down, and swooped up some acorns from the fertile ground breathed to life from the powerful lungs of her friend Terra. Then, she wove a basket out of the strongest roots and twigs from a guardian, or what now would be called an oak tree. She collected helper fairies, what are now considered the little winged seeds that fall from helpers, or, maple trees. She had her cousin the wind, throw them to and fro, and then she collected plant life. Power tingled through her slim fingers. Light flowed straight from her imagination, and everything she had willed into existence slowly turned her vivid dreams into vivid realities. Soon after, she and other creation spirits had a place to slip off to, a place where anything was possible. Back then they only brought in imaginers, dreamers, and creators of course. But now everything comes in; furry beasts, hornets, and other creatures. The creation spirits eventually faded out, but a few of us still remember them, by seeing her essence. Forest in Latin is Silva, which is the name of the young creator of the forest Silva. Kate DuRoy , 7th grade Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

Fishing

“When am I going to catch one,” said Emmy. “Just be patient and the fish will bite your worm,” I told her. “When is that going to be,” she said. “Soon just wait.” We were sitting on the rocks under the bridge. All you could hear was the birds chirping, the cars going by, the crickets, and the turtles on the long. When all of a sudden Emmy said, “I think I got one, I think I got one!” “We’ll hook him and reel him in,” I said. She reeled him in really hard. Finally, she got him. “See what did I tell you.” She laughed while unhooking the fish. “That’s a big fish,” we said. Emmy took a picture with it, then let it go. “I named him Bob.” He looked like a Bob, so that’s why I named him that. It was getting dark, and we were about to leave. All of a sudden we both started getting a bite. “I got another one,” she said. “Me too, and it’s a big one.” We kept yanking the line but something was playing around with us. “Darn these fish, I just want you to take my worm, can you do that?” Emmy said. “Emmy they can’t hear you, they are just fish.” “Well, they need to,” she said. We stayed just a little longer. Patient Harris, Grade 7 Rhea Middle School, Mrs. Jenkins

Opal Doesn't Have a Last Name When her parents realized what they had to do, they did everything they could to help her. She was sent away, but for a reason they couldn't explain. She couldn't understand the burden of the secret she had to carry, since she was one of the only two people who knew. She didn't understand the weight of her life. She didn't know the impact of what could happen until that number two became a three. That one time was the first day her godmother ever hugged her. She was pretty, with almost the same looks as the eight-year-old girl, with the same light brown hair and barely tan skin. But it was hard to notice that she was pretty, because the only time the young girl really ever saw her was when she yelled at her to bring in another cigarette or when she got out her husband's old baseball trophies to punish her. But Opal stood through it all. As she walked out the door, she almost turned right like she did last year. Instead, she had to keep walking straight to go to her new school, the school she had been going to for over a month and still wasn't used to. Opal had just turned eight and was now going to the upper part of the elementary school, where the third grade goes. As she was walking, she pushed her light pink sleeves down further over her arms to cover the bruises and scars covering her thin forearms. She had been given these by her godmother whenever she was drunk or angry. She soon approached the front door to her school and grunted to push it open. She started to walk to her first class, but ran into Mr. Reardon, the guidance counselor, instead. "Opal! Just the person I've been looking for. Would you mind coming in for just a minute?" She stared wide-eyed for a moment, then walked in. She didn't know why she was going in there, but she was scared that they would have to talk to her godparents, which would not be good. Her godmother would bring out the metal ruler she has in her closet for situations like this, and her godfather might be away even more often. "Opal, I have noticed something that could be very serious. Would you mind if I had a look at your arms?" He must have noticed her sad eyes widen just a small bit, because he gently held onto her wrist and moved up her sleeve. She cringed as he stared at her thin arms, emotionless. He turned it over gently and swallowed as he saw the bruises wrapping around her wrists and over the bones. That is when she started crying. Big, salty tears that she could never let out at home because her godmother wouldn't tolerate a little girl who had emotions she couldn't take care of. Soon her sobs turned to hiccups and she pulled her arm back from the stranger who now just knew a life-threatening secret. Mr. Reardon swallowed and said, "Have you told your parents yet?" Opal shook her head. "I can't talk to them anymore. Only my godfather, but he's not ever really home, and he doesn't even know." "Well, I'm going to have to talk to someone. Would you rather me talk with your godfather?" She nodded, but didn't know if that would save her or kill her. As Opal walked slowly through the door into the kitchen, she saw her drunk godmother on her couch, flipping through channels on the shattered TV.

"What happened today, Opal?" She tilted her head slightly. Her godmother was rarely ever this nice, and it was always when she was sober, or at least half-sober, and she obviously wasn't right now. "I asked you a question, Opal. How was your day?" She gulped and started to talk, but before she finished, an empty beer bottle flew from the living room and shattered against her soft face. She felt the cold remains of beer drip down her face as the sudden force knocked her into the wall. "Why did you tell him?!" she yelled as she stumbled into the kitchen, holding the metal ruler in one hand and a full beer bottle in the other. "I'm goin' to get arrested!! I have a trial!" "I-I'm sorry, I-" "Oh, you'll be sorry." She smashed her bottle on the ground and slammed the door shut. She slashed Opal and left an angry red mark over all her arms. She held up her shaking hand to stop the pain, but she hit her over and over again until Opal threatened to black out. Her eyes fluttered and her breath became shallow and heavy. Opal wondered if this would be the last time she had to deal with this, but then she heard the sirens wailing and saw Mr. Reardon standing at the window trying to break in. The only problem was that her drunk godmother didn't notice that the police were here, and hit her one more time, a fatal blow to the head. Before she blacked out, the police barged in and Mr. Reardon's face was plastered against the stubborn glass, his mouth open, screaming something she would never get to hear. Opal never did have a last name. She didn't want to share the same name as her godmother, and it was too dangerous for her to have her long-lost parent's name. So she was just Opal. She died in the hospital on September 8th, 1959, a week after her birthday. Her very last words to the imprisoned godmother were "I forgive you." and when she was told, she burst out crying for this lost little girl, the girl without a last name. Evelyn Ludwick, Grade 7 Baylor School, Suzanne Collins

War

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP! Christopher rolled over and smashed his fist onto his alarm clock. He slowly threw his thick dark comforter off. He shuddered a bit at the sudden cold air and climbed out of bed. As he began making his way to the window, he saw a shadow cover the sunlight spilling into his room. Christopher was surprised by the sudden darkness so he gasped a bit. After getting over the initial shock he continued making his way toward the window. As he reached the window he stopped as he was curious to see what had blocked the sun. He stumbled a bit when he saw that sitting on the window seal was a Peregrine falcon. "What the," Christopher said groggily. The falcon heard him and turned a beady eye towards him. It stared at him for a few seconds before letting out a squawk and flying away. "I didn't think Peregrine falcons lived in Kentucky." He stated a bit confused. After a while he got dressed and made his way downstairs. He glanced at the clock that was on the oven. He stopped and stared at the clocks bit disoriented. "1:30?" He sighed. "Why does time go so fast?" He set out of the house at a brisk pace stopping only at the mailbox. He pulled out a thick white envelope. Without noticing the wax seal he continued making his way towards a small coffee shop. He glanced around and caught sight of another Peregrine falcon. "This is nuts," He grumbled not stopping to look closer at the bird. When he finally reached the coffee shop he sat in a booth towards the back of the restaurant. When he finally opened his letter he noticed the wax seal. However, it didn't draw his attention until he noticed it was in the shape of a bird. He studied it carefully and bit the inside of his cheek. The wax seal was in the shape of a peregrine falcon. He opened his letter and began reading. It read: Congratulations Soldier! You are officially enrolled into the army. You training and cabin mates are or listed below. We expect to see you Friday, 7/17 at 9:30 prompt. Christopher skipped the rest and began to read the names off of the list below. "Let's see," he mumbled to himself "There's me, John Shuman, Jordan Hill, Emily Hill, an-" his voice cracked as he saw the last name on the list but he forced himself to continue. â&#x20AC;&#x153;And Jolie Angston." After what seemed like forever Friday finally arrived. He had packed all of his essentials the night before, now he was just stuffing random things wherever they would fit. He looked up at the clock. It read 6:39 am. "I had better start getting the truck ready," He said scuffing the floor with his shoe. Finally the truck was completely loaded. He started up the engine and blared the radio. Tapping his hands on the steering wheel he backed out. After one long look at his home since he was 9, he began the journey there. He arrived at 9:05. Soon after pulling in he proceeded to climb out of the truck and grab his bag. Setting a brisk pace he began to walk towards the building which was about one eighth of a mile away. Once he reached the building he was panting a bit but he tried not show it. He took in his surroundings and stood in the area looking at pictures and awards of other soldiers. He

glanced up to see two teenagers who looked to be brother and sister. That must be Jordan and Emily. He thought to himself. They quickly took a seat across the room without glancing at him. Soon after a broad shouldered man walked in covering the distance of the room in about three strides. He took a seat near Jordan. After a moment of silence, he glanced over at Christopher and looked at him in disgust. He began a conversation with Jordan, snickering under his breath. It took what seemed like forever for 9:30 to come and there was still no sign of Jolie. A tall muscular man stalked into the room. "Only four of you," he growled in a gruff voice "The lasts got it coming if she's much later." Then as the man was turning to go back into the room he emerged from, Jolie busted through the door. She was panting and her hair was disheveled. "Wait," she panted "I'm here.. We can start." She looked around for a moment when she caught sight of Christopher. He knew the exact moment that she spotted him because the look of tired happiness drained her eyes and grief filled them. Christopher wanted to go and hug her and rejoice at seeing her. However the glare from the man who he assumed to be John froze him in his place. She looked away and went to sit by Emily. The man who had counted their attendance was now back at the center of the room. "Welcome all. We are glad to have you here," he smiled briefly before continuing. "Today we will be heading to the base and getting your bunks together. But tomorrow," his eyes gleamed, "we train." The ride to the base was rough. Not as in bad, but it was pretty bad too, it was just rough. There were potholes everywhere and the jeep we were in was built for three, not six. Every time the jeep hit a pothole Jordan, Emily, and Christopher would fly up. John had sat in the seat next to Jolie instead of being a gentleman and giving his seat to Emily. Every now and then he would turn around and smirk smugly at Christopher. He tried his best to ignore him but each time it happened he could feel his face get hot with jealousy. "Can you two stop glaring at each other?" The man driving called back. "Sorry it's just a joke." John said innocently, Christopher stayed silent. "It's so funny I can't remember how to drive." The man said dryly. The drive continued on for about 2 more hours. Finally the jeep pulled up to a large campsite. The driver shut off the engine and climbed out. "Okay first things first. My name is Garrison." He said looking at each of them making sure they were listening. "I hope that you all realize what an honor it is to be here. If you're here it means you were chosen. Which means you're expected to abide by our rules. Now here is the main rule "Do NOT leave this camp for any reason unless you're on a patrol or you're going to battle. The rest of the rules will be posted in your cabin." As he finished he pointed at the only building a small cabin. "Go and explore," he finished up. They all grabbed their luggage and lugged it inside. Christopher threw his stuff down on an empty bunk and walked to where a small yellow sign was hung up. It was labeled in bold letters: Rules. He read over the sign and made sure he memorized each rule. After he was sure that he had he walked back to his bunk. Quickly he made his bed before looking up and noticing that only John was left in the room. Once John saw Christopher looking at him he walked over. John pinned Christopher close to the wall with a gleam in his eyes. "You need to stay away from

Jolie," He hissed "She's mine and if I ever see you trying to flirt or anything close to that you're dead." He stalked away. Christopher had thought about what John had said all night. He was dreadfully tired and he dragged his feet to his first training lesson. When he was about a two minute walk away, he heard Garrison telling the others that they would be working with guns. "Oh boy," He said to himself, getting ready to run. When he reached the small area that they were going to be training in he stopped taking in his surroundings. Not bad. He thought. The slope to get down to it was rocky so he leaped over it silently. He walked up and stood beside Emily avoiding all eye contact. "You're late," Garrison growled. "I know," he mumbled. He heard Garrison stomp away and looked up to see Jolie looking at him somberly. I will talk to her after training. He silently vowed to himself. He went and picked up a handgun before returning to his place in line. He had handled guns before so he knew what to do when Garrison yelled "SHOOT!" He held the gun with both hands his feet spread apart. He took a deep breath before firing at his target. It hit the dummy squarely in the chest. After his lesson he grabbed Jolie by the arm. She flinched at his touch and tried to pull away. But he was to strong so she gave up and followed. He stopped behind the biggest tent in their camp. "What's going on between you and John?" He asked seriously. "Nothing," she said not meeting his eyes. "According to John there is." He snapped at her. She sighed. "We dated for a bit after you and I got...â&#x20AC;? She trailed off with a faraway look in her eyes. "And?" Christopher pushed. "And we broke up that's all there is to it. He's probably jealous even though he has no competition. Now can I go?" She growled looking at his feet still. "Jolie, Christopher said sadly. â&#x20AC;&#x153;What happened to us? "You don't want me around anymore." She said, her voice cracking. He took her chin in his hand and made her look him in the eye. Her blue eyes sparkled on the edge of tears. He had forgotten how much he missed those eyes. Without warning he swooped in, almost like a Peregrine falcon diving for prey, and he kissed her. When he pulled away he saw tears rolling down her cheeks. "I do want you around," he whispered. "I will always want you by my side." Jolie hugged him and they both walked back to their cabin. Jolie moved her stuff next to Christopher's bunk that night. As Christopher felt himself drifting off he listened to the others steady breaths. I'm so happy to be here. He thought before drifting into darkness. Suddenly an alarm sounded. He jumped up to find the others as disoriented as he was. A monotone voice sounded. "We are under attack, Repeat, under attack." He looked in his bag and pulled out his AK47. He grunted with the effort of pulling the gun out of his bag. After loading it he ran outside. He began firing at people with German patches on their uniforms. Jolie slid up beside him and shot a soldier that was aiming for Christopher. "Tell me," she said through gritted teeth. "How is it on our second night here we're already fighting for our lives?"

Just as Christopher was about to reply a bullet whizzed past his ear. "Not sure," he gasped. He looked up seeing a bunch of large birds circling but what unnerved him most was the fact that over half of them had the body build of a Peregrine falcon. He was reloading again and he flashed a smile at Jolie. She returned it quickly but she got distracted. He was already back to reloading when he heard someone near him scream "WATCH OUT!" He looked up in enough time to see a bullet fly straight into Jolie's forehead. Christopher crumpled to the ground. "No," he whispered crawling towards her. He cradled her hand in his. He hadn't noticed the blood around him or soaking his pants. All Christopher could focus on were her blue unseeing eye. Rocking back and forth he let out a nerve racking sob. He saw the battle raging on around him and looked up. No matter what he did he couldn't get rid of the tears that kept pooling out of his eyes. Just as he was beginning to accept the horrible truth he felt a burning pain in his shoulder and he blacked out. When Christopher finally woke up he didn't know where he was or who he was. All he could remember was seeing Jolie die. He hadn't realized that his shoulder was burning until they put something in his IV and numbness spread through his body. Christopher hadn't known that he had fallen asleep until he woke up later that evening. "Where's Jolie?" He croaked. A nurse appeared with a sympathetic look in her eyes. "I'm sorry sir. But we've been informed that Jolie passed away a on the battlefield. But I guess you already know that." She said with a glance at his blood crusted pants. Christopher leaned back on his bed careful about his shoulder. Silently he let tears begin to fall. "Why is it always my luck?" He choked out. "Well, the good news is you can go home three days from now," the nurse added. "What if I don't want to go home?" He snapped. He felt guilty as she flinched. She backed out of the room without another word. "Why?" He cried out. "Why can't anything good happen to me?" He screamed tears falling rapidly now, he blacked out soon after. The last thing Christopher could remember was crying out for Jolie on a hospital bed at the base. Now he was home with his shoulder bandaged and unusable. He struggled to get out of bed fighting against his thick comforter that he had once loved. "Forget it." He growled letting his blanket win the fight. He reached down with one hand and grabbed a box of Flame-o's. He had become irritable at the slightest creak. He hadn't wanted to speak to anybody. Now that he was able to get around some, thanks to his mom, he visited Jolie's grave whenever he got the chance. Today his mom dropped him and said she would be back soon. He sat by her grave tears rolling out of his eyes. Christopher drifted to sleep after finding a comfortable position. SQWAK! He awoke with a start. Looking up he thought he was dreaming but once reality hit him he knew he wasn't. Sitting on Jolie's headstone was a Peregrine falcon and it had a letter in its mouth that had the name Christopher imprinted on it. Lacy Lumpkin, Grade 7 CSLA, Ann-Marie Blentlinger

Wolf War War. I never thought about Lycaon starting a war between our packs. Northwood and Southpond were allies until we stole prey from each other. I figured we'd still be friends because we always take prey from one another. But now, all we have are little morsels of mice, rabbit, and squirrels. My mortal mate, Shawn Generon doesn't know about his ancestry in these woods. This power was never passed on to him. "MOM! DAD! SOMEONE'S AT THE DOOR!" I call out. " Who's there?" dad asks. I looked out the window and, who stood there, was my mate. "It's just Shawn!" I call. My aunt Diana (Artemis) was cooking in the kitchen while I open the door. My uncle Lycaon, the worst uncle ever, was locked up in my grandfather’s keep. My older brother Kilon was playing with our wolfie friend Indie. Tomorrow, I will have a certain ceremony to become a demi- goddess. It is gonna be exciting. "Shilo is on the roof again!" Mom yelled. Shilo was Indie's and Lila's daughter. Lila is another one of my wolfie friends. Hannah van Deon was my brother's really pretty mate. She had long blonde hair, amberbrown eyes, and a sharp tongue. She reminded me of a Warriors character named Yellowfang but young. Lila yipped at me to get Shilo. I quickly race out the door and leaped onto the roof. Then, I grab the young pup and leap back down. Finally, I go inside and let Shawn in. "Took you long enough." he growled playfully as he gave me one of his fascinating smiles. Shawn had dark skin, chin length hair, ice-blue eyes, a strong body, and a soft core. That was a perfect description of him. His perfect eyes looked at me with infinite love. I woke up from a dream to find me in the same keep as my uncle Lycaon. Speaking of him, he was pacing next to me. I started to get annoyed. "LYCAON, SIT YOUR PACIN' BUTT DOWN!" I snarl. He glared coldly at me. Growling, I stand up on my hind legs (because I'm a wolf now). "My silly little niece. What a coincidence to see you here." Lycaon snarled back. Still growling, I bit back a smart retort. Suddenly, the room went dark and I show up back in my own room, safe and sound. "Mom? Can you come here?" I ask. She walks into my quiet room and sits down on my bed. "What's wrong, Kiano? Was it one of those visions of Lycaon?" she asks quietly. "Yeah. I was in Grandpa's keep and Lycaon was pacing around like a cat waiting for a mouse. He knew I hated that. I told him to stop pacing." Then he stared at me with a cold gaze. He said, “My silly little niece. What a coincidence to see you here.”The funny part was that I was in my wolf form. Then, I was back in my room." "Remember, sweetie. He wont hurt you. Now, do you need anything else?" she replies. "Nah, I'm fine. Thank you, though." I say. The next morning, my portable alarm clock Shilo bounces on me. "Shilo, off!" I command her kindly. She got off and yipped happily, wagging her little tail. I got up and walked into the kitchen. When I walked in there, it was a total disaster! On the wall was a message. It said: "WATCH YOUR BACK BECAUSE I'M ALWAYS FOLLOWING YOU." I stared at it in horror. "MOM!!" I scream. She thundered down the stairs. "What happened here?" she asked in the same horrified tone. "I.... don't..... know...." I whisper. ARRRROOOOOO!!!! My loud howl rang out. The battle has begun. I bound down the huge cliff and landed on my enemy. He howled in rage and turned his mangy brown head to snap at me. I bit the back of his neck and felt his spine. I bit down harder and the taste of blood filled my mouth. I let go and the wolf dropped down dead. Yelps and snarls filled the air of its

vicious noise. I got knocked over by a dark brown male and he bit into my shoulder with a vicious growl. Snarling, I bit into his furry neck and clamped down hard. Blood oozed from his wound. He fell down, unable to hold his weight any longer from the lack of blood. I stared at him when his eyes glazed over as he gurgled his last words, " You'll never get away from this." "Eat dirt, flea-bag!" I snarl. I lunge at another wolf, her cream and black pelt matted and clotted with blood. "RAAARGH!" I growl. "YOU WILL NEVER WIN!!" I growl ferociously. "Kiano? Kiano?!" Shawn cried. I lay limply in his muscular arms. His tears wet the shoulder of my shirt. My eyes flutter. "Shawn, a-are... you.... o-okay?" I ask weakly. " Oh, Kiano. If you're okay, I'm okay." he whispers. I smile weakly. "What happened? Did I win?" I ask anxiously. "Win what?" he asks cautiously. "Nothing. Probably a dream." There was no evidence of battle on any part of my body. "Where am I, Shawn?" I ask. "My house. Guest room." he answered. "Need any thing while I'm about to go downstairs?" he asks. "Maybe some water, but I'm good." I said. Destiny Smith, 7th Grade Sequatchie County Middle School, Mrs. Sharon Shadrick

Flower sprouts in Auschwitz In the ruin of the once great Deutschland at the time of the Great war. A new Fuhrer promised us a new life only filled with a small but contagious word called hope. Every German’s heart was filled with this virus. Unemployment disappeared, economy flourished, people stopped going to garbage can buffet filled with healthy expired milk with moldy bread. I miss those good old days. We were drugged with ignorance of what was really going on. If you wanted to know the truth, you are sent to a camp where you are never heard of again. It was June 22, 1941, when our great crusade against Russia began. Everyone was relaxed. My friend Tommy said, “We conquered countless countries just like a kid knocking a tower of blocks. Why not this one.” Fortunately, the chief sent me not to fight, but to guard prisoners in a camp called Auschwitz-Birkenau. My wife, Helen was thrilled. All she cared about was that I was safe and far away from harm. While enjoying my last day in my hometown Munich, an old woman looked at me. Her face was motionless like a rock. She scanned my helmet, my uniform, my medal I earned as a soldier and she spent eternity looking at my Nazi armband. She grabbed my hand. She said, “You took my baby! You are the one who took my baby!” Her son was caught hiding a Jew in his house and it was my job to send him into the gates of no return. All I could do was hug her and tried to apologize until she forgot what I did. It took two days, four hours, twenty minutes and fifty-four seconds to arrive in the camp. Her voice rang through my head. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat or drink. It was my fault that her son Neuer was gone. I wanted to become a soldier for my country in the wrong time, in the wrong world. The first month in Auschwitz was disturbingly normal. Food was good, I was paid well. Everyone joked life before war and about how we clean other’s mess. Since the first day in Auschwitz, it became a routine for me to watch a human being treated like an animal. When little kids and the old falls down from exhaustion,we send them where there is no pain. These camps were like curious kids experimenting on anthill. Kids don’t care if millions of ants die because to them,they are just worthless ants. We always tried to find a new way to kill. Gassing them, burning them, starving them. After all, to us, they were just prisoners. The sun never shine in Auschwitz because of the smoke of the dead are fighting to reach the heaven first. I prayed everyday to God to help me right the wrongs I did. I got my chance. It was a cold day. Trees were drooping with the weight of snow in their branch. Even a smallest creatures were covered in a magic of Jack Frost. We were playing soccer near the woods on our break. I accidently kicked the only ball we had into the woods.I ran into the woods hoping I would find it before everyone tried to make my head a new soccer ball. I couldn’t find a ball but I found three guys pointing guns at my head for a bull’s eye. They knocked me unconscious before I took another breath. Well….. I deserved it. I knew them, Infamous resistance. The one who never surrenders. Their goal was to sabotage or kill anything Nazi related. A familiar voice woke me up. “Wake up!” It was Neuer! The good news is the old lady’s son is alive. Bad news? He is mad at me and he has a gun while I’m tied in a rope. Neuer said, “It’s been a long time eh? I guess fate has his own plan.” I was speechless. I just closed my eyes waiting for a bullet that I deserved. I felt like a god untied my rope and gave me a food and water.

Then I opened my eyes realizing the guy I killed or at least ordered to, was giving me a second chance. He said, “I was spying on you in Munich. I was ready to shoot you on sight, then my mother came trying to do my job by herself. You hugged her and apologized for what happened. You’re a strange Nazi.” I asked the dumbest question in my life. I asked, “Why didn’t you just kill me.” Everyone around him agreed like a choir yelling. “Yeah, why aren’t we killing this bloody Nazi.” Neuer looked at them and smiled “ You know why.” All of them exclaimed, “No, no, no, no, you can’t do that.” Neuer took his gun and smiled at me. He gave me the gun and the armband of the resistance. All he said was “Willkommen nach der Widerstand.” “Welcome to the Resistance.” As Mr. Churchill said, “This wasn’t the beginning of the end, but end of beginning.” Andrew Song, Grade 7 Heritage Middle, Billie Carlock Mysterious Boy Once there was a little girl named Heather. She was walking to school one day when she saw a little boy not much older than her. He was on his way to the bakery instead of school. Heather asked him why he wasn’t going to school and he simply said, “I can’t talk right now, I’m very busy,” and walked off. Later that day after school she waited and waited for him but she didn’t see him. When Heather got home she asked her mom if she could go to the bakery instead of going to school. Her mom said, “No.” Heather was sad because she wanted to know where he was going and why he was so busy when he should have been going to school instead of working. The next day when she saw the boy again, she asked him why he was working instead of going to school and she never got an answer. Jazmin Thacker, Grade 7 Rhea Middle School, Mrs. Jenkins

My Dog Is a Superhero There was noise everywhere. I couldn't seem to find one thing to look at as I padded down the hall of Woodville Middle School. I felt a tug on my neck as I was yanked sideways by my owner Brianna. We had just come to this middle school and it was the first day. I had tried to get Brianna to stay at her old school where she at least had a few friends and the teachers were nice, but she graduated from what humans call "elementary." Apparently it is the class of education for younger human beings below the age of ten or eleven. Now she is twelve and old enough for middle school, I guess meaning she is in the middle of learning. A student laughed beside us, and suddenly I felt something softish hit my back. I growled deep in my throat. A stiff wad of paper tumbled to the floor. I grabbed my leash and tugged twice, the signal for Brianna to stop. As a young girl, Brianna had been healthy and strong. She had always played sports, but one day at one of her soccer games, she tripped on the field and broke a couple of bones. Somehow this paralyzed her left leg, and now she is in a wheelchair and cannot walk anymore. She looks and acts exactly the same as before, except now she just sits in a rolling chair that I would give anything to ride in. I used to only be her pet, but after the accident I was suddenly appointed to be her service dog. I just do small things for her like open doors, pick stuff up, carry things for her, and help her get ready for the day. It was hard at first to learn how to do these things for her, but I've gotten used to it. Brianna stopped because I had tugged on the leash. She looked down at me. "What is it, Majesty?" I barked softly and then picked up the paper wad with my mouth. I walked in front of her and placed it in her outstretched hand. "Did someone lose this?" she asked, holding it up for others to see. Everyone turned to look at her. A few students looked down at her and laughed while others pointed. I growled and tugged on the leash again three times. Brianna understood and kept going. "Classroom 1A," Brianna muttered. She wheeled to the left, avoiding several running children, and then straight ahead to class. ~~~~~~ "Lindsey?" "Here." "Jacob?" "Here. "Taylor?" "Here." "Brianna?" "Here, sir." The teacher looked over his glasses at the group of twenty or so students in his room. "Good, everyone is here," he nodded. "Okay, class. Today we will learn about mammals." One boy raised his hand. "Is a dog an example of a mammal?" "Why, yes. Any creature that has fur is a mammal."

The fur on the back of my neck rose as I listened to the boy talk. I knew where this was going. I barked ever so softly so I wouldn't disturb anyone, especially if it got Brianna in trouble. I felt another wad of paper on my back. I turned around and saw the boy called Jacob twiddling his thumbs. This time I stood up and nipped at his shorts. "Hey, stop," he muttered. "Did you say something, Jacob?" the teacher asked. "Uh, I..." he stopped, then pointed at me. "That dog bit me!" Brianna looked shocked. "Majesty bit you? She's my service dog, not a guard dog. Jacob looked as if he didn't believe her one bit. ~~~~~~ The girl from Brianna's science class walked up to her during lunch. "Your dog is really cute," she said. "Can I pet her?" "Um, sure," Brianna said. "She's a German Shepherd. Her name is Majesty. You can call her Jester if you'd like." "Jester?" she asked, "Why's that?" "She's a little clumsy sometimes," Brianna laughed. "I'm Lindsey, by the way. You're Brianna, right?" "Yes." Lindsey sat down in the chair next to me and looked like she was going to say something, when a glob of mashed potatoes suddenly flew through the air and landed on Brianna's lap. "Yuck!" she wailed as she got a napkin. "Who did that?!" I rushed over to her and attempted to get the mushy vegetables off of her. I had nearly succeeded when another wad of food landed on the table. Suddenly, it was a full on food fight, all aimed at us. Jacob stood right at the front hurling dinner rolls at our table. I jumped up and caught one, but slipped on a puddle of milk. I jumped back up swiftly and bared by teeth. I mustered the fiercest, loudest growl I could, and then barked. Everyone froze. They looked at me like I had just taken away their hearing and all of their other senses. I continued barking until a door at the far side of the cafeteria burst open and about thirty teachers strode through. "What happened in here?!" the principle boomed, his face a mix of disappointment, anger, and rage. I had a good idea about what was going to happen.

~~~~~~ "All the kids got in trouble, except for me and Lindsey. It was amazing!" Brianna was saying to her parents. I listened closely as she spoke, but one thing stuck out from what she said. "But my favorite part was when Majesty barked." She looked at me proudly. "My dog is a superhero." Brooke Tin, 7th Grade Silverdale Baptist Academy, Scheloe Woodson

Bullying

Have you ever been up close to the stars? I know I have. Every day I am up close to them. I do it anywhere, and anytime, the day or night. I just close my eyes and dream away. I close my eyes, and I am in the sky floating, flying, and walking in the sky. I loved my happy place. It’s the one place I can go to help me calm down when I have been disturbed. I never thought I could get mad. It turns out I can if I needed to. I walked in school and there stood my best friend standing in the hallway. She was messing with the kids. One of the kids were crying, and the other was about to start crying. The mean girl smacked the glasses off of her face. Then smacked the books out of the other one’s hand. How could someone be so mean, but look so kind? You think they are your friends until you see them picking on someone. No one saw this happening. Except me, I couldn’t just close my eyes and go to my dream. I had to do something. This is called bullying, but what am I supposed to do about it. I could tell a teacher, or gather some people. Well, just enough to show the people that we care about them. We formed a bullying circle to tell bullies to back away. ”no more, no more.” Bullies don’t understand how much it hurts to be picked on. The bullies just need to do something fun or in our point of view it's mean. They have nothing better to do with their lives but pick on other people. I guess they are having a hard time at home. It is actually their choice if they want to take their anger out on other people. It is also their choice to act so evil and cruel. I guess it happens a lot. People getting bullied here and there everywhere. I don’t think anyone wants to be mean. I just think they are trying to impress their friends. Aracely Xiloj, Grade 7 Rhea Middle School, Mrs. Jenkins

Unloved and Unwanted When money got tight, Lewis was the first one to go. Not the dog, not the extravagant house, not even the expensive trips his parents went on alone. As an only child to wealthy parents, you would think that he would get everything he wanted. You would be wrong. He went to the rundown school closest to his house for his parents convenience, lived in the unfinished basement in his parents' four story house, and was never allowed to go on the costly trips his parents took every two weeks. In fact, they were on one now. Lewis was alone when the telephone rang. A peculiar thing to happen since his parents were away in New York City, and no one ever called him. Lewis scampered over to the phone. He picked it up and pressed it against his ear. "Lewis?" His mother's slurred voice rang in his ear. His parents haven't ever called him before. Muffled voices and laughter could be heard in the background. "Yes, mom?" Lewis answered timidly. For seventeen, he was as shy as shy could come. Laughing, his mom answered him. "Honey," she giggled, "your father and I have something to tell you." Suddenly his father's booming voice echoed through the house phone's speaker. "We know it's a bad time, but we needed to get this out. We have decided that we are going to have you be unwound." All of the blood drained from Lewis's face. "Don't worry honey," the nasally sound of his mother's voice didn't even register in Lewis's brain, "we have an explanation. See, your father and I have run out of money. As it pains me to say it, we just don't have any more. We know that we have your love and support, and we also know that you would do anything for us. Since you know how much we adore our possessions, we thought you would understand why we chose you to give up. I mean, you use up so much money, and we just can't deal with it anymore. We love you, and I guess now you will be of better use to others." With that said, the phone call ended. Lewis was frozen in shock and horror. He knew what unwinding meant, and it was a unholy thing to do. Was this a drunk mistake? It had to be. He knew his parents didn't exactly love him but having him unwound? It wasn't possible. Lewis tore up the stairs to his parents' bedroom. He had to find proof. The French doors were pushed open with a bang, and Lewis began to franticly search the room. When his eyes met the desk, he sprinted towards it. Sitting plainly in view was a yellow copy of his parents' unwinding contract. It read: "September 12, 2084: Lewis Ray Carlson - unwind." Now having solid proof, Lewis couldn't say that it was a mistake. His body and mind went through some form of schizophrenia. His first instinct was to cry, then to scream and yell, and finally: to get revenge. His hands were balled up in fists, his muscles were clenched, and he was gritting his teeth. Dark thoughts made by the devil himself screamed in Lewis's mind. His parents would pay. Lewis was escaping. Once in his room, he ripped open his backpack and shoved in three days worth of clothes, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a pen, and in the side pocket he put a water bottle. Nothing else in the house meant anything to him now. With one last look around the messy room, he spotted his phone. Picking it up in his hand, he turned it on so that it showed a picture of him and his parents at his high school graduation. He sneered and then hurled the phone at the wall, watching as it shattered into a million pieces.

He walked out of his room and went back up to the main floor. Grabbing three lighters, a box of matches, and some gasoline from the garage, he went outside. The gasoline was splashed around the wood base of the house, and without a second thought he clicked the lighter and the gasoline became aflame. He watched as the flames slowly covered ground. His parents had told him that they would pick their stuff and valuables over him. Step one of his revenge plan was completed: their precious house was in flames. As the flames got bigger, Lewis became less and less aware of what was going on around him. The air was beginning to fill with smoke and the neighbors were noticing the smell. Suddenly, the blaring sound of the fire alarm snapped Lewis out of his daze. He needed to leave. Without looking back, he bolted down the driveway with his small luggage thumping against his back. Camilla Zavala, Grade 7 Baylor School, Suzanne Collins

[ Grade 8 Poetry ]

Stabbed in the Back That's the thing about pain. Tears rolled down her freckled checks, and her hair hung loosely at her shoulders. She was beautiful her whole life, striking, but today she looked ugly for the first time. How could she not. This day marked the end of her happiness with a lifetime of heartbreak and bitterness to come. In between sobs, she called out his name, Daniel. Her face scrunched up and puffy, she wheezed like a child. Her tears dripping down onto his chest marking tiny dots on the jacket she had bought him for their anniversary. She glanced at her wedding ring, into which he had poured all of his savings, the diamond she would never wear again. His kind face smiled; he had accomplished all his heart desired. He had loved her. Vengeance and hate filled her and she regained the feeling she knew from years ago. She blamed the one who raised her, her father. She pondered how he could be so cruel, then the pain in his life suddenly came back to her. She remembered the bitterness that grew in him during that dark year. He had become a monster, and now she had to slay the beast. She slid the blade out of her husband's bloody back and wiped her tears. Stabbing her key into her car's ignition, she now was on a mission. It demands to be felt. Claire Austin, Grade 8 Baylor School, Bart Loftin

A Traveler Through the Night I have been here since the beginning of time, And I will be here when it ends. I infinitely travel this infinite place, Seeing everything, Yet nothing. I see the world, the galaxy; All of the planets and moons, Stars and comets, But I do not see people. I am forever alone in this immeasurable space. I float alone in the mists, Going wherever the stardust takes me. The stardust shows me many things. The birth of planets; The death of stars. The beginnings of loneliness, The end of happiness. The stardust is my friend; the only one I have. But now they are no longer. For you see, the stardust showed me everything, Including the end. It was bright and blazing, Quiet and unexpected. The end was like nothing Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d ever seen before, Yet oh so familiar. The world grew silent afterwards. The little things I found solace in had disappeared. My existence had not been cut short by the end of the universe, And I doubted anything else would. I was alone at the beginning of time, And I am alone past its end. Camryn Birtwistle, Grade 8 Heritage Middle, Billie Carlock

The Abyss of Winter White snowflakes descending from the black backdrop of the night, the crystals of frozen water land gentle on the ground, the soft glow in the window is the only source of light, only snowflakes all around. But nothing stays perfect for long, children awake to the perfection of the snowstorm, the children scream with laughter as the birds sing their morning song, for this isnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t their norm. When the day is done, the snow left destroyed is all alone, for tomorrow will be a rerun, waiting for some more of their own. Gabby Bryson, Grade 8 Heritage Middle, Elizabeth Newsome

In the Mountains In the mountains The snow falls all around me All is silent In the mountains In the mountains The evergreens are glistening With the icy crystals from the sky In the mountains In the mountains I see a cabin, smoke in a soft, gray spiral towards the sky As if to join the clouds In the mountains In the mountains The creek, always bubbling, rolling, Is in a frozen silence In the mountains Addison Conley, Grade 8 CSLA, Jane Varnell

Bottle caps of the future Always buying a bottle each one with its own stack of troubles. Still, am I yet to defeat the attractions that my mind has to their appealing factors. They claim to be a source of happiness, but in the dark of the night when I need them most they shatter and leave me in the dust. If only they would open up to me and allow me inside and comfort my souls brokenness, maybe I could mend their shattered pieces. I've never understood how someone can claim to be so close, but be so far at the same time. Many think my obsession with the bottles is crazed and over exaggerated. But really all I seek is exception. If their lids can open to others then how come not me? Am I not enough? Sometimes it's just gonna take a while to realize that youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re not the only cold soul that deserves the warmth of an understanding bottle. You have to remember They Are Shattered. And those broken pieces can also cut you. Just as a reminder, you should never have to change to please those in your life. If your friends-bottles truly love you they'll open up and share. But if not don't feel insulted, Their broken pieces may not be enough for you to handle. And if so cherish that they chose you to fix their smashed pieces. And allow yourself to get close open up to them, Don't Be Another Closed Bottle. Jasmine Garner, Grade 8 Heritage Middle School, Billie Carlock

ROSES ARE RED AND THAT IS TRUE BUT VIOLETS ARE VIOLETS AND CERTANTLY NOT BLUE Cooper Hamilton, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop Modern Art The colors on the page spreading, not quite running the random, blotchy pattern in lots of different shapes It can be anything the ideas in your mind in a swirling, twirling mess, put down on the page in lots of pretty colors in lots of cool shapes Lucy Haywood, Grade 8 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

Memory It's been a long day, without you my friend, The empty place in my heart will never be filled, the lump in my throat will never let up, and the ache in my gut will never subside. Death has placed a weight on my shoulders I cannot lift. I have learned how short life can be and how sweet every moment is. Your death was unexpected. Four-foot waves flipped the pontoon over, trapping you under water as the lake water poured into your lungs. The life jacket pulled you up, but the boat pulled you down. One moment you were here, and the next you were gone. I will remember you. and I'll tell you all about it when I see you again. Caroline Imsand, Grade 8 Baylor School, Mr. Loftin

Forgetting The sun opens my eyes But what is today? Monday, maybe? No, that was yesterday. But if so, that would make it Tuesday. But that’s tomorrow. Perhaps I’m stuck in between days Like when I was stuck on that slide Between the bottom And the top But can you get stuck between days Is that even possible? I walk down the stairs When did I get stairs? I have had a flat,(I have a flat) Right? No, now I have stairs. I have not had a flat. (Maybe it’s not a flat) I open the fridge It is empty, but why? I shopped yesterday. No, the day before. Tomorrow, maybe? But what is today? I get in my car Off to go shop But why? Is my fridge not full? I pull out the keys and walk back inside. But where am I? I believe I am mad Completely insane? But what is insane? Is it good, bad? But none the less, What is today?

I give up I cannot continue Continue what, though? I have not done much, not today. But forget it. Forget what? Kiya Kellams, Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

The Wonders of Snowboarding

The way the wind hits my face, And the delicate snowflakes descending into the white, endless abyss, As if they were approaching the end of their lives. And the moment they hit the ground, They are just another forgotten soul, lost in the colossal, Colorless world surrounding them. I love the way you seem to fly, Nearly glide down the summit, The sharp blade of the board Piecing through the half-artificial, half-natural snow Covering the surface of the mountain like a blanket of protection. Every time I snowboard, I get a feeling that is just simply indescribable. I don't know what it is that makes this so desirable. I wish there were words to explain it, But unfortunately, I can't grasp any. Callan Kroll, Grade 8 CSLA, Jane Varnell

Identity Music is apart of me, like birds singing in the trees, I’d rather be musical then be a bully I’m full of love, like stars in the night sky, or like the moon that shines bright I’d rather be helpful, to the ones around me, other then be shamed with hatred and cause agony Faith is all I need, to survive this legacy, like the sound of calm blues, like flowers in the breeze, moving slowly everywhere I’d rather stand small, and let music flow through me, then those who let frustration through, Music is apart of me, like flowers and bees, and music is made of me that flows in the air I’m made of music Deayanna Marine, 8th grade Heritage Middle School, Stefanie Wynne

Walls I wonder about these classroom walls. Are they wise? Do they know all? Have they heard the things we've thought out loud? Know the things we wonder about? Have they seen us smile? Seen us frown? Seen us copy the answers down From that website someone found on Yahoo For the homework we all forgot to do? If the walls are around is it wise to speak About all the secrets we promised to keep? If walls could talk what would they tell? Would they whisper? WOULD THEY YELL? Are they wise beyond their years? How long have they been standing here? Or do walls just stay there, plain and tall And wonder if the students know all? Sofia McDonough, Grade 8 CSLA, Jane Varnell

I’m never in the same house for more than a year. You see, my mother keeps getting different boyfriends and moving in with her crush or letting him sleep here. Making friends is useless, as often as I move. The most I’ve stayed in one place is 8 months. I think she’s trying to show that she’s widely approved. I’ve been to 7 schools in 8 years, most being before 6th grade. I’ve only been to 2 middle schools, ISAAC and Hixson Middle School. When will we stop, so the moves can finally be done being made. My mother chooses too many men, and chooses a dramatic distance. Her last marriage only lasted a little over a year, and when it ended, 964 miles and the distance from here to there. It’s insistent. It’s like she doesn’t know when to quit. She’s been with 6 men, in the last 13 years. I don’t know if there has been any before then, but I bet that right now, she’s trying to get another man again. There have been many people, who have gotten with my mother. She’s too much of an opportunist to turn anyone down. The only man who I like in the same house as my mother is my 24 year old brother. Noah Mount, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

crushed ice solid water droplets crushed ice, my true aesthetic freezing cold; my heart Karleigh Norris, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

Cramp A foot is that all I meant to you we played in the mud and I caught you when you fell but sometimes when you are just lying there when you bend me the wrong way I get mad Thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s when you sit up you say nothing you look at me and say "this is it, this is how I die" could I really cause this much pain "this, this will never end, ITS NOT STOPPING" he tries to rub it but the purple and black pain grows more I'm nothing but trouble the pain, it grows like kudzu taking over the leg like it is taking your soul nothing will fix it we are goners Lyles O'Neil, Grade 8 Baylor School, Carlene West

Brogen of the Blood-Red Woods Part I Brogen of the blood-red woods The outcast man with want of good Sought peace among the wind and sky But having seen his family die Twas plagued by fear and kindled hate For the love he felt was very great Brogen of the blood-red woods Leaped from the rock whereon he stood Landing came with hardly a fall Twas like he had not leaped at all Brogen of the blood-red woods Waited just right where he stood The huge great dane that was his horse Came barreling with untold force Brogen of the blood-red woods His pants were torn it was not good Mounted on his canine steed He road it through the blood-red trees Brogen of the blood-red woods Twas wearing a ripped and sap-stained hood He saw ahead a snow-white fire The danger that he felt was dire Brogen of the blood-red woods Stopped his steed right where it stood Slid from his burly canine steed And climbed up a blood-red tree Brogen of the blood-red woods Peered from within his sap-stained hood The group that sat before the fire Wore the white and red of the Empire Brogen of the blood-red woods Crept from the tree whereon he stood He glided â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;round the snow-white light Ready for a blood-red fight Brogen of the blood-red woods

Saw the men with blood-red hoods He saw the swords of which they held His odds were bad, he almost yelled Brogen of the blood-red woods Found a sword and it was good For the range of which it gave He thought would keep him from the grave Brogen of the blood-red woods Grasped the sword from where he stood As the hilt of bone touched his hand The pleasure that he felt was grand Brogen of the blood-red woods Held the blade from in his hood Brought his own and threw it in A koboldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s blood gushed from within Brennan Patterson, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

Hello my name is Depression You may have heard of me I’m always right next to you But I’m not easy to see I’m dark as night but bright as day I’m rather confusing, you see With claws that scrape away your joy And eyes that shine bright as stars I change with every person I have many different forms You may not always notice me but I’m always there I creep up your window on a rainy day I’ll dance upon the air I whisper in your ear so you will want to say “I hate everything. I’m worthless. What purpose do I have?” I’ll smile my evil smile And slice your emotions in half I take control and grab your strings You’re my puppet now There’s no one left but me Manipulative and clever I’ll take my sharp scissors And your happiness I will sever Oh I whisper sweet lies to you And oh will you believe them My laugh will pierce through the sky Your emotionless expression will be condemned My manipulative ways are sly One by one I’ll close each eye Until there is no life Hello my name is Depression You may have heard of me I’ve ruined you and now you’re gone And no one ever saw Erin Riley, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

Words are Weapons Words are not words at all. They are weapons that can be used to tear people down. Everyone has heard the rhyme, That one about sticks and stones. How they can be the cause of broken bones. But that doesn’t even begin to compare to the pain of words Someone can break their arms and legs, but still be happy It’s true that sticks and stones hurt, But words have a kind of pain that can kill even the most armor-clad person. Because it’s words that surpass armor and shields, It’s words that bring people to kill themselves, at least weapons make it quick. Words are Weapons. People joke around saying it’s all good fun, but they can’t see that they’re killing the victim of this so called “good fun” “One more day” they say, ”I’ll try to live it out one more day” But then one more day comes and goes and they are still victims “One more second” they say at the top of the building in the moment before they jump, Trying to end it all. Words are weapons. Use them wisely. Words can kill, but they can also keep people alive. The victim didn’t jump that day because as he was walking up the stairs to the top, A man walked by and said, ”Hey,” then he smiled. One more day was all it took to keep him alive. Words are weapons... But sometimes they can also be an anchor, Used to keep someone from floating away, trying to end the pain. Chris Robey, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

In Elementary School I Pondered In elementary school I pondered Why I had spelling tests on words I was never able to pronounce. With my large, round mouth Running with wet saliva, My brain swelled with fear! My tests blazed red With sinking scores. In frustration my teacher pulled out her hair. My fairy godmother prayed over me. Yet I was the four square hero, But only during recess time. With an aim like a soldier's right into the square. The team with me won and Another red letter day was done. Even now, When I spell, write, or type, It is clear that I am Schaerer, The one who uses spell check And butchers the English language, Who searches the dictionary for correct words And prays for passing grades. Mary Lee Schaerer, Grade 8 Baylor School, Bart Loftin

[ Grade 8 Prose ] Within the Shadows “Samuel, you need to go to the lost island! There was a problem at the research base. You will command the 501st regiment on a destroyer named the SS Sidney,” General Spunk ordered. "Sir, yes, sir,” Samuel said while saluting. Samuel walked out of the vibrant room. Well compared to the hallways. His office hallways white with gray borders. The hallway walls were grey cement. He kept walking right past the med bay. He heard the beeping of heart rate monitors. He made it to the dock seven minutes later. The sky a beautiful light blue. Fluffy clouds floating around like honeybees. He reached the ship, it was at least 97 yards long. Powerful guns for taking down ships. The gangplank was dropped down. A long thin piece of metal with grooves for grip. When Samuel stepped on it nothing happened no bending, cracking, sliding absolutely nothing. He continued after a little experimenting, and was greeted by a minimum of 100 soldiers.” Hey, quiet. No get me the technician please.” Samuel barked. Few troops left the mass to find the technician.” Now here's what we have to do, the lost island has a military research base on it. There has been a problem that is unknown. Now that does not mean this will be easy it may in fact be hard,” Samuel yelled. The troops nodded their heads and praised him. Then they went back to work. After a minute Samuel was in the control room piloting the ship with the technician by his side. After an hour they arrived at the island, they gathered in the center and discussed orders. The troops left the ship in their respective groups to search for the base. Later that night Samuel left the troops at the entrance to the base, to go get the technician. The only thing they found was a small pool of a dark blue liquid. In turn, they traveled back to the camp, and joined the others. With them talking around fires and dancing, singing, telling tales, a screech came from the base. The soldiers dropped it as if it was nothing, then they hear rustling in the bushes. They turn their attention to the bushes. Tall dark blue beetles emerge, walking on two legs and yellow eyes. Pure yellow no iris or even a pupil just yellow. The bugs kept advancing so the soldiers did not know what to do. They kept backing up. Before they knew it they were through the gates. The bugs ran off, as if in fear. They turned around to see the rundown base before them. Long green vines dangling from the top. Some of the soldiers were relieved they saw this place as a safe haven. Samuel sent 40 troops in to investigate, 50 to defend the outside, and 10 with him to go to the bases HQ. They found the HQ dark and musty. Some of the screens shattered but that was about it. A troop picked up a cassette tape and put it in a player. “The experiments have gone wrong if you are here to investigate. Leave now. The man screamed,” the tape ends. They look to their right were they came from to see nothing they then look to their left to see one of the troops slumped against the wall. Holding his neck with blood oozing out. “Watch all areas. If it moves shoot it. We have one down and don’t need another. They opened the exit door to see dead troops, Samuel closed the door and locked it. Then he turned

around to see an odd bump in the wall. He walked up to it and noticed it was a hatchdoor. He opened it and slid down a chute to be followed by his troops. He fell into a lab room with shattered beakers and broken lights. He noticed a note on the table. Entry 4: The experiment has gone wrong. No need to worry. Our staff will fix it. Our creation has gotten hostile and bit a scientist. The paper had a chunk ripped out but the rest read. Run!!! The experiment has spread everyone is infected… There was then nothing left. Nothing at all. It hit Samuel this area was a mad science laboratory. They then turned and entered a room. In the middle was an abomination of a creature. It was wearing a lab coat and had a wad of paper in its hand. "Ha, ha, ha, you have killed yourselves soon I will fully turn and you will die.” The creature wheezed. It then lunged to be shot by Samuel’s pistol. They backed out and into an office. Samuel booted up a transmitter. “Don’t come here, if you do you will die.” Samuel spoke into the mic. Banging started on the hatch they came from. Troops, man your positions. They got into position and was ready to fight. "It was an honor to fight by your side but I believe we will all die now, but don’t lose hope,” Samuel said in an honorable way. From the chute emerged scientists with snake fangs and a fly's head with eagle legs and claws. The creatures charged for them, and they opened fire. They kept getting closer, for every one down four replaced it. They reached the troops and quickly killed them. The last thing Samuel saw was one of the creatures... but with a dog tag around its neck. Noah Albergotti, Hixson Middle School Grade 8, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

The Boy Named Marcus (The first chapter of and book that I am writing)

The year is 2014 in Waterford, Ireland and it started as an average day for Marcus Fields. He began with his daily routine of putting salt in his tea, tripping over the hedge on the way to the mailbox, and putting on an atrociously mismatched outfit. You see, Marcus was blind, or “legally blind” as his parents usually corrected. Marcus himself didn’t mind the label, since this was a trait he had dealt with from birth and had become accustomed to tripping over, running into, and generally hurting himself on various obstacles. However, this isn’t to say that he had no awareness of his surroundings. Sometimes he would weave around objects with an uncanny sense of their locations. His parents had even taken to calling him their “little dolphin,” a term that chagrined the 16-year-old. I’m old enough to have my driver’s license, Marcus would mentally grumble. At least, I would be if I could see the road. But all in all, Marcus and his parents lived a happy existence. Each day Marcus would attend school in his pajamas. Don’t worry though, it’s not a recurring nightmare; Marcus was a homeschooler and enjoyed his “mad scientist” dad’s lessons and his mom’s homemade ice cream with lunch. On this particular day, Marcus entered the house to the sound of his dad humming the Star Wars introduction song. As was usual for his family, once the song started, he and his mom impulsively joined in. The sound of “dum duum da da da dum dum,” echoed through their average sized house. Tabitha Fields twirled through the kitchen towards her son and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “Good morning!” she chirped. “How did you sleep? Any more nightmares?” “Not since Tuesday” Marcus painfully lied. He hated lying to his mother but he also hated seeing her sad. Marcus knew she didn’t buy the lie, since she could always seem to tell what he was really thinking. “Is dad singing ‘Let It Go’ to the cat again?” he deflected, and when his mom walked to her husband he wiped the sweat off his forehead and felt his way to the toaster to put in some gluten-free, GMO-free, nut-free, soy-free, and basically taste-free bread. His mom had overhauled their entire cabinet ever since making her husband Isaac start a radical new diet which was, unfortunately, affecting Marcus too. As he waited for the toast to pop, Marcus considered the dreams that had been increasingly plaguing him. Maybe it’s the new diet, Marcus wondered. I’m probably missing some vital protein or nutrient and it’s making me go wacko. He dreamed of images, clear ones, not the fuzzy and warped ones that he’d seen for 16 years. This first fact unbalanced him enough, but it was the deafening screams of his mom as she cried for his dad and him to run into swirling nothingness that truly kept him awake at night. Of course, it was only a dream and Marcus only told his parents about it after they heard him tossing in his bed. Ding! The sound of the toast popping brought Marcus back to his senses. Only then did he smell his toast burning. “Not again,” Marcus groaned. “Dad! Mom! Open up the windows! I found a new way to burn down the house,” he exclaimed. A couple moments passed with an uncharacteristic silence and Marcus had a sickening realization. The burning smell wasn't coming from the toaster. Marcus dashed through the living room towards his parent’s bedroom and the smell of the fire, weaving around the

furniture with an agility stemming from years of living in that same house. Suddenly, Marcus was blindsided by an enormous force and pushed into his bedroom across the hall. Voices found their way through the gathering smoke. “We’ll never give it to you,” Isaac’s hoarse yet confident voice proclaimed. Marcus would have gone to his father’s aid, but he was disoriented by the blast. Every time he tried to stand his head started pounding as if someone was using his head as a drum. He began to feel around the room for some way to recognize his location, but suddenly he heard a new voice coming from the direction of his parent’s bedroom. “Where. Is. It?” the voice growled threateningly. “Don’t make me do something we would all regret. Just tell me where to find it and you can go back to your normal earth lives.” At this Marcus knew he must be hallucinating because of the smoke, but this thought came too late. He felt his consciousness slowly slipping away even as he struggled to call out for help. Marcus woke to a burst of sound and flashing light. Vague figures loomed over his aching body and held a plastic mask over his mouth. Marcus tore the mask off his face and started shouting questions. “What happened? Who are you? Where are my parents?” he gasped. He tried to sit up but the pounding in head came back and he was overtaken by a fit of coughing. He heard another unfamiliar voice. The voice of a man, Marcus thought. “Um, sir you probably need to lay back!” The fireman beside him commanded. “I'll lay down when you tell me where I am, who you are, and what happened to my parents!” Marcus argued. “Your parents? You were the only person in the house, besides your cat,” he replied. “We found out that the fire was caused by a knocked over lamp. Do you have any idea how it started?” “No, sir I don't, but my parents were there!” he insisted. From behind Marcus, an unfamiliar girl’s voice entered the conversation. “Marcus you’re safe! Our parents will be so glad!” she exclaimed. Turning to the fireman, the girl explained, “I was out shopping with our parents when our neighbor called us about the fire.” Marcus raised his eyebrow with a confused look on his face. Who was this girl? He had always been an only child… unless you count the cat, which his dad treated like a child. “Umm... I think the smoke is getting to me because I have never had a sister and my parents were with me this morning!” he insisted. Her hand grabbed his arm, a little too tightly, and her voice returned with an edge of steel to it. “My older brother has an active imagination. Sometimes it gets the better of him. Is he good to go?” she questioned so forcefully that the fireman had no choice but to agree. “Oh, yes I guess he should be fine. Just don't put him through too much for a little while so he can recover,” the fireman instructed. The girl pulled Marcus off the gurney and dragged him to an empty part of the street, ignoring him as he stumbled along behind. Marcus was about to open his mouth to protest, but instead he heard a voice behind them yelling, “Wait for me!” Marcus turned to find the source of the yelling but all he saw was the small, obscure shape of his cat. He scooped up the cat into his arms and stroked his head softly. Not expecting a reply, Marcus asked the cat, “You believe me, right Sir Castic?”

Marcus’s day became even weirder as his family pet actually answered his inquiry. “Of course, Marcus. But this is not the time for answering questions. As we speak, your parents’ captor is escaping further away,” purred the orange tabby. While Marcus’s family had always been strange, this new realization seemed a sure sign that he was slipping into insanity. Next, his cat would probably burst out into one of the Frozen songs his dad used to sing to Sir Castic. “Wha-?” Marcus had little time to begin asking before the girl once again interrupted. “We need to go NOW. I’m sorry to thrust this on you, but if you want to save your parents you need to follow me,” the girl commanded as she turned and began walking away from Marcus with determined clip to her step. “I'm sorry but I can't exactly see you so following you would be hard, plus I don't even know who in middle earth you are!” he barked. His tone was so loud and desperate that it surprised even him, and the girl was forced to turn back to him. After a moment of staring at him, her expression softened and she gave a small sigh of resignation. “I am Arabella Steeple, and I was sent here from Pluto to save your parents and help save the universes,” she stated heroically. “Well that clears everything up.” He grumbled rolling his eyes. “It clears up that I'm seriously going insane and I probably need a head doctor.” But despite his major reservations, something in her voice made him trust her, and for some strange reason he didn’t resist when Arabella grabbed his hand and led him into the swirling nothingness from his nightmares… Hannah Bell, 8th grade Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

The Antiques of Worchester Shop

Zack was a normal teenager with dark, black, curly hair, freckles, and pale skin. He wore a red shirt and navy blue jeans with a nice pair of silver tennis shoes. If there was anything that Zack liked, it was antiques. He adored things from the past. He liked old lamps and televisions, devices from the early 1900s, tapestries that portrayed stories from the Renaissance, you name it. Antiques are what made him Zack Joseph Bartholomew. After school every day, he would visit the Worchester Antique Shop which is run by Eugene Percival Worchester. He was known to the neighborhood as “Old Man Worchester”, mostly because nobody knows his true age, but he is clearly in his 70’s, or possibly older. He wore the same dusty leather jacket and lime shirt every day. He wore brown slacks and shoes that were hardly new and to finish it off, a black bow tie around his neck. You could hardly call him the joy of the neighborhood with his sharp tongue and grumpy attitude. Zack could see through his hard shell, though. He knew deep down there was a warm heart inside him. It was a sunny morning on summer break, which naturally means that Zack was headed for the antique shop. He entered the shop with his hands in his jean pockets and a small grin on his face. “Mr. Worchester?” he called out. “What?!” a gruff voice responded, “Can’t you see I’m busy?! Come back tomorrow!” “It’s me, Zack.” “Oh. Well come in then, kid.” As he walked over to the cashier’s stand. He saw the man shifting through shelves behind the counter. “What do you want?” “I was just coming to see if you had anything new.” “It’s been the same stuff for 30 years! Nothing hardly comes in or ever goes out.” “Well, it’s just that I’ve noticed you have this door with a ‘KEEP OUT!’ sign on it. I’ve always wondered what was behind it. I thought you might be hiding more stuff in there. ” “Kid, if a door has a sign like that on it, the person who put it there doesn’t want you to go in there! Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very, very busy.” Zack noticed that he looked depressed and worried. With a long sigh he said, “Zack, I’ve been keeping this secret far too long. Every Worchester passes on this knowledge to his descendant, but I have no children and nobody to pass this on to, except for you Zack. You’ve been coming over here for some time now and your love of antiques just astounds me. I wasn’t sure if you could handle it at first, but now it seems that you’re ready.” He walked over to the door and unlocked it. It opened to reveal a small golden pyramid. It had strange rune-like symbols all over it. Mr. Worchester brought it over to the counter. He suddenly chanted an incantation and waved his hand over it. The runes began to glow blue! It slowly began to open, unleashing a bright beam of light so intense it almost blinded Zack! After the light had dimmed, the usually old and dusty shop had transformed into a magnificent room! The walls were the color of scarlet with golden designs covering it! The ceiling was a star map, and it almost seemed to…..move! The shelves were still lined with antiques, but they seemed different. They were sparkling with different colors, but still maintained their aged look.

“Welcome to the real Worchester Antique Shop!” Mr. Worchester exclaimed. Even though the antiques had changed, Mr. Worchester still looked the same. “It may be a lot to take in, but after a while you’ll get used to it. The shop is magic, Zack. The antiques are magic as well, each one with a different ability. See that light bulb over there? That was Edison’s lost experiment, it can absorb or create light just like that, uh, Jerry Copper device.” “You mean Harry Potter?” “Yeah, that. See that music box over there? It’s a song repository. Every song that ever was can be played, from Mozart to that Van Halem nonsense.” “That’s, Van Halen.” “Whatever. See that painting with a woman reading a book? It’s supposed to be magic, but I never really saw how.” He went on and on about each one of the antiques; he said what their abilities were and where they were from. Eventually, he walked back to the closet door with the sign on it. “Zack, this is actually a teleporting door.” He opened the door to reveal a black void. He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, wrote something on it, and threw it inside. Suddenly, the door closed automatically and began to spin! A great flash of light filled the room once more! When the light faded, the door had changed. It was bright red with a golden dragon doorknocker; it was something you might see on an Asian temple. The door opened to reveal the Sakura Matsuri Gardens in Tokyo, Japan! The aroma of cherry blossoms filled the air. Bonsai trees and flowers lined a bamboo walkway to a small temple. Mr. Worchester closed the door and repeated the same process as before. This time, the door looked old and expensive with a dark chestnut stain as well as metal floral designs. As the door opened it revealed a dense fog. Zack could see dark buildings lining the streets and Big Ben overlooking the city! “That’s London, England, Zack.” “It’s incredible, Mr. Worchester!” Mr. Worchester sighed. “Kid, this is just a small example of what the job involves. Our purpose is to retrieve and keep the antiques safe until they can be given back to their rightful heirs. The world needs magic, Zack. That’s why we are called, The Keepers.” Gavin Cupp 8th Grade, Woodson

Untitled Nothing much ever happens here. At all. Nothing too exciting, at least. Whenever I had started on my way to this barren land, I was elated to join the crowd. Now, as each person walks the path here, a weight drops in my stomach. Why are they coming? What decisions have been made to come here? I wish I could maybe tell them to go back. Tell them how much they will regret their decision of coming here. But, I stand in my area, expected to be what I had decided to be, as it is not really me at all. When I had first decided to wander away from my norm, I didn't know where I was going at all. No specifics pop into my head at all. All I remember is all the struggles of wandering off, all of the monsters, bumps in the road, all of the intersections, deciding where to go. I remember the struggle of leaving my normal abode, slowly slipping out of it. Leaving, as I didn't remember anything of who they were, or the place it was. But my motivation of the whole trip was to get to the amazing place, where I can finally belong, or do something that I can be known for, or anything. But, this place is nothing but a disoriented dream, screening the reality of all of it right at my face, as blinding as ever. New people have joined this crowd all the time, which is always too often, Their faceâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s just hits me over again and again of the bad decision I made to come here, and their bad decision also. It's difficult to do anything here, unless you are required of it. Their manipulative ways, of tricking you even when you know you don't really want to do any of it. But, you might as well. Some of the people here enjoy their stay, as they are welcomed, well treated, They feel as they are supposed to be here. As others, I can sense their sorrow. Sometimes, it is well hidden. Other times, it is as reminding as an alarm clock. All I ever do here is stand in my position, showing what has to be shown, doing what has to be done, and living not as I should be living, To this day, the thought of just flooring it to get out of here, fills my mind. But what will the consequences be? What will be done to me? Even if I leave, I am still in contact of them. You almost never fully escape once you have gone in. They can pull you back in as easily as they pulled you in the first time. The whimsical world that this is foolery, all a trick. And the purpose? I am still uncertain of it. As I am now here, all of reality hits me, noticing of how innocent I was, as making the decision. Now, I am a completely different person, as when I followed the crowd, the stereotype, the popular selection, my definition of good is mashed up. Maybe I can find my way out, of this addiction filled area, but, my mind takes over, back to my uncaring state. Because, how bad can it really be? Thomas Davis, Hixson Middle School Grade 8, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

The Swing of Screams

The cool night had swallowed us all. As my mom, sister, and I sat exhausted on a bench, soft golden light streaked across the cold pavement. A scream pierced the darkness; instinctively my head jerked towards the massive swing. The terrifying eighty foot drop waited stealthily for the small boy. The blackness fed on the boy's screams and seemed to grow darker and darker with each plea. At the Young Life Family Camp in Georgia the swing was one of the most popular activities, but it was built for teenagers. The small boy's nightmare was coming to life. The child screamed and screamed. Down his ruddy cheeks tumbled tears. The counselors strapped him into a five point harness. His tiny chest heaved as he cried for his mother to help, but she told the counselors to keep strapping. "He'll love it!" she snapped at the people behind her who questioned her parenting skills. The boy sobbed, kicking at the counselors. "Please, Mama!" he cried. "No! I don't want to!" she ignored him. My mom couldn't take it anymore. She left her position beside me as I tried to hold her back. "Mama, what are you doing?" She didn't reply and pulled her shirt from my grip. As she walked into the darkness, my little sister Hannah clung to my arm with fear, for we were now a nine- and a seven-year-old alone in the night. I stood up to get a better look at the horrible scene into which my mom was walking into. I felt Hannah squeezing me tightly as if I were her stuffed animal. "Please! Let me down!" the boy screamed at the counselors, who looked at the mother. "Make him do it!" She crossed her arms refusing to budge. The boy kicked with all his might. His howls of terror echoed against the black hills. My heart pounded in my throat as my mom made her way to the front of the line. The mother of the screaming boy turned to face her, but my mom walked straight past and slowed in front of the counselors. "Your responsibility is to the child first!" she said to the counselors with determination. "Get him down!" She stood firmly until the child was unstrapped. As my mom walked back through the line, I saw people giving her words of thanks. My mom had done the right thing. When she got back to us, she sighed a breath of relief. Hannah and I sat back down, but our trepidation lingered. Silence tingled in the night air. Suddenly, from the darkness emerged the angry mother, dragging her tentative, tear-streaked son behind her. My mom stood up unable to match the woman's height. My face grew hot, and tears stung my eyes. "I am the mother! I decide what he does! He always pitches a fit before every ride and afterwards he loves it!" the woman exclaimed as her intimidating stare burrowed into my mom's, "I know my own child!" She waited for a response; her frizzy hair seemed to expand as her fury grew. "Okay," said my mom, satisfied that the boy's nightmare was over. She had no desire for an altercation. The mother turned on her heel and stomped away with her young son trailing behind.

"Mommy, did I disappoint you?" he asked. She ignored him once again. We never heard the response if there was one. I felt a pang of sympathy for the boy as my mom hugged me and my sister. "I love you," she whispered. I felt her warm breath on my cheek, and I squeezed her tighter. "I love you too," I whispered back. How hard will the rest of this boy's childhood be? Will his love hunger only be met with demands to prove his worthiness? How will I treat my own children? Can I remember to love them unconditionally? One night I might whisper in my own children's ears, "I love you! You are God's child of great worth to Him and to me. Nothing will ever change that!" Gracen Ford, Grade 8 Baylor School, Mr. Loftin

Untitled

There was a moment of shock for Erica as she dropped the broken glass bottle. A moment of thoughts and confusion as she looked at the clean cut onto her left hand. The cut wasn’t very large, but it stretched from her palm to the edge of her ring finger. This wasn’t the best time. She thought to herself. “Oh my god, Eri.” Erica turned. Her friend, Cyan stood there. Cyan was like a mother to Erica. He was so helpful, her always cared for her, and looked out for her. He was a good friend, he really was. But sometimes, he could overreact, “It’s nothing,” Erica brushed off, clenching her left fist. “We need to find something clean to wrap the cut with, your hand can’t be exposed to this air.” Erica nodded, and they began walking to an old motel in the raided town. The apocalypse had started only a few months ago, and resources had already been highly depleted. Erica and her group of friends were on a camping trip when it had happened. They’re really not sure what exactly happened, but they had all agreed to stick together. Erica checked her watch, she promised Miranda that she and Cyan would be back at the camp by noon, they needed to hurry if they wanted to get back. “You're walking too fast, your blood is pumping too fast.” Cyan complained, as Erica tried to keep up with him. “Stop running then!” “I’m not,” Cyan paused and stopped walking, as if he couldn’t think and walk at the same time. He quickly looked at the motel. “I’ll run in quickly and find something clean for you to wrap your hand around, stay here.” Erica didn’t complain, because what was to complain? She watched as Cy ran into the building, and sighed. He’d put too much pressure on himself. He just needed to relax once in awhile. Everyone at the camp believed the same, even Noel did. He started becoming overprotective over everyone ever since - Quinn. Quinn was gone now. Erica wasn’t there to see it but she knew for sure Levi and Cyan was there when it happened. She hadn’t got much detail on it but Miranda and Reb had told her it was a monster of some sort. Erica slept in Reb’s tent for the next two weeks after that. The rest of Erica’s thoughts were poofed away as Cyan ran out the hotel straight at Erica and immediately wrapping the cloth around her hand. It was a picnic table pattern, but Erica didn’t seem like she wanted to question it currently, she did another time check. 11:39 PM. They had to get back. “We-,” Erica didn’t get to finish her sentence. “Yeah, I know, we gotta get back so you can see Miranda, c’mon, let’s find the jeep.” Erica nodded, and followed Cyan in the direction they had came from. They walked, Erica followed Cyan. She studied the worried look on his brown face, Cyan wore worn down track pants, and a sweatshirt - Quinn’s sweatshirt, she realized. Erica thought

about how overdressed she was, with her high waisted shorts and her shirt layered under a jacket. She thought about how Cyan dressed comfortably while Erica dressed for survival. Well - actually - they all dressed for survival, but all sorta differently. Miranda wore flannel most of the time, along with cargo pants and combat boots, Reb wore capris with a tank with a buttoned up shirt usually flung over her shoulders. Noel wore baggy pants with any shirt he had on usually. And Levi mostly wore torn blue jeans with a normal T shirt. Clothes said a lot about personality. She assumed, thinking about what Miranda was currently doing. Her thoughts were soon washed away as Erica heard a groan, and it wasn’t from her. Erica opened her mouth to say something, something witty at Cyan, like “Who’s the negative Nancy now?” or something like “Stop thinking about Quinn, we gotta keep going.” When Cyan’s eyes widened and starting pulling onto Erica’s good hand, her right one. “Oh god, not-” Tears started rushing out of Cyan’s eyes. “We stayed here too long” Erica could hear Cyan whisper, as they began running towards the direction they entered the town. “Cy, what?” Erica asked in a screech as she quickened her pace, trying to catch up to the former athlete. “The ones who killed him, Quinn. They-” Cyan had began explaining, before falling and tripping onto the ground, against the hard gravel. Erica gasped as blood began soaking through Cyan’s pants, around his knee. “Cy!” She screamed in horror as she pulled him up to keep going. To go back, to go back to Miranda. “I can’t run-” Cyan gulped, holding down his knee. “Go on without me.” “You-” Erica had to make a decision, and quickly. Leave Cyan, get home, be safe, and see Miranda. Or hide somewhere with Cyan and risk getting caught and never seeing Miranda again. Erica went with the latter and looked to her right, there laid a building with the words YIKESVILLE PUBLIC LIBRARY over on a sign near the entrance. She pulled onto Cyan’s arm and pointed over to it, Cyan seemed to understand. They quickly went to the building and Erica looked at the glass door entrance, assuming it was locked and closed her eyes and kicked it. Flecks of glass went flying everywhere and Cyan flinched hard but then they remembered why they needed to go in. The went into the huge library, looking at the vast amount of books that looked like they haven’t been touched in months. “Over here.” And Erica nodded, and went into the nonfiction section and bent down behind a row of shelves. “We’re safe-” Erica sighed in relief. “Uh-” Cyan whispered and Erica turned around. A grin with sharp teeth. The last thing she thought about was Miranda and her smile. Emily Ho, Grade 8 Hixson Middle School, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

Hell Has Dental Insurance

Despite all the tragic rumors, Hell truly is quite a comfortable work environment. Of course, there are the billions of tortured souls, roaming endlessly through lakes of fire, fields of barbed wire, and forests filled to the brim with behemoths, but there’s free dental care. Not to mention, the actually work space is delightful. B+ coffee, delightful coworkers. easy hours. and although he may be cranky on the occasion (there is, obviously, the Accounting Incident in 1834, but that’s only ever happened once...as far as we know) Satan is a nice guy. His name isn’t really Satan, mind you. Some call him that, others call him Beelzebub or Him. I call him Mr. B. Now, it’s not as if you can just send an email to the Devil himself, with your resumé copy and pasted. No, you have to be one of the most cruel and evil people of all time. I’ve worked with Charles Manson and Jim Jones. Although, I haven’t seen those guys since my first year working here. Anyway, you may be wondering, “Oh, demonic author, then who is suffering for an eternity while all the evil dead work their horns off?” And to that, I say that you have a very twisted idea of what Hades and job searching is truly like. Let me present a few points here: 1. Not just every demented human being gets to work in the hottest place not on earth. It does take skill to get a job here, just like everywhere else. (ex: Bonnie started working as a lawyer once she died, but Clyde merely drops by every now and then to say hello to his lover, only to walk back into the fiery abyss.) 2. Evil is subjective, and deciding who is the worst of the worst and who deserves what is a job in it of itself. 3. We’re not all dead, technically. To explain, I’ll tell you the story of a mass serial killer, torturer, and waterboarding enthusiast. Yours truly, Me. I’m afraid that I can’t tell you who I am. That would take so very much out of the fun. Besides, maybe curiosity will kill not just the cat, but you as well. We are running out of Employees, after all. Apologies, tangent. Before I became an Employee, and after my retirement from murdering the innocent (the usual kidnapping, torturing, and death...but they were politicians, I’d hardly call them “innocent”) I spent most of my time in a constant state of depression. Not really from guilt, but that could have something to do with it. Mainly, it was existentiality. The point of living, the absurdness of existence, what made God think it was ok to put us here without instructions? The kind of thing that you bring up around Christmas and Thanksgiving, ya know?

Anyway, I just sat there, minding my own business, and next thing I know, I have a bottle of pills in my hand, and down they go. I’m not sure what happened in between that time, but I died within the hour. Then I woke up again. Hell has king size beds, and very comfortable ones at that. I woke up in a top bunk, hearing muffled screams through the plaster walls around me, then immediately tumbling out of bed and onto the linoleum tiles. No matter what people may tell you, if you die, and have the unfortunate pleasure of waking up the next night, know this: The movies and books are lies. It hurts like...well, Hell. Worst. Employee. Hazing. Ever After retching multiple times, and after telling myself that clawing my eyes out would most definitely not be the best option in this case, I allowed myself to look around at the room I was in. It was nice. A single bedroom, a lack of decor. With a shaking body, I made my way out of the room, and into the hall. It was just an apartment building. Apparently, there were a massive number of architects and contractors who make their way to the Underworld. The front door stood, a simple wood texture with a peep hole, and I placed my hand on the silver handle, twisting it. It was dark. Absolutely nothing could be seen past the edge of the doorframe. I had nothing to lose, so I stepped in. The door shut behind me, and I fell. I thought I had died for a second time. Honestly, I could not have possibly cared less. Dying once, shame on me, sure. Dying twice, shame on you, sir or madam or whatever. Shame. On. You. Suffice it to say, when I woke up (for the second time, jesus, I pass out more than a frat boy) on a velvet sofa, with a nine foot tall man standing in front of me, it was slightly frightening. I was not prepared for him to turn around. My eyes made their way up his legs, dark grey hooves poking out of blood-red pinstripe pants. Then, his torso, a matching coat and tie to complete his “demonic 60’s mobster” look. Each one of his callused knuckles were tattooed in a glowing red ink, a massive contrast against his near-white skin. I caught a glance at a fluorescent, “666,” before I finally caught a look at his face. The Devil has cheekbones that could cut through paper, pitch black eyes, dirty blonde hair that could steal the heart of any mortal or immortal, and dark black ram’s horns that curled a half a foot above his head, occasionally flickering with flames. He grinned at me, flashing pearly white fangs and a forked tongue. “Hi, I’m Satan, the Lord of Sin. This is Hell, and we’d like to offer you a job in the filing department. If you don’t accept, you’ll be in pain until Armageddon comes.” I screamed, and politely accepted the offer. Austen Holritz, Hixson Middle School (Grade 8), Carrie Bishop

Untitled The field’s nights were much colder than the days. No one was traveling on the roads and the sun was resting peacefully behind the hill. The sidewalks had no bugs crawling and the trees stayed silent. Jane and I walked on the path beside the forest, even though it was around midnight. “Kiya,” Jane began. Jane was my little sister, and I knew that she would be asking about the destination we would find. “where are we going at such a late hour?” I sighed lightly. “I’m not sure,” I looked down to the little girl. “we’ll find out, though.” I reassured her so she wouldn’t ask anymore questions. “Plus, the journey is always more fun than the destination. Do you want to play a game? We can play 20 questions.” “Uh, okay! I have something.” She jumped up lightly, very excited. “Okay, is it… alive? Can it move?” “I don’t know, and yeah, it can move.” She said, a little less happily. “Well, is it a person? Do we know them?” I asked as she slowed her walking pace. “We did.” She said. I stopped, turning to her. “Do you know who it is? You’ve met her long before I did… and I don’t really know her that well.” “Jane, are you talking about… mom?” I looked her in her red little eyes as she nodded, and a tear fell from them. “She knows you.” I said, kneeling down beside her. “And, she loves you very much.” Jane just nodded, and I got back up onto my feet. The only thought I had, the only constant and reoccurring thought that filled my head, “Do I really know my mother?” She had been gone for over half of my life, and she flew away right after Jane could be released from the hospital, I was nine. Now, Jane is seven, I am near seventeen. It was so hard, watching her grow up without her. Our mother was a beautiful person, and very sweet. “Jane, please don’t be upset. I, I have something that you can guess.” “Is it… money?” She giggled as I rolled my eyes playfully. “No, it is not money.” I emphasized. “Do you have any, though? I’m broke.” I laughed. She shook her head and smiled. “Well, do you want me to tell you what it really is?” She nodded. “Tell me, tell me!” She jumped. “Before I do, you should know something, okay? So, long ago, in a beautiful city, a little girl was born. Her mother fell head over heels in love with her the second she was born. But, when the little girl was old enough to go home, the mother saw an opportunity, she had seen a beautiful green rose in another nice city, so she traveled long days and nights to go find the little green rose and bring it back to the little girl.” Jane and I were still walking, but street lights were now coming into view. We were almost there. “And, when the little girl turned seven, the mother thought, the little girl would love that little green rose, and so the messenger, who was almost ten years older, had found the little girl, and she made it her mission to take the girl to the green rose.”

I stopped as a large brown door was in front of us. “Jane, are you ready to see the woman who wanted the rose?” I asked. She wearily nodded, probably not sure of what was happening. I knocked twice. “Kiya, are you the messenger?” I nodded and the door opened, and our mother was revealed. And, sure enough, there was a little green rose in a glass container, waiting for Jane’s arrival. Kiya Kellams, Hixson Middle School Grade 8, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

Tidal Soul

Muted tones flashed in his face. He had become colorblind, not recognizing any shimmer of iridescence he use to be able to identify, besides the swirls of gray, black, and white bursts smacking him in the face. His senses were numb. He became accustomed to the sour scent of salt, his ears hearing the roars of the mighty waves. His eyes stung, vision cloudy, and he wasn't sure if it was from the briny water or his own tears. The man sucked in moist air and quaked under his soaked clothes, worried that it could be his last breath. His hands were blistered from holding on and being pulled by the scratchy rope for so long. He pushed all the strength he had left and tugged onto the rope once more, shouting, "I-uh, this is very dangerous!" "Nonsense, dear Hopkin!" A man yelled, a sliver of an accent buried in his gruff voice. He had thick, brown sugar hair peeking out of a burgundy bandana. On top of the tight cloth was a raggedy, triangle shaped hat that was barely hanging on against the current of the winds. His pale, mist covered face was coated in stubble. His passionate eyes glanced at the fellow struggling with the rope, replying to his remark. “This is the safest ship traveling across the ocean! You’ll be fine; this is a part of your special training. You’re going to have to get use to the mighty attitude of mother nature—“ “I’m not worried about the ship, but this storm. I didn’t agree to this training, mind you.” Hopkin interrupted, cutting his rant short. His numb fist clenched tighter on the rope, his other reaching up to push up his glasses. Hopkin brushed his auburn hair out of his eyes and looked back to the courageous, crazy pirate. He asked, “Bird, when do you predict this storm will end, when we will get out of it?” “I’m not sure how long it’ll take the storm to end, but I am certain that we are coming out of it soon. There is a small patch of sunlight ahead.” The pirate named Bird responded, looking forward into the dark atmosphere. Bird smirked a bit, “We’ll make it.” “Oh my god…” Bird muttered under his breath. He and the rest of his crew were appalled at the large ship. The pirate ship was at least two times bigger than Bird’s. It was made out of a red wood base with industrial poles supporting the weight of the ship. Cannons and other lethal weapons were hanging off the side of the ship, threatening to go off at Bird’s boat, which was called the Tidal Soul. If Bird’s crew looked up high enough, they could see lingering pirates, flashing over the edge of the railing of the ship, mad grins on their dirty faces. “Good heavens,” Hopkin breathed. He had never been on a boat before, nevertheless seen this. All Hopkin wanted to do was get to a library on an island a few miles out from shore. He didn’t have that much money to spare, and the fee to travel on the regular ferry was way out of his price limit. He had found a flyer lying in a dark alley about a ship that could take anyone anywhere they wanted to go for only a small fine, so he took it. Bird, the captain of the ship, made the ride seem like a pirate training session rather than a short trip. Bird ended up getting the ship caught in a storm, leading them far away from their destination, putting Hopkin farther away from his library. At least we got out of that wretched storm, Hopkin thought. A boisterous laugh sucked him out of his mind, throwing him back into the present situation. “Seems like you’re about to cut through Bone’s Bog,” A velvety voice drawled. All sound had evaporated long ago. “And last I checked, I didn’t give you any permission to pass through there.”

Bird adjusted his hat and cleared his throat. Cupping his hand around his mouth, he shouted up to the unseen voice. “Who might you be, and who gave you the authority to say whether or not I can pass through?” A head popped up from the railing of the large ship. Everyone on Bird’s boat unconsciously took a step back. The big man was quite fearsome, with long, raven braids tumbling down his neck, connected to his plump cheeks. His thick air blended in with his beard. He was built, looking like he could knock someone’s skull in with the poke of his finger. “I am Bone.” Bird gulped, scratching the stubble on his face. “The Bone?” Bone nodded, a wicked grin spilling on his face. It sent shivers down Bird and Hopkin’s spines. Bird internally panicked. How was he supposed to get Hopkin to the library now? That should have been the least of his worries, but this was his first transportation job. Hopkin was his first client. Bird felt as if Hopkin was his new responsibility. He was going to take care of it. Bird’s features hardened. He looked up at Bone with a piercing sharpness in his eyes that was almost as scary as Bone. “We’re passing through the Bog, with or without your permission.” “Oh really?” Bone let out a sharp laugh. He looked to his men and screamed, “Fire!” “Get down!” Bird also screamed, tucking his body behind a box of supplies. Hopkin sprinted to the box where Bird was hiding and leaped behind it. Hopkin, red in the face, gripped Bird’s collar, shaking the psychotic pirate. “What on earth are you doing?” Hopkin scolded. A sloppy grin crawled onto Bird’s face. He rolled his eyes and poked Hopkin in the forehead. “We’re getting you to the library, silly.” Hopkin didn’t know whether or not he regrets his decision to go on a trip with this spirited maniac. He smiled, preparing himself for the long journey ahead. Sarah Lewis, Grade 8 Chattanooga High School Center for Creative Arts, Sandra Howard

Two Faced

I had always thought I was doing good. That's what heroes do right? Well, apparently I was wrong. My name is Nathaniel Brown, and I am currently eighteen years old. I graduated college at age sixteen, and now live in an apartment with my roommate Connor. Despite our conflicting personalities, Connor is basically my little brother. He has lived with me ever since his parents died "in an accident" last year. This is kind of strange, but I am a superhero. Well, not super really. It all started a couple of months ago when I stopped a man from killing another. I was coming home late when I saw a man holding a gun to another guy's head. I had never been much of a fighter but I kicked the gun out of the man's hand and kicked him in the face. I'm pretty sure that I left him unconscious but I didn't stay around to find out. I just jogged away back to our apartment. Well, it turns out that the man I saved was the governor so now I'm a hero. As Connor and I watched the news the next day all the stories were about the kid in the blue hoodie who saved the governor. I didn't tell anyone it was me, not even Connor. Ever since then I've been a hero. I sneak out at night wearing my blue hoodie and helped anyone who needed it. Well last night someone stopped me on the street. I couldn't see his face, but judging from his height he looked about my age, maybe even younger. The man, or boy I should say, was wearing a red jacket with a bandana covering his face. "Why did you stop me," he growled. "This is not what you think. I am the one doing good." I stood there not knowing what to say. Suddenly, he pulled a knife out of his pocket and slashed at me with it. I was quick enough to dodge him, and I began to run. The boy seemed to have no interest in chasing me. When I arrived back to our apartment and peeked in the window, Connor was not in his bed. Strange, I thought but then I saw light coming under the bathroom door. I quickly climbed through the window, slipped off my sweatshirt, and jumped under the covers. After about twenty minutes of laying there I realized that Connor had still not come out of the bathroom. I got up and banged on the door. "Connor," I said. No reply. I tried again but still no reply. This was very strange. Suddenly, I heard a sound and then a loud thump. The bathroom lights turned off and the door opened. There stood Connor, his expression shocked to see me standing there. He was wearing a red jacket and carrying a bandana. I realized what was happening and tons of questions swirled through my mind. "What is happening? What are you doing? Why did you try to hurt me?" I screamed. Connor just stood there as I began to realize that on that night when I saved the governor, I had saved him from Connor. I had kicked Connor in the face and left him unconscious on street. Not knowing what to do next, we both sat down and explained it all to each other. It turns out that the death of Connor's parents was no accident. His parents had found out too much about a secret corporation called World Compliance Organization. Connor had been

investigation what WCO was and he was getting information from the governor about it. WCO was actually trying to develop a brain chip that could make people do exactly what they said. The governor was part of the organization. Connor was getting information about how to shut down the brain chips. I realized then what I had done. I thought I was doing good, but really I had stopped Connor from doing good. This morning Connor and I are going to break into the World Compliance Organization. He had managed to get the entrance to the headquarters from the governor, before I had interrupted. We had to go to the elevator of a hotel and press the numbers 9,2,6, and then press the door close button. As we walked into the elevator Connor, armed with a pistol he had stolen, and me with two knifes, there was tension in the air. We were both afraid. When he elevator stopped moving we watched in silence as the door opened. It was a trap. Outside the elevator door were six armed guards holding guns pointing straight at us. Behind them stood the governor. "You really thought you could get away with this," he remarked. The six guards rushed upon us. They took away our weapons and tied, gagged, and blindfolded us. We were marched up a stairway and thrown into a car. We drove for about twenty minutes before we were taken out of the car. When our blindfolds were removed we were in a room with the same six guards and the governor. Pointing at Connor the governor said, "You know to much about us. It's a shame you can't live." With the motion of the governor's hand three guards grabbed Connor and marched him away. I couldn't believe it. My best friend was going to die. I shouldn't have let him come here. What was I thinking? The governor left me no time to finish my thoughts. "You are a very smart young man. You could be useful to the World Compliance Organization. You may not want to work with us but eventually you will comply." McKinzie Marcus Silverdale Baptist Academy, 8th grade

The Presidency of 2024

After years law in 2023 was passed for animal and plant rights. This allowed plants and animals to have the same rights and equalities. Due to this law, animals and plants could also run for president. One of the daring animals, Mr. Cat decided to run as a presidential candidate in the 2024 race for president soon to become America's next leader. With his handsome charm and cunning voice, Mr. Cat was sure to attract the voters who never actually listen to what the candidates have to say. Sure enough, he was elected and along with him came struggle and destruction. (2 years later) "Breaking news! We've just relieved word on what is happening currently with the economy crashing and if President Cat has anything to do with it." says the reporter The screen then changes from the reporter to pictures of emails. "As shown here, a series of emails regarding billions of dollars being taken from our economy is stated here in text and signed by President Cat himself. Mr.C at, with plans to ship all the money in the economy overseas in trade for lifetime supplies of cat treats is not aware that his private emails have been dug out by expert hackers. Will this be like Hillary Clint." The TV shuts off and Mr. Cat sits with his paws tightly together. "Darn those FOX news reporters! Why must I always be the center of attention?" Mr.Cat states as he pounds his massage chair arm. "Maybe it's because you're the president." Mr. Dog the Vice President stated sarcastically. "Be quiet sink scum, I wasn't asking you." Mr. Cat said while motioning Mr. Dog to leave. "What could go wrong? I have my nine lifetime supplies of cat treats to support me, who needs money anyways?" Mr. Cat said as he leans back in his massage chair and dozes off. (2 months later) "Breaking news! President Cat's billions of dollars worth of cat treats have been demolished as the ship carrying them was shot and sunk down by the Russian army. President Vladimir Putin claims it was an accident." The camera changes to an interview of Vladimir Putin. President Putin then begins to speak with his Russian accent, "I thought the ship was big water bear so we shot down water bear for sport. It was actually ship. I'm sorry." President Putin then gets up and walks away. The screen changes back to the reporter. "Up next, this adorable puppy's first time swimming!" Mr. Cat races and struggles to find words for his anger. "What will we do now?!" Says Mr.Dog furiously "I have no idea, losing that many cat treats is a real problem." Said Mr. Cat as he pondered his thoughts at the same time."

"CAT TREATS?! That's all you're worried about?! What about all the money you used to buy the cat treats? That was what kept this country running! What about the citizens? What will they do?!" Mr. Dog shouted at Mr.Cat. "But I wanted my cat treats..." Said Mr. Cat sadly. "How about we address the public? That should comfort them and let them know you're actually alive. Come to think of it, have you actually even been outside the White House since you were elected?" Mr.Dog questioned. "NO, I've lost my charm over the stress from two years in office. I look to old to try and charm them into thinking we're okay!" Mr. Cat said while ignoring the second question. "You're right for once, let's just wait and see how they respond." Says Mr. Dog (4 months later) "EMERGENCY!" Shouted the reporter "America has turned to anarchy. It's a nuclear civil war. There's no escape!" Yelled the reporter Images of cars flipped and buildings destroyed appear on the screen. "Wherever you are President Cat, I hope you're happy with what you've done to this country!" The TV shits off and the power goes out. "Plan B Mr. Dog, change our identities and move to Canada!" Says Mr. Cat in a hurry. They grab their pre-packed bags and fly to Canada in their private jets and were lucky to not get shot down by angry American citizens. Never to be seen again, both Mr. Cat and Mr. Dog are roaming the maple syrup scented streets of Canada, hiding their faces in the shadows. Lydia Mitchell, Silverdale Baptist Academy Mrs. Woodson, Grade 8

A Lie Can Never Be Perfect She had always heard the stories of meeting somebody that will change your life forever, but she always thought it only happened in the movies. She never thought a perfect stranger could walk into her life and make only seconds feel like a lifetime, but that’s what he did. Even though he’s only a memory of her mistakes, she will cherish those memories forever. Her name was Elizabeth. She had spent her whole life in and out of the foster care program. She had felt what it was like to be loved and left, and over time that pain taught her to be her own person, her own support, her own love. At age three her mom died, then at seven she lost her dad. Now, at age seventeen, she had lost her brother. He was all she had left and with him gone nothing made sense. She lost her sense of direction. She couldn’t imagine how she’d carry on without him, so she gave up. She decided she’d end it. She stood on the ledge of her school roof, looked down, and leaned forward, but only seconds into falling there was a tug on her shirt and without a chance to blink her body scrapped the side of the building. She lifted her head she saw a face she had never seen before. His dark brown hair out of place from being jerked as he caught her, and his bright green eyes looking into her as if he saw more of her than anyone ever had. He pulled her up and held on to her tightly as she wept into the crease of his arm. It was as if the years of pain and all the tears she had ever cried didn’t matter in that moment, because holding her was a guy with compassion and care. After minutes of crying he lifted her head and in a deep but soft voice said “I’m Blake.” she faintly whispered back “My names Elizabeth.” then he with a corny smile, he told her that her name was lovely. There she sat, with a guy she didn’t know, weeping and holding him as if she had known him for her entire life. After minutes had passed, Elizabeth realized she had to get back to her foster family. She knew that if anyone else was to find out about the incident, that it would be everywhere. She could see it now “Girl Attempts Suicide” so without any thought as to how to find the guy again, she stood up, said thank you, and left. Upon returning home, it was clear something wasn’t right. As she pulled up her foster mother ran outside screaming and asking if she was okay. She grabbed her arm walked her inside and sat her down with the entire family. They turned on the news and it was exactly what she hoped wouldn’t happen. It was out. The news had received a video of everything that had happened. About an hour had passed and reporters were all over the yard. Knocks at the door, constant ringing of the doorbell, and yells from the people asking to speak with the girl from the video. It was amazing how these people found her in the matter of minutes. As the family sat wondering what to do there was a loud knock on the back door, and a cry to be let in. As the father of the household opened the door, in came Blake. He had clearly fought through the crowd being that his clothes were a mess and he had a few scrapes. The family thanked him immediately for what he had done, but as they did he stopped them. He told them that he was there to make sure Elizabeth was okay and to ask them what needed to be done because he had been contacted by so many people to talk about it. Elizabeth’s foster father explained that it wasn’t good for Elizabeth if this was expressed as an act of suicide so they decided they’d lie and say it was only a drunk mistake. They each individually talked to the reporters, then at the end they spoke together. They told the reporters “Elizabeth has never had alcohol and it’s clear why. She made a dumb, drunk decision and it should be forgiven since nobody was hurt.” They

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then, in front of the cameras, thanked Blake for his heroic act and like a snap of the fingers it was over. As they returned inside, Elizabeth asked Blake if he could stick around, maybe they could get to know each other, but Blake looked up at her and spoke the truth. he told her “I’ve known you for no longer than half a day and in that time I’ve already been forced to lie.” It was in that moment she realized that what she wanted was in no way possible and the spark that she thought they shared had to quickly gone out. She looked at him with a grin of sadness and with one last breathe she asked him if what they had was perfect, but as his soulless eyes looked up at her he told her that nothing that starts as a lie can ever be perfect. She knew then that the sound of goodbye was more painful than nothing at all, so she watched him fade into a void with only a cold tear upon her cheek to remember who he was, but with him gone, two questions remained, why was he on the roof of that building at the moment she tried to take her life and where was he now? Carson Nixon, Grade 8 Heritage Middle, Billie Carlock

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My Life

In my life I’ve been through a lot. My mom and dad got a divorce when I was only 5 years old. At the time I didn’t understand the situation and when my parents told me and my sisters I chose to go with my dad to his mom and stepdad's house. After I stayed over there for about a week I told my dad that I wanted to go back “home.” As soon as I said that my dad started crying and told me that we couldn’t go back home. I was too young to understand. Fast forward a couple of years I was about seven, my mom and dad decided to live together for the benefit of my sisters and I. , We lived in a house in Falling Water in Red Bank. It was terrible. Then after 5 months we moved in a bigger house in Soddy Daisy. The house was good but it was still bad Then after a bad time me my older sister and my mom left my dad to live in a house next to my nana. It was way better because there not as much screaming and fighting. My mom started dating this dude. My whole family hated him with all our heart. He beat my mom a few times, and he was also a jobless drunk. After a year of that I moved in with my dad again at his mom's house. I lived there for about 5 or 6 years. It wasn't so bad even though all I did was neglect my school work and play baseball & video games like Call of Duty. My dad was on a bunch of pills and some other things and the older I got the more I realized what he was doing. After awhile I got so sick of it so I started going back over at my mom's a bunch. Keep in mind her same boyfriend was still over there and I hated him and fought with him every day. My sisters did the same. I threatened him a lot, but what could I do? I'm just an 11 or 12-yearold boy. He did a lot of aggressive things toward my mom and sister but I won't get into that. Finally he got in trouble for driving on a suspended license and for a DUI and for domestic assault so he went to jail for about a year. , When he was gone my mom stopped drinking and it was great. , I felt like I finally had my mom back and my sister felt the same. It was amazing until he got out of jail. , We all thought there was no way my mom would get back with him, but we were wrong. When he got out it was the same thing as before, so I moved in with my dad again. He got a job as a forklift operator in a warehouse which was ok until he got in a car wreck. When my papaw told me and my sister we had no idea what condition he was in. We were freaked out, so we all went down to Erlanger. He had broke his wrist, forearm, 6 ribs, shattered his sternum and collarbone all because he fell asleep at the wheel because he was high on pills. e hit a parked tractor trailer going 65 MPH. When we first got at the hospital I was too young to go see him in the room, so I left to go to a friends birthday party. It really could’ve been worse, but after that I lived with him until I found out he was on meth. , I moved in with my mom and her boyfriend everything is so different now, but I guess it’s for the better. It could be worse. Also as of now I haven’t talk to my dad in 4 weeks. I don’t know where he is. Trevor Penland, Hixson Middle School Grade 8, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

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Untitled

A girl cowered behind the couch in her living room. She covered her ears wishing that the screaming would just stop, that her father would just go to sleep and leave her alone. She wished she could just erase the bruises that covered her body from her father's beatings. She wished she could just be a normal kid with a mom that's alive and a father that was a father who would help you with your homework, or played with you in the backyard. But she was stuck with the man throwing glass plates against the wall, with the man that had came home drunk ever since her mother died. People dealt with there problems and she dealt with hers. Once her father fell asleep or passed out she would prop his head on pillow, cover him with a blanket, and then kiss his cheek and say good night like a adult tucking in a child, but she was the adult in this situation not her father. She would tend to her wounds so that they wouldn't show tomorrow at school, she'd clean up the mess her father made, and then she would tuck herself in to bed and try to get some sleep before morning came. She looked like an angel to the boy. He loved her. She had hair that looked like a ravenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feathers, but he never knew that the lace fringed dresses she wore hid the scars and bruises. He loved her. She looked so fragile, so innocent and vulnerable. She looked like she would break if she had to carry something heavy, but he never knew that she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. What you don't know is that if he knew these things he would love her the same, and maybe even more. He was her angel and he swore she always would be. Yes, he loved her, he loved her very much. Everyone the girl met they thought she looked like she would be weak, and fragile. no one truly understood her except for maybe one person. That person was the young woman who ran the small town's public library. The girl and the librarian where nothing alike, but ever since the first time the girl walked into the library crying at 8 years old and all alone, the librarian had been intrigued by the girl. The librarian was the only one who understood. The librarian understood her not because she asked but because like all the books she had read in the past, she read the 8-year-old girl that wandered into her library. Since then much has changed in the librarians world she is now married and expecting a baby, but the girl never changed. She came every Friday never asking for help finding a book, never really speaking. She walked about the place with her head held high, drifting like a ghost, or maybe an angel. Yes the librarian thought she was an angel. Her father came home that night. He didn't remember anything because he had been drunk. He noticed that he had no pillow or blanket, and instantly knew something was wrong. He got up and realized that his daughter didn't take her lunchbox to school. Then he sees a gun lying on the floor next to where he had lain, and though he tries to deny it he knows what he has happened. He runs into the living room and sees her frail body lying on the on the ground and he sees how the blood pooled around her temple looks like the work of a monster who had no heart. And he knew that that monster was him. He reached for an old photo that sat on the mantel of the fireplace. When he had barely started to get ahold of it he collapsed. The picture shattered on the hard unforgiving floor. The girl's father laid on the ground where he had fallen he had tears streaming down his face, he had shattered too, but he was shattered by the hard unforgiving world.

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At the same time the girl was placed in that garden where she will stay forever, the librarians child was born it was the happiest and saddest day of that woman's life. She had a baby girl and she named her angel. The boy stood in a garden, but it wasn't a happy place filled with flowers like gardens usually are. The boy stood and kind of talked to himself, but what he was saying was muffled due to the coat he wore. He wore the coat because of the soft snow falling around him. The soft snow fell around him because it was to cold for rain. it was to cold to rain because the world agreed that rain wouldn’t fit this occasion. What the boy said was this. “I guess you never knew this but i love you, I've loved you for a long time actually” tears streamed down the boys face and almost froze to his skin, “ I'm sorry I never talked to you, maybe if I had I could of helped you, and then we wouldn't be here today. Your father loved you, ya know? When they found him he was reaching for a shattered picture of you him and your mom before she had died. They say he committed suicide but there was no wounds on his body. No, I think he died of heartbreak. I'm sorry about what was happened. You were my always my angel, but I guess you still are.” And the boy walked away from a gravestone that had a fragile looking angle engraved into it. What a sad place the world can be. Emma Reagan, Hixson Middle School Grade 8, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

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Silence is golden, they say, but how can I believe this if I’m urged to be louder or extroverted by nearly everyone? How can three words seem so poetical and extraordinary yet I hear them all the time? It’s such a common saying yet no one follows it. If silence is golden, why do so many people get uncomfortable when faced with silence? If silence is golden, how come nearly every person I meet enjoys their extroverted personality and seems flabbergasted by the idea of being silent? If silence is really golden, why am I constantly told to break away from silence? How come silence seems like such an atrocity to humanity that if someone is silent, something is wrong with them? If silence is like jewels or a rare item, how come it is so often feared? Silence is merely the absence of noise but how come we fear it? If there is silence, people get scared or nervous but why is that? If silence is golden, why do we fear it so? Maybe silence isn’t really silent, maybe there are words hidden between the lines. Is it possible that not all silence is really silent? When someone is silent, they aren’t merely quiet with no words to say. As Stephen Hawking once said, “Quiet people have the loudest minds.” Never judge someone by the volume of speech or if they speak at all. Inside their mind could be a roller coaster of imagination that spirals and explodes into a fantastical finish. Never mistake silence as a blank emptiness, take that silence and change it into something great. Listen for those whispering words hiding behind lines and maybe you’ll find that one idea that could change your view on life forever. All it takes is silence; close your eyes and listen. You may hear nothing at first but take the emptiness and stretch it, twirl it, and change it into something spectacular. Right now, I hear the clicking of many students’ keyboards. I could take this as a mere sign that we are typing something but maybe it is more. I don’t pay attention to the other students’ silence but rather what ideas are making their way from a student’s mind to their fingers and then to this screen. Silence is golden. Don’t throw it away as if it is useless. Take this golden opportunity and let your imagination shine. Erin Riley, Hixson Middle School Grade 8, Mrs. Carrie Bishop

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Moods on a Rainy Day

As my father and I walk into Panera Bread, I eye the people around me. I go to the cashier to order my food, and a heavyset strawberry blonde girl with braces and perfect eyeliner stands behind the counter. Meara, her name tag reads. A woman wearing a navy checkered shirt, speaks loudly to her friend at a nearby table. "We're not eighteen," she says angrily. "We should be able to decide what we can and can't do." Three teenagers sit at a table close to us. Both of the girls have blonde hair, much too bright to be natural. A pale boy sits in between them, leaning casually in his chair. He laughs at the occasional joke about his face or hair. They all speak with Midwestern accents. When he stands up to throw his trash away, he smiles at me and I smile back. Farther across the room sits an older couple, a woman in purple and a man in plaid. They never speak, but read. In front, the woman sits a small cup on a saucer. The gray-blue light from outside makes the warm yellows and greens of the wallpaper seem peaceful and quiet, despite the scatterings of voices. Two men sit at a table across from me, one dressed in blue jeans and a plain black tee shirt and the other in a blue rain coat, dotted with droplets from the sprinkling outside. They look at the same laptop while writing notes and punching numbers into calculators. A woman clad all in black, wearing a burgundy lipstick and glasses, sits with her headphones on her head and book folded to an open page. Two little boys sit at a table with their mother, their feet not quite touching the floor. "I sure do love this chocolate!" one says happily, chomping down on his cookie. The other slurps his soup loudly. A woman with short hair and a black faux fur jacket walks in. She immediately finds her way to the register and orders her food. A woman in a pink jacket tosses her black purse strap over her shoulder as she stands up to leave. A broad shouldered man in an orange vest walks past, his back to me. Dressed in black running attire, a woman follows closely behind him. As I scan the room, I notice one boy, probably eighteen, his gray shirt soaked from the rain and his thin, green rain coat thrown over his arm. As he waits in line, his gaze is unfocused. His eyes skim the menu, then the walls, then land on me. His eyes are a striking blue and his damp hair is black. He smiles and turns back to the register to place his order. A bagel and black coffee, I read his lips. He pays for his food and takes the bag with one tanned hand. He throws his jacket over his back and walks through the glass double doors of the exit. I see nothing but a flash of emerald as he disappears into the rain. I sit back into my chair to contemplate. Though we all are in this restaurant at the same time, most likely I will never see these people again. I don't know if someone closely observed me the way I observed them. I stand up and say silent goodbyes to these bystanders. I am connected to them and I walk out of the cafe smiling. Zoe Ubamadu, Grade 8 Baylor School, Bart Loftin

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[ Grade 9 Poetry ]

One so small as me A screech echoes in the night Something rises from the trees A small but intimidating thing Its claws flash A silent but deadly fate it seems To one so small as me I am gone in an instant I have left behind no legacy As the creature carries me away I utter one last breath To no one in particular I look for help But no one bothers with one so small as me Julianna Beason, Grade 9 Hilger Higher Learning

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Horse Poem warm breath against my leg hairy sides flying mane rushing wind, playing with my hair squishy saddle rough reins whiny laughter fast hooves that print our journey across the grassy plain Miranda Delgado, Grade 9 Hilger Higher Learning , Shelly George

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My Love Why are you so perfect, my love you make my heart swell I’m so glad that our love was more than a kiss and tell Why do you care, my love? Is this love really true? Do you really plan on loving me all the way through? Why do people stare, my love? are we something appealing to the eye? Is it the perfection that is you or the mess that is I? Why did you leave, my love? Why don’t you care? I spend my nights screaming for you But you’re no longer there.. Reagan Finnigan, Grade 9 Chattanooga High School for the Creative Arts, Saundra Howard

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Music in My Heart One strum and a clear crisp sound it makes Of each string playing together Oh how beautiful the music the guitar it creates With the notes that could play on forever With each string the music is beautiful no doubt How the large stringed instrument bellows each strum The deep loud notes of the cello roars out And the bow against the instrument with its beautiful hum The emotional cry a song can be Or love towards another that they want you to know Singing is poetry most people donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t truly see How a song is expressing through high and through low Music is the art that anyone can love It comes from the Lord in heaven above Ashley Group, Grade 9 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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Flowing in the breeze I watched the stream flow free Free as it could be Like i know I can be I pictured me Flowing with the main stream Wishing I could become free Like the blowing breeze Claire Johnson, Grade 9 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Kyndall Squires Restless

My feet stomp constantly in the silent room, My fingers tap gently, oh so gently against the desk My hands shake and shake, To a point I cannot take, All I wish for is to rest Though my mind never does ease Neither in the Summer or at Christmas' Eve I never seem to get a break from the restless etiquette that holds me I bite my nails until they are nothing, I chew my lips until they bleed, When will I get my needed rest? And save myself from this disease? Deâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Kliah Kelly, Grade 9 Chattanooga High School Center for Creative Arts, Sandra Howard

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Incomprehensible

At some point, youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re going to wake up, and not necessarily in your bed, but in your mind. You'll awaken to find that maybe the world has a little more color, and the leaves make noise when they move. Background noise will become the silhouette of old songs. And maybe it'll only be that way because you decided to take a walk today, or bought a shirt you like. But you'll realize that you're eyes have a storm inside them and the only way to distill the clouds is by looking for the colors you can't comprehend. But the storm yields its own mist, like a lens on sunglasses, each its own new slight tint of the world around you. While the sunset may be beautiful without the storm, seeing something different from everyone else has always been beautiful too. And while youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re searching for your colors, don't forget about the grey in your life. Because you've been followed by the silver clouds, and they're reflecting back into you for all your worth. Kialeen Smith, Grade 9 Chattanooga High School Center for Creative Arts, Sandra Howard

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[ Grade 9 Prose ]

Heir of Fire

Dr. Seuss once said, “Fantasy is a necessary ingredient in living, it’s a way of looking at life through the wrong end of a telescope.” The fantasy genre has always been my favorite. I love being able to pick up a good book and immediately be thrust into a world full of faeries, forbidden forests, evil queens, and terrifying monsters that successfully allow me to tune this world out and travel to a new one, if only for a few minutes. Thanks to the many great fantasy authors that have arisen over the years, this is possible. Bestselling author Sarah J. Maas, who wrote both the Throne of Glass series and the A Court of Thorns and Roses series, is fairly new to the fantasy world. Throne of Glass, which is comprised of six books, is centered around Celaena Sardothien, a notorious assassin and the lost Queen of Terrasen. The third book in the series, Heir of Fire, captures the reader’s attention with its compelling plot and unique characters. One of Heir of Fire’s greatest aspects is its plot line. Crown of Midnight, the second installment in the series, left off with Celaena leaving on a ship headed for Wendlyn so that she could complete the task issued to her by the King of Adarlan. Her job is simple: dispose of the royal family and return with a token as proof of their deaths. Celaena has no intention of following through on her orders. The only reason she is going to Wendlyn is to travel to the court of her aunt, Maeve, to get answers--answers that could change the fate of her world by bringing an end to the King of Adarlan’s tyranny. Maeve has other ideas, and refuses to answer Celaena’s questions until she can demonstrate the power given to her by her Fae heritage. Celaena’s problem is that she can’t access her power. So Maeve orders Prince Rowan, her nephew and part of her personal guard, to train Celaena. Only once Rowan deems her worthy is she allowed answers; thus Celaena consents to train. While training, Rowan refuses to put up with her attitude; for every verbal punch she throws, he throws a physical one right back. Despite their differences, they work out a routine, slowly forming a unique friendship. When her powers are finally mastered, Celaena and Rowan travel back to Maeve’s courts where she receives the answers she needed, as well as freeing Rowan from the blood oath that connected him to Maeve. Heir of Fire's characters are another reason this book is such a fantastic read. Each and every character of the book was unique, none of them repetitive or like any character I’ve read before. Our protagonist, Celaena Sardothien, is a notorious assassin currently working as the King’s Champion--a title she earned by competing in a competition that granted her freedom from the salt mines of Endovier. What people don’t know about Celaena, is that she is actually Aelin Ashryver Galathynius, the lost Queen of Terrasen. Another compelling character is Rowan Whitethorn, a Fae warrior with a no-nonsense attitude who Celaena now considers her closest friend. In Rowan's first appearance, he is under blood oath to Maeve, forced to do her every will. The oath is broken when Celaena makes a trade with Maeve--her beloved’s ring for Rowan’s freedom. Maeve complies, and so Rowan, now free to do as he pleases, pledges himself to Celaena, becoming the first member of her court in the process. Celaena's cousin and

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childhood friend, Aedion Ashryver, joins the story in Heir of Fire. Aedion is a rebel hiding in plain sight, currently working for the King as a general in his armies. Under the curtain of night, however, Aedion meets with fellow rebels and shares information with the intent to one day take back their kingdom. The Captain of the Guard, Chaol Westfall, Celaena's former lover, is also a rebel and has been feeding information to Aedion. In exchange for that information, Aedion has been giving Chaol tips regarding magic that could help Dorian, his best friend. Dorian Havilliard, son of the King of Adarlan, has magic and no way to hide it. If his secret is discovered by the King, it would mean death for either himself or his loved ones. In order to keep this from occurring, he enlists a healer to help him. Slowly, Dorian begins to master his powers. His problem is that the King already suspects that he has magic and is willing to go as far as it takes to get him to expose it. On the other side of the playing field, we meet Manon Blackbeak, an Irontooth witch and heir to the Blackbeak Witch Clan. Manonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first appearance takes place at the very beginning of the book, where we see her being summoned to her grandmotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s side and told of their newly formed alliance with the King of Adarlan, placing her in a position to easily become an antagonist in future books. Thanks to its superb plot line and interesting characters, Heir of Fire quickly became a fan favorite, especially among fantasy lovers. Fantasy allows you to expand your imagination so that you might escape the world around you by creating a new world, full of adventures waiting to be had. In my opinion, no books do this better than those of the Throne of Glass series. With constant plot twists and new information being unfolded in every chapter, the Throne of Glass series keeps you on the edge of your seat for the entirety of every book. Abigail Caines, Grade 9 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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The Night

"Alright, Marcus, this is it. This is the night we die. I love you and all the brothers we've lost to this point. Right now we will make a promise. Promise to not give up, to not retreat, and promise to never stop fighting! So let's go!" One week earlier... Monday, May 22nd 1973, The Vietnam War. It was a sunny day in northern Vietnam and for the first time in three years it seemed peaceful. There was no rain, no gunfire, it was actually an enjoyable journey back to "base" which was just a chopper for Captain Carter and his squad of five. In Carter's squad were his best friends Marcus, Ray, Mike, and Frank. Carter's squad was known as the Angels of Death. This is because they swept through battlefields and killed anyone that crossed them. They were a privately owned squad by the U.S government and the squads orders came from the government. Their actions never reached the people who already didn't like the war and if they were to find out about Carter's squad, there would be chaos and riots everywhere so they were kept a secret from the public. Carter's squad reached their chopper, but to their astonishment it was gone. They rushed to see what happened and it was clear it had been raided and destroyed by the north Vietnamese army. Written on a sign in the debris was a Vietnam phrase which translates to "No secrets." Carter and his squad collected what they could and continued to the nearest jungle to build a shelter. After they had constructed a small area to sleep, they tried to figure out why the chopper was destroyed but everyone was at a loss for words. Even Carter. That night passed and it is now Tuesday, May 23rd. Ray, the engineer and communications expert of the squad began to try and send a message to the U.S. Due to their new tech they were able to explain the issue and get an extraction. Their mission now was to survive on top of destroying everything. However now that seemed impossible because Ray did not send his message through as a private one and the whole Vietnamese military was coming to party. At the time he did not realize his huge mistake but three hours into their march they were met by a wave of Vietnamese soldiers. It was clear at that moment to Ray who sunk to depression, right there in the middle of the vicious battle. Ray fled and left his brothers to fight the soldiers, which they did win because of Carter and his leadership. After the fighting and the bullets Carter went to Rayand said," I WILL NOT TOLERATE A DESERTER!" Ray responded, "Sir I'm sorry I" BOOM! Carter shot Ray where he sat, buried him and the rest of the squad went on. Again they marched on carefully but not quietly, they were ready for the onslaught they knew was coming. Carter stopped to say a few words to his brothers, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Gentlemen we lost a brother but he lost his training. Let me remind you that emotion is not an option for us, breaking focus is not an option for us, we will fight to the end, now let's get going before those Vietnamese psychos attack." "Yes sir!" Replied the men in unison. The night fell upon them and they set up their camp. Marcus, who was closest to Carter went over some plans with him on how they can defend the onslaught in a more efficient way. Through the night they put these plans into action and was ready for the day's ahead. Wednesday, May 24th,"Hey Mike don't you think it's too quiet right now?" "Yeah Frank just keep a look out ok." Suddenly, bullets flew everywhere and soldiers were attacking from every direction. Carter's squad fled to the nearest woods only to be met by soldiers that were camouflaged. "Men do not retreat any further! Bunker down and fight! We will win this battle!" Carter exclaimed at his men. The enemy camo soldiers were savage with their fighting skills but

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they were fighting the toughest men in the world so Carter and his squad were able to buy themselves some time. Seven hours of running and fighting to reach their LZ. Finally they heard the chopper, they were saved. As it hovered over the ground Carter was about to speak to the soldier in the bird when BOOM! Carter was shot along with Marcus, Mike, and Frank. The man from the chopper yelled "Carter, your mission is terminated! Congratulations you four officially don't exist. Ok let'sget out of here!" Just like that the men's only way out was gone. Their own country had betrayed them. Carter was now rallying his men to get up and regain their minds."Guys we aren't dead yet. We can still fight! Frank what are you doing!?" "Thank you Carter for leading me.""Frank NO!" POP! Frank killed himself right in front of Carter. "Men, pain is relative. Stay strong to the end. I know it seems like we're in hell but we can get out of it." The day is Friday, May 26th. Just when things couldn't get any worse the Vietnamese army's onslaught continued. Quickly the three men jolted off while taking out the soldiers one by one. With artillery shells blowing up all around them Carter managed to make the explosions into a peaceful melody." Guys look an old bunker!" Said Mike. "Alright let's get their now!" Said Carter." Man, God must really want us to survive." Said Marcus. The Vietnamese soldiers were trying to blow the bunker but it surprisingly held up and that's where the squad held its ground and this is where they would be till their unfortunate deaths. At least that's what Carter and Marcus thought. Mike however had different plans. He found a tunnel that led to "safety" if that even exists anymore. He ran to Carter and Marcus and aimed his gun at them. "Mike what are you doing!" Said Carter. In tears Mike said, "Guys please go! There is an escape tunnel in the very back and I want you to get away. I will fight here and die here, anything to buy you guys some time to get away!" "Mike are you sure about this?" "Yes, now go!" Carter and Marcus got through the tunnel they were about to climb out a large explosion came and the blast threw them hundreds of feet from the bunker. Mike died in that bunker for his brothers, to save them. "Carter, what do we do?!" "We will fight to the end Marcus. That is our last and only option brother." Carter and Marcus are now fighting for every second of their lives. Crawling through mud and fist fighting attackers, it's a wonder that they're still alive. Saturday, May 27th came like a never ending storm. Both Carter and Marcus were fighting like wild banshees to survive. As the shooting continued it got so hard to keep fighting through unbearable odds but these were the toughest men on earth and they were gonna fight till they died. Saturday passed quickly and it was nothing short of a war and again Carter and Marcus survived. It is now Sunday, May 28th, in the early hours of the morning the two men bunkered into a trench. They were preparing for their final stand. It was a grueling day for fighting, it was raining through the day and into the night."Alright Marcus this is it. This is the night we die. I love you and all the brothers that we've lost to this point. Right now we will make a promise. Promise to not give up, to not retreat, and promise to never stop fighting! So let's go!" They both rushed out of the trench and began their final push against the Vietnamese onslaught. Twenty minutes in, Carter's only friend Marcus was shot right in front of him. Carter stopped held Marcus and cried as his best friend died in his arms. Their final stand was over. The Vietnamese soldiers took Carter captive and beat him and cut him. Carter sat in his cell rotting away and this was his last message. My name is Thomas Bird Carter and this message is to the United States government. You

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betrayed us, my brothers and I. Now here I sit in prison with the rest of my brothers dead because you people wanted more money. I see now why other countries hate the U.S. You all said my mission was terminated, well my new mission is vengeance. So United States, I'm coming for you... Justin Hunt, Silverdale Baptist Academy Grade 9, Kyndall Squires

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Gasoline The city was alive with colors this time of year. Leaves were a variety of reds and yellows, and everyone was dressed in their favorite colors. Kids skipped down the street with flushed faces. Everything was how it should be. Haven was infatuated with the season. She felt as though people weren't afraid to be themselves. She took her time as she walked by parks filled with children and mothers. She watched as a little boy played with Barbie dolls while another drove a toy truck up and down the slide. The cool autumn wind blew threw her hair as she walked. Haven continued at this pace until she reached the train station. She quickly paid for a ticket and jogged to the loading platform. Haven had almost missed the last train of the night. Haven took a seat in the back of the car. She felt the atmosphere around her change almost immediately. People began to whisper around her; Haven was almost certain they talking were about her. She nervously combed through her hair with her fingers. The train reached its destination rather slowly, hours passed before the car slowed. Once the train came to a stop next to the platform Haven rushed off. Something was off but she couldn't determine what it was. Haven exited the station only to be greeted by the familiar paths and roads she passed earlier. The trees were no longer filled with color. They were bare. The ground was cluttered with brown, crunchy leaves. The park was now a dull silver. Clouds hung heavy over the kids. The boy who was once happily playing with Barbie dolls, was now surrounded by tiny cars and trucks. The smile that one lit up his face was nowhere to be seen. Haven's head began to spin, full of confusion over what she was seeing. The color had been sucked from everything; it was lifeless. She wondered what had happened to the joyful kids and the colorful trees. She continued walking; her pace much quicker than before. Haven couldn't help but let her mind wander as she jogged the familiar paths. She felt as though she were dreaming, but this was dream was more like a nightmare. She was forcefully awoken from her trance when she collided with another person. He was wearing dark clothing and his face was pale. His skin was cold against hers, even after he left she could still feel where his cold hand had brushed against her. Haven apologized and continued down the leaf-covered road until she heard an inaudible whisper fall from his lips. She brushed it off and hurried along, her mind still buzzing with thoughts. When Haven finally entered the city she was even more disoriented. As she traveled down winding roads everything seemed to become more mechanical. People became more and more similar as if they were being produced in a factory. They would shoot her odd glances as she passed. Some even turned in another direction. Haven hurried back to her back to her apartment building. She jammed her finger into the elevator button multiple times as she waited impatiently for it to arrive. Once she was inside her apartment she frantically searched for her roommate. Haven searched the whole complex before retreating back to her living room. She jumped at the sudden appearance of her roommate, Bailey. "What's going on?" Haven asked nervously. "I got on a train to see my parents and when I got off everything was different, mechanical almost."

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Bailey slowly turned and traipsed over to her. She was also dressed in the dark clothes, her auburn hair was now faded into a dull brown. "You're not one us," Bailey replied. Her hand brushed against Haven as she was walking, and the chill returned. "One of who? And why is everyone acting like machines?â&#x20AC;? Bailey's eyes bounced around the room anxiously before she darted outed out the door of the apartment. Haven tried to follow but when she opened the door Bailey was gone. She threw her hands up in frustration and returned inside. "Everyone is acting like machines. Their skin is cold to the touch, and they're all dressed the same. They aren't who they want to be anymore," Haven thought aloud. "Why am I different? Maybe this is just a dream." There was an unsettling silence before a voice appeared in her head. â&#x20AC;&#x153;You can't wake up, this is not a dream." Haven turned around in search of the voice but saw nothing. "You're part of a machine. You are not a human being." The voice boomed in her head except louder this time. "I don't want to become one of them!" Haven shouted. The voice repeated the previous statements over and over. Every time she tried to resist the voice became louder and more persistent. "I don't want to become a clone of everybody else! That's isn't me!" She screamed. Haven curled up on the floor and began to sob. The voices became harder to resist. After hours of enduring the hellish voices, Haven gave up. Her skin grew cold, her once pink shirt turned jet black. Haven's bleached blonde hair changed into the same mousy brown of Bailey's hair. Her tears slowed and she picked herself up off the ground. "My heart is gold but my hands are cold," The voices, now soft, hissed inside her head. Haven left the apartment complex and walked back to the park where the kids once played. She sat on the swing and began to cry again. She knew it wouldn't be long before she had no control over herself. Soon she'd be just like everyone else. "You are part of a machine, you are not a human being. Low on self esteem so you run on gasoline." The voices chanted in her head. She couldn't withstand the voices any longer. "What happened to the soul that I used to be?" Haven whispered and her vision went black. Ashton Jolley, Grade 9 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Kyndall Squires

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To My Friend; That I May See You Again

The stone is cold and hard to my wet nose. Yet I still stand here. Nothing I can do will return you to me. The hopelessness of the situation weighs upon my soaked body. I lie across the dripping ground and place my head gently on the small stone which marks the place you are resting. I don’t know what I’ll do without you, my playmate, my friend—you made my life brighter. Now you’re gone. Mom will make me come inside soon. Sometimes I think she’s too bossy, ranting on about how I’ll get hypothermia out in the cold, though I’m not sure dogs can get that. I’ll be forced to go in, yes, but tomorrow, bright and early, I’ll come back out. I have been doing this ever since you left, you know. I start to cry when another dog begins to bark. Her bark sounds so much like yours—but not quite. You always had a certain tone in your yelp, a playful note that made each bark sound like a laugh. You hated your bark so much, but it always made my day. Remember how we used to fight over who licked the peanut butter jar after Mom finished it? I used to always win, you couldn’t exist those puppy eyes. I used to practice it in the mirror in preparation. My life has been rather dim ever since you left. I hope to see you again someday, somewhere other than here—somewhere where there is no death. Mom is calling me in; I should go. I’ll be back tomorrow though. Wait for me, okay? Kimberly Morris, Grade 9 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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The Arrogance of Sanity

Entry 1: September 14th, a Friday My name is Philip Edwards. I'm a schoolteacher living in a small house in a suburb of Atlanta, Georgia. Until recently, I took care of Martha, my mentally ill sister. This journal is an account of my guilt and my interactions with my therapist, with whom I would discuss my emotional issues. I had written down the accounts of my sister's final days in a notepad that I would later read to my therapist, a Doctor Samantha James. She instructed that I write down my thoughts and read them to her as if I were telling a story. While I found the idea preposterous, I followed through. So, here it goes . . . It was a warm day on April 23rd. I had just got done writing a college recommendation for a high school senior. Martha was a troubled, pretty young woman. Martha was smart, funny, and like I, a devout Christian. I always tried to keep Martha in the house whenever I found it convenient or even remotely possible. The biggest curse to be thrust upon this world was how infrequent my beautiful sister's company. Martha, while indeed a good soul, was a paranoid schizophrenic. Despite her illness, she never let life keep her down, not one bit! However, this fact of life for Martha would affect her in ways that I feared, but could not yet fathom to be real. Martha took medication, but did not live independently for very obvious reasons. She had friends, saw a psychotherapist and lead as normal a life as she could. To her, this was normal. Isn't it odd: the arrogance of the sane, I mean? Perhaps the solipsists are right when they say the mind and the self is all there is and for me, I'm right and my sanity is what determines morality and reality. Why not hers? My sister was more moral and more reasonable than half the so-called sane people I know. Perhaps mental truth and reality is perspective. Perhaps this is just my personal bias. I will now comment on Martha's psychotherapist, who I will only refer to as Dr. Todd for the sake of his privacy, the pretentious enabling fiend! I blame myself and only myself for finding him. If my pocket was a little deeper, my mind a little wiser, my heart ever so slightly less clouded by confusion and anger, the beautiful woman that I was blessed to call my sister for twenty four years may still be walking around this very day, laughing and telling a myriad of jokes. Martha's therapist was not enough. He gave the same advice to her every time. “Martha, Martha dear! You just need to get out! Stop stressing for once!” Martha was naive. How dare a healthy, adult man suggest such a thing to a borderline disabled young woman. That schmuck of a doctor overestimated her independence, and there was a frequent failure to communicate between myself and Doctor Todd. “Just branch out?” “Yes my love! How could one possibly forget to have a little fun? Listen my dear. You followed my advice last time, and what happened?” Martha had tears in her sweet, brown eyes at this point. “The voices stopped a little doc.” “Yes they did,” said Todd, “Now go do something you've never cussing done before!” Even in my writing I refuse to swear. However, Martha so loved when Doctor Todd cursed. His foul words were piercing, but oh so perky to her little ears. Even though I hate that

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quack masquerading as a legitimate therapist and though my spirit rejoices that he is behind bars, he made my sister happy. Incompetence was very acceptable back then. Giving fatal advice to your patient could be punished by a slap on the wrist. Such a severe sentence as life in prison for Todd was shocking and satisfying. My lovable and astoundingly foolish sister found it fancy to steal the family minivan. I came home that night, pulling into the driveway of our average house in our dark neighborhood, and realized that the minivan was missing. The gravity of what had happened hit me like a bomb. “Good Jesus!” I remember shouting. Martha, feeling the most stable she had in years, took a spin, being careful to remember the few rules of the road that mother had taught her. She made it to the interstate, which was thankfully free of heavy traffic that day. Martha zigzagged violently, fighting the inevitable hallucinations. As I expect, she must have heard a loud crashing noise as the light faded from her eyes, and with said light, my heart. "Too formal, Philip. Far too formal. You've written an essay when I asked for a simple monologue expressing your feelings.” Shocked and depressed by my therapist's lack of approval, I put my notebook down. It was moments like this that I questioned my own so called sanity. Hiring a shrink? Please! Darned garbage business nearly killed my sister and yours truly! What kind of fool criticizes a brother after the death of his beloved sister? An idiot payed by the state, too arrogant in her own reasoning to come full circle in her own logic. I exited before I went postal. Fool me once, therapy, shame on you! Fool me twice, shame on poor little me. So, the moral of the story is keep your emotional issues bottled up until you explode. Or, just pray about it. Honestly, I like the former much more. Trust me, I'm not crazy. Justus Patnett, Grade 9 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Kyndall Squires

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Drafted Breathlessly I tear open the letter. My eyes scan the page. “Dear Ms. Spencer Garrett” is the opening line. I jump ahead. “Congratulations! You have been drafted to serve in General Fallows militia! You will be picked up and shipped out next Monday.” I sit the letter down on the table. No. No. No! This can’t be happening! I have a life, a job, and a family! How can they expect to uproot me? How do they expect me to lay down my life for, give up my rights to, and sacrifice my freedom to a man who can’t even win one battle? We have fought many times against our sister nation West World. Here in East World, we’re the most underappreciated, scum of the earth people. Robbers, murderers, rebels, they all come from East World. Our leader, or General, Micah Fallows wouldn’t know how to lead an old lady across the street, let alone an army of thousands of people. He can’t inspire people enough to sign up, so he drafts them. Forces them out of their lives. It’s every three months. Male or female, ages sixteen to twenty five. I’m sixteen as of three days ago. And now it’s the third month. Tears well up in my eyes as I glance down at the letter. My life is ruined. “Were you drafted?” “Are you leaving”? “When will I see you again?” “That jerk!” Those were common phrases at the town meeting tonight. We hold one every draft day to get a head count. I eagerly watch the door for Jaxson. Part of me wants him to come with me, the other half hopes he stays here and survives. Finally, he enters the room. Judging by the look on his moms face, he’s coming with me. My heart skips in relief. After the reverend asks everyone to be seated he calls off the names off all the drafted kids. One by one we stand up and come sit at the altar. He blesses us and we stand and receive our travel approved Bibles. He then gives a quick, sad speech to the parents about how we will be protected by God. I’ve heard this message for five years. It has a new meaning to me now. We bow our heads in thanks. People cry. I stare at the floor the whole time. This isn’t real. It can’t be. After the service I get to talk to Jaxson. “What’s going to happen to our families?” I ask him as he pulls me into a hug. “They’ll be ok. We can send money,” he says, a sorrow in his voice. I have that same sorrow deep in my heart. It’s caged; trying to claw it’s way out. But I’ve hidden the key. After a painful goodbye to my family and friends I hop into the army truck. We drive off and I see my family wave, my little sister, Julie, my mom and my dad. Jaxson’s family is there, too, all five siblings. Some close school friends are also with them, the ones that didn’t get drafted at least. The truck is full of angry kids. We all fume and stare at the ground. “General Fallow is an idiot! Taking us away like this! It’s kidnapping! I’m not an adult yet, can I sue?” boomed someone’s voice from the front end of the bus. I squint but can barely make out a figure of a plump girl yelling at one of the guards watching us. He says something to her I can’t hear. She huffs and sits down. She starts shouting again when we hit a bump. This is going to be a long trip. Training was exhausting. Two months of hard core workouts and five A.M. breakfasts have worn me out. I yawn as I try to walk straight into the mess hall. I take my plate and sit with Jaxson and Clarissa, the loud girl from the bus. We’ve stuck together since day two of training. “I hate eggs,” she says as soon as I sit down. She scrapes her food off onto Jaxson’s plate. I

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laugh as he shoves them into his mouth. “We get no action around here,” Jaxson says randomly. “All we do is eat, train and hardly sleep.” I roll my eyes, “Jaxson, if you jinx it…” he gets his eye roll in before a ear piercing alarm goes off. “Run!” he yells, his brown eyes popping out of his head. He leads the way to the front door. He shoves it open. I hear something in the distance, faintly over the alarm. “We’re under attack!” someone yells. Instantly, before my mind goes to weapons and survival, it goes to the last day at home with my family. Julie was baking me farewell cookies. Mom was crying. Dad was reading the latest article about the boot camps they put new recruit through and yelling out every detail. It was a nice day, in a sad, dreary sort of way. The cookies were good. I snap back into reality as Jaxson shoves a gun into my hand. “It’s West World! General Fallow attempted to sign a peace treaty and now they’re invading!” I stand speechless and thousands of West World troops storm our camp. I watch in disbelief. This isn’t happening. I remember another day. Dad was cooking some burgers, it was my sweet sixteenth. Julie got me a nail polish. Mom got me a sweater. Jaxson got me a kiss. We didn’t really talk about it after that day. Still, I think about every time I see him. “Get down!” Jaxson yells in the present day. I squat next to him behind a bench. “I know it’s not the time,” I say as an explosion makes my ears rings, “but I love you.” He looks at me for a moment and his confused yet happy face is the last thing I see as another explosion makes my vision black. Carly Trussel, 9th Grade Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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[ Grade 10 Poetry ] Free Identical flames lavishly dance around me. They burn furiously, roaring, consistent, mightily. Fire licks my heels, and attempts to devour my heart. They want me to burn with them. Murmurs and secrets barricade my brain. They simultaneously flutter, begging, persuading. Words push me, pull me towards conforming oblivion. They want me to join them. Uniform actions creep, seep deep into my bones. They move me, force me, mutate me. I am controlled, commanded to follow the norm. They want me to become them. I shall not burn with them. I am a dwindling ember that refuses to spark. I shall not join them. I am fixed, tug-o-waring from identicality. I shall not become them. I am original, diverse, morphing to a butterfly. I am different. I am free. I am nothing but me. Emily Brown, Grade 10 Ooltewah High School, Rose Fuller

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July 16, 2015 A day to always be remembered. The marvelous municipal of Chattanooga dismembered. An extensive shock to our close-knit community, Caused our whole town to be permeated with pity. As our city exploded with confusion, Many in agony just wanted seclusion. Families and friendships ripped apart, Our community will permanently grieve at heart. The brave Sgt. Holmquist Will always and forever be missed. The heroic actions of Petty Officer Smith, Will never be a myth. Gunnery Sgt. Sullivan didn't think twice, About saving us by his sacrifice. Lance Cpl. Wellsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; heart for the Lord, Was greatly valued and adored. Staff Sgt. Wyattâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s noble personality, Saved Chattanooga of a mass fatality. These valiant and altruistic men, Chose to be selfless time and time again. The cries of the widowed and fatherless, Echoed a sense of misery and aloneness. The throbbing pain demanded to be felt. Many sobbed as they knelt. American flags held proud and high. The patriotism of our country cannot die. Memorials built to honor those who perished. The memories of their lives will endlessly be cherished. The dire actions of a perpetrator with a gun, Inspired Chattanooga to become one. And by the power of prayer, Hope was magnified and despair became rare. As the mourning lifted their eyes, A sense of promise and restoration began to arise.

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An evil meant for wrong. Only caused us to be â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Nooga strong. Shelby Duggard, Grade 10 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Sarah Johnson

Chip the Glasses and Crack the Plates (V.2) We've finished supper and have time to kill, time to clean the kitchen, Grab the plates, pick up the bottles, time to clean the dirty smidgens. Toss the cups and scrub with stone, scratch up the glass, Broken bottles, shattered cups, scattered bits of mass. Throw the lard and fling the milk, stain up the floor, Spread a mess and cover the counters, until they can be seen no more. Break the plates and spill the soup, let it seep through the floorboards, Leave it to rot, clean not one spot, let the fungus grow and let them spore. Tear the cloth and crack the cabinets, rip them from the wall, Leave no spot untouched, no place left clean, stain all things big and small. Dirty up the rugs and taint the spices, spoil all of the drinks, Bend the forks, blunt the knives, and then put them in the sink. Break the seats, splinter the cabinets, tip all the woodware, Fling the food and flip the bowls, treat no thing with care. Burn the corks and spread the ashes, Be quick and careless, showing no attention to scratches. All the food must be wasted and all the trash spill all over, Don't clean the trash and show no remorse, clean we must leave nowhere. The food all over and the room such a mess, keep it in such a state, Leave it this way, for no other reason, than that this is what Bilbo Baggins hates. Andrew Land, Grade 10 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George 127

Toad and I I was walking down the road, With my pet toad. His name is Big Smo. He was wanting to eat; He asked for a treat. I let him nibble on my feet. My feet were sour, But he continued to devour. When he became full, We jumped in a pool. We swam all day, Because it was his birthday. th

Collin Lovell, 10 Grade Silverdale Baptist Academy, Sarah Johnson

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Seasons

The sun is shining in my face The air smells like freshly cut grass The trees are gently swaying like a graceful ballerina Summer. The sun is distracted by the chill in the air The green grass starts to fade to brown The leaves fall like a feather drifting in the wind Fall. The clouds block out the sunlight The grass is covered by a blanket of white snow The trees look like lifeless shadows Winter. The sun returns The grass reappears The trees sprout new leaves like a child growing Spring. Then its summer. Then its fall. Then its winter. Then its spring. Seasons. Sam Mauldin, 10th Grade Silverdale Baptist Academy, Mrs. Sarah Johnson

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The Secret Box A secret A secret box A box with all your things A box under my bed A box with memories A box with love A box with tears A box with pictures of you and me A box with wishes A box with love letters A box that's sealed A box with my heart in it McCall Price, 10th Grade Silverdale Baptist Academy, Mrs. Johnson

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You Are? Pick her up. She is young, hardly nine. "You are a waste of this air?" "You do not belong here?" "Dis- a- ppointment?" You tell her these things. Why? She shakes her head, "No." "We are worth It." "We are im por tant." Then you recall You are h e r And she is y o u Two sides of the same coin You share both a history and a future She embraces you. "I love you." Kalie Shaw, Grade 10 Hilger Higher Learning

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Summer Nights Summer nights, summer nights I wish to go back to paradise Where the evenings are so long and free And I'm as happy as I could be Where the skies are filled with sparkling lights I wish to go back to paradise As we stay up late till the sun fills the sky These new memories will never die Catching fire, chasing the sun We burn like embers as we run I wish to go back to paradise Where the sun is bright and the nights come alive All I need is one more summer night One more night of paradise One more night to say goodbye Ellie Sondgeroth, 10th Grade Silverdale Baptist Academy, Mrs. Johnson

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[ Grade 10 Prose ]

Scent of Goodbyes There are certain smells you remember forever: the sharp, sterile scent of a dentist's office after you get your teeth pulled, or the sweet, gentle spring mist that graces your nostrils following the first thaw after winter. I will never forget the smell of the platform on the day I said goodbye to him. That was exactly thirty-four years ago, and yet the dense air of perspiration and anxiety, with undertones of the sparse hope that death is escapable by some, is deeply carved into my olfactory system like a child's name traced mischievously into wet concrete. I was young then, and hadn't experienced loss; I was naive enough to expect a long life with my new husband. But no one could have predicted the savage attack on Pearl Harbor the day after we left from our honeymoon in Hawaii. The minute he heard the news, he decided to enlist in the U.S. military. He said it was his "duty to the country." Who was I to stop him? I would be a good little housewife in his absence, playing cards with my girlfriends every Monday morning, discussing with them ways to collect scrap metal and support funds for the troops. I was the anonymous "Rosie the Riveter," just another face in a crowd of women identical to myself. I was the victim of deception by war propaganda, believing that the U.S. would have minimal losses in their quick defeat of the Nazis, and that the few losses the country did suffer would hardly reach my middle-of-nowhere town in Mississippi. Yes, the smell of that goodbye in 1943 is unforgettable. Occasionally I'll catch a whiff of it, unexpectedly, in some place it doesn't belong: in passing outside a movie house, or in a gas station I stopped at on the way to Jackson once. When I inhale it, the scent fills me up and strangles me from the inside, constricting both my brain and throat. All I see is the train, and him, leaning out of the window, waving to me, smiling grimly, winking at me, kissing me, promising his return, and vanishing like a player in a magic trick, taking a piece of me with him. Eventually, he would steal away the rest of me, excluding my body, which was cruelly left behind him like flotsam and jetsam after a flood. For the first few months of my husband's time away, he and I exchanged letters. Mine were written on rosy, monogrammed stationery (a wedding gift from my sister), my script gliding delicately over the page like a love-struck couple ice skating; his messages were scrawled with a pencil on plain, military-issued sheets of paper. I kept every letter in a box on a bedside table, whispering the words to myself every night like evening prayers, until I practically had them memorized. He wrote like he spoke, using vernacular and calling me a "dreamboat." I missed him terribly for several weeks and cried regularly, but after a while, I learned to live comfortably around the emptiness of my little home, reminding myself he would return soon. After about five months, the letters from him became few and far between, and I began to question the faithfulness of the postage system. The letters I did get from him were censored, and included few details about his experiences. After July of '43, the letters stopped

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coming. I anxiously assured myself that there was a mishap in the postage system, and eventually I'd hear from him. It was August 23rd when I got the news, a letter delivered by a grim-faced boy in uniform, so young he was probably freshly out of high school. It was a Monday; I was putting away pound cake left over from playing cards at a friend's house when the messenger showed up at my door and departed almost guiltily after handing me the official-looking envelope. How can I describe what it was like reading that letter? How can I make you feel what you have not felt? The words ran together like pollen and dirt after a rain in spring. "We regret to inform you that yourhusbandhasbeenreportedacasualtyeshaiebrinirmmfmsiba..." Was I reading another language? The words passed through my wide and disbelieving eyes and into my brain but they did not register. No way. Not him. Not him. Not him. NothimNothimNothim. The letter was dated August 17th. My radiant husband had been dead at least a week, in an unmarked grave overseas with possibly hundreds of other soldiers piled above or below him, and suddenly I was loathing the Nazis, loathing Japan for getting the U.S. into this War, loathing myself for becoming comfortable without him and for letting him leave, loathing the other soldiers for letting him die, loathing, loathing, loathing. I died with him. I will never forget the smell of that day. Since then, I have resurrected in body and mind, but not in spirit. I still think of him, wondering if he kept all my letters like I kept his, because they smelled like home and affection. I never remarried and never had children, terrified that another person might edge him out of his allotted place in my heart. My emotional winters arrive earlier than the earthly ones, commencing in August rather than December; the bitter, chilly memories attempt to freeze me out and cause panic alongside desperation and despair. I don't give in, but I don't forget. The end of the Vietnam War two years ago gave me flashbacks to 1945, when my neighbors rejoiced in victory while I grieved that my husband couldn't experience what he had died for. I no longer look like a ghost who hasn't slept in weeks, nor do I act like one. I still play cards every Monday, and I still write on soft pink stationery with my name printed on it. Many things have changed, but many things have not. I have lived through much, facing ghosts from the past every day. Still, I am a stalwart soldier, determined to survive every gruesome battle until the end of the war. Isabel Hampton, 10th grade Silverdale Baptist Academy, Mrs. Johnson

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Moms’ Night Out

Have you ever felt that you fail at everything you do? Have you ever planned a night out only to have everything that could go wrong, happen? If your answer is yes, then Moms’ Night Out could make the cut for your next favorite movie. Moms’ Night Out is a humorous and moralistic movie that teaches that even in the midst of chaos, joy can be found in the moment. Even though the movie is centered towards moms, I enjoyed Moms’ Night Out because of the morals, comic relief, and relatable aspects to my big-family life. Allyson, the main character, is a busy mom of three who runs a very chaotic life. Throughout the movie, Allyson learns to overcome her struggles of confidence in herself as a mom, comparing herself to other moms, and the constant feeling of being a failure. She learns that failure is only a judgment that she has made up in her head, but is not a reality. She learns that even though life is chaotic and far from perfect, there is still happiness to be found in every moment. Most importantly, she learns that God isn’t up in Heaven judging her, but rather loving her for all that she is. When three moms plan an evening away from home, you’d be surprised just how much could happen! This night out can make you laugh outright, cringe, and maybe even sweat a little with the situations and commentary that take place. Allyson and her friends’ “night out” ends up including a hunt for Allyson’s infant nephew, a missing car, a bird, a tattoo parlor, and the police station! Throughout all of these crazy hunts and detours, this trio gets help from two very unlikely people: a taxi driver and a bike-gangster. With these two comical characters, they recover the baby, the car that wasn’t actually stolen, and reunite with their families. Moms’ Night Out was specifically created to encourage and support mothers, and to show that they’re not alone in their daily motherhood struggles. Instead of making it look simple and easy, Moms’ Night Out presents motherhood in its true colors, which include both happiness and stress. From crying in the closet to kids coloring on the walls, this movie teaches how to look at the big picture, rather than the marker stains. This is relatable for many mothers who just need to know that it is not just they and their family who are struggling to maintain stability daily. Despite not being a mom, I can understand what chaos, commotion, and stress feels like with six siblings! Moms’ Night Out, despite being focused on encouraging moms, was enjoyable because of its use of good morals, comic relief, and relatable aspects. With every humorous remark, stressful situation, and hardship overcome, the audience falls in love with the movie. This movie, a reminder of God’s love, makes for laughs, sympathy, and joy inside of the audience. As the audience watches this movie, they realize just how real the struggle of confidence, parenting, and the hunt for peace are. I think that Moms’ Night Out is a good movie not just for mothers, but also for anyone that needs encouragement. Allyson Harnsberger, Grade 10 Hilger Higher Learning

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Camp Dork? It was Tessa’s first day at her new school. Of course she was super excited, but at the same time she felt a bit sick. The sweat from her hands made the paper that she was holding wrinkle up. She took another look at the paper that read: TESSA BARTON, HOMEROOM A113. The bold print on the page made her name look intimidating; she jerked her eyes from the paper and continued down the seemingly endless, crowded hallway until she found her door. ROOM A113 read the sign above the door. The door itself was decorated in festive streamers and balloons and through the small window she could see some students hitting around a paper ball, braiding each other’s hair, and one even appeared to be sleeping. Tessa took a deep breath. She thought to herself, “Ok, 10th grade can’t be too bad, right? No one here knows me; no one knows how nerdy I was! I can be cool, confident, and maybe even get to be a cheerleader!” She fluffed her hair, smoothed her skirt, and walked in to her new homeroom. The atmosphere of the room was definitely… different. There was paper all over the floor; the ripe smell of nail polish made her notice the girls in the back row; and the boys jumping around hitting a paper ball around the room made for quite a show. She smiled as calmly as she could as she walked up to the teacher’s desk. A kind looking young lady sat in the large chair. She stood up to shake Tessa’s hand. “Hi, you must be Tessa Barton. Welcome to home room. I am Mrs. McCloud,” she said distractedly. “Right now is free time where you can do whatever, but we will have a designated quiet time for school work!” She then addressed the class. “Class, this is Tessa. She’s new, so please make her feel welcome!” The class paused what they were doing and mumbled a “Hi Tessa” and then went straight back to whatever they were doing. Tessa sat down in an empty seat and smiled at the people around her. She looked over to see a group of kids standing in the corner of the room, whispering and staring at her. Then something terrible happened; she recognized one of the guys! It was Tom, from Smiley Stone Camp, the summer camp that she had gone to this past summer. That’s not even the worst part; she was still in her full-on nerd mode when they met. Tom was super nice at camp, but now he smirked at her from across the room. She quickly looked away from the group, hoping that he didn’t recognize her. Her solitude was interrupted by a tap on her shoulder. She looked up to see that the group of kids from the corner had now come over to her, with Tom leading them. “Hey, I know you! You’re that weird fangirl from Camp Dork”, Tom said, making the other kids laugh. Tessa was struck with sheer panic. The others would see right through her! Tom was jeopardizing her social status! And, along with, any chance of a good year! What should she do? She drew a shaky breath, steeled her nerves, and said, “Hello Thomas! It’s good to see you again!” The kids with Tom laughed again, but this time not at her. “Wait! You were at camp Dork with Tessa?” one of the girls said sarcastically. The group laughed again. “Well it’s a good thing that he was there!” Tessa replied. “Oh yeah, why is that?” one of the guys asked. “Well, he saved two little kids from drowning in the lake when their canoe tipped over!” Tessa explained. The group looked at Tom in shock. Tom blushed, “Well I couldn’t have done it if you hadn’t thrown me that life raft!” The kids whispered to one another. “Yeah and what about that time where you chased the bear off and kept everyone safe?” Tessa added. “Yeah, but it was your idea, Tessa, to bang some pots together to chase it off!” Tom said proudly.

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“Wow, it seems like we could use a few more “dorks” like you!” one of the girls exclaimed. By now most of the group was convinced that she wasn’t a loser, after all. In fact, she might just be the kind of girl they needed. Tom and the others sat down next to Tessa and smiled. “This is going to be a great year!” Tom said. “Yes it is!” Tessa said smiling at her new friends. Katelyn Thompson, Grade 10 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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[ Grade 11 Poetry ] My Mind Wanders Sitting beneath a moonlit sky The mind tends to wander I think of times long past when you and I were together A sun on the verge of falling from grace Your hand in mine I sit and ponder those days once more A river burbling and chuckling as we sat on the dock above Carefree In that time there was nothing of places to be or people to see No, just you and I A fort built from blankets and pillows This surfaces in my mind Blues, yellows, and pinks The colors of spring I can still smell the blooming flowers I still feel your hand on my cheek My tears becoming rivers A black taxi, Rolls-Royce waits out front I remember this clearly My yellow sundress itchy on my legs The last time I saw you Not one tear was shed Only silent remorse No words, just looks A quiet and meaningful goodbye To this day I cry when I see the colors of spring Black taxis Quiet docks For I wish I as back in that time But no, that will never happen now Not ever So, beneath a moonlit sky I will let my mind wander To you Victoria Martin, Grade 11 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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Subway I wait in silent expectation Blank expressions are frozen around me My great adventure Has become their daily repeated song The muted roar of voices is deafening It closes in, captured by the dark tunnels That stretch into the unknown It will be here soon At first a small light Growing brighter, it moves toward us At the pace of a shooting star Hannah Williams, 11th grade Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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[ Grade 11 Prose ]

Athena's Wisdom

In Greek mythology, it is common for the gods to be very foolish, lacking in foresight, and without mercy. One god, however, does not fall victim to such shortcomings, Athena; The Goddess of Wisdom, certainly lives up to what her title implies. Known as The Patron Goddess of Heroic Endeavor, Athena is constantly aiding heroes with her cunning and devising plans. Athena is also quite wily in nature, and is often seen toying with the gods in order to manipulate them. Athena is one of the most intriguing deities in Greek mythology, due to her uncanny wisdom, compassion, and continuous manipulation of others to achieve her goals. As the goddess of wisdom, Athena is constantly devising plans to aid heroes such as: Odysseus, Herakles, Perseus, and Achilles. She is credited for devising such plans as: the construction of the Trojan Horse, and providing Perseus with a cleanly polished shield who's reflection could be used to slay Medusa. But Athena's wisdom goes beyond simply devising plans. Often in The Odyssey in order to achieve her goals, she would take on different forms to contact and persuade characters with a sense of familiarity, for example: in book one of The Odyssey Athena takes the form of Odysseus's old friend Mentes, and later Mentor in order to convince Telemachus to search for Odysseus. (Source: godandgoddess.com) Athena is also one of the most compassionate deities, and is often striving to protect the protagonists and their families. In The Odyssey, Athena is constantly aiding Odysseus as he struggles to return to his home in Ithaca, be it by convincing the gods to set Odysseus free from the Nymph Calypso, or by divine intervention to ensure his safety. For example, in book five of The Odyssey, Poseidon discovers that Odysseys has set sail from the island of Calypso and causes a storm upon the sea in order to drown the hero, however Athena intervenes and calms the raging seas, saving Odysseus. But Athena's compassion extends far beyond The Odyssey, she aided Herakles in his many trials as he slew the hydra, captured the boar of Mount Erymanthos, and even helped Herakles support the heavens in Atlas's stead. While Athena's assistance is quite spectacular is those examples, she works in subtle ways too. In The Odyssey book seven, Athena surrounds Odysseus in shadow to protect him from the eyes of the townsfolk. (Source: godandgoddess.com, mythagora.com) Athena's wisdom isn't solely used for devising plans, it is also used for manipulating the others to achieve her goals. Athena knows how others think and applies that to how she manipulates them. For example when manipulating Zeus, she must be flattering and bold, in contrast, when manipulating humans, she is subtle and uses comforting imagery to push them to her goal. In book five of The Odyssey Athena gives a large speech to the gods pleading for the freedom of Odysseus, while in book six, she visits the princess Nausicaa in her sleep, and taking the form of Nausicaa's friend, persuades her to go to the shore the next day in order to aid Odysseus.

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With her wisdom, compassion and skill in manipulation, it's quite interesting to observe how Athena handles the adversities that she faces. Whether devising plans, aiding heroes, or controlling others for her own purpose, Athena's uncanny wisdom does not fail to help her achieve her goals. Noah Black, 11th Grade Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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The Couch Salesman This is the story of a man named Luke. Luke lived in a small house with a dog, he went to work each day at nine o’clock, and went to sleep at eleven. Luke went through this routine each day. Wake up, feed dog, work, sleep. Wake up feed dog, work, sleep. Luke worked in a small office that sold couches. He had a great knowledge about a variety of sofas. From brown ones to black ones, leather to cushioned. If you had a question he had an answer, as long if it was about couches. One day, Luke was following his daily pattern, except for one little thing. When Luke arrived at work, he took off his jacket as he entered the front door, and as he turned to greet the secretary (as he did every morning) she wasn’t there! “How strange.” Luke thought “Glenda is always here, and she is never late.” Even though it was odd, Luke figured that everyone gets sick eventually, and today just must be her day. As he wandered upstairs he began to notice that there was not any noise. No squeaky chairs, no loud arguing about what shade of brown the recliner was, no broken copy machine humming, not a peep. Curiously, Luke looked around, searching for someone, anyone! But no one was there. At this point he was getting worried. “What is going on? Where is everybody?” he mumbled to himself. Suddenly he stopped. “Ah, Ha!” he exclaimed. “Today is a Saturday, it must be!” Luke quickly pulled out his phone and looked at the date. It read Thursday. “Maybe it is just a holiday?” After quickly checking his calendar he was shocked to discover it was just a regular Thursday. Like the one before it, and the one before that. As he wandered through the building, he decided to head to his own little cubicle. It wasn’t a fancy work space. Just a modest little desk surrounded by four short walls. He had a computer, a chair, and a desk. That was it. Some of his coworkers had elaborate displays to personalize their spaces. Not Luke. He merely had what was given to him when he began working. As he sat down to think for a bit, his computer shot to life. Now, because of the almost deathly silence of earlier, the sudden noise of the old computer booting up caused him jump out of his chair. The screen flickered a few times before he heard, “Hello Luke.” A mysterious voice echoed out of the speakers! He quickly looked over to the screen where he saw a black silhouette on a green background. “We know who you are, and we know what you are hiding from.” “Who are you? Where are my coworkers?” Luke demanded not knowing what the man was talking about. The Silhouette chuckled. “I have taken your coworkers. If you wish to rescue them come to the large warehouse on 7th Street…Alone. If I see anyone else with you, they will die.” Before Luke could respond, the screen cut off, and office was restored to the eerie quiet of before. Rushing out the door with his phone in hand, Luke was already dialing nineone-one. “Hello, Police? Yes, I have an emergency.” He was running to his car as he explained the current predicament. “I understand, sir. Please remain where you are. We will send an officer to pick you up, and deploy a team to investigate the warehouse. Thank you for calling,” the emergency number operator explained.

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Impatiently waiting, Luke went through all the horrific scenarios that The Silhouetted Man could be putting his coworkers through. As he waited, terrified for the lives of his fellow workers, a squad car pulled up and a police officer stepped out. “Are you Luke?” he asked. Luke nodded as the he stepped toward the officer. “Are my friends alright?” he asked. “We have a team dispatched now,” the officer responded as he indicated that Luke should join him in his squad car. “It’s been requested you wait for more information down at the station.” Two hours later, the door to the room they were keeping Luke in swung open. In stepped his boss with an amused, though slightly annoyed expression on his face. “Oh, thank God you’re okay,” Luke said as he rushed towards his boss. “Woah, woah, woah! Back off, Luke. Why did you call the police? It was a surprise birthday party for you,” his boss explained. Luke wore a stunned expression. “Did you really forget that today was your birthday?” Jed Cole, Grade 11 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelly George

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“Misty Mountains” Literary Analysis

They can be powerful and meaningful. They can be cheerful, exciting, and intense. They can tell stories, create emotions, and communicate deep messages; they can affect the young and reach the old. However, rarely does but one of them include all of these unique qualities. To construct one so rare requires special gifts and seldom-seen talents—gifts and talents a certain J.R.R. Tolkien possessed. Throughout one of his most popular books, The Hobbit, Tolkien includes various songs to deepen the story and give it a more powerful effect. One of The Hobbit's better-known songs is found in its first few pages, and many have come to title it “Misty Mountains.” Sung by thirteen dwarves as night descends on the home in which they have gathered, “Misty Mountains” is a song that speaks of a tragic event that happened long ago, when a dragon named Smaug destroyed the dwarves' homes and stole their hand-crafted gold and hard-earned riches. However, there is so much more to this song than its retelling of a point in the dwarves' history. It hints at something deeper and whispers of something more. The deeper meanings and messages of the dwarves' haunting song “Misty Mountains” can be discovered by looking more closely at its unique use of nature, its contrasts between two types of light, and its repeated stanza from which the title came. One key aspect of the song that contributes to its depth and effect is its interesting use of nature. Throughout the song, there are frequent mentions of mountains, caverns, trees, winds, stars, the sun, and the moon. However, these bits of nature are not presented in a comforting, happy way; the mountains are misty and cold, the caverns are old and dim, the winds are moaning, and so on. The use of nature in this unsettling way gives the song a peaceful but very haunting feel. In the first few verses, though things are seemingly bright as the dwarves craft their gold, things feel heavy and daunting at the mention of “misty mountains cold” and “caverns old.” The cold mountains, moaning winds, and dim caverns distributed throughout the song give the story in it the feeling of a distant, pleasant dream that entered reality as a nightmare and continues to haunt the dwarves who survived to remember it. Another aspect of “Misty Mountains,” this one often over-looked, is the sharp contrast between its two mentioned types of light. The first type of light is from the dwarves. Described as coming from the sun, moon, and stars themselves, this light is pure and is used to create beautiful things. The second type of light is from the dragon, Smaug, particularly from his fire. It is angry and red; it turned strong trees into “torches blazed with light.” The dragon's light is evil, and it was used to hurt and destroy beautiful things. The contrast between these two lights adds more depth to the song. It makes the distinction between good and evil more prominent. It is discouraging to see the song conclude with the evil light victorious, but the mention of pure light at the very end in the dwarves' pledge to “away, ere break of day” and defeat this evil offers up a soft glimmer of hope. Repeated three times throughout the song, the stanza from which the title came has more significance than is originally thought. In this one verse the entire song can be summarized: at dawn the dwarves must rise and travel to a place cold, deep, and old to retrieve something of theirs that was once taken from them. There is also an interesting contrast between the first two lines and the last two of the stanza. In the first two, the dwarves acknowledge that they must travel “far over the misty mountains cold to dungeons deep and caverns old.” In the second pair, they say that they will accomplish this at the break of day. This

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shows that the dwarves know the heaviness and darkness of their task, but also that they will meet and fight it with daylight. The thrice-repeated verse communicates the darkness, danger, and difficulty of the journey, and yet at the same time reveals the dwarves' haunting determination to complete it. “Misty Mountains” has deeper meanings and messages which can be more easily understood by examining its repeated verse, its contrast between two types of light, and it's unique use of nature. With the aid of these deeper insights, the song takes on a somber mood. It is a song of heavy burdens, shattered beauty, and fragile hope. It hints that the dwarves' adventure will not be as happy and pleasant as assumed. The song reveals one of The Hobbit's more disturbing messages: there may be more going on beneath the surface. “Misty Mountains” is about a lost gold that the dwarves will be setting out to reclaim; however, the song gives this light adventure a dark, heavy feel to it. The Hobbit is about a unique team setting out on an exciting journey in search of old treasure, but the hobbit's discovery of a cold, small ring with later-revealed dangerous power transforms the story into more than first assumed. This message can have an important effect on its readers. It causes them to look at the easy, simple, surface parts of their lives and encourages them to wonder and learn more about what might lie underneath. Kari Morris, Grade 11 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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The Lowland Games Bubba Bain and his family had lived in their estate in Scotland for about a year and had finally settled in. They had participated in dinners and other clan traditions, including the Highland Games. As always, the Campbell clan won with a clean sweep, but the Bain clan did not perform very well. Bubba had no training or experience and came in last place in almost every event. He always won Alabama’s “Redneck Games” and was a national winner of the Pie Eating Contest. Bubba held a clan meeting and announced he would host his own version of the Highland Games, the Lowland Games of Scotland. The whole Bain clan loved the idea since they had never won the real Highland Games and were unfamiliar with those events. Invitations were sent and the other clans agreed to attend. However, the Campbell clan did not want to enter because they were afraid they might lose. They ultimately were pressured into attending by the other clans. The Bain clan was excited and immediately started planning the games. After months of planning, The Lowland Games of Scotland were set to begin. Bubba convinced his old friend Larry the Cable Guy to visit from America and be the announcer of The Lowland Games. The first event of the contest was the Mud Belly Flop. The clan chiefs lined up to participate. As expected, Bubba took the lead, with Liam Campbell in second. The clans proceeded to the next few events which all led to the same results. Larry the Cable Guy announced the scores halfway through the competition. “The Bain clan is in first, the Campbell clan is in a close second, and the McKay clan is in third. We are taking a lunch break featuring an Alabama family dinner of fried chicken, corn on the cob, green beans, and peach cobbler. The events will start back up after that and y’all will get to participate in a pie eatin’ contest, so don't eat too much.” While everyone went to eat, Liam Campbell met with several of his fellow clan members. He told them, “We cannot disgrace the clan’s name, we must win these foolish games. Bubba is not a real Scotsman and his games are an embarrassment to our heritage, but we still cannot lose. I want you all to sabotage the next events. Do whatever it takes!” When the next event started, Liam’s son had put haggis, a traditional Scottish meal made of sheep’s stomach, in all of Bubba’s pies. The Campbells felt certain that Bubba could never stomach this dish. Larry said, “Let the pie eatin’ commence!” All of the clansmen began to eat, and even Larry the Cable Guy joined in. To the Campbell’s surprise, Bubba loved the pies and even commented how delicious they tasted. Campbell was outraged, especially since he came in second place again. After a few more failed attempts of sabotage, the final event was up: cornhole. Bubba was born and raised to play cornhole and new he had it in the bag. However, Campbell had switched out his beanbags and made them especially heavy. Bubba didn't make a single one in and placed last. Shockingly, this put the Campbell clan in first place. Bubba was devastated and felt he had let his whole clan down. Larry the Cable Guy grudgingly announced the final results. “The McKay clan is our third place winner, the Bain clan takes second, and the Campbell clan has won the first ever Lowland Games.” However, Liam’s youngest son walked up to Larry and said that his father had sabotaged the competition. Larry then announced, “Wait everyone! The Campbell clan is disqualified.”

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“Disqualified! Why?” exclaimed Campbell. “We know y’all cheated and made Bubba lose.” When everyone heard this, they went after Campbell, who had already run off. “Well,” said Larry, ”That means the Bain clan has won the Lowland Games!” He gave Bubba his trophy and said, “I knew you could get ‘er done Bubba. Now can you give me some Prilosec, I ate too much pie.” Elisabeth Staten, Grade 11 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Taryn Humphries

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[ Grade 12 Poetry ] The Moment Driving home, going slow trying to take as long as we could You grabbed my hand, I grabbed your heart Who would've thought that it’d be the start That was the moment that I first knew You'd be the one to take my love That was the moment it was the first time in all my life I called you mine Sitting there on your stairs Talking as soft as we could I looked in your eyes and you looked in mine I'd never been more scared That was the moment that you first said The words in your head, “I love you” That was the moment it was the first time in all my life I said it too Walking in you stood at the end Tears filled my eyes like I knew that they would You lifted my veil and no one could tell how long we'd waited to say those I dos That was the moment that you promised To love me regardless of what we'd go through That was the moment it was the first time in all my life I promised too Sydney Heath Grade 12 Silverdale Baptist Academy Taryn Humphries

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The Perpetual Fear determined She fights to stay above the abyss. Terrified of the Darkness calling to her. Desperately, she fights the pull of Sleep, Struggling to ignore how it calls to her, Lulling her into silence and stillness. She fights it for a sense of Control, of power For if she gives in she has neither. And she fears this, hates the influence it has over her. But it is a never-ending battle that She cannot afford to lose for the sake of her own Sanity, So she fights and resists, always remembering the time She did give in. The fear and anxiety That overwhelmed her that she Could not conquer in her unconscious state. triumphant It drags her into silence. Buries her in her own thoughts, All while she tries to dig her way out, Scrambling for purchase on the slippery edges Of her own cruel mind. It begs her to give into her darkest thoughts. But sometimes she sees the light and Remembers. Escapes her own head for a few precious moments and Reaches out, emerging from the endless expanse In which the Loneliness engulfed her. She clings to the idea of a future Filled with happiness and peace and light. On the verge of recovery, Surviving with Strength. Frankie Hull, Grade 12 Signal Mountain Middle High School, Tara Tharp

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Memories whispers from that grave of my mind snatch, away, and wrench my idle dream I cannot sleep, their crescendo screams; they whirl about; names I can no longer find in a word of accusation, from their confines all that glitters does not gleam all these wisps I have chosen not to seamâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; into the fabrics of my memories, remain untied. I was the one to bury them deep to keep them from those craggy corners where demons made of shadow lurk, stalk. I gave them no thread to make their wayâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;to creep with no purchase. I let them remain foreign I let them talk among my thoughts I let them walk. Annie Hunter Grade 12 Signal Mountain High School Tara Tharp

Winner of the "Verbie and Hugh Prevost Award for Outstanding Poetry"

Sweet Candy She was sweet and beautiful, her thoughts undulated like ocean waves, her movements were like a dance but she was fragile like ribbon candy and shattered to small shards at the lightest touch. Noah Jordan, Grade 12 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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Grown I’m six years old and I fall off my bike But I’m too young to know what real pain feels like I’m eight years old and getting ready for school You’d think that I’m too young to try to look cool I’m ten years old and I’m leaving my friends A brand new school is where lonely begins I’m twelve years old and disaster strikes I’m way too young to know what real pain feels like I’m fourteen now and life can be cruel I shouldn’t be crying in the middle of school I’m sixteen now and I’m buying my own shoes All I wanted in life was a life I could choose I’m seventeen now and I’m headed to school I think I’m grown, but a girl can be fooled Jenna McLain Grade 12 Silverdale Baptist Academy Taryn Humphries

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Read to me out of Wilde, Tell me about the masterpieces of life. I hear your voice like a whispered prayer in a June reverie. Capture my spirit, you brave ghost, you've hunted my decrypt soul down for years. Your voice, a prayer to someone unknown god I worshipped for ages. An unknown God not unlike the real thing, Will you not destroy your idols? Will you not destroy your demons? They are synonymous. Mercy and change hang in the air. Bittersweet smells of incense at the altar of love's death; Altar of the cycle of life. Of thriving on bread and water Will you not destroy your idols? Will you not destroy your demons? Oh, God in heaven, I put in a bid for one request. I seek out but one answer. Give breath to a new spirit, And model her after my idolatrous goddess. Better yet, give the real things withdrawals for your well. Give her a thirst for your spirit A hunger in her veins. Destroy her idols. Destroy the demon. I will not survive without her. Destroy my idols. Destroy my demons. Lay me to waste. Dylan Thomas, Grade 12 Hilger Higher Learning

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[ Grade 12 Prose ]

The Magician

The keys to the car were sitting on the night stand last night, and now theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re gone. I look around the room noticing the magician costume from last night right where I left it, the shoes by the door where they were kicked off, and nowhere in sight a pair of keys. I look behind the dresser again not seeing them there and then I look under the dresser only seeing dust bunnies. Sitting down on the ground I absently grab for my magician hat, spinning it around in my hands. As I think about where my keys could have ended up instead of just my dresser, I hear a soft thud. I look over to my left and see my keys, the rabbit keychain glinting in the light. Hesitant, I pick them up. Where did they come from? I look back at my hat. It was an ordinary black top hat with a bright green ribbon around the bottom, my great-grandfather had given me the hat just a few weeks ago as my magician career was beginning. Ever since then small items had been disappearing. I shake my head. A crazy thought was forming inside my mind, as I grab the hat again. I spin it around in my hands thinking of the coffee cup that went missing yesterday. I hear another soft thud, and soon cold coffee is spilling onto my carpet. I jump to grab a towel, my head spinning. As I sop up the coffee I think about my great-grandfather. He had once told me that he was a magician, and a really good one too. He was the one that fostered my curiosity and love for magic, teaching me all that I know. I grab the hat, and peer inside. Seemed normal enough, but when I reach in my hand and arm, they begin to tingle just a bit and I feel something round and rubbery. I pull my hand out and inside my fist is my purple bouncy ball. I sit down on the bed and think for a moment. Magic is real. This hat is magical. My great-grandfather is a real magician. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a real magician. Sierra Brooke Beatty, Grade 12 Hilger Higher Learning, Shelley George

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Why I Write Thin, long lines run across my forearms and my thighs. Pink scars left to remind of those red days. Days I remember well, those memories always playing in the back of my head. But I eventually found my peace: I found my solace in writing. It's amazing how printing your deepest, darkest thoughts on white sheets of paper can help to assuage the worst of pains. I sometimes catch myself wondering where I would be without my writing; images cross my mind of times past that might have become reality at one time. Yet as much as I hope them to fade away with time, they remain. And I am left thinking what if... I shake my head as if clearing my thoughts and return to my words. But the feeling remains, leading to fingers absentmindedly running along my arms. I put down my pen and walk to the window, blankly staring outdoors. A thin layer of frost covers the ground; just enough to prove that winter really has come. I crack open the window and a cool breeze runs across my face, crisp and welcoming. It brings relief from the stuffy heat of the indoors and a wan smile breaks across my face. The wind swirls around outside and I can almost see it carry sparkles of ice with every gust, dancing in the last moments of light of the day. I remember being told almost every day of my childhood that I had an overactive imagination, and that I needed to learn to ground myself on reality. But where's the fun in that? I prefer to live in my head, where anything can happen: where I can fly and make all my problems disappear with the wave of a hand. Where all my dreams become reality. Eleven year-old me seemed to have it all figured out, her whole life planned ahead of herself. Fact: I thought that once I got out on my own, everything would be perfect. I say so in the first entry of the journal that I got for my fifteenth birthday. If only... A chill runs through my spine and I realize I'm still reaching out the open window. I shut it softly and return to my seat, ignoring the empty notebook I was recently contemplating. It's been awhile since I've written just for the sake of it, or because I felt inclined to. It feels as if I've forgotten how to write, or why I even did so in the first place. I grab another journal, this one small and colorful, and look inside the front cover. Age 6, I read, and skim through the simple entries that fill the first few pages until the rest is enveloped by the drawings of a child's hand. Scribbles of a young hand add captions such as I love my house and I love my brother beneath each of the images. I remember this gift: given to me by a Sunday school teacher, in hopes of developing a habit of writing in her young students. A habit I nurtured for many years, until one day, the urge suddenly died. And as I read, I think of what caused this abrupt change in my life. After so long of recording my life on paper, I just stopped, and it seemed to me that so did everything else around me. During these times in your life, when nothing seems to be going right, your whole world seems to collapse. Depression sets in, friendships are put to the test, and you lose faith in others and, in the worst of cases, even in yourself. I suppose that's what happened to me. Over time the days began to get a little longer, patience wore thin, and anxiety took its toll. The way I remember it, the times I was at my worst was when I wasn't writing, although the thought never crossed my mind at the time. I pick up my pen and start twirling it in my fingers as I consider this, once again lost in my thoughts. Mind racing, I recall the last time I picked up my notebook to write. I filled barely half a page, but I remember pouring my heart into each word as the ink flowed from my hand, capturing the emotion of my thoughts on paper. And that feeling, the elation I felt afterwards, is what always

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struck me as intriguing. I never before thought that I could, with such emotion, tell my story with words. And for whatever reason that I stopped telling it after that, I don't care. I want to feel that rush again. I want to know once more what it's like to fly and allow my dreams to become reality. I won't let my fears bring me down once more. I let my pen rest on paper and ink starts to run across the page. I don't even have to think about it; every word flows easily from my head to my hand. Once I exhaust myself from words, I look up, eyes glancing over towards the window, and I realize it has begun to snow. As I watch, gusts of wind begin to pick up the ice from the ground and swirl it around in beautiful spirals, sparkling against the white background. Fingers trace the frosted glass, the faded lines on my skin now forgotten, smiling as it all comes back to me. I remember now, why I write. Because it's part of me, part of who I am. And I won't let myself forget that ever again. Suzana Braxton, Grade 12 Signal Mountain Middle/High School, Tara Tharp Hope for Tomorrow I burst through the doors with tears running down my cheeks. I had only made it through two classes and I was already crying in the school bathroom. My mom had offered for me to take one more day off from school, but I figured facing a Monday morning at school would be better than having to see her face. Don't get me wrong I love my mom and I used to love spending time with her. The thing is, my dad died last week and since then my world has been flipped upside down. Ever since then I can't stand to look my mom in the eyes and see how the sparkle has died out. I would rather face these bleak classroom walls than look into the void that is my mother's eyes. I used to love going home to my happy family; just my parents and I, but now the house feels a lot more empty without dad around. My joyful and adventurous mother had been replaced with a bleaker version of herself. And me, well I was prone to having three breakdowns a day, but I made sure no one noticed. I

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couldn't stand the look of pity on everyone's faces when they saw me. People who I haven't talked to since kindergarten are coming up to me and trying to be my friend. I couldn't take the stares and hushed whispers as I walked down the hallways, so I ended up here, sitting in the bathroom floor. Once I heard the bell ring for lunch I knew it would be my best chance of sneaking out of school without being caught. Pulling my hood up on my head, I rushed towards the parking lot and jumped into my car. When I felt down like this I knew there was only one person who could cheer me up, and that's where I was headed. I sat down on the grass next to the stone and let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. Most people find cemeteries creepy and I used to think the same thing, but now I found comfort in all of the grey stones around me. However the stone I found the most comfort in was the one I was sitting right in front of. A tear slipped down my cheek as I whispered, “Hey dad”. “So I know that I’ve been here everyday since… well you know, but you seem to be the only one who listens.” I felt guilty as soon as the words had slipped out of my mouth. I know that I have multiple family members and friends that would listen, but the problem was that I didn’t want them to listen. I just wanted my dad back. I wanted his companionship and most of all I wanted his advice. Ever since he left my life has seemed to be in a downward spiral that I can’t stop. I had missed a week of school, therefore I was falling behind in class and my grades were suffering. Not many of my friendships were thriving because I had been avoiding just about everyone. “You know dad I could really use some of your good advice right now.” Silence. “Alright, well I know you can’t actually talk to me, but a sign would be nice.” Nothing. “You know it has been really hard since you left. I’m not looking for a miracle, just give me something. I just need something to help me get through the day.” A tear fell onto my hand and that’s when I realized that I had started crying. I sighed, defeated, and started to get up to leave. While I was dusting my pants off I gave one more look to my dad’s stone and a dash of yellow caught my eye. A yellow monarch butterfly had landed on the stone and was resting peacefully. Monarch butterflies were my favorite, and so I took this as a sign that even though my dad couldn’t physically be here he would always be with me. “Thanks dad”, I whispered walking back to my car. In that moment I knew that things might not be alright today, but they could be eventually. As I pulled out of the cemetery I felt something that I hadn’t in awhile; a hope for tomorrow. Taylor Moran, Grade 12 Silverdale Baptist Academy, Mrs. Humphries

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Money Trees

The black SUV sped down the rainy street ignoring all stop signs and red lights, the last thing the men on the inside cared about were the police. Looking up at the clock Jeremy’s heart began to race even faster than it already was. The green bills fell to the floor as they were frantically stuffed them into the duffel bags. “How long do we have until they realize what’s happening?” Jeremy asked. “Probably five to ten minutes, just keep grabbing at much as you can!” Bobby answered between handfuls. “Is the car already parked out back?” “Yeah, bro! It’s pretty much a straight shot from here until we reach the outskirts of town.” Winner of the “Okay great, I’m almost done here,” Jeremy continued. "Verbie and Hugh Prevost Dressed in a mixture of black and red, the six men Award for Outstanding Prose" loaded their golden and engraved pistols. The tires squealed after the car halted to a stop in the parking lot. Jumping out, they swiftly made their way to the entrance and weaved through the crowd. Speaking in Spanish, one asked which way they were going, his partner gestured towards the back office north of them. Zipping up the last bag Jeremy slung it over his shoulder and raced down the building staircase. Breathing heavily, both of their minds were swimming pools of outcomes. Bobby was already planning what he would be doing with the money while Jeremy just didn’t want to get shot. Reaching the last level, they both slammed the exit door open, a red Camaro silently waited for them in the darkness. After loading the trunk, checking to make sure the coast was clear, and entering the car there was nothing but the sound of the car’s engine rumbling. It had been months of planning and endless moments of doubt. But they had actually done it, turning to each other, the brothers smiled and began laughing. “We beat them, we actually beat them man,” Bobby spoke in a confident tone. “Well after we leave this awful place,” Jeremy replied with a layer of stress still permeating around him. Putting his arm around Jeremy’s shoulders, Bobby hugged him. “I can’t believe it, but everything’s actually going to be okay.” Kicking the office door open, the men were met with nothing but an empty safe. The leader angrily threw one of the desks over and yelled a slew of curse words. The last thing in that alleyway was the view of the red Camaro shrinking into the distance. Earlier “They. Are. A. Drug. Cartel. Jeremy. We can’t just steal from them and run for the hills, they will find us and I don’t have to explain the rest.” The kitchen was dimly lit from a ceiling light that casted a white haze over everything. The TV was playing a rerun of Law and Order in the living room as Jeremy’s cat slept on the couch. Jeremy’s friend Bobby finished his rant and angrily plopped himself down in a nearby chair. Leaning against the kitchen counter Jeremy

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rubbed his face with both of his hands, breathing out a long heavy sigh. “You should have never come back man; I mean how did you think this was going to end for you?” Bobby retorted. “I...I don’t know. I guess I thought if I stayed low enough under the radar they would just leave me alone,” answered Jeremy. “What you should have done is left this damn city, there’s barely anything here worth caring about anyway. But noo, I’m Jeremy Brown the world’s next big name in boxing, let me show you that I’m as great at throwing a punch as I am at making bad decisions.” Jeremy reached out and playfully punched Bobby in the arm. Bobby continued, “I mean I do know someone who can stop the money from being traced. If we are lucky enough we might be able to get away scott free.” “...Alright I guess, contact your buddy. Most of the plan is already pretty much flawless and hell even if it all goes bad after the match I’ll have gone down swinging, literally.” They both laughed. “We probably shouldn’t be laughing right now,” Bobby said sitting back down in the chair. The locker room’s design had a lot to be desired, the walls were a bland brick pattern and the bricks themselves were disgusting. There was one toilet stall and one urinal, both hadn’t felt the embrace of cleaning supplies in god knows how long. This room had been where Jeremy had spent countless hours in his youth, training for and preparing to enter fights. After their dad left when Jeremy was only ten and Bobby was seventeen a certain deck of cards had been dealt to them. Being adopted didn’t help with the identity crisis situation, but it did give them a sense of perseverance in making something of themselves. Bobby had become a skilled and sponsored rock climbing teacher and Jeremy had taken up boxing. Late nights with piles of homework didn’t bode well with his patience and want to continue further in school. Boxing was his antidote to depression and ultimately something he grew to love. However, deeper problems had rooted themselves into the lives of these boys. Their neighborhood wasn’t a place of perfect housing and high wage jobs. Events transpired and Bobby had to briefly involve himself in a not so legal period of employment. Jeremy had to leave and live with one of his school friends because their house had become so dangerous. However, tonight was the night that the running, the fighting, the drugs, and living in this neighborhood would end. Spanning the course of three months, the championship pot had accumulated over one million dollars. That money is the reason Jeremy came back down nostalgia lane. Looking down at his phone, a text from Bobby read, “ Good luck little bro, I’m ready when you are.” Max Radu Grade 12 Chattanooga High School Center for Creative Arts Sandra Howard

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Untitled

I wonder what a paramedic thinks when he’s zipping up a case he couldn't save. Is there a specific thought that touches his cerebral everyday a life is lost? They see it all, don't they? A young boy drowns in a nearby river. His first and last kiss was CPR being administered upon him. His cold hands are stiff. His lips are blue. “Oxygen, we need oxygen!” A wayward high school student takes their first sniff of what they thought was blow and can’t handle it. A reluctant party goer dials 911. An ambulance arrives and she's hurriedly wheeled off to the vehicle. She’s losing her grip. The heart monitor sings a funeral song as the line goes stiff. “Quick, jumpstart! do something!” One mistake should not cost your life, but it does. Who in God’s name invented bad luck? I want to know. A mom with two kids is crossing the street on her to way to work as a young driver doesn't see the “Yield to Pedestrians” sign and knocks her flat. The pavement isn’t a pillow. Cracked skull on top of bloody business clothes. Her eyes roll back. A crowd gathers. “Save her!” Savor her. Her blood pools in the middle of a suburban street. Someone once said life doesn't have the capability of fairness. Nature does not commit to justice. The same way nature is not evil, but terrible. The same way nature is never good, but beautiful. It’s only on days that I read the headlines that I ask God to answer to his crimes against humanity, but then I remember he doesn't have to. God doesn’t have to be good, just, kind, or bad. God’s only requirement is that he continue to be. You decide the rest, don't you? Is that how this works? I wish I knew. The face of God rests in the stillness of the night and laughs in the wind. cries in the rain, smiles in the sunshine. God’s been crying a lot this week. I asked him what was wrong, and I heard no reply, but instead I read the headline of a newspaper. I thought that was the answer, sort of. I saw the sunshine and felt the breeze, and I asked God why he was so happy. He didn’t answer, but I passed a woman feeding a man on the street and i thought that might be a voice. I met god one night in the light of a streetlamp in July. He asked me how life’s been treating me, and i said, “alright”. I asked him the same question and he just smiled and said he stopped caring about how it treated him along time ago.

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Is He at the mercy of our weak hands? The old man in the street was not God. God is bigger than an us all. A force, a being, whatever you want to call him. I met a vessel, a ship, a medium. If you're listening everyone’s a medium in their own right. What defines what is and what is not a sign from God? You define what is and what is not a sign. People say, wait for a sign, pray. But if your minds made up wouldn't anything be a sign? Are we really waiting for direction or just an action that will let us begin our own interpretations? I see the hand of God in people everyday. I see the wrath of nature as His disciplinarian, but I think we’re doing alright. What I want to know is this: does an EMT see the best or worst of God everyday? When that child doesn’t comeback from wherever he’s gone. What does he think? what’s his first reaction? Calling that boy back to a body he was never meant to inhabit. Does he feel anger, or frustration? When that teenage queen with a reckless streak doesn't comeback after 15 minutes of knocking on the door, does he see God? Where is God? What is God? Where’s God in the trouble of one person, or the murder of a nation? Where’s God in the home invasions with no witnesses or the inexperienced driver plowing into a soccer mom? I want to know, because I can see his smiling face. I can see his tears. But where do I connect the dots of pain and God. Where do I find the cosmic cause and effect? I have too many questions. I have already thought too much. Dylan Thomas, Grade 12 Hilger Higher Learning

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On Grief

Psychologists have boiled it down to a five step process: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptable. They say that not everyone goes through all of them, nor does everyone go through them in the same order. These stages are the one given we hold to during grief: they’re the law for what we’re feeling, and if we feel outside of these steps, it is concluded that something must be abnormal psychologically. People become wary of you if you heal too quickly, too slowly, or too openly. It is uncomfortable to witness grief, knowing there is nothing you can do, so we wish it would end, both for their sake and our own. It is safe to assume that the grieving process does not begin until after the funeral in most cases. If the family of the deceased is not crying at the visitation, they either have not yet even begun to heal or they have put on a Band-Aid to appear strong. But the truth is, you can’t rush grief, nor can you predict it. When my sister’s high school boyfriend—the boy I had always pictured as my brotherin-law—died unexpectedly, I recall my mother sending an email to my sister and me. It was the link to an article about the five stages of grief; as I scrolled through, I checked off the stages and concluded that I was—for all intents and purposes—healed, regardless of the fact that he had just died two days before and all I’d been able to stomach was a cookie. I didn’t know it was a cycle that I’d spin around on for months on end. The first encounter with grief is a learning experience. No one can tell you what you’re going to feel day in and day out, no one is going to tell you that an insensitive person will ask “So how’d that Sam kid die?” on the first day of your junior year, and no one wants to tell you they’re uncomfortable with your constant death talk. As time goes on, you find you can go one hour, one run, one day, one week, maybe two without crying. You may even realize you’re the uncomfortable one when your friends ask a less-than-tactful question because you didn’t talk about it enough before to air out your wounds. It boils down to people acting like they missed him a year later, when they barely knew him in the first place, and starting your grieving all over again when you imagine his reaction to all the fake people. It’s an incredibly hard thing, grief is: you can prepare yourself for surgery, exam week, or moving across the country. Because the thing is, it changes with you. You learn from it, grow from it, and think you know what to expect from yourself, but when a whole new storm starts brewing new waves, your old shelter is lost and you find that you have to build anew. One of the worst parts is the time. In a society so hooked on quick fixes, it’s unbearable to know that the only antidote to grief is time. And even once you’ve had time and learn to live with your life as it is, you expect a cleaner heal. But death is not a broken bone; it’s a shattered, bone-outside-the-skin, torn ACL combination that can never be fully repaired. You can learn to live with it, but it’s going to leave you sore to the thought for years to come. And when it rains you’ll be reminded by the ache, which will bring on the memories of the time before it happened, and the whole day will be filled with sad songs even though there’s no music on. But you’ll sleep, and when you wake up with puffy eyes, you’ll be okay enough to get through the day. And maybe even the one after it. But grief is a process, and grief takes time, and someone is going to ask you how they died and you’re going to look them in the eye and say, “He killed himself,” because you’d rather

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answer any questions now than have their name slandered later by misinformation. And eventually your shelter will be rebuilt, with the help of your family and distractions and John Green books (which are said to be childish, but accurately portray the feeling of grief better than any article about the stages of grief ever could). And eventually, you will be okay. Like the plaque my mother got for my sister says, “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” So give it time and do what helps you because at the end of the day, you’re one step closer to okay. Olivia Young, Grade 12 Signal Mountain High School, Tara Tharp

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