2010 Upper School Dimensions

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Dimensions 2010

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Theme From

A Step

On the other side of darkness, far away there shines a light A light which bathes man’s mind in the wisdom of eternal flame That which will redeem mankind And make the highest truths plain - Raja Sivaji

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Table of Contents Education: Human Rights or Privilege - First Place Speech - Joyce Caldwell ....................4 Fear - Pedro Alvarez .................................................................................................................................................5 The Impact of Journaling - Second Place Speech - Madeleine Pattis .....................................6 Ginger in Disguise - Michael Phillips.....................................................................................................................8 Door County - Zoe Murphy .................................................................................................................................11 Untitled - Leigh Ketelsen ...........................................................................................................................................11 Untitled - James Paige ...............................................................................................................................................11 The War - Karisma Chhabria ............................................................................................................................12 Winter - Saisha Talwar ............................................................................................................................................13 Vice - Vicente Nagel ..................................................................................................................................................14 I Am - Barrett Medvec ...........................................................................................................................................16 Dew Drop - Amy Krivoshik ...................................................................................................................................16 Memory of Winning - Andrew Strudwick .................................................................................................16 Liquid Field - Claire Pandaleon ..........................................................................................................................17 Alone - Monterey Pepper .....................................................................................................................................17 Untitled - Jesse Bernhart ........................................................................................................................................18 The Stitch - Madeleine Pattis .................................................................................................................................18 Sunrise - Nikki Dennis ................................................................................................................................................19 Leaves - Emily Hennessy .........................................................................................................................................19 A Cause Unknown - Wil Dixon .........................................................................................................................19 Innocence Lost - Short Story Winner - Rahul Mehta .....................................................................20 To Leave a Mark - Short Story Second Place - Genevra Crofts ..........................................25 The Silent Painter - Short Story Third Place - Claire Pandaleon ..............................................28 Bacon - Tyler Grumhaus ........................................................................................................................................31

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Pencil - Elizabeth Gunton .......................................................................................................................................31 Al Capone - Speech Contest Second Place .............................................................................................32 The Sprout - Genevra Crofts ............................................................................................................................33 Hero - Riley Harwood ..............................................................................................................................................34 White Paper - Erisa Farimani ...........................................................................................................................35 The Un-Wanted - Maddie Stephenson ......................................................................................................35 My Brother - Will Suter .......................................................................................................................................36 Baseball - Timothy Sperling ...................................................................................................................................36 My Name Is Caroline - Jacqueline DeMay.......................................................................................................37

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Dimensions Education: Human Right or Privilege?

Joyce Caldwell Robbie Bermingham Speech Contest Winner

Here in the United States, every boy and girl has an equal right to education. But did you know that in many other countries this is absolutely not the case? There are places where girls are not allowed to go to school because the government has actually made it illegal to do so. I’ll focus on Afghanistan as an example, but there are many other countries in the world where women suffer the same repression. I’d like to point out how this repression is not just a local problem, but one that affects us all.

Afghanistan’s educational system was very respected around the world until 1979 when the Taliban took control. The Taliban is a very conservative, religious Islamic group. They believe that women should remain at home and serve their husbands and children. That’s all. Women are kept uneducated and under the control of the men in their lives. As a result, these women end up very poor, unhealthy and ignorant about the world around them. Their knowledge is limited to what their mothers taught them and what their husbands tell them.

They have few freedoms and very little say in their communities.

There are many things we can do to help uneducated girls and women to hope for better futures. Have any of you read the book Three Cups of Tea? Well, this book is about how we should help educate girls and women by building schools for them throughout Afghanistan and Pakistan – two of the worst places for women in the world. The author of this book has an amazing story about how he stumbled upon the little town Korphe in Afghanistan. This is where he got his idea that building schools for girls is one step toward world peace.

Did you know this? When a young man chooses to join the Taliban and become a terrorist or a suicide bomber, he cannot do so without the blessing of his mother. Once women can read and think for themselves, they better understand the issues and the results of violence, so they are not so quick to give their blessings. They don’t just accept what generations of uneducated women before them were led to believe because they couldn’t know better.

Do you remember the rugs for sale in the atrium a couple years ago? Well that organization is called “Arzu,” which means “hope” in Dari. Arzu raises money to help educate women in Afghanistan. These Afghan women weave extraordinary rugs by hand. Then Arzu helps break the cycle of poverty by helping them make more money selling their rugs in the U.S than they would earn in Afghanistan. An Arzu rug is an investment in hope for these poor women.

When women are uneducated, they become slaves of the men who control their lives and the lives of their daughters. In the south of Afghanistan, where the Taliban had the strongest control, still only three to seven percent

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of girls go to school. Most of them are married before they are 17 years old. Some are sold into slavery. Because they cannot read, these poor girls don’t know how to change their lives or fight for their rights. The tradition of Pardah made it against Islamic law for women to be seen by other males outside the house. Most women went without medical care because the doctors were all male. When women have access to medical care, they learn how to protect their health and avoid disease.

Today 80,000-90,000 children die each year from waterborne diseases. This number goes way down when the mothers are educated. It is well known that in uneducated areas of the world, the spread of HIV and AIDS is a terrible problem.

Educated girls stay healthier and later bring up healthier families. Now that some women have managed to become doctors, other girls look up to them and get inspiration for the future.

With the Taliban no longer in control, the girls of that region are again being given hope. Mohammed Atmar is Afghanistan’s new Minister of Education. He said, “Because the Taliban was hated and feared, their discrimination against women caused a huge public reaction afterwards. Being against girls’ education was being ‘Taliban’; so now there is great support for girls’ schools.”

There are several international organizations today that help girls and women improve their own lives, the lives of their families and the conditions they live in. Every little effort makes a difference. Providing education for women will enable them to influence their communities and bring positive changes to health care, economic growth and world peace. Education should be a basic human right, not a privilege.

FEAR Pedro Alvarez Fear has a sound, a look, a feel.

It sounds of echoes in your head that warn and waken every cell.

Sounds of heartbeats interrupted, accelerated or delayed-It has pale lips and crazy eyes, blood-drained skin that dreads surprise.

Fear’s hands are clammy, fear’s mouth is dry.

The wild swing of a pendulum And in a flash It’s gone.

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Dimensions The Impact of Journaling Madeleine Pattis Robbie Bermingham Speech Contest - Second Place

When was the last time that any one of us in this room expressed ourselves through writing, but in a paper that wasn’t for school? Probably not very recently, as the term journaling in our society today has been replaced by the online blogging sites. But the fact is that journaling is a great way to express emotion, help manage stress and anxiety, help manage emotions, and even improve one’s health.

When the topic of journaling comes to mind, most people think of a mundane diary that includes random and pointless details about a person’s day. They think of the term “dear diary,” which displays the fact that the writer is treating this notebook as a friend. No doubt the person writing probably couldn’t find anyone else to listen to his or her boring day.

Dr. James Pennebaker, one of the most noted researchers when it comes to the impact of journaling, has a different definition for journaling and advice for the aspiring writer. He says that journaling is about finding one’s self. A person should begin by selecting an event that impacted one’s life, or was a traumatic experience. Then through the writing process, a better understanding of one’s emotions must be reached. “Emotional upheavals touch every part of our lives,” Pennebaker explains. “You don’t just lose a job; you don’t just get divorced. These things affect all aspects of who we are—our financial situation, our relationships with others, our views of ourselves, our issues of life and death. Writing helps us focus and organize the experience.”

But Pennebaker is not completely convinced that the average person should write in a diary daily. He isn’t even sure that a person should write about a horrible event for more than a couple of weeks. “You risk getting into a sort of a cycle of self-pity,” says Pennebaker. “But standing back every now and then and evaluating where you are in life is really important.”

Pennebaker’s customary assignment that he normally gives when conducting an experiment goes like this. Select four days in which you will have time to write about your deepest emotions and thoughts about an occurrence in your life that influences your life the most. To be most effective, during the writing you have to let go and explore every aspect of the event. Tie this to anything else in your life, such as childhood, relationships, love life, or career. Write for just twenty minutes.

Along with these guidelines, Pennebaker has many tips to make this experience the most meaningful. The first and most important tip is to find a time and place where you can’t be disturbed. Being interrupted by your little brother every five minutes will greatly decrease the value of this writing. The second tip is not to bother with spelling or grammar. (English teachers in the room cover your ears.) If a person is focusing only on whether or not it is appropriate to add a comma, he or she will forget the feeling being experienced, and the value of the writing will have been lost. Also, write only for yourself, and deal with situations that you can handle now.

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With all of these great tips, one might be wondering what the main advantage to writing in a journal is. The most obvious benefit from writing is the regulation of emotions and stress management.

Writing out feelings and emotions is often times just like telling your feelings and secrets to someone you trust, without actually saying anything. Pennebaker, the researcher that I mentioned earlier, was very interested to learn that people with deep, dark, secrets often times were hurt from the act of keeping these emotions buried within their self-conscious. Once these people wrote out the piece of information that was impacting them so greatly, they were in better spirits and moods.

Another benefit from journaling about emotions is learning how to express emotions in an appropriate manner. Often times, this will apply to the male percentage of the world. For example, many men will say that they resent to topic of expressing feelings, and they will bottle them up. Many people feel that this might be the reason for many of the outbreaks of violence in society today.

When something like this happens, it is normally related to the lack of outlets for expression. Writing in a journal is just like using your words instead of fists. The more expression, the less anger and hatred there will be.

Writing is no new idea for the world of psychology and has been used time and time again to heal the mental disabilities that often ensue after a traumatic experience. But one thing that most people don’t know about keeping the average journal is that it can actually improve your health.

Many studies have been done, and all have proven this to be correct.

Previously, there were no studies that focused on the physical benefits of journal writing, until The Journal of the American Medical Association decided to sponsor a study led by Joshua Smyth. One hundred seven asthma and rheumatoid arthritis patients were asked to write for twenty minutes on three consecutive days. Seventy-one of the patients wrote about the most stressful event in their lives, and the rest wrote on their daily activities. Four months after this writing group, seventy of the patients who wrote about stressful topics tested higher on clinical evaluations as compared to the control patients. The writers improved more and deteriorated less. “So writing helped patients get better, and also kept them from getting worse,” said Smyth.

In a study conducted much more recently, Pennebaker, Keith Petrie, and others at the University of Auckland in New Zealand found a similar pattern among HIV/AIDS patients. The patients were asked to complete four, thirty-minute sessions of writing about past experiences or about their everyday activities. The patients who wrote about the past, normally traumatic experiences, tested higher on the ranking of immune systems then the control group who did not write. This boost disappeared three months later. Even with this decline, this test proves that the journaling took some of the stress off of the HIV/AIDS patients; thus their immune systems were boosted.

With all of this information, it is obvious that journaling is one of the best ways to express one’s self. Along with the benefits of regulating emotions and learning how to express them, one’s health can be improved as well. But just remember that to get the most from a writing experience, you must come out of it learning a little about yourself. And that’s the best thing a person will ever study.

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Dimensions Ginger in Disguise Michael Phillips

Ethan slid on his wig. He walked to school, making sure nobody caught on.

A gust of wind flew by him, almost knocking off his wig and revealing he was a ginger. Ethan could not hide the fact that he was a day walker (freckles and pale skin), and he was already punished for that. Last summer, the government had made him spend month learning about why gingers are bad. Any ginger caught in public would be sent to jail. It was the last day of school before summer break, and to celebrate, they were having a squirt gun fight.

Ethan was blasting everyone, including the school bully, Jim. Jim didn’t take this to well, considering he slammed Ethan to the ground. Ethan stood up with a smile on his face, but soon noticed everyone was staring at him. He heard one kid yell out, “GINGER!”

The teacher walked up to him, scolding him saying, “How dare you! Time for jail for y-” but she was cut off. Ethan sprinted out of the room, being closely followed by teachers yelling, “GINGERVITUS! Ethan heard a siren go over the intercom yelling, “Attention! There is a ginger on the premises. We advise you to stay away, in hope of not getting GINGERVITUS.”

Ethan was gasping for breath. He stepped outside, only to see a helicopter hovering above him. He tried to run, but on his left there were five men with riot shields and pistols. Ethan turned to his right, only to see men with RPGs on the rooftops, aiming their iron sights right on his hair. Ethan was being flanked! There was only one way out. He had to run straight under the helicopter. He started to sprint, dodging bullets as he ran. One shot grazed his shoulder, but that didn’t stop him. As he was running he was tripped up by a bullet in his leg. A man with a riot shield came up and jabbed him with it, crushing his back bone. Ethan managed to pull a spoon out of his pocket, and slid it into the shield wielder’s belly button.

Ethan grabbed the riot shield, and made a run for it. The helicopter was the only gunner left to beat. He held his riot shield high in the air, blocking bullet after bullet. Finally after all the shells, the shield snapped in half. Ethan was right under the helicopter, and knew that death was near. He looked up and saw a ladder dangling from the helicopter. As a final move, he started to climb the ladder. He made it to the top, only to be kicked in the jaw as he reached the top. Ethan grabbed his foot and swung his attacker out of the open door, watching the man fall and smash into the ground. Only two men were left on the pavement below. Ethan took a pistol which was setting on the rack. He cocked the gun, and blasted one of the remaining men. Ethan aimed at the last guy, and shot the gun. But unfortunately the gun

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was out of ammo. Ethan looked around in hopes of a magazine (ammo), but before he could even reach one, he fell to the ground in pain. The man walked up to him and shot him again. A crimson tide rolled down his face, and a flesh wound was in his exposed arm. Thinking that Ethan was dead, the man went back to the cockpit.

Ethan could barely see two feet in front of him. He saw a parachute on the wall of the helicopter, and strapped it onto his back. Before jumping out, Ethan took a pack of C4 and stuck it to the wall of the chopper. He jumped out with his parachute, and once reaching the ground, detonated the C4. Ethan watched as the chopper blew into flames and fell to the ground.

He ran into a nearby hospital. He held a gun up to the doctor saying, “SEW ME UP!” the recovered from his injury. He managed to finally stand up, and slowly walked out of the cave. Ethan NEEDED a plan. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life in fear. He remembered hearing about an underground ginger society, but it had been so long ago that he can’t even remember where it was or how to get there.

But he knew he had to find a way there. He decided he might be able to find it on the internet, but didn’t have a computer. He decided the only way to get one was to steal it.

Ethan put on a hoodie to disguise his hair color, and walked into town. He looked around for the nearest apple store. He found one and walked into it. He went up to the nearest computer and typed in, “Ginger hideout.” He clicked on the first link and found some information about it. Just then a worker came up to him and said, “Is there anything I can help you with…Ginger?”

“No thanks I’m go-” Ethan’s heart raced. He started to walk away, only to be gabbed by his arm.

“Relax,” said the man, “I am too.” He showed Ethan some of his hair under his wig.

“But…Why haven’t you been taken away, and can you help me get to the Ginger Safe Haven?”

“I always wear a wig, and yes I can. My name is William, William Roy.” Ethan was shocked. “Finally! Let’s go!’

“I have been waiting for someone to go with,” said William, “Finally! Let’s go!” and handed Ethan a high five. Being caught off guard, Ethan ended up falling to the ground, once again exposing his gingerness. Everyone screamed. One woman even hit Ethan with her purse.

“Let’s go! Time to move!” said William. They sprinted out of the store and ran up the escalator, only to realize that the escalator was going down and they wanted to go up. Ethan turned around and saw three guards far behind, but were close enough to scare them. They huffed and puffed up the escalator, but only man-

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Dimensions aged to go up around five steps. The guards were getting close!

“THIS ISN’T WORKING!” cried William. Just then they noticed the emergency stop on the side of the escalator. Ethan reached for it but was just a couple inches short.

The guards were only a couple yards away! With all his might Ethan extended over the escalator and managed to reach the button. The escalator stopped, and Ethan and William ran up the escalator, with the guards right on their backs. Ethan and William ran into the Victoria’s Secret store. Ethan turned around and saw the guard breathing down his neck. Just then, Ethan got tripped over the manequin, and fell harshly to the ground.

“Ethan get up!” yelled William, but as Ethan stumbled to his feet, he was tackled right back to the ground by the security guard. William had to think fast, Ethan was being dragged out and the other guard was still coming after William. Without thinking, he took a credit card out of his wallet and threw it at the security guard, slicing open the guard’s finger. Although a minor wound, this gave William just enough time to grab the fire extinguisher on the wall. He snuck up behind the wounded security guard and dropped the heavy hydrant on the man’s skull. Ethan reached for the pistol in the guard’s holster, and slid it into his back pocket. William helped Ethan up and the two ran out of the store. They were in the parking lot, and to no surprise, a police helicopter was hovering over them. It shot at them, grazing William’s shoulder.

The two ran up to a nearby car and smashed the windows through the car.

“#*?@!” said William, “No keys! I’m gonna have to hot wire it! Ethan, give me some time! Go distract the helicopter!” Without argument, Ethan ran out into the parking lot, running and jumping up and down. Nearly every bullet was less than three feet away, and Ethan knew that his luck was going to run out. He ran and hid behind a nearby car, and suddenly the helicopter stopped firing. For a second, Ethan thought it was out of bullets, but that thought ended very shortly. Just then the helicopter door slid open and a man holding a RPG popped out. Ethan saw the man point it directly at him and within seconds, every car nearby had exploded and Ethan was unconscious.

Ethan’s vision dimmed in and out. He still hadn’t recovered his hearing yet, but suddenly it came back. He heard William yell, “ETHAN! HOP IN!” He saw the car drive by, but he could not stand up.

“Ethan! Get in!” yelled William. He tried pulling Ethan in, but he was too weak to even get in the car.

“It’s too late for me,” Ethan managed to say, “Just going on and save yourself!”

“Ethan! I’m not leaving you behind! Get in the c-”

“No!” Ethan had tears rolling down his face, “I told you to run!” but it was no use talking to the lifeless man anymore. William’s white shirt had been dyed a deep red, and his heart had stopped beating. He reached into the car, and looked in the glove compartment, and pulled out a cigarette lighter. Ethan took his pocketknife out of his pocket, and stabbed it into the gas tank of the car next to him. The gasoline dripped all around the parking lot, and even reached some of the other nearby cars.

Ethan looked through the tears in his eyes and saw over five hundred police men surrounding him. He knew this had to be done. He lit a flame with his lighter. As the flame ignited, he broke down, and reached for a picture of his family that he always had in his pocket. He burst out into tears, but managed to relight the light. Slowly he

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removed one finger after another from the lighter and dropped it in the gasoline. The entire parking lot ignited into flames, knocking out every single security guard.

A couple of hours later after the smoke cleared and the fire was put out, the fire fighters walked up to Ethan. His body was still intact, but he was nowhere near alive. His body was reported to the police, and his status became: Ethan Randolph K.I.A Notes: Fought for rights of gingers

Door County

Untitled

Zoe Murphy Door County In the summer With my parents And my grandparents Sticking stickers On the dog Dropping sky blue Robin’s eggs On the couch Grandpas homemade Ice cream Smelled like sunshine Swimming in the Pond Paddle boating Around the creek Daddy squish the spiders Teach me To roller blade Gravel tastes like Brussels sprouts Door county love Never ends…

Leigh Keltelsen I’m waiting.

Tick…. Tick…Tick…

The hours pass, Moving on causes anger, fear, hatred, Departing from friends and family.

Growing allergic to companions It sheds little and big tears.

It visits us only once in our life, Giving us no second chances.

Ever present.

Death is close at hand

Untitled James Paige Innocence is an all too rare attribute

destroyed by the values of our society.

Innocence should be enjoyed …as is,

not lost in the journey for perfection.

Stained for life are those

who too early reach the end.

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The War Karisma Chhabria

After I brushed my teeth and put on my pajamas, I trudged down the hallway, into my bedroom, and got sleepily into my bed. Once I pulled the covers up to my chin, I lay there staring at the ceiling, and since the light was still on anything dark against the light colored ceiling stood out like a super-sonic jet against a cloudless blue sky. I scanned the ceiling once more, and that is when I saw it: a big, black spider sitting almost directly above me. Instantly, my stomach did a back flip. As I glanced at the clock, I realized it was already 12:30 AM. It didn’t matter to me. Right then and there, I decided I couldn’t sleep in the same room as that spider. This meant war.

I threw the covers off of me and leaped out of bed. I knew I needed two things, protection, and at least one weapon. I quickly threw on my sweatshirt that was sitting next to the tissues in case the spider fell on me. I brought the tissues with me, too. They could be a very good weapon to smash the spider during the final combat. I scanned the room. I needed one more weapon to get the spider off the ceiling and another tool to catch the spider if it fell. I raced to my closet, grabbed the nearest hanger, and raced to the bathroom to get the wastebasket. This is what I was planning to do: knock the spider with the hanger so it would come into reach, smash it with a tissue, and throw the tissue into the wastebasket which would be in my other hand. I had my gear, and I had my plan: I was ready.

I glared at the spider. It was sitting there with its hairy legs, and I could tell it was enjoying every minute of this. I slowly got on top of the bed, and at that moment the spider flinched. I froze. I didn’t want it to move anywhere, for I had my hanger ready. I thrust it towards the spider, but instead of falling, it started crawling to the other side of the wall! There it sat, just waiting for what I would do next.

I decided to wait for the spider to make the next move. I got in bed, slipped the covers over me, and pretended to fall asleep. After a few minutes, it started to move toward the light fixture in the center of the room, where, to my astonishment, another spider crawled out from behind the light. I had a lot more work to do than I thought!

I needed to develop another strategy. I couldn’t exterminate both at the same time; I somehow needed to separate them. That was a challenge in itself because they were in the middle of the room beyond my reach. That’s when I noticed a broom and an extra long duster balanced against the wall.

A new idea sparked inside my brain. I would touch each spider with a different stick, watch them scurry away, wait until they were about three inches apart, and sweep them to opposite sides of the room. Then, that’s when I would use the same plan as before on one spider at a time, and just hope that the other spider wouldn’t move anywhere inconvenient. I had my gear, and I had my plan: I was ready… again.

I gave myself a little mental pep-talk. “You can do this. Just stay calm and take it slow.” I took the broom in one hand and the duster in the other and slowly raised them toward the ceiling. I thrust them toward the spiders, but instead of waiting for them to scurry away I screamed and dropped the broom and duster. They came down with a terrible thud. I froze. I knew if I made too much noise, somebody would definitely wake up and scold me for staying up too late. Luckily, it seemed as if no one was disturbed.

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I picked up the broom and duster, and attempted once more to move the spiders. This time, I kept calm, and instead of using both, I used the broom to touch them. Success! Now there was enough space between them to use the duster and broom to sweep them to opposite ends of the room. I slowly approached the first spider, and using the duster, I managed to alarm it enough so that it started crawling down the wall. I waited for the right moment, tissue in hand, and smashed it down on the spider. At long last, I had accomplished the first half of my mission.

That was only the first part. I still had the bigger fish to fry. That was the original spider, the one that embroiled me in this mess. I inspected the ceiling, but to my dismay, the spider wasn’t there!

Just because it was out of sight, didn’t mean I was ready to give up. I couldn’t do anything except hope that it would crawl out from its hiding space. After all, I couldn’t spend hours searching in every nook and cranny for a spider! So I tried the sleeping trick again. I lay down in my bed, and waited. I opened my eye a tiny bit, and that’s when I saw the spider crawl out from behind the clock. It was a sneaky idea, but not sneaky enough. I knew that I could win this war with two things, patience, and a well developed plan. I had my patience, and I had my plan. This time, I was really ready.

Duster in one hand, and tissue in the other, I slowly thrust the duster at the spider. It moved toward the wall as I was holding my breath, and then, just as it was going to crawl down the wall, it stopped. “Patience!” I yelled to myself in my mind. After sixty long seconds, the spider crawled down the wall, and as if it was in slow motion, I slammed the tissue down on the spider. It was finally dead!

I almost felt a wave of sadness going through me. Those spiders were so little and helpless!

And I spent almost one hour trying to get rid of them! Next time, I realized that I would trap the spider in a jar, take it outside, and let it go. Plus, it would save me a lot of time!

Winter Saisha Talwar Sitting by the cozy fire Hearing grandpa’s stories on Christmas Eve Unwrapping awaiting gifts And making holiday cards for others Slipping on heaps of clothes And making snow angels in the frosty air Reaching high on the Christmas tree And placing the shining star on top Making the whole house fill with warmth and light

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Dimensions Vice Vicente Nagel

Jamal was furious. Although it appeared that he was sullen and depressed, Jamal in fact was very, very angry. Jamal lived with his grandparents in a poor inner-city community in New York. That, however, wasn’t why he was angry. He had gotten used to his lifestyle and had come to terms with the fact that he couldn’t change it. Jamal wasn’t angry at his father for leaving his mother and her three children alone and penniless when he was just a toddler. He had decided that it was no use having anger toward a man whom he would never see again and whose face he didn’t even remember. Instead, Jamal was mad at the person who took the last thing from him that he cared for.

He wouldn’t talk to anyone about his anger, not even his grandparents whom he trusted and loved dearly. He wouldn’t have talked about his anger to his brothers even if he could have. No, Jamal was very secretively and very dangerously angry. *****

It had been a bad day, as usual; Jamal had failed his math test and was walking home from a detention he had just served for talking back to a teacher. He could hear cars, a drunken man babbling by a trashcan and his future scolding from his mother. But as Jamal neared his home, he heard the gunshots. There were only two, but with each shot, a part of Jamal died as if his very soul was being hit with the same bullets that had been fired on his street. One was fired and then, after a couple of seconds, another. Jamal was terrified, but he needed to know what was happening. He ran up by his house careful to stay out of sight. Blocked by a parked car in the street, he peered over its hood and watched his front door. He knew better than to enter his home when he had clearly heard the gunshots ring out from his street, and he had a feeling they had come from his home.

All he could do was hope that his mother was working late today and wasn’t at home. As he was staring at his front door, he had a horrible thought that had been in the back of his head until now but was building with great force and speed. It felt as if it was going to burst out of his skull at any given moment. It was the reality of what he knew had just happened. He knew that his mother had just been shot. He knew that he would never see her again, even before he saw the shooter run away, before he opened the door to his house and before he saw her dead and sprawled on the floor. He knew that she was gone. *****

It had been eight days since the murder of his mother, and Jamal had already moved in with his grandparents and gotten settled in, which hadn’t been hard. All he really had were some clothes and not many of those anyway. His grandparents also lived fairly close to his old house, so the travel wasn’t a challenge at all. Jamal still went to the same school and not much (aside from the death of his mother) had changed. Jamal didn’t know for sure if his brothers had been informed about their

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mother’s death but figured that they had. They were already serving time in the local jail on their eight-year sentence for breaking and entering and had three years remaining. He knew that if they had been the people watching the front door when the gun had been fired, they would have done something like beating up the shooter, or even killing him. Jamal wished that he had been able to do something about what had happened, maybe even stopping it. But as he thought about it, there really wasn’t anything he could’ve done. Jamal came to terms with the fact that he couldn’t go back in time to change what had happened, so he set his mind on finding the man who killed his mother and killing him.

Jamal had it all figured out. He had heard of a kid who owned a small revolver, and was willing to sell it to anyone who would pay him for it. Jamal had heard that the price was fifty bucks, and although Jamal wasn’t the wealthiest person, he had accumulated seventy-five dollars from his grandparents because they felt terrible about his mother’s death. He took the money out of its hiding place (his shoe) and took it to school and to detention afterwards, where Jamal spent much of his after school time. He had guessed that the gun kid had been in many detentions as well, and he was correct. He had seen him there before. The kid didn’t say much and always had his hands in his pockets, as if he was hiding something. Jamal had simply written the word “gun” on top of the top bill on the stack of the fifty dollars. He slipped the gun kid the appropriate number of bills and, without hesitation, the kid slipped Jamal the gun.

Jamal walked home with the gun in his pocket, walking carefully so as not to set it off. He spent his walk home planning how to hold the gun when he shot it, and who he would be aiming at. He vaguely remembered him. He had been wearing a slightly ripped white shirt with sagging jean-shorts. The man was very short, just a little taller than Jamal himself, and that was all he remembered. The description didn’t match anyone who Jamal knew. As he was walking home, however, Jamal walked past the barbershop, which had a TV on one of its walls, and saw that on the news there had been another murder in the city. He was curious and walked in to see the barber watching it as well. The reporter was interviewing the mother of a boy who had been shot and had asked what her view on everything was. The mother replied, ”I loved my little boy with all of my heart. He was the apple of my eye, and I wanted the best for him. It makes me terribly mad that he couldn’t have lived on to have a happy life, and I feel anger like never before. At first, all I could think of was the death of my son and how the bastard who killed him deserved to die. But as I kept thinking and crying, I knew that if the murderer were murdered, then everyone that he loved or that loved him would feel as terrible as I did. Killing is a horrible thing, and it won’t stop until someone decides to step up and be the bigger person. I

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Dimensions don’t want to have another mama have to go through what I’ve had to go through.”

Without thinking, Jamal removed the gun from his pocket and sprinted to the nearest trashcan. He let the gun slip into the pile of garbage and as he felt the cold steel leave his fingertips, Jamal knew that he too didn’t want anyone to feel the torture that he had felt.

Dew Drop

I Am Barrett Medvec I am from the hometown Quaint and familiar faced From relaxation and family I am from the Lord For He shall guide my path With grandpas and grandmas Running the house With the authority of love

Amy Krivoshik In morning, it clings to blades of grass Silently In day, it slips into the air, Slowly In evening, it holds its breath above us, Softly

In nightfall, it pounds down into the earth, I am from a city of lights Pitter patter, That never, ever rests Pitter patter.

I am from innovation and education Continuous schooling to lackadaisical summers From humdrum, to adventure I am from fast food and home-cooked From cafeteria to barbecued chicken That tastes sweet and like quality time I am from abode With flowers picked by Mom But get rummaged through By children

Memory of Winning

Andrew Strudwick A rush through the veins A pulse exhilarating Screams doppler in and out People shouting your name The taste in your mouth of everything at once Then everyone is silent….

You take a minute and smell the roses The memory of winning

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2010 Rays of Light

Liquid Field

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Claire Pandaleon Beneath me A field of liquid aquamarine Waiting to be penetrated.

My knees bend.

I feel the frigid stone beneath my naked feet Protesting against my body weight.

I inhale the sterile spring air And jump.

Feeling as though I hang in the air, I become gravity’s marionette.

My body waits To become bathed by the liquid substance.

The field touches my toes first And envelops them.

Soon my whole body is submerged In the cool fluid.

Nature pulls me toward the surface As confined air brushes my body.

I feel the light Splash against my now exposed skin.

Oxygen floods my lungs And I float down stream.

Alone Monterey Pepper The little old man sits in his rocking chair The one his daughter gave to him Thirteen years ago The last time he saw her.

The old man reads a book Worn out with ripped pages.

The one he has memorized.

The one his wife gave him Before she died.

The old man sits in his car, The one with the broken engine.

The one he and his son were fixing Before he left And didn’t come back.

The old man watches the video Of Christmas last year The last time he saw His family.

The old man sits on the front porch Of the house he raised his kids in.

The house where he married his wife.

The house his grandchildren came to The old man sits on the porch Alone.

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Untitled Jesse Bernhart Sound of palm trees swaying, And the smell of the gulf.

Molly’s house, And owls outside our window.

Going to Starbucks, In out PJ’s.

Teaching Hne-Hoo to swim.

Beaches, sand-castles, And starfish.

The old cabana, And the lamp made of shells.

Sunburnt faces, And freckles.

Pull out bed.

Henry, Charlie, and I, Up in the morning, Watching Charlotte’s Web and Lord of the Rings “Moe’s” for lunch.

Boat rides with Ally and G-man, And Lovey and King.

T-shirts and shorts, And bathing suits.

The Stitch Madeleine Pattis Rips open seams, Tears cut through the perfect.

Cuts leave a clean edge; Shreds leave nothing behind.

Something thought good or precious Can transform into A mistake A rip A shred.

It can be cut With flawless execution, Or shredded Without care.

The cut can be mended.

The mend can be cut.

But the sign of the stitch will Always be.

An attempt to make whole Something broken apart Long ago.

The sign of distress Will remain.

The signs of care Will attempt to expunge The stitch.

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Sunrise Nikki Dennis As dusk settles in, The world prepares for sleep.

The sky so dark, the forest so calm, Peace and serenity takes their place.

For a long while everything is still, Until the first rays of sun Break through the bubble of sheer stillness.

The sun appears a bright halo n the horizon.

The world is waking.

Suddenly everything comes to life.

The stillness is broken, Replaced by the soft tussle of new life.

A bright pink sky Just blanketing the clouds As the world becomes bright again.

Leaves Emily Hennessy Softly blowing against the silent wind Quietly crinkling next to each other Bristles brushing the rough wood.

Stems crushing under the rain-Drops falling on the thin cover Weighing more as the rain drops multiply.

Weather becomes weary Colors change Slowly dying one by one.

Bare and alone it survives the winter.

A Cause Unknown Wil Dixon Men in shining armor standing tall

for they are watching, waiting, listening.

The general gives the order.

The Charge‌.

Men lay down their lives that day

for a cause unknown to them.

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Dimensions Innocence Lost Rahul Mehta Eighth Grade Short Story Contest Winner

“Farid! Your father wants to speak with you!”

Farid slowly extracted himself from his perch on the balcony of the apartment building. He stepped inside to see what his mother wanted.

His mother was in the doorway. “Farid. Your father needs to talk to you. He’s in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Mother,” mumbled Farid. He knew it could not be good, and with each step he took he felt as if he was walking to his execution.

“Ah Farid. There you are.” His Father’s customary cheerful demeanor was replaced with a solemn expression. “Sit down, my son.

We need to talk.”

“What is it?” asked Farid as he braced himself for the impending onslaught.

“Farid, there comes a time in a man’s life where he must come to terms with the harsh world he lives in,” said his father. “You are now ten, and I think you are ready to learn about what is happening in the world we live in.” The father paused to collect his thoughts. “There are many bad people in this world, Farid, and some are already in our homeland. They are invading our land and corrupting our people. They are a disease that is spreading throughout our country, and they must be stopped. Do you understand?”

“I do, Father,” said Farid, even though he hadn’t the slightest idea of what his father was talking about. He had known nothing like this his entire childhood, and now, he was being exposed to a concept completely alien to him.

“These people must not be allowed to continue Farid. They are a tumor on the face of our nation, and must be removed. That is why, my son, I am joining the militia. You may not understand now, but you will soon. Now go, my son. I have some business to take care of.” His father slowly stood up and made his way down

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the stairs to the exit.

Farid was puzzled. This was a side of his father he had never seen before.

This was nothing like the man he knew his entire childhood, the man who played with him and read to him and comforted him. This new, cold man had come and replaced the Father he had once known.

Farid eventually returned to his perch on the balcony. This position gave him a bird’s-eye view of the entire neighborhood, and he enjoyed studying the various inhabitants of his town. There were the various salesmen and peddlers selling their wares on the streets. There were the older boys who were constantly engaged in games of football in the alley behind the mosque. There was the group of elderly men who gathered at the tea house to discuss the news of the hour. He felt as if he was God, watching over his dominion.

However, there was something different today. The usually bustling neighborhood was eerily quiet. He then saw something new. He saw a group of men who were unlike the others. They were not dressed as Afghani’s, and they had a cold, businesslike demeanor. They were a faceless collection of human beings, lacking any common signs of humanity Farid had known. He watched intently as they marched down the road. The streets were empty, and a stray dog scampered across the deserted road. These must be the men Father was talking about, thought Farid. As they completed their circuit of the road, they left the direction they came from. Slowly, as they were lost in the distance, the life trickled back into the neighborhood. * * *

The next day when Farid awoke, he did not have school. He went outside, and found some of his friends kicking a football. He joined in the fun, and slowly, his father’s troubling words from the day before began to fade away. Farid was able to lose himself in the game, and found peace in the exertion. After the boys had played for a few hours, they were exhausted, and went to find some cold water. As the troupe of boys made their way down the street toward the store, they passed the tea house. They saw the elderly men, who were a fixture there. They saw Malik, the amiable owner who seemed to know everybody that passed his store. Then, Farid spotted something that was out of place. He saw a group of younger men hunched over their cups of tea, talking in hushed tones. He was able to pick a few familiar faces out of the group. He saw Salim, the shopkeeper, and Tariq, his uncle. Under normal circumstances, he would have greeted the men. But something about the secretive atmosphere influenced Farid’s decision not to speak to them.

Farid and the other boys continued down the road. As they turned the street corner by the store, they saw the faceless soldiers again. But this time, they were close. They were walking in the same orderly manner as before, and they seemed

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Dimensions even more robotic when closer. Their faces were blank, showing no expression. Their movements were almost mechanical. As Farid and the other boys increased their pace to avoid them, one of the soldiers stopped. He approached Farid and his friends. The boys quickened their pace, but the soldier soon caught up.

Farid and his friends were terrified. They were not sure what these beings were capable of, and they did not want to find out. The soldier in front of them removed his helmet. He was a curious person, with not a hair on face. His skin was far darker than that of the others, and he looked like a man who had seen things he did not wish to remember. He was young, but he had the eyes of an old man.

He kneeled down so that he was eye to eye with Farid. “How are you, little boy?” he said in fluent Arabic.

Farid was petrified with fear. He looked around, but there was nowhere left to go. He could not force himself to respond.

“What is your name?” asked the soldier.

“Farid.” The answer was timid, barely audible over the other noises

“My name is Amir,” said the soldier. Farid was confused. The name was not foreign to him, yet the man was. How could someone from so far away have a name like any man in the city?

“How do you have your name? You are not from here,” questioned Farid.

“You and I, we are not very different,” said Amir. “I too follow the teachings of the Prophet. I believe in the same God.” There was a commotion across the street, and the soldier stood up. “I must go, Farid. But I will see you again.” The soldier pulled a piece of candy out of his pack and handed it to Farid. He then rejoined his group, and they were on their way.

Farid was startled at the gesture. The man had seemed so human when he had spoken to him, but as soon as he returned to his group, he became another faceless man. Farid realized that these soldiers were people too. They weren’t the cold, solemn men he had observed the previous day. They were people. Fresh with this realization, Farid said goodbye to his friends and ran home to describe the event to his father.

Those men were nothing like the devils his father had described to him. On the contrary, they were nice people. As he bounded through the door, Farid saw his father sitting in the kitchen. He father sat still, deep in thought.

“Father,” said Farid. “Are you alright?”

“Sit down,” said his father. “Something terrible has happened.” His father looked up at him, and Farid could see that he had been crying. “The bad men, Farid.

The bad men took your Uncle Tariq and Salim.”

Farid couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But where? Where did they take them?” Farid said worriedly.

His father let out a sigh. “They took them across the ocean to their own land, Farid. I don’t think they’re coming back. When the bad men take people away, they are never seen again.” Farid was in shock. He let out a cry. How could this possibly be true? What could the bad men possibly want with his gentle Uncle Tariq and the cheerful store owner Salim?

“Why? Why would they do this?” whimpered Farid.

“Because they are evil, my son. Tariq and Salim were good men. They were taken because they were members of the militia. They were taken because they tried to tell our people what these bad men were doing. And because of that, they are now gone. You must stay away from them, Farid. They are terrible, inhuman creatures. If

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you are not careful, they will take you too.”

Farid left the kitchen, shocked and angered. How could the soldiers do that?

But then, he remembered Amir, the soldier he had met earlier that day. He was a person too. He was not like the men Father had described. For the first time he could remember, he did not know who to believe. * * * The next day, Farid made his way out onto the road again, and walked toward the store. His mother had asked him to get some vegetables for the evening meal, and also to ask about Salim. As he entered the store, he saw Youssef, Salim’s brother, at the counter.

“Why hello Farid. Do you need any help?” asked Youssef.

“No, thank you Youssef, I just need to get some things for my mother,” answered Farid. He found the vegetables that his mother wanted, and then took them to the counter. He handed Youssef the coins his mother had given him, and waited for his change.

“How are you, Farid?” asked Youssef. “Keeping out of trouble, I hope.”

“I am well, Youssef. My father is worried about your brother, Salim. Do you know anything about where he was taken?”

“I do not, Farid. His wife and children are worried sick about him. They are at my house. I will tell them that your parents send their wishes.”

“Thank you, Youssef. I’ll see you later.” Farid exited the store and started to walk back towards his house.

As he made his way down the street, he saw the soldiers again. At the front of the group was the soldier Amir. Farid’s first impulse was to run up and greet him, but then he remembered his father’s warning. Not wanting to disobey him, Farid crossed over to the other side of the road. He passed the soldiers, not looking at their faces. As they continued down the street, Farid looked behind him. He now saw Youssef standing in the middle of the road, blocking the path of the soldiers. They yelled at him to get out of the way, but Youssef refused, and held his ground. Then Amir stepped forward. He spoke to Youssef for a little, and eventually, Youssef returned to the store.

The soldiers then continued on their way. The confrontation was over. Suddenly, Farid heard a loud gunshot. Looking back, he saw Youssef shooting at the troops with an old rifle Salim used to keep at the back of the store. Youssef seemed to have forgotten about everything except his desire to avenge his brother. The soldiers dove for cover and Youssef sprinted down the street. The body of one of the soldiers lay in a pool of blood. As Youssef loaded another bullet into the gun, a clatter of rifle fire erupted. The soldiers had opened fire, peppering Youssef’s body with bullet holes. He fell to the ground, his fingers still trying to load another shot. He let out a final breath, and rolled over, dead.

Farid screamed, and ran back to his house. He shut the door as he ran in and collapsed at the entrance. He started to cry. What he had just seen had scared him.

This was a man he knew. Youssef brutally attacked the troops .This was a side of his people he had never seen before. He was torn. As a child, he had always known absolutes. Something was either right or wrong. But now, he had seen Youssef, a man respected in the neighborhood, commit a murder in cold blood. But he had also heard of the arrests of Tariq and Salim. He did not know exactly who arrested them, but he could be fairly certain that it was Amir and his unit. He had never been in a situation where there was no clear wrong or right. He was at a fork in the road, and he didn’t

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know which direction to follow.

* * *

The next day, he spent most of his time at his perch on the balcony, watching the happenings in the town. He followed the boys playing football, the old men at the tea house, and the vendors. He also studied Amir’s unit on patrol. He knew that the man under the uniform was a person, but his father didn’t seem to think so. However, at the same time, these men arrested his uncle, Tariq, and his father’s close friend Salim. Then he heard his father’s voice coming from inside the house. He went back into the house to see what his father wanted.

“Farid, I must now ask something from you,” said his father.

“Yes, Father,” said Farid. “What do you need?”

“I need to know, my son. Do you want these bad people to leave?” asked his father. Farid was at a loss for words. He did not know who to side with. “Farid. I need an answer,” urged his father.

Farid knew he could not disobey him. His mind was made up.

“I do, Father. What do you need me to do?”

“Farid, once we do this, there is no going back. Do you understand?” The warning frightened Farid. But he knew he could not back down.

“Yes, Father, I understand.”

“Alright Farid, listen to me very carefully. When we are done here, go up to the balcony and look down upon the town. You will see me come out of the house. I will walk toward the group of soldiers. When I am close to them, press the button on this box. That will make them all go away.”

“I understand,” said Farid.

“My son, go now. And may God watch over us both.” His father turned and descended the stairs toward the door. Farid hurried up to the balcony. He settled himself in, his hand on the button.

He did not know what he held, but he understood that it had great power. He watched as his father made his way across the street toward the group of soldiers. Farid was confident in his father, and knew he could not fail him.

As Farid’s father drew close to the soldiers, he closed his eyes, a look of complete ecstasy on his face. He looked up a final time toward his son, nodded, and closed his eyes.

Farid pressed the button.

And a single tear trickled down his cheek as he realized what he had done.

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To Leave a Mark Genevra Crofts Eighth Grade Short Story Contest - Second Place

Meg had always been just a name and a face to me. She was grey, the perfect medium between black and white. She was the color of cement, the solid foundation of everything built by mankind. I never believed that she would be any more than that. It seemed that she had no important destiny, no fate to drive her forward. In time, I would learn that I was seriously mistaken.

A high school hallway is a highly colorful place to an outsider. The disarray of textbooks, multicolored notices and stray papers strewn about the floor would shock a freshman; but to me, it was home. I was the queen of my school and I had yet to be challenged. No one questioned my authority.

No one dared. Until, of course, that scrawny pale faced brunette got in a car crash. Well, I’d like to blame it on the car crash. It couldn’t possibly have been a coincidence that the week after she got out of the hospital she started acting all goodie- two- shoes -like. I mean, what else could have rearranged her brains enough to make her think that she could be as well liked as I was? Megan had never been even remotely well liked. She was always quiet. She never came to parties. She always kept up with her studies. And oh my gosh, her hair. It was so lank and, well, brown. She had no idiosyncrasies, nothing that set her apart from the rest until the crash.

Ever since Meg came back to school, everyone wanted to know if she was all right. They would tell her that they were sorry about her mom. They would tell her that they knew how she felt, and that everything would be all right. She accepted their condolences gracefully, but even though I did not care about her, I could tell that there was more bothering her. When I saw the expression on her face when she thought no one was looking, it mirrored exactly what my heart felt four years ago.

Of course no one knew what happened to me, because I moved here from California. Cape Cod is as different from my old home as fire is to water. My father probably wanted that when he uprooted me from my life and hauled me across the country. Now that I think about it, there was not much to uproot me from. That fire destroyed everything in my life that was dear to me. There was nothing to stay for.

My life had improved a little in the last three years. I reinvented myself. I became a new Aubrey. I was the most popular girl in school, and I had tons of friends. Well, if you count the kind that always are trying to find new ways to stab you in the back. I know that most popular girls try to hide the fact that their “friends” are really power seeking morons that will do anything to climb higher on the social ladder, but I won’t even bother. My life was going great until Megan changed. She was the person that everyone talked about. Everyone pitied her. No one ever talked about me anymore.

Ever since I moved to Cape Cod, I have found consolation in the ocean. Water always seems to help me think, it seems to help me find myself. So, on a fine Saturday morning in April, I found myself meandering along the beach, three blocks from my house. The smell of the salt in the air and the crash of the waves on the shore reminded me of the walks on the California beaches I used to take with my mother. I watched my wedge heeled shoes sink into the sand and I felt the cool air on my face. Some of my hair had loosened itself from the blonde bun on top of my head, and I brushed it back behind my ear. Suddenly I felt tears well up in my eyes. I missed the sound of her voice so

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Dimensions much. I missed her carefree laughter and her gentile touch. I missed my mother. As tears spilled rapidly down my cheeks, I realized then that Megan did, too. As if my thoughts had conjured her, I looked up to see Megan standing twenty feet down the beach.

As I watched Megan stand on the beach that is so familiar and yet so foreign to me, I wondered if she could really be feeling what I felt. I took several steps closer to her, indecisive. I wanted to talk to someone, but I did not want to talk to the only girl that had ever been a more interesting topic of conversation than me. Or did I? she seemed to be going through something similar to my situation. She might understand.

“Hello Aubrey.” She said without looking at me. She seemed to be deep in thought. She was unperturbed by the fact that I had been staring at her. Her back was to me, and she was knee deep in the ocean. Her long brown hair lifted gently off her shoulders, and her blue jeans were rolled up past her knees.

“What are you doing out here?” I asked. It was the first question that came into my mind. I had no idea why she was standing in the water in the middle of April. Yes, the ice had melted, but the water was still very cold. I tried to inject a bit of that icy coldness into my voice, but the curiosity was still plain in my question.

“Sinking.” Meg replied.

“What?” I asked, not sure if I had heard her right.

“I’m sinking. Every time a wave comes in, it washes some of the sand out with it. Even if I stand perfectly still, I keep moving forward.” Meg did not look at me. She continued to look out at the waves. “My mom and I used to stand together on the beach and sink our way out into the water. It always amazed me how no matter what we did, the water would still pull us forward.”

“You are a strange person, you know that?” I said, trying to gain back some of my dignity. Her words had touched me deeply, and some part inside of me wanted to help her. I wanted to tell her the truth.

“I’m stranger than even you could imagine.” She sighed. I saw a tear fall shamelessly down her face. I had never seen Meg cry before. Come to think of it, I had never really spoken to her alone before. I wondered how I had built such a strong hatred for a girl I had never spoken to before.

“How can a person make a mark on the world?” she asked after a moment.

“Sorry?” I said. I had no idea where that question had come from. What a strange person she was.

“What can I do to help the world? I want to leave something behind when I am gone.”

“How would I know?” I still did not understand what she meant. How could I? It scared me how deep her thoughts were. She confused me.

“My mother and I were in the car on the way home from school when I asked her what a person did to help the world before they died. She was about to answer when a van hit us from the side and we rolled into the other lane. We were hit head on by a speeding car that pushed us ten feet down the road. I was able to escape

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the burning car with only minor injuries. My mother was killed. I want to know the answer that my mother never had the chance to tell me.”

I was crying. I did not know why, but for some reason, the honesty and truth in her words brought me to tears. I was amazed that Meg was brave enough to say everything that I did not have the strength to say.

We stood looking out at the ocean for a while, and then she turned and began to walk back along the beach. Ten paces away, she turned and said “thank you.”

I watched her walk until she disappeared. Then I took off my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and began to sink.

Senior year passed and the summer began. I Had no plans to travel, so I spent my time on the beach, swimming walking, and occasionally, sinking. Meg would join me sometimes and we would stand together in the water and talk.

In the third week of july, we were standing in the water and sinking our way out into the ocean when I said quietly, “I was fourteen when a wildfire burned through my town in California. I woke up in the middle of the night, choking for air. I stumbled through the hallway trying to find my parents and get them out, and I found my dad. He grabbed my hand and pulled me out of the burning house. My dad told me to stay where I was and not to go anywhere near the house. It was then that I realized that my mom was still inside. I tried to go back to save her, but my dad pulled me back. Moments later, the structure collapsed. My mom was buried in the burning rubble.”

Megan did not say a word. She stepped over to me and hugged me. I had not felt a hug like that since my mom died.

“Thank you.” I whispered through my tears. “Thank you for changing me.”

That was the last time I ever saw Megan. A week later I received a letter in the mail from Megan. It explained that she had a fatal brain tumor. She had known about it for almost a year now. Megan died two weeks later. Before she died though, she left her mark on the world. She left her mark on me.

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Dimensions The Silent Painter Claire M. Pandaleon Eighth Grade Short Story Contest - Third Place

“I can’t quite recall when he stopped. Maybe fifty-five or sixty years since he’s muttered a word?” Nell Breckinridge paused and sipped her tea. “That day it, it was so normal, so routine.

Who knew that when I kissed him good-bye that morning he’d have such an experience?

Everything was going so well.

His business was stable; we were both so happy together.”

She breathed deeply and exhaled while looking longingly at something in the distance.

Silence fell over them for what seemed to be hours but was really only a minute or two. Nora Thompson had just dropped off her son, Andrew, for painting lesson with Mr. Henry Breckinridge, Nell’s husband. While they were silent Mrs. Thompson found her eyes examining the old woman’s face. Just by looking at her any stranger could see that this woman had many stories to tell. But none as fascinating and life changing as the one Nora Thompson was so curious about.

After Mrs. Breckinridge regained focus and took another sip from her cup, she looked up and said, “Well, no one can change it now.” The frail woman struggled to stand up. When she was balanced, she shuffled over to the sink.

Mrs. Thompson said to the woman’s back, “I’m not so sure of that Nell. Of course, I haven’t heard the story but maybe there’s something…”

Mrs. Breckinridge turned to face her. Shaking her head she said in a disappointed tone, “No child. It’s in the past, nothing can be done.” Again the aged woman sighed. Then she continued, as if puzzled, “It was only one painting, my favorite, but, regardless, just a painting. He’s been trying to paint a similar one for years, but it never turns out quite perfect.”

“What was it of? Can you remember?”

“Oh, yes! It was a beautiful beach scene! Every time I saw it I could just hear the waves crashing on the shore, and feel the sand beneath my feet! He said it himself, ‘It was pure perfection!’ He wasn’t one to judge his own paintings, either. He never thought anything was perfect. It’s the best compliment he has ever given anyone or anything.”

Mrs. Thompson took the woman’s hand and looked into eyes that were now somewhat deformed by tears. She said warmly, “He has always been a fantastic painter, Nell.”

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Mrs. Breckinridge nodded her head, almost violently, and said; “I’ve known that for a long time, child.” She smiled, and the tears could be contained no longer.

Each little salty drop traveled down the creases of her face and formed a slightly darker track along her cheek. Mrs. Thompson caressed the old woman’s hand with her thumb, then got up and put a little box of Kleenex on the table where Nell Breckinridge sat. Noticing this, Mrs. Breckenridge leaned forward and pulled a white tissue from the floral cardboard box. She patted her eyes and cheeks with the tissue. When the old woman had composed herself, Mrs. Thompson spoke up, “Alright. Well, I think I’ve caused you enough trouble today, so I’ll be leaving . . .”

“No dear! You mustn’t leave yet! I haven’t finished the story.”

“But Nell, I don’t want to upset you anymore than I already have.”

“Honey, stories like this cannot be told more than once. And once I have started it, how am I to remember where we left off? Now, pour yourself some more tea and sit.”

Mrs. Thompson did as she was asked and prepared herself hear the rest of the mysterious story.

“ As I was saying, it was quite some time ago, and he had started his own little business selling his paintings. He would often take a few of his most beautiful works to display to the customers. But he had never taken the beach scene out; he thought it too precious.” She moved the porcelain cup to her wrinkly lips, closed her eyes slightly, and sipped the steaming liquid. She set it back down on the table and spoke again, “From what I could observe of him, he rather liked his work. Every night he was eager to share what had happened that day. So I knew, the minute he entered through the door, something was wrong. He just walked right through; didn’t even notice me. He went right to the studio and sat down in front of his drawing board. I was terribly concerned at this. So, being a caring woman, I went to see what had gotten to him. I stood in the doorway of his studio. He was slumped over on his stool, his back facing me.

I moved behind him, and put my hands gently on his shoulders. He didn’t respond.

I wasn’t used to this side of him. As I would learn later, neither was he. So I left him alone and went to make dinner. When it was ready I called him to the table. He usually didn’t need to be called. He didn’t respond, so I went back to where I had left him. He was still there, in the same position. I went up to him and said, ‘Honey, supper’s getting cold.’ Or something like that. He mumbled a response and got up slowly, as if he had aged by many years. It was the strangest thing to see my twenty-seven year old husband look as though he were fifty. He looked utterly bewildered, and I had no idea why.

“He said nothing all through dinner. When I was doing the dishes he just sat in his seat, still looking confused. When everything was done and clean, I sat next to him and asked, ‘What’s the matter?’ I remember his exact words, ‘It’s gone, Nell. It’s gone.’ ‘What?’ The he looked at me for the first time that night.” Her eyebrows pulled together and a veil of sadness seemed to wash over her. “I remember that look. It still chills me to this day. He was in pain; he looked as though he was in utter and excruciating pain.” She shook her head, and continued. “He said solemnly, ‘The painting, Nell. Your painting. The painting you love so much. The one that I promised would be yours, forever and always. I’m such a fool.’ He looked down. I believe I asked him how. He shook his head and told me that he was supposed to meet with a man that day who was very interested in his work. The man was supposedly very wealthy, so naturally he wanted to impress him. He brought the beach scene to show the man what he was capable of. It turns there were several other men with him. When Henry

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Dimensions turned his back, they took his paintings and ran. Henry tried to run after them but they had a car, a fast car. He had no chance.” Mrs. Breckinridge sighed and sipped her tea.

“Is that all?” Mrs. Thompson asked.

“Well, Nora, my husband was always protected. He was never introduced to the bad side of people. Before he was robbed he had never met a bad human being in his life.”

“I find that hard to believe, Nell.”

“Oh, but it’s true. My husband had no idea someone could do something like this. He had never lived in the city. He just didn’t know. And to see his hard work just taken away like that. He couldn’t handle it. He began asking questions like, ‘Are people over all good, Nell?’ or, ‘What if this world is evil and we are choosing to live our lives differently?’”

“And how did you answer him?”

“I don’t think I ever did.” They both stopped, in silence again. “Those were some of the last things he ever said.”

“So it was really enough to silence him for all these years?”

“Yes. It was, child.” She paused, then said, shaking, “I miss his voice, Nora. I miss it so much. I would give so much, just to hear him say he loves me again.”

“Oh, Nell! I can’t even begin to imagine!” Mrs. Thompson embraced the old woman, then cleared the two teacups.

“Well, I really think your son may be helping. Over the past weeks, Henry has seemed happier. He has lost so much. Connecting with someone young has enlightened him on the good parts of life.”

“It’s so nice to know that Andrew finally is interested in something!” Mrs. Thompson looked at her wristwatch and sighed, “I’m afraid I must be going. I’ve got to go to Andrew’s school and pick something…”

“Please. Be on your way dear. I don’t want to hold you up.” The two embraced again and Mrs. Thompson left through the front door.

After Nell Breckinridge pondered the morning’s events, she thought she would pay her husband and his student a visit. She put some homemade peanut butter cookies on a platter and poured two glasses of milk. After everything was fixed to her liking, she picked up the platter carefully and started walking toward Mr. Breckinridge’s studio. When she walked through the doorway, Andrew immediately stood up and watched Nell as she set the cookies down on a little side table in the corner. When she moved away, Andrew quickly grabbed a cookie and took a bite. “Thanks Mrs. Breckinridge!” Andrew mumbled with half a cookie in his mouth.

“You’re very welcome dear! Enjoy!”

“Can I show you what I painted after class yesterday?” the little boy asked as he swallowed.

“Oh! I would love for you to!” Nell looked up at her husband, who was smiling through his beard at the rambunctious boy. Andrew went over to his bag and

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pulled out a clipboard that held the little boy’s work. When he turned the board around Mr. and Mrs. Breckinridge both gasped. For there, on the little boy’s clipboard was a watercolor painting of a beach. But this painting was not like a normal painting. The old couple heard the waves crashing on the shore and felt the sand beneath their feet. The two looked at each other, then back at Andrew. “How is it?” asked the child.

“Oh! It’s beautiful Andrew! Just beautiful!”

“Wow! Thanks Mrs. Breckinridge!” Andrew turned to Henry. “What do you think Mr. Breckinridge?”

Nell saw a single tear run from Henry’s blue eye through the creases of his face and into his white beard. Then she heard one word pass his lips for the first time in sixty years. “Perfection.”

Bacon Tyler Grumhaus Sizzle Sizzle Pop The rich, greasy wonderful smell fills the air To pay my respect I bow my Nose It’s rich taste is mouth Watering Sizzle Sizzle Pop I lick my lips I have been abducted by the smell I dream of the rich bacon It’s taken over my mind I must be going crazy

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Pencil Elizabeth Gunton The ghost of your paper Its stabs you like a pirate’s blade It gets its revenge in the pencil sharpener But then stabs you again It cries when the eraser pulls it away It screams

Scribble

Scribble

Scribble While you just laugh The poor lonely pencil In the pouch Waiting until it can stab you again.

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Al Capone Jack Gilcrest Robbie Bermingham Speech Contest - Second Place

Who was Alfonso Capone? What did he do in his life? Well, he beat up teachers in middle school. He was the king of all things alcoholic and he masterminded the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

Capone went to a lot of jails. How many? Guess. It’s the magic fairy tale number. Also, Capone died by being stabbed with a pair of scissors. To sum it up, he was a notorious gangster who changed the world for the worse.

Capone had a rough childhood. On January 17, 1899, Capone was born in Brooklyn, New York. In sixth grade, Capone beat up a teacher. And what do you think happened? Yeah, he got expelled. In his teenage years, Capone joined a kid gang called The Forty Thieves. So if I were you, I wouldn’t try to lead a childhood like his.

Capone was soon to become a millionaire. At the time, beer and liquor were illegal. Gangs fought to control the “Beer Wars.” At age 20, Al Capone moved to Chicago. When he got there, he opened an illegal bar called The Four Deuces. Now Capone was on top of the Beer Wars. By 1924, Capone was rumored to be making over $100,000 a week. By 1929, even in the year of the stock market crash, Capone’s empire was worth over $62,000,000. Capone was a millionaire in the midst of the great depression.

After Capone was credited with a few assassinations, the city of Chicago realized that Capone had to go. So they sent him to a small county jail. But Capone was never without comfort in jail. He used his money to bribe the guards to do things like furnish his room with a radio, a comfy bed, a desk, and a carpet, as well as unlimited visits to the warden,. Imagine being grounded, but be able to do whatever you wanted to do: like playing video games, or getting to eat pizza. That was basically the definition of jail to Capone. Shortly after Capone had finished his time, he had McGurn Mastermind the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre. That was it. The president, Herbert Hoover, knew what a problem Capone was. He wanted Capone brought to justice. Although Capone had some good in him, like the fact that he opened the first soup kitchen, or that he voted for milk expiration dates for the safety of children, Hoover only saw the bad.

According to Alcatrazhistory.com, “Andrew Mellon, the Secretary of the Treasury, was pressured by Hoover to spearhead the government’s battle against Capone. Mellon collected harsh evidence against “Big Al,” which exploited his gang affiliations, bootlegging, prostitution rings, and flagrant evasion of taxes. It would take nearly five years and an intensive undercover operation before Capone was finally convicted. On October 17, 1931, Alphonse Capone was sentenced to 11 years, $50,000 in fines, and was forced to pay court fees totaling over $30,000. The judge refused to allow Capone to be released on bail.”

The Valentine’s Day Massacre was what really confirmed that Al Capone’s objective was a criminal’s objective. At the time, Capone was actually in Miami. He told his top associate, Jack “Machine Gun” McGurn to mastermind the hit against his arch enemy: George “Bugs” Moran. McGurn lured the Moran gang into a garage in the north side of Chicago. Then, disguised as policemen by wearing stolen police uniforms, McGurn walked into the garage and told them to face the wall. The

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gang thought that they were the police making a bust, so they did as they were told. McGurn and Capone’s gang then brought out machine guns and killed all seven gang members, but Moran himself fled the scene when he saw the “police.”

On May 4, 1932, Capone began serving out his federal prison sentence in Atlanta. Capone got to work on gaining privileges. This wouldn’t do. The warden decided he would have to send Al to Alcatraz. So without any real notice, Capone was sent to Alcatraz in August, 1934. At Alcatraz, Capone tried to gain privileges, but Warden Jonson, the warden at the time, would not let him give any extra privileges that other prisoners didn’t get. A year later, While Capone was standing next to the warden, he said, “Well, it looks like Alcatraz has got me licked.” If you ask me, Alcatraz is what killed Capone’s crime life.

Al died a horror filled death. Remember those old Texas Chainsaw- and-mask movies? Replace the chainsaw with scissors and take away the mask, you have his death! Ta-Da! While working in the Alcatraz basement, a fellow prisoner waiting for a hair cut grabbed a pair of shears and stabbed Capone. The tests showed that he had syphilis which evidently he had been carrying for years. Because of syphilis, “the cancer of the 1900’s,” Capone spent his last year of prison in the prison infirmary.

When he was let out, he retired to Miami, Florida. This is where he spent the last seven years of his life.

Al Capone was a notorious gangster who changed Chicago for the worse. He eliminated his rival enemy during the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, and no one sold more beer than he did. The magic number was three. He went to three jails, and died from the cancer of the early 1900’s. If anyone like Capone had shown up in Lake County, what do you think would happen? If you answered mass destruction, you are correct. Give yourself a pat on the back.

The Sprout Genna Crofts In a puddle of sunlight Stands the brave soldier The first of his battalion To survive the frosts of spring Stand tall and proud, brave soldier.

Lift your face to dawn’s first light.

Grow up tall and strong.

Prepare to fight.

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Dimensions Hero Riley Harwood Do you have a hero?

I know I sure do He belongs to only me I know he’s always there Just watching over me He’s in every handshake hug and kiss I feel his wings against my back Every time I win I borrow these soaring arches Whenever I feel need be But he is the spirit inside me To keep me going Whenever I lose My winged hero: like my personal guide through the London underground.

He guards me from danger And supports me through all I do His wings stretch from advisory all the way to band His embrace so tight and warm it’s as if I’m cooking in the earth’s crushing core But can be gentle as a cloud And best of all his super strength That’s my winged hero Do you have a hero?

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Erisa Farimani Lying flat across a school desk all clean, neat and white.

Lying flat, like new white sheets on a bed.

Laying flat until a pencil gets Closer,

Closer,

Closer.

There it goes, That stroke of DOOM! A child drawing, Circles, Squares, and Lines. a sun, a flower, dancing in the summer air.

A walkway disappearing into the hills.

Grass straight as a pole.

“Mom, look what I made today!”

Soon thrown away.

No need to worry paper, Recycling will bring you back to life again.

The Un-Wanted Survivor Maddie Stephenson The pineapple Has no friends.

All of the other fruits; Apples, oranges, pears, grapes, Are pretty and wanted, Like a supermodel.

But not the pineapple.

The pineapple is just the small town boy Who is different from everyone else.

They are all the same.

As if they were copied on a copy-machine.

But not the pineapple.

But when the hungry people come, Nobody can hold the pineapple.

For it has it’s mighty spiky armor, And the small town boy who is different from everybody else, Survives.

And all of the shiny, wanted fruits Are taken, And gobbled up, But not the pineapple.

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Dimensions Baseball Timmy Sperling

My Brother Will Suter My Brother He’s my Mini Minion of Disaster He’s my Comical Companion of Fun He’s my Funny Hero of Evil He’s my Supportive Shoulder to Cry on My Brother Silly Amusing Mastermind SAM Yet……

He’s a Plotter of Evil He’s a Devious Mastermind He’s a Lover of Destruction He’s a King of Kung Fu

The white cork ball Sitting calmly in the warm, sweaty hands of the pitcher Spinning around like a spinney ride at an amusement park, Ready to be sent in the mail.

On a sky fast journey To home plate Where it will resume spinning In the mitt of the catcher The pitcher slowly lifts his leg Staring down the batter with his “evil eye” Then, takes the comfortable ball Out of its leather bed…

And… After suddenly waking up the ball and frightening it, Sends it on the fastest thrill ride It’s ever been on.

Its destination…

Home plate.

The ball is flying through the air As fast as a strike of lightning Then…

After the batter sees the ball whiz by him A pop is heard From all around the world Of the ball Peacefully resting In the catcher’s glove.

The ball rests But soon to be taken On another thrill ride Once again…

STRIKE ONE!!!

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My Name Is Caroline Jacqueline DeMay

“Good morning, Dad” I said.

“Good morning, Caroline. Are you ready for the speech contest today?”

“Yes, but I’m very nervous. Can I practice once with you before school?”

“Yeah, I practically have it memorized; I’ve heard it so many times,” he said laughing.

I began to perform my speech. I closed my eyes and pictured me on stage with hundreds of people watching.

Then a voice said, “C’mon let’s go. We’re going to be late.” I opened my eyes and it was my dad. I grabbed my backpack and headed for the car. As my dad started the car, I felt a chill. I knew this was the day. I had to perform my speech. I was looking out the window, watching the world pass by.

We pulled up to school, and my dad kissed me on the forehead and said, “Your mom would have been proud of you.” I nodded my head. Wanting to change the subject, I asked if he was coming to the speech contest.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” he said. I stepped out of the car and walked up to school. I watched my dad drive away.

“Caroline!” said my friend Gabby.

“Today’s the big day. Are you ready?” Gabby said.

“Yeah… I think” I said.

“You’re going to do great” said Gabby. Gabby and I walked to science class together.

For the whole science class I was thinking about what my dad had said to me in the car.

“Your mom would have been proud.” It repeated over and over in my head.

The bell rang. Everyone ran out of the class. I sat there for a minute, staring blankly ahead. Then I slowly packed up my stuff and headed down the hall for my speech presentation. As I was walking, my heart was pounding and I felt dizzy. Everything was a blur. Thoughts ran through my mind. I stopped. I closed my eyes; I felt as if I was spinning in circles. Then I opened my eyes and everything was normal again. I walked up the steps to the auditorium. I took my seat next to Gabby. A few minutes later I heard “Caroline Miller.” from a loud speaker. It was my turn to perform my speech.

As I was walking up the steps to the stage I pictured my mom. I relaxed myself and closed my eyes. I was imagining my mom and me at the park when I was

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only six years old. Then the spotlight turned on. I pictured the headlights of the car that killed my mom. I yelled “MOM!” in my head. I quickly opened my eyes and looked out in the audience for my dad. He was nowhere in sight. I began to read my speech. I walked off stage after reading my speech, still looking for my dad. I went to sit down. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. It was the principal. He said there was something he needed to tell me in his office. I walked with him to his office. I’d never been in his office before. He told me to take a seat and he would be back in two minutes. As he shut the door I got up and looked around his office. He had pictures of his wife and daughter on his desk. I picked the picture up. I looked at it closely. They all looked so happy. I knew this was what a real happy family looked like. I heard footsteps, so I quickly sat back down in my seat.

He walked in the room in silence. He took his seat and sighed. I wondered what was going on.

Then he began. “Caroline, I’m sorry to say this...but your father couldn’t make it to the speech contest,” he said.

I was confused. I sat there in silence. “You see, your father was in a car crash on the way to the speech contest. He is now in the hospital and has not been awake since the crash, He is in critical condition,” he said.

I sat there in shock. A tear fell down my cheek and hit my hand. “I can take you to the hospital if you like” he said. I nodded my head.

The car ride to the hospital was silent. When we arrived at the hospital, I told the principal thank you and ran into the hospital. I ran to the front desk and asked the room number for Chris Miller. “Chris Miller is in room 2206,” said the lady at the desk. I ran to his room; my body was weak, and I was crying. I walked into his room and he was there sleeping. I took a seat and waited for hours and hours. Finally he woke up. I sat up, filled with excitement. He asked, “Who are you?”

My heart sank.

I said quietly ,“My name is Caroline.” He gave me a strange look. “I’m your daughter” I said.

He responded, “I don’t have a daughter. Get out of here.”

I sat there in shock. “I said get out!” he yelled.

Wiping the tears off my cheek, I left the room. I waited patiently in the sitting room for three hours. I thought the doctor would come out and tell me that he was okay and that we could go home as a family. I looked at the clock. It was 10:06 PM. I knew I had to go home, but I just couldn’t. I waited and waited. It became 10:42 PM, and I had to leave now. I didn’t have a ride, so I walked.

Outside it was cold and snowy with puddles of melted snow on the ground. It felt as if I was walking forever down a long path that never ends. The whole time I was only thinking of my dad. After an hour of walking, I was home. I opened the door with my frozen fingers and walked inside. I have never felt so alone. The lights were off and the house was cold. I turned on the lights and walked upstairs. I walked into my dad’s room with hope that he was there. Of course, he wasn’t. I grabbed one of his books from his bookshelf and I begin to read. The book was confusing, but I continued to read it. I lay down to rest and was soon sound asleep. The next morning I yelled, “Dad!” but no, it wasn’t a dream. I looked at the clock and it was 7:41. The bus would be coming in nine minutes. I jumped out of bed and realized I had never changed out of my clothes from the day before. I changed into fresh, clean clothes. I heard the horn of the bus honking and ran down the steps. I walked to the bus and went in the back to sit near my friends. They asked me what the principal had wanted to tell me yesterday. I forced a smile and said “Oh, he just wanted to say good job and that he hopes I get in

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the finals for the speech contest.” I tried not to make eye contact with my friends and looked out the window the whole bus ride. Days and days had passed and I hadnt spoken with any of my friends, and I’d skipped many meals. I was falling behind in school. I just needed a break from everything and everyone. I decided that I needed my dad more than anything in the world right now. I left school early and asked the principal for a ride to the hospital. He agreed because he knew this was a hard time for me without my dad. Before we left, I grabbed pictures from my locker of my dad and me, hoping that maybe they would help him remember me. The principal dropped me off at the hospital.

Without saying anything, I got out of the car and walked into hospital. I walked down the long white halls peeking into each room. Each room was the same, white and boring filled with one ill patient who needed help and a loved ones around them. I thought, “That’s exactly what my dad needs, even though he may not know it now.” I knocked on my dad’s door. I waited. No answer. I knocked again.

No answer. I decided to just walk in. He was asleep. I slowly shut the door trying to be as quiet as could be. He woke up to the sound of the door closing. “What do you want?” he asked.

“I want my dad back,” I replied. He looked confused. I sat down next to him and took out the pictures of us together at the park with my mom when I was only six years old. “I want to show you these pictures of all of us together as a family.”

He didn’t say anything. I began to show the pictures. It was silent for a moment.

“Look kid, I have no idea who you are or how you got those pictures, but I think it would be best if you just left me alone.” At that moment my phone rang. It was Gabby.

“Hello,” I said.

“Hey, Caroline, guess what?” Gabby said excitedly.

“What? What happened? I said.

“You’re in the finals for the speech contest!” Gabby said.

“That’s great!” I said. I looked down at my dad, and he gave me a look confirming he wanted me to leave.

“I have to go,” I said to Gabby.

I closed my phone. “This is going to sound strange, but can I practice my speech for you?” I asked my dad.

“Sure, why not?” he said.

I began to read my speech. He looked at me and smiled. “Caroline,” he whispered. Tears of joy fell from my eyes.

“Daddy!” I ran to give him a hug. “I’ve missed you.”

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Closing Cover, layout design, and photography by Holly Meers

LIGHT THROUGH LIGHT Light through light evolves upon revolving planet as darkness dissolves -Jonathan Robin

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- Allesandro Raganelli

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Lake Forest Country Day School 145 South Green Bay Road Lake Forest, Illinois 60045 (847) 234-2350 www.lfcds.org

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