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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Nostalgia

Dark, Light, Dark, Light— The clouds float across the sky, sometimes covering up the sun as they go. Dark, Light, Dark— Illuminating the room, then bringing it to a gentle shade, Making shadows dance on the paper drawings tacked to the walls, in a room with an unused bed. Flash— Light— Dark— Flash— The light from the cars’ headlights filters through the blinds, One car’s lights chase another’s across the wall as they rush by in the night, Going to places nobody knows, As the clock ticks towards twelve, On, Off, On, Off, Red, Green, Blue, Christmas lights twinkle in the chilly air, Outside of houses with fantastical displays, Or on the stair railing of a house in the dark, Blue snowflakes hung in the window illuminate a face of joy in the winter, A winter that means a Christmas tree and hot cocoa, And a fire, A gas fire, And later on a wood fire to sit next to, Even though it belongs to someone else now, Fire does not forget, The shingle on a rooftop looks like the pavement near the beach That lies beneath a baking sun, Next to crashing waves that once played tag with someone, and other childish games, Even though the games are gone now, Water does not forget, Swaying the leaves of palm trees, Near a house that lies resting, Wind brings rain that washes away the trenches and castles made in soil, Rain that is blown into windows, Gently, To rock someone to sleep, Even though nobody lives behind those windows anymore, Wind does not forget. Droplets Rain washes clean a road, Worn down by years, A flower grows on the side, And without being blown, sends its seeds into the wind, Rain catches on the leaves of trees, Catches in the grass, Two friends lie beneath, The air grows colder, autumn is coming, A time when someone used to scatter nuts and seeds for the birds to eat, And tried to spot a deer, Even though nobody comes anymore, The earth does not forget. By the pond surrounded with trees glistening with rain, A path well worn winds, A path where someone would run and laugh and talk, People don’t remember. Sonia Teodorescu, 13Tampa, FL Sage Millen, 13Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada


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Dusk on the Docks

Tranquil Tides The water crashes against the dock Like a chime, melody. The boats bob on the water, but seem at peace. I sit down near the edge, not too close, nor too far. The sun dips down into the Earth, leaving a spill of purple and dusty rose to light the dusk sky. Soon the moon will take over the job of the sun, guiding the midnight travelers. The waves crash against the dock, almost like children playing. The birds keep chirping, as they normally do, but they are not annoying; they seem like a melody this evening, for they too seem tired. Like me. Where am I? Why is it turning dark too fast? What is behind me? What do I feel like? At peace. The day is gone now, and soon I will rest. I feel tired and calm, and the waves seem to start to feel that too, as they are more calm now, like children before bed. Content, tired, peaceful By the water. By the water. By the water. Benjamin Romano, 10Lynnfield, MA Sabrina Lu, 13Ashburn, VA


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American Monarchy

Every day upon waking up, I wish that the burden of school had never been thrust upon my tired back as I cannot keep up with addition, subtraction, fractions, and historic factions while strangers observe my every action five days a week, eight hours a day, our only vacation being one based around letting kids out to start working on their parents’ farms during the harvest season. And that tradition only stays so that we kids can have a mental break from school although soon we will go back and have our schedule wiped clear, making me want to break out and go have fun before I’m buried underground with a sign above saying rest in peace. And we are not even free three days a week, a freedom I think we deserve as many seem to forget that one day we will grow up and work maybe twice as hard as you and of course, let’s not forget that when you grow old, who else but your sons and daughters will in turn take care of you and yet one thing we won’t do is take your freedom like you take ours. And still we will fight for you even though you dump us in school as the people who are often referred to as “America’s future” find themselves in a government-required American monarchy, where the teachers act like dukes, the deans like princes, and the principal the all-powerful king, while we the future are insignificant peasants stuck in the king’s castle while being told we have to follow all his rules, while we toil in a classroom, making our humor and passion slowly dissipate as we learn about but do not obey the rules of freedom of speech and democracy while being instructed on everything from how to breathe and when we can go pee and not to put our heads on the table and being scolded for doing it twice by a hypocritical math teacher, and when I go to the graded class of musical theater he tells us that we cannot even go to the bathroom unless we are about to wet our pants, and that just so he doesn’t get scolded by our parents for putting their children in an embarrassing position in front of the class—making me feel that this American monarchy has gone too far and is going to keep on destroying our future, even though they already have by filling the sky with toxic gasses—all so they could get a fancy pen and with a few strokes decide whether we will go to college and be successful or end up in a small apartment while working at McDonald’s, all because the American monarchy said we weren’t smart enough to go to even the worst college, which is why at the end of the day, we can say that the American monarchy is a messed up system run by annoying narcissists, and if we want a future, school should be remade, from a monarchy to a children’s democracy. Connor Kiggins, 12New York, NY


By

Beyond Detention

Ali reflects on jail and detention, and the seemingly never-ending cycles of crime and punishment The fervid morning sun was already piercing the plundered earth of Los Angeles as I walked unhurriedly under the lush green trees of our neighborhood park filled with clear, fresh air. I never hurried toward my dull school—the cause of much languishing and ennui. To make the most of my liberty, I pulled out my phone to read the news. The first headline read: Another robber caught and thrown in jail. I slowly swiped downward to the article: Robber thrown in jail because he stole pain-killing Tylenol at CVS. Pavement I stood wondering why the man had committed theft. Had he suffered a sudden migraine affecting his choices? Was he desperate for some other reason? Had he asked the manager for credit for a day? Why such harsh punishment? Why wasn’t he just fined? Was he a repeat offender? If not, why had the newspaper called him a “robber,” labeling his identity forever? Continuing toward school, I reflected on the question of why people steal and why their motives remain unknown to the public. Just before the sterile school bell rang, the raging morning sun followed me as I ran inside the metal school doors that barred so much light and enlightenment from then on. The crowd rushing toward the classrooms carried me with it. I threw my bag into my locker and sat down in my first classroom where I would begin to waste the next eight hours of my life. The teachers’ never-ending assignments flowing in, stagnating the life-giving river, the same monotonous tasks being handed in every day just for a grade good enough to pass, the same meaningless true-false questions sucking away souls bit by bit, the same brainless one-answer questions breeding facile thinking and eventual indifference, never learning through discovering, never creating with imagination, all causing our ennui. Why do we have to suffer this meaninglessness? This loss of self-worth? Using this time, I still wondered why the man had committed theft, wondered why the media had never answered the “why” question. After the teacher had dismissed my peers and me to lunch, I stared down at the vinyl ground, dragging my feet all the way to lunch, barely attending to the announcement: “Kids, don’t forget to hand in the field trip fees to your homeroom teacher by the end of the day!” The words floated out from a dark corner, hiding away from the afternoon sunlight, as I spotted Rick, panic-driven, desperate, clenching a handful of cash, about to withdraw it out of Bob’s locker. “Rick, what do you need Bob’s money for?” “I need the money for the field trip fees to turn in today. I forgot to bring my own. That’s why I’m stealing.” “Rick, why don’t you ask your homeroom teacher for a chance to turn in the fees tomorrow morning? Maybe ask someone who has extra money to lend? You don’t have to steal, Rick.” Rick hesitated. “Maybe you’re right.” Calming down, he resolved, “I will try and ask.” Returning Bob’s money, he added, “Thanks, Ali. Please don’t tell anyone I stole.” “I won’t.” “I wasn’t thinking.” “I know.” *          *          * As I entered the lunchroom, I sat down on my usual spot and began to unpack my lunch with the sun ferociously beating down on me through the huge ceiling window. As I ate in this room full of my peers’ noises playing foosball and the sound of balls dribbling, I began what some people call the ritual of sitting Shiva—though not for a deceased person. This time for those who suffer a dysfunctional kind of punishment. Detention. This series of steps, this practice, this ritual, I have learned to use whenever I need to think and to reflect. I started to place a hold on what was happening around me, abstaining myself from the activities in the lunchroom, and started to think about what would have happened if I had not confronted Rick. Would he have been caught and sent to detention? Would he have reflected and changed for the better? Or would he have become a full-fledged thief, stealing whenever he needed money?  Even as the loud lunch bell echoed in the lunchroom and woke me from my reverie, I picked up my unfinished sandwich and proceeded to my free period with thoughts still bouncing in my mind. As I walked near the detention room filled with sullen silence, I saw the same people waiting to serve their “sentence,” the same students who always went in and out like it was some sort of routine. Students like Mike, who was always missing from class. George, who was always making jokes and annoying the teacher. Mark, who was always seen bullying people. And as the list went on, a new insight awakened me. I began what some people call the ritual of sitting Shiva—though not for a deceased person. This time for those who suffer a dysfunctional kind of punishment. Detention. Detention isn’t really a place to help students resolve a problem or change how they make choices. It is a place for disobedient students to realize that, though there are consequences for misdemeanors such as stealing money, two hours of solitude merely results in the belief that their mistakes weren’t all that bad.  So what is the worth of this vicious crime-and-punishment cycle? What is the alternative? How do we learn to revise our lives? Never are they asked to consider the harm they have caused. Never were they counseled or given a chance to restore justice and relationships between themselves and those whom they have harmed.  I have to stop this vicious cycle that leads only to more crime and more punishment. I have to raise the principal’s awareness. But why would Mr. Dawn listen to me? What if he gives me time in detention for wasting his time? What if


By

First Times

Claire recalls a day of many “firsts” Waiting for the bus was stressful, maybe in part because it was so new this time. Throughout elementary school at Bank Street, I had never taken the bus, and I most certainly didn’t go alone. I always went with my brother Eric and my mom in the subway or in a taxi, New York City family that we are. This time was different, however. I was on my own, sort of, with only my dad waiting with me, ready to head to Chelsea Piers for an ice-skating camp from our home on the Upper West Side a few miles north. I was definitely excited to learn how to skate, and just to go to camp in general. I was eight, a third-grader who could barely type, and here I was, waiting near a church for the bus. I thought to myself, You can do it. It’s just camp, over and over again, just waiting and waiting. The bus finally pulled in after five boring minutes of waiting and fiddling my fingers. It was one of those typical yellow school buses with a black stripe down the middle, and it wasn’t as big as a regular school bus— maybe half the size. The ride was long and slow, a half hour, and I sat with some kid I didn’t know (and still don’t know because all she did on the bus was read). I, a shy third-grader, didn’t talk to anyone. I just sat there staring out the window watching cars pass by. This was all new for me; no one had told me that it was loud and noisy on the bus, and sometimes it would take forever for the bus to get to school because of traffic and how slow it went. Yet I still thought it was thrilling, this first ride. Later, I liked how the bus was just a little place where kids got to talk or to hang out, and I often made new friends this way. Snip Snip Snip Once the bus finally arrived, a counselor made us line up in a single-file line and state the name of our camp. This counselor had a dark-brown baseball hat and was wearing shorts and a purple T-shirt with cartoon characters on it. He also had two nose piercings. My first impression of him was that he talked way too loud. So I made a snap decision then and there not to like him. Shy-kid me took ten seconds just to say the three words “ice-skating camp.” The counselor took me, along with all of us ice-skating campers, out to the rink, and let me say this: the rink was freezing cold, and I did not like the cold one bit. So I started to run toward the place where we had to lace up our skates. Yet someone pointed out that I had to check in, so I waited in line, shivering. The kid in front of me was taking forever. He was listing his allergies, and he had tons of them. I remember pollen, nuts, and milk, but there were more! When it was my turn, I just said my name, Claire, and that I had no allergies. Nothing else. That was it. The person behind me got lucky. Once I got inside the lacing area, I was so relieved to notice there was a heater there. I quickly put on my helmet, jacket, and gloves, but the rental skates were a challenge. It took nearly five minutes to jab my right foot into one of them, and the left took twice as long. The reason it took so long was because the ice skates were shaped like weird pears, and it was hard getting my feet to fit. Eventually I gave up and asked a counselor to help. I didn’t know this at the time, but rather than me doing it myself, the counselors were actually supposed to help. If I had known this, I could’ve saved ten minutes and a lot of frustration. The rink wasn’t open yet, but I wanted to go on it right away. The ice was so smooth and clean, and I was the little devil who chaotically wanted to ruin it. Once they opened the gates—and I do not exaggerate— it was a stampede of kids running out the door like wild animals being released from captivity. I was eventually pushed onto the rink, along with several others, by the most eager children. I clung to the walls because I was nervous, but also because I couldn’t balance myself. A lot of other kids did the same, since we were tentative and scared. You could say it looked like a conga line, but instead, we were a bunch of anxious children, not a line of dancers at a party! After a few minutes of this messy beginning, all of the kids on the walls got picked up by a teacher and assigned to a class with other kids. There were eight different groups based on level of experience. Of course, I got set up into a class called “Basic One,” the easiest of all the groups. The teacher was an optimist and saw the bright side to everything, including a bunch of kids falling down every five minutes. Yet she was friendly and always said “Smile!” It was a bit weird and annoying because we would be learning how to walk on ice and she would say “Smile,” and that would throw the whole class off track. She taught us a bunch of nonsense, like if your face comes in contact with skates, you should not touch your face, and go straight to a counselor instead since they had first-aid kits. We were also taught how to get up when you fall, and how to “step one at a time.” It personally felt more like walking than ice skating to me, because I didn’t glide at all during that first session.


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The Ocean

The ocean is a place I never want to leave It has my personality It is gentle like me It is calm like me It is a representative of me! Elizabeth Blake, 8Howell, NJ


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Tired

We are all tired, And my cat is tired too But he’s tired in the way Where he stretches out on my bed, Purring with joy, And tiredness Maybe we should work to make Each other tired in that way; Where you smile and sigh A satisfied sigh, And drift off to dreams Blythe Davis, 9Austin, TX