But words are things, and a small drop of ink Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousand, perhaps millions think. ‘Lord Byron Students at Paul Revere Middle School were invited to submit poems, fiction and non-fiction for inclusion in the school’s second annual Literary Anthology. Selection was based on 1) fresh, original thinking with relevant age-appropriate topics, 2) an enticing lead, thoughtful transitions, logical sequencing and a satisfying conclusion, 3) a clear writer’s voice and 4) correct spelling and punctuation. Of the 500 pieces submitted, 123 were selected. A sampling follows. In addition, students submitted possible cover designs that needed to include a reference to literature. The cover by eighth grader James Ellis was chosen for its warmth and originality. The Lovely, Calloused Hands By CAROLINE HO (8th grade) Non-fiction essay It seemed as if she balanced the world in her hands’ My mom evoked a sense of peace, love and comfort’ My mom always worked hard; she never took a break or relaxed’ After years of working, my mom was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. At that time, I didn’t really understand the complexities of arthritis, just that it inflicted much pain in those who were affected. Even after being informed, my mother still worked like an animal. There was no stopping her calloused hands. Slowly, the excruciating pain of arthritis made its presence known in my mom’s body; it had spread to many of her joints. She was prescribed different types of medications. Her pill intake was six or seven a day. I was overcome with feelings of despair and helplessness; there was nothing I could do for her. Her hands were swollen, and her joints ached with every movement, as if avenging their abuse over the years. Her case had gotten worse with passing time. Sometimes she would be lying in bed, unable to do work, because her body hurt. She was a stone statue at times. She would always pretend she wasn’t emotionally affected by the pain in her body, but I knew inside of her it hurt. Every morning, I watched as she awoke early to make breakfast for us, and then head off to a grueling day of work. There was never a word of complaint. Occasionally, I’d cry in my room, fighting the wound in my heart caused by my mom’s pain. Her pain was my pain. I felt as if I had to appreciate and cherish more the ones I loved. That was the epiphany that I had reached during those years of early adolescence. It wasn’t until years after the countless pills that were prescribed that my mom found a miracle medication that significantly eased her pain, allowing her to enjoy the quality of her life again. Because of this huge impact on my life, I’ve learned that anything can happen to anyone, and obstacles in life are common. I just have to cope with them and stay away from their negative aspects and focus on the positive ones. I’ve found that “all that glitters is not gold.” Life is so important, more than any superficial qualities like being wealthy or beautiful; I need to appreciate and enjoy the quality of my life for what it is, to appreciate the details in life, not just the big picture. The Recital By MATTHEW SIMON (7th grade) Non-fiction essay My heart was pounding against my chest as I waited. I felt like I was at ground zero, waiting, bracing myself for when the bomb hits. Then it happened; they read my name off of the program. As I walked up to the stage with my cello, it grew eerily quiet. Deathly quiet. I took my bow. My audience, which seemed ten times bigger than it really was, quietly applauded. I sat down in my chair, my palms sweating. Taking a deep breath, I played my first note, my beautiful instrument resonating throughout the concert hall. I played amazingly well, until around measure six, the single most difficult shift in Arioso. I was a little off when I reached the very high B. A mixture of fear and despair exploded within me, though I did not show it. If I did, it would have been harder to recover. Please, no one notice it, I thought desperately. After the repeat, I had a second chance at it. I nailed the same shift. Yes, I thought, I did it! Throughout the rest of the piece, I played wonderfully, even during the most difficult section. When I finished holding out the measure-long G, the last note of the piece, I barely lifted my bow off of the string, not playing, but letting the sound of my cello resonate until the sound died away, like leaves blowing away in a gentle wind. I waited, and the audience still remained completely quiet. Then, I realized and got up from my seat. The room erupted with applause. I took a long, deep bow; I felt extremely proud of myself. Because I was the last performer, the concert was over. After everyone put their instruments in their cases, we all went outside to have a small party. I was pleased to give and receive many compliments to and from the other performers. “Performing is a great experience,” I thought, “I can’t wait until next time.” Loss By NICOLE SAVAGE (7th grade) This short story, which also garnered a state prize in the PTA Reflections contest, begins: I put my cheek against the cold window, sparkling with raindrops. A loud thundering noise gives me goose-bumps. It’s pouring rain, freezing cold, gusting wind outside. I see a pink blur slowly moving up the crowded street, and I realize it’s a woman. I know this woman. On my way to school every morning, I see her. An elderly woman, perhaps in her mid-eighties, maybe younger, maybe older . . .we’ll never know. I see her every single day on my way to school, riding her bicycle. Her old-fashioned bicycle. . .one of those bikes that looks like it’s about to fall apart. No gears, just a regular bike. My mom calls it an original Schwinn. Not only is she riding her bike on a street with no sidewalk, but this street just happens to be Sunset Boulevard, one of the curviest, most dangerous streets in town, at one of the busiest hours. Any day could be this woman’s last. She is always biking so nonchalantly up the hill, traffic zooming inches away from her. She wears the most bizarre outfits: dresses of all colors, sometimes neon green, sometimes bright pink, with a matching bonnet. My family nicknamed this woman “Death Wish Lady,” after her daily routine that seems to be a cry for death. The Lost Year By TYLER COHEN (6th grade) Some think I’m really lucky some think I don’t know what it’s like to feel that endless pain but I do look deep into my eyes can you not see this troubled heart? broken in two and torn apart? the very day it happened, I cried out all my tears for that whole entire year and a half, all I could do was fear A whole year later, they changed their minds the divorce was gone for good or so they said they tried to sew it back together, like trying to stop the rain “But you don’t see, what’s done is done! You can’t take back the pain!” oh sure they’re back together now, but the pain continues to grow that year was the worst year of my life but that I never showed I lost an entire year of my life to my parents’ selfish hearts and to this day I remember that year But I can’t cry not even tears of joy for the day it happened, I cried myself dry CD Player By JAMIE HUBBS (7th grade) I love my CD player Yellow, gray and black It’s so much better than the iPod I lack More than an inch think It heals me when I’m sick My sunshine in the rain It does more than entertain Covered in scrapes Indestructible in its shape And though its batteries may die My love for it is no lie I’ll be with it ’til the end ‘Cause it’s my best friend I love my CD player. Ode to Bellerophon By GABRIEL CONNOLLY (6th grade) Oh Bellerophon, great tamer of horses, With the golden bridle that Athena gave you, Pegasus did you tame and swiftly mount. Over land and over sea as one you galloped. Oh Bellerophon, cunning slayer of the invincible Chimera. You bravely descended over the feared beast And your leaded spear in her mouth melted. The king’s daughter and kingdom of Lycia you inherited. Oh Bellerophon, beloved king of Lycia. Vain you are and to the gods you dared compare. At the gates of Olympus, Zeus cast you out. Down you fell, torn and lame to live as a beggar. Oh Bellerophon, hero of the Greeks. On the back of Pegasus you showed your courage. A king of great power you were But hubris threw you to shame and killed your glory.
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