Crooked Tree announces 21st Annual Young Writers Exposition winners
PETOSKEY — Winners in the annual Young Writers Exposition through the Crooked Tree Arts Center were recently announced, with local students earning recognition for their poetry and prose entries.
This spring, Crooked Tree received 249 submissions written by school-age students attending the Char-Em ISD and homeschool students in Charlevoix and Emmet counties. Event jurors selected 20 winners and 10 honorable mentions.
The Young Writers Exposition jurors included Michelle Boyer, Crooked Tree board member and Education Outreach Committee chair; Edy Stoughton, retired educator; Penny Crim, Crooked Tree volunteer and retired educator; Robin Gaines-Franks, author; Alex Dailey, freelance writer and owner of Writing Dailey; and Tom Renkes, founding member of the Little Traverse Literary Guild and local author.
The Young Writers Exposition is a collaboration between the Crooked Tree Arts Center, the Petoskey News-Review, the Bob Schulze Fund for Creative Writing at the Petoskey-Harbor Springs Area Community Foundation, Little Traverse Literary Guild, McLean & Eakin Booksellers, and the Walloon Writers Review.
Poetry
Elementary School
1st Place: “Bob the Dog” by Shain Mahaney – 5th grade, St. Francis Xavier
I am a golden, swift and playful dog,
Who sat on a dirty, bug filled log.
I take a walk with my master every day,
He wants to walk but I want to play.
I'm friends with a snorty, brown, hilarious hog,
I’m also friends with an old, jolly, massive bulldog.
I like to eat cookies and tasty ice cream,
I'm on the brand new puppy bowl team.
One thing I don't like is gigantic planes,
My friends always ride amusing looking trains.
One day we went to a relatively little park,
When I went to make a cheerful, loud bark.
Trevor, my owner, went on this thing,
I remember him telling me it is a swing.
After he finished took me home,
Then he brushed me with a brown, soft comb.
I love my owner, Trevor,
And he loves me.
I’ll stay with him forever,
Until I have to pee.
2nd Place: “Dance Dreams” by Zoe Kaufman - 5th Grade, Central Elementary School
Hair tied back
secured with pins,
I apply my makeup
And practice my spins.
Soaring high above the clouds
Leaping through a maze of wonder,
Twirling like a spinning top
Jumping like a wave of thunder.
Gliding like a flying bird
With Pink tights, tutus, and shoes,
I step out onto the stage
As I slowly dance in on my cues.
Pirouette, Plié, Grande Jeté
feelings of happiness fill my heart,
I dance, dance, dance
Until i'm done with my part.
As I walk on stage
To take a grand bow,
I can hear the crowd
applauding Good Job! Wow!
3rd Place: “Fox” by Lillian Berry - 5th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
Some people think Fox is terrible,
Others think he’s barely bearable,
Yet a Fox hears these folk tales,
And look down at his white-tipped nails.
You could think this may hurt him,
But his heart is never grim.
Fox walks his lonely path,
He wouldn’t even take a bath.
His ears are soft and black-tipped,
His bright orange fur he groomed and licked,
He leaps over mossy oak logs,
As springy as any leopard frog.
Paws strike the ground,
Without making a sound.
He wishes this could last,
But he soon returns to his narrow shaft.
There is where he slumbers,
He snores like he’s cutting lumber.
And shall I tell you how he sleeps?
In a large, curled up, fuzzy heap.
Sleeping Fox you may want to hug,
But all he wants to do is sleep nice and snug.
And this is how his long days go,
By now you should really know.
I’ve told everything to be told,
Lest you want a long story to unfold.
Yet that story is quite boring,
Oh, Fox is again snoring.
Honorable Mention: “Mors” by Layla Forester - 5th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
I make an exchange for their souls,
Sometimes mortals say that I stole.
But that's simply not true,
It's a job that I have to do.
Their precious essence I do hold,
Takes them back to their divine creator that is foretold.
However I’m exhausted even though I’m dead,
The voices tell me to sleep and continue to haunt my head.
I work with Chronos, the god of time,
I go down my list and each person is in line.
Only the brave dare to look at my face,
But after one glance, they decide not to chase.
My job will be timeless until all earthlings breath,
In their one last breath it will be time for them to leave.
I tell the truth, I never lie,
Especially when it’s time for them to die.
They will never accept their death.
They will be on earth until it's time for me to rest.
I am Mors the holder of souls,
“Stealing” Mortal life is what I control.
Honorable Mention: “Spring” by Sam Kaufman - 3rd grade, Petoskey Montessori Children’s House
Spring is coming!
Sun is shining on the snow.
Snow starts to melt.
My boots stick in the mud.
Water drips beneath the ground.
Moisture hits the roots.
Sun shines down on the soil.
Plants start to grow.
When the ice melts,
Petoskey stones show.
Sun shines hotter and hotter,
Bringing longer days.
Spring is coming!
Honorable Mention: “Your Soul” by Helene Norcross - 1st grade, Petoskey Montessori Children’s House
When you shiver, the ghosts are near.
The coldness of the phantom here.
The paintings on the wall,
will disappear without a crawl.
The air is a ghost haunting your soul.
The ghost inside you is just your soul.
But the air around you is full of fright.
Middle School
1st Place: “The Woes of a Euphonium Player” by Owen Saunders – 7th grade, Petoskey Middle School
The euphonium player stands alone
Beneath the spotlight’s golden tone
A silent giant in the band
Whose woes are hard to understand
With a heavy heart and mellow sound
The euphonium’s notes resound
But often lost in the mix
Overlooked by flashy tricks
The trumpets roar and trombones blaze
While the euphonium player stays
Playing steady, strong, and true
But rarely noticed for all they do
Their fingers dance across the keys
Creating music with ease
But the world still fails to see
The beauty of their melody
But now the tone begins to shift
As inspiration takes a lift
For in this moment, I must say
An ode is what I wish to play
Oh, Euphonium, how wondrous your sound
A brass instrument that truly astounds
With a range so vast and a tone so sweet
Your music lifts us up on wings to greet
Your sound is like velvet, soft and sublime
A rare beauty that stands the test of time
From the heights of joy to the depths of sorrow
Your music glides us to a brighter tomorrow
In the hands of a master, you are a king
A regal instrument that makes our hearts sing
With passion and skill, your music takes flight
And fills our soul with a beautiful light
So here’s to you, euphonium
The way your music opens doors
A true treasure of the brass band
And a joy to all who take your hand
Even though you are forgotten
I remember you
And hope that your wonderful tone
Will soon again be shown
2nd Place: “Dear Babysitter” by Madeline McDiarmid - 8th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
Dear Babysitter,
Timmy’s allergic to meat
And Emma can’t stand the heat
Don’t give Oscar much ice cream
His reaction will be frightening
We have some wonderful pets
So try not to break into a sweat
We have a young baboon,
Who thinks she can jump to the moon
Our rat is in love with food,
If there isn’t enough he’ll be rude
The panda is a great musician
Don’t interrupt him, he’s on a mission
Our walrus can be a menace,
But he’s quite good at tennis
We own a collection of lizards,
Who like to perform as wizards
Don't be alarmed if you can’t find the frog,
She's probably gone for a jog
The dolphins will be playing cards,
They’ve asked me to give you their regards
We have a lemur who plays the french horn,
Her favorite food is popcorn
Our last pet is a shark,
He’s shy and afraid of the dark
Bedtime is at nine,
If you need anything give me a chime
3rd Place: “Stupid Cancer” by Vanessa Silveus - 7th grade, Alanson Middle School
It cannot cripple your love.
It cannot shatter your hopes and dreams,
It can never beat your faith.
It cannot eat at your peace
It cannot destroy confidence.
It cannot kill friendship
It cannot silence courage.
It can’t shut out memories
It cannot take eternal life with god.
It cannot fade your spirit
It cannot take your amazing smile.
It cannot take beauty
It cannot take your positivity.
It cannot take your voice
It cannot take your family.
It cannot take the places you have enjoyed
It definitely can not take you!
-Vanessa Silveus
This poem was dedicated to my grandfather
He sadly passed from liver cancer.
And he always wanted me to change others lives
So now I'm trying to make his wish come true.
Honorable Mention: “A Lovely Day” by Ayla Keene - 7th grade, Petoskey Middle School
I sit on a plush blanket
under a tree
surrounded by grass,
the thin emerald pillars
salute the sun
A puppy sleeps peacefully beside me
silky golden fur caps his head
contrasting his tiny black nose
Soft rays of sun fall gently from the sky
landing on my feet
warming them with their gentle dance
The wind whistles in my ear
as my puppy turns over
in his sleep
Hush hush I whisper
leaning back against the tree
feeling the bark,
rough against my back
listening to the leaves,
a cloak of windchimes
their music soft as if only for my ears
Inhaling the sweet smell
of summer air,
I open my book and start to read
The tiny puppy wakes and
stretches only to curl up
falling back asleep in my lap
I smile and sigh
while taking in this
lovely day
High School
Best in Show: "Where I’ll Be" by Ealleannore VanNortrick - 11th grade, Concord Academy Petoskey
The wind blows softly,
Tussling the reeds by the creek.
It’s where the trees bend ever so gently,
Creating the canopy above.
Where the water ebbs and flows,
Taking whatever shape feels natural.
The sun sets, casting an array of colors across the sky.
This is when the moon glows bright;
While the sun shows his final rays.
Where the stars above are innumerable.
This is where you will find me.
Sitting beneath an old Willow
And far from the city’s lights,
The moon emits a pale glow.
Her various shades of blue and grey
Reach across, hoping to hold the cosmos within her hand.
The branches of the trees stretch further upward,
Yearning for a glimpse of what may be out there.
Every sound of nature pools around me
And I find myself staring upward once more.
I see the vast nothingness stretched out above me.
I am always pondering whether or not there is more.
Perhaps the night sky is simply a lid to the box we are in
And the stars are nothing but air holes.
Could we simply be characters of some game,
Being controlled by some being?
What if there are others out there, though?
Would they be nearly as miserable as we humans are?
Perhaps they are.
Perhaps not…
For now, though, it doesn’t matter.
All that needs to be seen is in front of me.
For I can be found
Where the wind blows softly,
Tussling the reeds by the creek.
Where the trees bend ever so gently,
Creating the canopy above.
And I will be where the water ebbs and flows,
Taking whatever shape feels natural.
For now, this is all I need to witness.
After all, we can always allow a crisis
To wait one more day.
1st Place: “Rebound” by MaKayla Ramsay - 10th grade, Harbor Springs High School
The world as we know it has come crashing down,
But not in the way where we ever hear its sound.
Where has the innocence in our children gone?
When did cursing and slurs leave our system redrawn?
What happened to having conversations with friends?
When did we decide that Snapchat was the trend?
Historic events that could have helped save,
Still led society to fall, to misbehave.
It’s a terrifying fact when you stop and think,
That our planet, as we know it, is nearing its brink.
Students scream as they hear the dreadful sound,
One so recurrent, of shots heard round.
When did such horror become the new norm?
So much controversy, so much to transform.
Social media has left us divided,
Why can’t we see that its content is one-sided?
What happened to our nation joining together as one?
When did political parties and fake news leave us all in stun?
Our approaching downfall is ever so discreet,
But if we do not make a change, the annihilation will complete.
Everyday people mindlessly check their phones,
To the point where AI could make us all clones.
A lack of employees is leaving our economy hurting,
It won’t be much longer until this habit is alerting.
Why do we side and say people are wrong?
Instead of striving to simply get along.
When did the youth see a rise in their flaws?
Why is their faultless skin slashed from an unknown cause?
How did photoshopped models engrave our brains?
To the point of loved ones stuck with remains.
I say this to everyone in hope of a change,
Let us not see one another as inferior or strange.
We’re all players of an identical game,
So should we individually be placing the blame?
Our world as we know it is slowly crashing down,
United, as one, we can make it rebound.
2nd Place: “The Mirror” by Callie Carlson - 10th grade, Concord Academy Petoskey
When I look into the mirror,
It’s not my face I see.
It’s a girl who has lived a thousand years,
Whose face stares back at me.
Upon first glance, she’s ordinary,
But further insight will reveal,
Through pain and joy and misery,
This soul has always healed.
This face has been through thick and thin,
A long and leaden journey.
But still her smile stays set and true,
This girl I’ll strive to be.
There’s a certain kind of calm,
Upon the mirrored face.
A contentment with her life,
All doubt has been erased.
Aged scars lay stagnant on satin skin,
A timeless sort of beauty.
The story of always buried deep,
Tell tales across centuries.
Every morning she is always there,
And every night as well.
She tells me it will be alright,
The impossible, I will quell.
Within her eyes, I see the world,
Carved with rivers, framed with trees,
The wind rushes to catch the stars,
The fire chases the seas.
She watches as I live her life,
And falters when I fall.
She smiles when I come home.
She waits upon my wall.
I ask her what her name might be,
Through glass she cannot speak.
But a silent voice breaks through to me,
Her untold name I’ll keep.
And one day after I’ve lived my life,
I’ll look into my mirror.
And I have a inkling that I just might,
At last, see myself in there.
3rd Place: “Unanswered” by Lucy Uy - 11th grade, Boyne City High School
To whom, God?
to whom do I pray-
unanswered,
unheard.
Told he will listen,
but he never has.
Why have faith in a man you've never seen?
blind faith.
Not seeing as the flawed preen-
cleaning feathers-
those who should not have wings.
To whom should I pray?
if I am left Unanswered.
just believe they say
just hope they say
he's there they say
he's Watching-
-they say
who?
who is watching?
if he watches struggle and does not
is he worthy of a prayer-
so much as worthy a thought?
to whom do you confess?
The sin has been committed.
Will the golden gates open for all-
-or will I be omitted?
told he forgives,
but the eve of death
sinners quiver.
Say you are a man of God,
yet your words mean nothing
when actions do not deliver.
I want to scream,
To yell.
Unanswered,
My questions never quell.
Why must I pray?
If he will not listen?
I sit,
left
unanswered-
Honorable mention: “I Am From” by Breanaka Song - 10th grade, Boyne Falls High School
I am from hours upon hours of reading,
From hand-made quilts, to home-made dreams.
I am from trees and hills to wander and explore,
From bike riding to downhill skiing.
I am from days of swimming at rivers and lakes,
From running up and down sandy beaches.
I am from sand dune climbing and downhill sledding,
From tube runs to tree climbing.
I am from a long-time banker and a computer geek,
From English teachers, to nurses, to factory workers.
I am from hunters and creators,
From church goers to car mechanics.
I am from Germany, Ireland, and Poland,
From Italy to the Netherlands.
I am from garden growers and car hoarders,
From perogies to pizza.
I am from big brown eyes and thick brown hair,
From strong hands to reassuring hugs.
I am from doers and thinkers,
From a loving and comforting home.
Honorable Mention: “Seed” by Jamie Ploe - 10th grade, Boyne City High School
I am a fragment of a seed,
A fraction of a heart.
I am planted,
only to be forgotten.
I’m buried
waiting for some sort of light
But the soil seems too heavy to bear.
I sit here
Eagar for someone.
Anyone.
To remember I was planted here
Does anyone see me?
Please
See me.
Hear me.
I am a fraction of a heart
A slice of a breath
I am a seed planted
only to be mistaken.
Finally I see light
I see hope
I see
I dig into my past,
Searching for something.
Something to remember,
Something satisfactory.
I grow strong
only to be abandoned.
Only to dehydrate.
I grow,
only to be hopeless.
I am a flower.
A wilted
A forgotten
A mistaken
Flower.
Why plant a seed,
if you're only going to leave?
This seed needed light.
Needed hope.
Needed to grow.
But I am only a seed,
And what do I know?
Prose
Elementary School
1st Place: “Stuck in a Pyramid” by Lillian Berry - 5th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
Uly was afraid. He pressed his boot into the sand. The hot sun shone onto him as the warm wind circled him. He found his courage and let his feet guide him into the pyramid.
He was currently in a … some would call it a vacation. He called it a business trip. Well, it really WAS. He had a job with his sister. It was this extraordinary trip that Uly was not excited for. Uly and his sister Abby, were the stars of their own TV show entitled Treasure-Hunters. This was their first episode. Uly was really just there to hold and angle the camera right.
Originally, this was Abby’s idea. Uly had said ‘No.’ to it then. “C’mon!” Abigail was already heading deeper into the torch-lit passage. She swiveled around the corner, and vanished from sight. Uly knew she was still there, but he scampered over to her, almost tripping. He felt cornered. Trapped. Stuck. The walls were so close together … the tiles felt uncomfortable on his feet, even with boots on! Uly gulped. Abby scoffed and mumbled to herself. Finally she spoke aloud, “Uly, we HAVE to do this! You agreed to it.” He did agree. Abby turned another sharp corner.
“Wait up!” he called, starting to feel dreadful. No answer came. He picked up his feet and started around the corner. No Abby, either. He KNEW something WAS GOING TO GO WRONG. “ABBY!” his voice echoed against the tomb-like walls. He took another step, but his boot never hit the ground.
Uly tripped forward before he had any time to look down. He fell into a small, narrow chamber. “Uly!” Uly lifted his head and looked straight into Abby’s glowing face after he’d landed. He would’ve probably smiled but the fact that they were in a sandstone cage prevented that. “You shouldn’t walk so slow!” she pointed out. “You shouldn’t run ahead! Look, now we're stuck. No one’s gonna find us, and we’ve no water or food. I’m sure we're going to DIE!” he shouted, despite his fear of the dark. Suddenly Abby’s face wasn’t smiling anymore. She wasn’t even looking at him. Well, it was in the same direction, he thought so, but it was very hard to tell in the dark. “Uly …” her voice trailed off as torches’ flames suddenly flickered out of them. Uly blinked several times and turned around. They weren’t in a cage–there were no bars at all. What stood before him were giant golden pillars, and many other riches such as goblets with embedded jewels and golden plates with hieroglyphs. “WE’RE RICH!” Abby threw out her arms and swung around the pillars. Uly was the type of person who always saw the bad side of situations. For example: the crumbling bricks on the wall opposite of him didn’t look promising. The rocks continued to fall until finally the wall broke apart. It was like the wall simply had shrunk into itself. Of course Abby hadn’t noticed, she was currently trying to bury herself in gold, but Uly obviously had. There was a shadow that looked as if it had a dog’s head and a human body. “Ohmylittlesnuggiebugs,” the shadow said very hastily in a babying kind of voice. Suddenly Abby noticed and jumped up. Gold sprang from every corner. The shadow yelped and peered its head out of the passageway. It was a very surprised looking Egyptian dog head. “Visitors!” it said. “It’s been so very long since I had visitors.” It then stalked out and looked at them. It was holding a mummified cat who was ALIVE.“ Aren’t you going to bow or at least kneel to me?” Abby had noticed it’s pet, too. “ What is THAT? Is it alive? Can it talk? Who are you? How is your costume headpiece moving its mouth when you speak? Why should we bow?” she pestered him with questions. “ENOUGH,” it finally said instead of answering. “I am the pharaoh, mighty and powerful. THAT’S why you should bow. This is my familiar, Dune.” It nodded its long snout at the cat. “It is VERY MUCH ALIVE.” “If you’re the pharaoh … What's your name?” “Hapshetsut.” Nice name, Uly silently thought to himself as Abby asked more questions, “Can we just call you Hap? It’s a lot easier.” The pharaoh sighed then Abby picked out another question, “Hey! If that’s just a mask how does it make, like, facial expressions? Like sighing, or squinting?” Then the mask became angry looking. “It’s ENCHANTED OK!?” Abby ducked and hastily spoke, “Okay, okay.” That's when Uly broke in, “Wait. How do we get out of here? I mean, no offense, I don’t want to … end up like you.” he looked at Hap, “Oh. There is no way out. I mean, this was all made for me. Why would I want to leave?” He tilted his dog mask. “No. Way. OUT?!” Uly gasped and Abby suddenly darted out of sight. Uly turned around and watched Abby grab hoards of golden items. “Are you gonna help me OR NOT?!” she shouted at him and struggled lifting the heavy gold. She plopped it into a pile underneath the passage that went up to the surface. Uly realized her plan and rushed over to help her. In a minute or two the siblings stood beside each other, panting in the sweltering heat. A tower of golden plates and other items stood in front of them, leading up to their escape. Abby scurried up quickly, and leaped up onto top. She’d got out. Uly nodded his head at the pharaoh who yawned, and clambered up behind. He jumped up and succeeded like Abby. Uly ran out, sunlight dazzling him. “Did you get that?” Abby asked, her eyes shining. And to Uly’s surprise, he DID get that. “Now to our next show,” Abby looked out across the horizon.
2nd Place: “The Legend of the Sunset” by Eliza Shoskey - 4th grade, Lincoln Elementary School
Many years ago, the world was in misery. There were dark, gloom thundering clouds and the hilltops were filled with dry, drifting grass. The animals were in need of something bright and colorful in the world of gray around them. On the other side of a hill from the animals’ homes, there lived a young and pretty giant named Sun. Sun had beautiful ocean blue eyes and curly blond hair. She was a skilled painter, and, when she heard of the animals problem, she wanted to help them.
Sun decided to paint the animals a picture using her favorite colors. Sun went to her paint supply and found that all of her favorite colors were used and gone. She was wondering what she was going to do when, all of a sudden, she felt a hard and violent gust of wind. She glanced up and noticed a tree that looked like it was dancing and flying was getting closer and closer to her with every second. It suddenly hit her little cottage and the cottage shattered into pieces. The only remains were one canvas and one paint brush.
Sun looked at her house, her mouth dropping down into corners. A single round tear fell from her ocean blue eyes. When it hit the ground tubes of paint filled her yard. There were pinks and purples and oranges and reds and whites. When Sun saw it, she dried her eyes and smiled from ear to ear. Then she started painting. Sun painted a mystical sky with the colors of her imagination. When Sun hung her painting it filled the sky, and, when the animals saw it, they hooted and hollered and sang for joy. The grass turned different shades of green and the thundering clouds drifted away. The flowers bloomed pinks and purples and the lakes shimmered and glimmered in beautiful shades of blue.
Today, Sun still hangs her painting up twice a day, once early in the morning and once late at night. Both times, all the animals rejoice as they remember that happy day that Sun saved the dark, gloomy world.
3rd Place: “The Unexpected Visitor” by Jane Horsburgh - 5th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
Crash, Boom, Pound!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I was sound asleep when I heard an ear splitting sound. I looked out of my window and saw a rocket ship. I thought I was dreaming. So I went back to bed and tried to fall back to sleep, but couldn’t. Then all of the sudden I heard something rummaging through our trash. “It’s probably just another raccoon,” I thought to myself.
I sneaked outside only to find the weirdest creature in the entire world. It had bright green eyes, sharp, pointy teeth, and a massive head. It stood only 3 ft. tall so it wasn’t too scary. All it said was, “Pleh em.” It must have been some kind of alien language. I was so freaked out that I ran. The creature started following me outside with its arm reaching out and saying over and over again, “Pleh em!” I didn’t know what to do but run. It ran too. Finally, I ran out but I knew it would be back. It was kind of hard to tell where I was. I didn't know where I was going. The town looked so different to me. I thought that I should just go back home. Maybe that would be normal, but this night was anything but normal. As I was walking home, I thought I heard the creature saying pleh em again. When I got home, I saw the creature in the window.
I crept up to the window when I noticed he was writing something on it. I was confused because he was just saying pleh em, but then it hit me. When I read what he wrote, pleh em turned out to be HELP ME! I went inside and tried to talk backwards. I asked, “Tahw era uoy gniod ereh?” which means what are you doing here? After a minute he said, “I tahw ot og emoh.” I ran it backwards in my head and realized he just wanted to go home. He told me that his name was Bob. He also said that he was taking a nice ride in his space ship when he ran out of fuel. I then realized that Bob needs our trash to fuel his ship. I told him to follow me. I would take him to a place where he could fill his ship with enough fuel to fly home and back again. THE DUMP! Bob was so excited. He took so much trash that he emptied the entire dump. I told him that we have a lot more of these so if he ever wants to come back, he’s more than welcome. We waved goodbye and he was gone. I went back home thinking that was the weirdest night in my life. No one will ever believe me. At breakfast, my parents were reading in the paper how the dump was empty. Oh, if they only knew.
The end.
Honorable Mention: “The Ocean Library” by Emery Clanton - 1st Grade, Central Elementary School
One day a little fish loved to read so he built an ocean library. Everybody put a book in the ocean library.
Soon the library was full of books! But nothing stopped the animals from reading. The library got bigger and bigger.
The little fish closed the library because it was so busy that there was a huge line outside.
Everybody loved the library. The little fish loved it too so he opened it back up.
All of the animals came back. They put more books in and only let a few animals in at a time. When one came out another could go in so it is not so busy.
The goldfish brought blankets because the sea was getting cold. The sharks brought food like shrimp but the shrimp didn’t get eaten because they read the books instead.
It was a very comfy and relaxing place!
Honorable Mention: “Magic” by Sean Sullivan - 5th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
The day started like any other. I was skiing, then POOF! Who knows what happened, but I was in this big open place. There was nothing except a giant gray wall. I kept walking along this wall for what seemed like forever. I finally found a door, but it wasn’t really a door. It was a portal. I considered whether I should go in or not for a quick second, then stepped through. Milliseconds later it seemed like I was just floating around but I was going very fast forward.
When I stopped I was surrounded by pink. Everything was pink except for this little green blob that was hopping along until it saw me. I was very confused and so was I. We stood there for a while just staring at each other. Then I asked him, “Where are we?”
The blob said, “We are in the country of the Pinkish People. Hurry! Follow me.”
“Where are we going?” I asked
The blob replied, “We need to get to the Country of Orange. It is the only safe place from the scaldera.”
I was confused and asked, “Who or what is a scaldera?”
He told me the legend of the Scaldera. He explained that it is a big cloud that comes every night in the fall and turns blobs into stone, never to live again. He said, “Us blobs have yet to find someone that is brave enough to fight this horrible beast. We better get going. It comes out at dusk.”
So into the Country of Orange we fled. I kept asking what the scaldera did and wanted to know in full detail what it looked like. The blob told me the scaldera would sneak close to you, turn into the shape of your best friend, and petrify you with a single touch.
Once we were in the Country of Orange, we rested in his fall house. I lay awake all night wondering, am I here to defeat the scaldera? The next morning, I asked the blob what it takes to defeat the scaldera.
The blob said, “The only thing that is fabled to defeat the scaldera is a flyswatter. It can't stand those things!” I asked him for his flyswatter and said, “Doesn't everyone have one?” The blob looked at me weirdly and said, “No! There is only one fly swatter in this world, and so far, we blobs have not found it.”
Then I said something I would never say. “I’m going to find it and then defeat that scaldera!” The blob looked at me weirdly again and said, “The last time I checked you did not have any idea about the scaldera. All you know is what I've told you about him. If you want to study, I can help you.”
“Yes, I do!” I said confidently.
On the way to the library the blob said that if I was going to get scaldera smart, I would need my nose in the books and my butt in a seat or else I would be no match for the scaldera. We checked out the books. The blob decided we should train at his happy place. It was a small mossy area by a calm spring. He owned the land so nobody else but him and those he invited could come to his happy place. I read as fast as I could. After a couple of hours, I told the blob I was ready to go find that flyswatter. I wanted to go so badly, but the blob said we must get some sleep. Our journey ahead would be hard.
We decided to sleep right there. The sun woke us both up and boy, was I hungry! We ate, packed up our stuff, and left to find the flyswatter. We were about a half an hour into our adventure, when the blob noticed our walking wasn’t getting us anywhere fast.
He said, “We have wasted a ton of time walking.”
I asked, “You got another way?”
He said, “Uh-huh.” He pulled a toy car out of his pocket.
I asked, “How are we going to get around on that! It's too small!”
He said, “You just wait!” Then his toy car turned into a life size Bloodhound SSC, and said, “This will give us much more speed!”
I hopped in, and said to myself it can’t be too fast. I quickly realized, I knew nothing about this car. When the blob gave me a helmet, I thought he was joking. He wasn’t! We buckled up. He started the engine. It began to rumble and purr. He hit the gas! Instantly, we were going 1000 MPH. This thing was fast! I asked him how we would know if we saw the flyswatter. He reminded me there would be a big shake when anyone went within 50 feet of it.
We kept driving for hours. It felt like my face would be blown off if we went one minute longer. Then, the ground started to rumble. We found the flyswatter! Well, sort of. Now our problem is where exactly in the 50 feet around us is it?
Then I remembered that I read a book that said that all flyswatters are magnetic. I asked the blob if he had a magnet in his magical bag. He said, “As a matter of fact I do!” and pulled one out of his bag. As soon as the magnet was out of the bag the flyswatter zoomed toward them, and so did the scaldera! I saw him coming out of the corner of my eye. As soon as the flyswatter was in reach I grabbed it and whacked Mr. Scaldera as hard as I could. I had done it! I defeated the scaldera!
After that we went to every country and proclaimed the news. The blob then took me to the portal. The blob said, “Thank you! You have changed our lives!” and I stepped back through the ski hill.
Honorable Mention: “The Not So Scary Monster” by Ella Lattaie - 5th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
At 12:35 AM I started to hear noises underneath my bed. I peeked under to see what was there, but there was nothing, just pitch black. So I crawled back in bed and went to sleep. A few minutes later, I kept hearing whimpering underneath my bed, but every time I looked, there was nothing there.
It's the next night and I wanted to see what was making the noise. I went underneath my bed to see if I could catch the monster. While I was under the bed I heard footsteps. The monster came under the bed. I accidentally scared him, he was not expecting me to be under the bed.
I asked him why he was here, trying to scare me. He explained to me he was an outcast from his friends and family because they thought he was bad at scaring people so they believed he didn’t belong with them. He asked me if I can help him become better at that.
First I asked to see his roar. He very timidly said, “Roar.” I told him that it was too soft, so I took him to the Zoo. He asked me what we were doing here and I said, “I’m going to show you the lions and the gorillas to see if they could show how to roar louder.” We went up to the lions and they roared really loud and I said, “That is exactly how you need to roar.” Then we went to go see the gorillas. I told him that gorillas are tough and you need to be tough like them to be a scary monster. I asked him to show me his roar once again. This time when he roared it was loud like the lions and strong like the gorillas. Sense our job was done at the Zoo we went back home.
Next I asked him to show how he would scare people. He showed me his BOO and it was very loud. Since that part was really good, I asked him to scare me. So I laid in my bed and waited. A few minutes later I heard him stomping into my room. I explained to him “You have to tiptoe and be very quiet when scaring people. That way they won’t know it is coming and they will get super scared when you say boo.” We then tried it again and after a few minutes of waiting for him, I started to wonder if he got lost or just decided to take a nap. Then I suddenly jumped and my heart started beating very fast when I heard a loud boo that was very close to me. “Wow that was really good and scary, I didn’t hear you at all” I exclaimed.
I then told the monster “Well, it looks like my job is done here, you should quit living under my bed and head back to your family. Don’t worry, you most definitely will fit in with them.” He said his thank you to me and then we said our final goodbyes. With the final goodbye I said, “Now this means, you can visit me sometimes but you better not scare me in the middle of the night or I might have a heart attack!”
Middle School
1st Place: “A Fearful Encounter” by Zane Parish - 8th grade, Charlevoix Middle/High School
Pvt. Hugh McNeal, Montana July 15, 1806
I am writing this in haste, for a fearful encounter runs laps through my mind. And though I struggle to finger through the terror laden rubble that fills my head, nothing but the memory of my visitors' shining amber eyes comes to show.
Before I met the beast, I was traveling alone on horseback, when I had foolishly been stalled by a glorious view. The mountains, vast in size, shone brightly in the sunlight. However, unbeknownst to me, a large, black beast drew nearer from the bushes.
Towering in size, the beast revealed itself as a bear by rising up on its hind legs and letting out a blood curdling growl. Overwhelmed and powerless, my cowardly horse threw me from its saddle, landing me beneath the bear's scruffy chin; its putrid breath warm upon my face.
The bear raised itself again, posturing to take a blow at my feeble body. Without thinking, I quickly grabbed my gun, and set it upright below the wild beast's chest.
Having fallen on the tip of my rifle, the bear was stunned, but not for long. I took this opportunity to search for my gun. Upon finding it, I was disappointed to see that my rifle had been bent causing trepidation to ripple down my spine.
Hurriedly, I found my way up some sturdy branches and hid within the security of a nearby tree. I must have crawled like a madman, as I can still feel the rough bark tearing against my pants.
Feeling safe up in the tree, I cursed at the bear, mocking its incompetent display under my breath. Maybe its claws were just too blunt. For when it tried to climb the smooth trunk, it slipped. Snarling at its own pitiful failure, the beast glared up at me with those shining amber eyes.
As I wearily waited in the tree, I contemplated my situation. If I had only known, following my departure from St. Louis, that this journey would have me undergo such an enthralling encounter with death, perhaps I would have had more misgivings about the long journey. The sole purpose of this expedition relied on Jefferson's interest in exploring the Louisiana Territory and to locate a trade route to the Pacific Ocean. We set out from St. Louis, a small town located near the eastern outskirts of Missouri, and continued traveling west across the Louisiana Territory which was our final destination. At last, resting at the Pacific Northwest, I took in its expansive shorelines, grateful to have made it that far.
But how things had changed since then, for by this part of the journey, I had found myself sitting in a tree, licking dry lips, half asleep and malnourished. Slowly opening my eyes, I shivered as I looked out at the dark chilling night. Suddenly reminded of the bear, I sat up, and peaked into the blanketing twilight below. I found nothing but my broken gun, shining within the light of the moon. Glad the bear had departed, I cautiously descended the tree, and arrived at camp in good health.
In the end, I am relieved to have escaped that beast, with its shining amber eyes, for if God is gracious, I will witness the expansion of the United States. I believe this expedition will truly set America towards the future, as we have made several bonds with Native American tribes who seek out trade. And now that I am safe at camp, I can get back to serving my country and exploring this beautiful land.
2nd Place: “I Hate When People Look at Me Like That” by Madeline McDiarmid - 8th grade, St. Francis Xavier School
I hate when people look at me like that.
The Wallflower
I hate when people look at me like that. I feel like I could shrink and die. I can always tell when they’re judging me, and it makes me want to run and hide. I walked in the classroom and I felt too many eyes looking at me. From my beat up sneakers to my jeans that are a bit too long. My shirts never fit just right and my hair is always tangled. It’s so embarrassing to look the way I do. My stupid brown eyes, and my face is so freckled that it looks like I’m permanently in the sun. I know I should love myself and my insecurities because that’s what makes me, me, but I can’t. I’m constantly comparing myself to other girls, even though it probably makes everything worse. I’m my own worst enemy, and I know it. I try to love myself more, but there’s always that voice in my head that says I’ll never be enough. What if I alter my personality? Maybe that will make people like me more. This feels like a problem I can’t overcome. Why can’t I look like the pretty girls that I’m too scared to talk to?
The Prom-Queen
I hate when people look at me like that. I’m not just an object that people can admire. Just because I look the way I do, doesn’t mean that people should ignore it when I do bad things. I wish everyone would just treat me normal and judge me like they do everybody else. All eyes are on me when I walk in the classroom, but I feel no judgment, just admiration. Still, they don’t even know who I really am. I could be harsh or impolite, like those people that are rude to servers. Just because I’m the size on the mannequin doesn’t mean people should automatically like me more. I love my green eyes and long blonde hair, but does that stuff even matter? I don’t think it does. The worst part is, I never know if people are fake and just want to be friends with me for the popularity. Everytime I get close to someone they start acting differently, like they don’t really care about me. I love myself, but why don’t I ever feel loved back? I feel so trapped. Why did I ever want to be popular? I just want to feel normal again.
This story proves that you are perfect just the way you are. Don’t change yourself for anyone, it’s not worth it.
3rd Place: “If I Could Give You The Moon and Stars” by Sadie Tebeau - 6th grade, Petoskey Middle School
The blades of grass tug at my ankles, pulling me closer to the sweet comfort of earth. The waves erupt into splashes, a cloudy white everytime time they touch the soaked sand of the night time beach. I peer over the sandune, time seems to be frozen. The moon rests in the sky, its luminance lighting up the sea. The stars are like fireflies surrounding the lotus of a moon. I turn my head to the side and stare at the sky. There she is. I think. A smile spreads across my face. Six years she’s been gone and yet it was almost as if she was still there next to me.
Her sweet song filled the air. The birds seemed to chirp in sync with her angelic voice. My pupils were wide. I stared at her in astonishment. Her voice made me feel like I was running through a field, my arms spread wide. My grandmother was the most perfect person I’ve ever met. She was sweet yet she stood her ground. She still hadn’t noticed me admiring her from behind the oak tree. She saw me and smiled.
“Come mi amor, sit,” grandmother said, patting the spot on the bench next to her. I walked over and sat next to her, my head rested on her shoulder.
“You know, I won’t be here forever. One day I’ll be gone and you must continue your life on your own. I know it sounds sad but if I could give you anything, it would be the moon and the stars,” grandmother said. The sun was lighting up her face and making her look like she was straight from a dream. She would give me the moon and the stars. The thought made me smile. It felt as if she had taken “I love you” and made it ten times more meaningful. I look out at the glimmering lake. I felt like I was truly home.
One year later I hiked up that dune, and there my grandmother was, singing that song. I sit next to her and close my eyes. The sun warms my eyelids, my toes sink into the sand. Her song ends and I open my eyes.
“I won’t be here forever and I can’t gift you with everything but know if I could, I’d give you the moon and the stars” she smiled at me and then started to walk back down the dune. Every year for nine years, my grandmother would tell me that. Every spring on my birthday.
On my fourteenth birthday, I hiked up the dune once again, listening out for my grandmother’s song. Only I didn’t hear it. I reached the top and no one sat on the bench. No birds chirped, no breeze blew. I let out a shaky sigh and sat on the bench. Running my fingers across the wood, I felt a dent that wasn’t there before. I look down and see a small moon and two stars carved into the bench. I would give you the moon and the stars. I thought. She was gone and yet still there with me.
The sun was setting on my twentieth birthday. I hike up the hill and sit down on the old bench. By the time I’ve reached the bench, the night sky is covering what was once the bright sun. I tilt my head to the side until I find the two stars that lay closest to each other to the left of the moon. If I could give you the moon and the stars. I whisper. I start to hum the melody that has been engraved in my head since I was a little girl. The animals close their eyes as the eyes of the night sky open hers.
High School
Best in Show: “Soldier, Poet, King” by Savannah Coppersmith - 12th grade, Charlevoix High School
We sat around my little wooden table, speaker blasting the songs from the “Oh Hellos” as we gathered ‘round playing cards.
“So, what are you?” My friend asks.
“Well, I always thought I would be a poet or maybe the king.”
“Nooo,” she exclaims. “The quiz. Which one are you?”
I look at her quizzically, confused as to what she is alluding to. The song, “Soldier, Poet, King,'' just came up. I’d never thought too much about it- I know it has become popular but to me it’s just a great song from one of my favorite bands. It dawns on me what she’s talking about as she slips her phone into my hands. “Start Quiz” staring at me as I gaze at the screen.
At first I think it’s a lighthearted quiz, then she informs me that your result is how your trauma manifests itself. That makes me a little nervous as I begin.
I recall this kid I knew from middle school. He was always falling asleep in class, and everyone assumed he just didn’t care about school. I sat by him so I tried to befriend him whenever he seemed attentive. One day while we rode the bus home I casually asked why he was always so tired, thinking he would answer with something trivial like he was up playing video games.
But his eyes softened as he looked at me and he admitted that some nights he would come home and his father, “drunk as a skunk,” he told me, would come after him with a belt for some made-up slight that he blamed his son for. So my friend would sleep on the lawn, waiting till he heard the bus coming the next morning and groggily hustle aboard. That’s why most nights he would get home as late as possible, when he could sneak in unseen.
I’m not typically one for physical affection but when he began to cry I hugged him. That day instilled more empathy into me, and I understood why he would jolt awake when someone would drop something in class, or why he would flinch when someone moved too quickly.
I moved away from that town but we still talk. He lives with his mother now and he has some anger issues, and he thinks everyone is out to get him, but he’s learned to form outlets for his emotions. He designs fantastic 3D art, and when he’s really worked up he’ll go to the gym till he’s too sore to willingly get out of bed the next day.
I sent him the quiz later that night. He got soldier.
My friend, the one watching me scroll through these questions, tells me proudly that she’s a poet. Her eyes light up as she says it, and of course it’s true. She’s an artist, with stacks on stacks of lined paper, colorful sticky notes and Tul pens. She has beautiful writing that she’s always giving me to proofread. Sometimes it’s heartwarming, but it’s also the expression of a hopeless romantic, rain splattering against the window and waiting for that special one.
Yet she’s the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. She loves to adopt little plants she’ll add to her nook and she jams out to Taylor Swift on her record player, in her earbuds, anywhere she goes. I’ll never have the stomach to tell her how insane her music drives me.
Sometimes people will yell around us and she gets real quiet. She stops fidgeting and goes still, sinking into some recess of her mind where I can’t comfort her cause she stops hearing me. She’ll crack jokes about how often she cries and how her therapist will be happy for her.
I think she first picked up a pen because she was too scared to grab the knife. I wonder if she’s never put down that pen for fear of what might happen when she does. How many people are there who resorted to art because they knew they couldn’t pull the trigger.
I answer the last question, hesitating a second before I click next. All the results seem appealing, but what I really want is the king, even though it probably fits what my friends joke is my god complex. My finger taps the screen, the next page loads for a second before words flash before my eyes, “The King.”
I turn the screen towards my friend. She gives a wise smile like she could’ve guessed so.
“Psychological,” she tells me.
“What?”
“Psychological, that’s the kind of trauma you have,”
I don’t usually trust these quizzes as being at all accurate, but it looks like there has to be some truth to them. The king, head raised high, temper resolute, qualms hidden. I can see it.
One late night I sat in the backseat, watching the street pass me by. I no longer can recall why, but my father started arguing with my step mom. They don’t argue in front of me, so I was a little caught off guard. But I kept quiet as the tears fell down my face, my father’s harsh voice struck something in me.
The scene brought me back to being with my then-step-father. He was a harsh alcoholic, and I used to stay awake at night listening to him yelling at my mother.
I’m learning to take things back for myself. I like to call myself a cynical romantic, for I often feel I possess a total lack of feeling thereof, yet there is a calmness and music that settles my soul.
In spite of my past, now I have a plan; I’m gonna carve out a piece of this world for myself to belong to, because if not me then who? My shoulders are burdened with many duties, but they keep me going and give me purpose. I’m no “king” but my ancestors were soldiers, poets, and kings. My story may not yet be told, but it has already begun to unfold.
1st Place: “Late Spring” by Rachael Rosenthal - 11th grade, Harbor Light Christian School
The morning sun flickered through each crack of the blinds, until all stripes of light adorned the poster-scattered walls of Oswald’s apartment. He awoke with a weak groan and turned over in his bed, squinting to see the blur of numbers on his alarm clock.
The sun has started to rise early again, to accompany the recent welcoming of spring. It’s been making him wake up before his alarm. There are worse things to be irritated by, but it was the little things that got to him lately. Like how even little matches can add together to start large fires.
Oswald sat up and stared at the floor. He ran his fingers through his straight auburn hair, bangs falling back to cover his eyes. No thoughts ran through his head at this hour. Well, maybe one— one thought that had a secret passageway that led to a spiral staircase of other thoughts, woes, ideas— he hated change.
He hated when the seasons and weather changed. Even with a slow transition, he felt he couldn’t keep up. He detested when people came and went, when feelings come and go. He didn’t particularly like how most things in life were temporary. He couldn’t handle it at times.
Even now, it’s spring, and the world around him has been altered. Again.
Oswald stumbled out of bed, caring enough to throw on a decent outfit and clean himself up a bit. He grabbed his messenger bag and opened the front door of his apartment, turning back to eye the narrow hallway. A small window looked back at him. The morning sun had crawled in with perfect timing to reach his skin. He remembered his waking resentment and scoffed, slamming the door behind him and rushing to the stairwell.
Oswald bounced down the front steps of his apartment complex, halting to take a deep breath of the fresh spring air. There was a light breeze, gently rustling the budding branches of trees, guiding cheerful birds through the air, brushing stray hairs to tickle his cheeks. It was a fight to stay moody now.
Bicycles ringed by, individuals and their dogs passed as Oswald headed to a nearby café, where colleagues had invited him to join them for a light breakfast. In honesty, only one had invited him, assuring him through his nervous refusal and reminders of social anxiety that it would be, to say the most, tolerable. The colleague had said straightforwardly that Oswald needed to get out more; he tended to shut himself in when he felt down and under the weather.
And now, facing the weather, he stood in front of the café, hesitating to go in. As a breeze carrying the scent of blooming flowers made him sneeze, he heard a familiar voice call his name. He had been spotted; the acquainted group had chosen to sit outside. Oswald stared down at his shoes as he walked over and braced introductions.
He patiently sipped at a hot coffee, raising a brow in surprise of how friendly everyone was to him, how welcomed he felt. This same morning he wanted to dig a hole and hide at the thought of everyone and everything outside of his comfort zone.
He glanced at his familiar colleague, who was amid a humorous conversation with another, but locked eyes with him. The man paused and shot an idiotic grin.
Oswald couldn’t help but smile back, the sun casting a spotlight on his face.
Maybe change wasn’t so bad after all.
2nd Place: “Identity” by Isabel Dunn - 12th grade, Harbor Springs High School
Are you Hispanic or Latino?
My mouse hovers over the ‘yes’ option, then flicks down to ‘no.’ I frown, then switch it back to ‘yes.’ Somehow, both answers feel simultaneously right and wrong.
Technically, I do have Latina blood. My papa was born in Cuba and came to the United States when he was a teenager. A quarter of my heritage comes from him. But is that enough? Is my blood all that it takes to identify with such a vast culture?
I don’t look Cuban. I have pale skin and hazel eyes. I don’t sound Cuban, either. I have a typical Michigander accent. My name isn’t even Cuban. Isabel is technically a Spanish name, but most people wouldn’t know that unless I told them. And my last name, Dunn, comes from the Irish part of my dad’s side. If my mom had kept her maiden name, and I had been called Isabel Gonzalez-Perez, would I find it easier to select ‘yes’ on this simple question?
When I was younger, I did my best to learn Spanish. My mom would play songs to help me translate, teaching me that queso means “cheese” and por favor means “please.” My papa would start every conversation on the phone with “Hola, cómo estás?” and I would respond with “Bien, y tú?” Despite all the effort, the Spanish never stuck. Maybe I started learning too late. Maybe I wasn’t immersed enough. Whatever the reason, there was a definite disconnect, and it was one that I felt constantly.
It didn’t stop at language. I was overlooked to play Latina character in a local production of the musical West Side Story until someone told the director that my papa was Cuban. When I made a comment about how I look white, one of my friends responded, “Well, that’s because you are.”
However, identity isn’t all about blood and appearances. After all, my experiences are what connect me to my identity. While most kids were raised on stories of “Little Red Riding Hood” and “Jack and the Beanstalk,” I was told the tale of “Un Cerdito fue al Mercado” (known in English as “This Little Piggy Went to Market”) and Don Quixote de la Mancha. I still remember my papa laughing as he told me how Don Quixote once mistook a windmill for a giant and charged into battle, only to be lifted up and carried around by the blades.
Together, my papa and I made Spanish recipes. My mom’s favorite dish was Arroz con Leche, with the sweet milk, warm rice, cinnamon, and raisins. My favorite was always Moros y Cristianos, or black beans and rice. I could eat it for days without getting tired of the taste.
So am I Cuban in spite of my upbringing or because of it? I think back to my childhood, to the stories of my papa’s life back in Cuba, and the traditions that he has carried on to the future generations. I think of today, with voicemails on my phone from him: “Hola Isabel, llamame porque necesito ayuda con la computadora!”
Are you Hispanic/Latino?
Yes, I decide. Yes, I am.
3rd Place: “The Entries” by Katie Hunt - 10th grade, Boyne City High School
The Daily News
____________________________________
____________________________________
BREAKING NEWS!
EXPLORER'S JOURNAL DISCOVERED
John Holloman’s journal documenting his adventures has just been found by Mary and Todd Cubart, a couple that went hiking through a forest when they stumbled on treasure. John Holloman is a household name with a tale similar to Amelia Earheardt. Holloman was an avid adventurer and explorer in his prime, documenting all sorts of life and nature. He's most well-known for his mysterious disappearance in 1958. He left his daughter, Elizabeth Holloman, and his home on August 1st, to explore a mysterious forest nobody had dared to fully document. Researchers estimate that he reached the forest sometime between the 3rd and 5th of August. He never returned home to his daughter. Friends and family have been very quiet about his disappearance, but have told the public that he was a kind, intelligent man that would never abandon his daughter. What tragic events led to the unfortunate disappearance of John Holloman? Well, we've just found evidence that could either solve this mystery, or create more confusion. Here are the entries.
Journal Entry #1 8/4
My name is John Holloman, and this is the first entry marking my new 3-month exploration! These entries will keep track of my journey exploring a large forest no man has traversed through. I've only been in it once, but so far the forest is dense with foliage and some of the tallest trees I've seen. I can't wrap my arms around their trunk, and the leaves block out most sunlight. I will be recording my discoveries during my travels, in hope they may be of use to future explorers. I'm heading off to bed now wishing for a good night's rest, and I will check back in soon with - hopefully - lots of discoveries!
Journal Entry #2 8/9
The forest is very unique. I encountered new plants, one of which is a beautiful flower I've decided to name the Lizzie, after my 9-year daughter, Elizabeth. I've left her with our relatives, and I already miss her dearly. I cannot wait to come home to her and show her my discoveries. That is, if I make it out! I'm just joshing of course, but this forest is so dense sometimes I fear I'll get lost. The ground looks the same everywhere you go, and when I mark nearby trees with my knife, I come back to see that the markings are gone and the bark has grown back. This forest seems more alive than other places I've explored. Another interesting thing about this place is the ambience. Randomly, I'll be walking and everything is normal. Birds chirping, gusts of wind, leaves rustling, all normal sounds you'd hear in a forest. But then, something strange happens. All sounds of life suddenly disappear. It's a deafening silence I've never encountered before. Sound itself is sucked from existence, and it sends chills down my spine. The sound comes back after a while, but the forest is starting to seem more ominous than I had expected. Nevertheless, don't fret! This explorer won't leave until he's discovered and documented everything there is to know!
Journal Entry #3 8/19
These past weeks have been very valuable for my goal of documenting this jungle of life! Many of my books are being used for flower-pressing, and I've been having a fun time bird-watching. Many would assume that I'd start to feel lonely, and while I miss my daughter, I don't feel alone at all. The forest is filled with all sorts of life, but that isn't the main reason. I frequently feel like I'm being watched. I'm not traditionally superstitious, but I've never fully shaken the feeling of hidden eyes tracking my every move since I arrived. Oh joy, I must be getting paranoid! Nonetheless, I'm heading to bed in hopes of a productive - and not frightening - adventure tomorrow!
Journal Entry #4 8/31
I'm starting to feel more and more alarmed. The sound-sucking I mentioned earlier Is happening closer and closer to my camp, and I feel as if the forest is starting to somehow… dislike me. I'd normally call that outright poppycock, but now I'm not so certain. Having no human connection for a month hasn't helped my mental state, either. I'm starting to wonder whether this trip was worth it… I just miss Elizabeth.
Journal Entry #5 9/2
It's 8:00 in the morning, and I woke up at 2:00am to someone- no, something outside my camp. I woke up covered in cold sweat to deafening silence (as usual), but I simultaneously felt the eyes somewhere. I looked outside, and saw what I can only describe as a monster. I only noticed it because it was actively moving. This doesn't sound as spine-chilling as it is in person, but I assure you, this was the most petrifying, sinister experience I have - and will ever - encounter. I cannot describe the feeling of utmost horror that passed through me, but I will try to tell you what it looked like. It's as if a tall tree had come to life and cut off the top of it. It was just over 4 metres tall, or 14 feet. It had long, brittle arms and a rectangular, faceless 'head'. Its movements were lurching and sudden, and it was the only thing making noise, besides me. It sounded like large twigs snapping when it shifted and it (somehow) breathed raggedly. Once I regained motion, I ducked down silently and hid until I heard it leave and sound came back. I was (and still currently am) trembling like a leaf, and I haven't moved since. I need to leave. My hands are shaking and I can't write properly, so I'm going to stop. I'm leaving as soon as possible, as I now fear for my life. I promised Elizabeth I'd return. My next journal entry will be when I am safe with my daughter. John Holloman, signing off.
Honorable Mention: “When the Ink Flows” by Amaya Budd - 10th grade, Homeschool
There’s nothing quite like a quality pen. There’s no shortage of run-of-the-mill pens, but finding a great pen is a challenge.
A high-quality pen is one from which the ink flows fluidly. It is a bold pen that doesn’t bleed through and is quick-to-dry. A high-quality pen is also well-balanced and comfortable to hold.
One pen that has met and exceeded the aforementioned criteria, is the Sharpie S-Gel Pen.
While unique in many aspects, it is no different from any other pen in the fact that it was manufactured, sent to a distributor, and eventually shipped to a store. In which specific store my father found this pen is unknown and unimportant. The only necessary detail is that my father purchased this pen and brought it home. He used it for a time; I’m certain he greatly adored the pen. Perhaps unbeknownst to my father, my mother had taken a similar liking to the pen.
One day, my mother decided she must have this pen. Instead of buying one for herself, she stole my father’s. Having once held such a treasure, I can only assume he searched for his once-loved pen, perhaps he learned only later that she’d swiped it.
Regardless of the method of acquisition, my mother had obtained the pen of her dreams. I am sure she spent at least a small amount of time reveling in the quality of the pen, appreciating the way the ink flowed so smoothly from the tip.
She used her stolen treasure for a time. However, she eventually lost it, or perhaps the joy the pen brought her had faded into obscurity, ultimately leaving her mind altogether. This tragedy led to the moment I stumbled upon the magnificent pen tucked away in the back of a drawer.
I was ignorant of the magnitude of my discovery for only a short time before the full glory of the pen was brought to light. I decided I must have this splendid pen, so I stole from my mother the pen she had taken from my father.
With this pen, I wrote many papers, some for personal pleasure, most for school. This pen became an extension of my hand, one with which I could not bear to part. I have yet to find a pen that equaled its magnificence. Anything that needed to be handwritten was penned with the Sharpie S-Gel.
I had taken a Creative Writing class and used this pen weekly for any in-class assignments. In one such class, a friend of mine needed something to write with, so I lent him my beloved pen. I thought nothing of it at the time.
It was only once I had arrived home that I realized I was unable to locate my recently acquired treasure. I desperately rifled through my school bag over and over, but to no avail. I had to deal with the realization that my pen, the one with which I had written so many stories, was gone. I underwent a brief mourning period upon this realization.
One may wonder why I grieve for a pen if it is a mere writing utensil. It is for the simple reason that with my pen, I had slaved countless hours over papers, and jotted down many of my thoughts. I brought worlds into being with that pen and carefully constructed storylines and plots.
Certainly, there were other pens, but they weren't the same.
I spent that week sadly using pen after pen, trying to find one that could have some resemblance to my old one. In the depths of my mind, I held out a minute hope that maybe, just maybe, this friend had my pen.
I anxiously awaited the coming Monday, hoping to be reunited with my pen. Imagine my joy when I found that he indeed had my beloved pen! I’m sure he didn’t mean to take it; it was merely a moment of distracted thought. I was thrilled to be able to use my favorite writing utensil again. Nevertheless, I had learned my lesson and never loaned it out again.
The week that followed was spent handwriting everything I conceivably could. I reveled in the feeling of my pen in hand once again. It made school notes less of a chore, my pen sailing effortlessly over the paper.
While I was elated that my pen had been returned, I was pained when I realized it was nearing the end of its eventful life. I was jotting down notes for school when it wrote its last word. My pen had lived a pleasant life; my only regret was not finding it sooner.
I've managed to locate more pens of the same make as my old one. I look forward to the journeys these pens will take me on.
My first Sharpie S-Gel pen will always hold a special place in my heart, and I look back fondly upon the pages written with it.
I hope that everyone will find a pen that inspires them to write something special, whether it’s a story, a memoir, or just a fun little note. May each person find a pen that impacts them in the same way that mine affected me.
This article originally appeared on The Petoskey News-Review: Crooked Tree announces 21st Annual Young Writers Exposition winners
