Wall of Fame
Riddles
Worshiped by some, yet hunted by others,
My large body and think legs are enough to crush right through a forest of brush,
I have a trunk but no wheels,
I have tusks but I'm not a walrus,
I have leathery skin, but I'm not a jacket,
I don't know much but I never forget
What am I?
by: J.F and N.C
I am slower than a snail, faster than a car.
You can run outof me, but I am in unlimited supply.
People look at me every day, but they can't see me.
I am man made,but I have existed forever.
When you move, you pass through me.
My hand is in perpetual motion.
By J.V. and J.O.
I notice your facial expressions but I don't have eyes.
I have numbers but I'm not multiplaction.
I have words that capture your attention.
I have pictures but I did not draw them.
I can be heavy but I can not move myself.
What am I?
By L.P. and V.K.
I see but I don't have eyes.
I take, but I don't have hands.
You may forget but I always remember.
I am not Swiss but I am a cheese maker.
What am I?
By D.B., O.M., and K.Q.
I have stages of my life
Red, White, and Blue.
I am shiny like a penny
And literally a giant upclose.
Like a cannon I am hot after you shoot
And towards the end of my life I blow up.
But objects like me are farther than they appear.
What am I?
By C.J. and J.M.
I come out on sunny days but stay home in the rain.
There are trillions of me but I take no space.
I can't touch you but you can touch me.
Each of us have one friend.
We copy people but they don't get mad
We are without age but we still die.
We dance with fire.
We are cool when our friends are hot.
We run free during a solstice.
What am I
By N.B. and M.P.
Liked by some,
Hated by others,
Needed by all.
Everywhere in your youth,
Scarce in your age.
With me comes wisdom,
Without, comes ignorance
Universal now,
Exclusive then.
I house no one,
But I am home to everything.
What Am I?
-E.B. and M.K.
To some, I am a world of knowledge and discovery.
To others, I am a cage of research.
I give people things that are not for sale.
I am quiet, but I say a lot.
I cannot be held, but I can hold.
What am I?
By I.O. and S.H.
I run without legs
I'm always on the right track
I'm loud with no mouth
I'm at the station everyday, but never in trouble
Cars follow me everywhere
I'm on a set path and will always return
When I'm behind you, you're dead
When I'm in front, you're lost
-JM and TS
Response to Quote by RC
A man by the name of Edward Hopper wrote a quote concerning the art of
painting. “If you could say it in words, there would be no reason to paint.”’
Art expresses things in a way that words cannot, and if something is so
basic that words are enough to describe it then there would be no reason to
paint. Art reflects the artist’s ideas and concepts through his choices in
color, texture, atmosphere, and what kind of scene or story it is created to
unfold. While words can only give the audience a basic idea of the writer’s
opinion, art completely revolves around this idea and every detail that
supports it. Art is really just a way to explain morals and concepts with a
silent tongue. If something could be completely explained through a string of
letters then it would have to be something without any form of depth.
I did a test last summer pertaining to how my emotions affected my
drawings. I drew the same picture, a girl with pigtails and a sun hat
standing in a field of sunflowers, when I experienced various emotions like
anger, sadness, and happiness. Each completed piece showed a different
reflection of my emotion. When I was happy, the girl stood in a field of
crisp yellow sunflowers with a bright blue sky and cottony clouds. When I was
sad, she seemed to have a lost look on her face with tears in her eyes and
and the coloration was much more muted. When I was frustrated, she viciously
stepped and crushed the rotting flowers beneath her alabaster heels. They
explained what I couldn’t describe myself using words using the flowery girl.
This proves that art really can describe the indescribable. Words merely
brush against the surface of depth, but painting and art of any form can give
depth a whole new definition. It extracts the thoughts that you can not think
to yourself with mental speech. If you could say it in words, there really
would be no reason to paint.
My Little Praying Mantis
By: LB
The ice spun around the glass in a clockwise, motion.
Tinkling. Tinkling. My Grandfather’s green eyes gazed down towards the glass
looking through the golden alcohol. His drinking cup was rounded at the top
and on the bottom it looked as if someone had cut little wedges out. Despite
his gentle gesture to set down the glass, the table wobbled and creaked as if
he had slammed it down. My eyes couldn’t help but to stare wide-eyed at the
overlord before me. My grandfather, tall, lean, and hunched, tapped three
times on the Marlboro Regular cigarette. The burnt paper fell and landed
noisily into the china ashtray which he called “holly.”
Though as fuzzy as my memory is of him at four years of age,
the god whom I called grandpa sat at the head of the table in front of the
5x4 plated window. The night was dark, so the light above from the antique
chandelier was a mirror image in the lenses of his 1940’s glasses. The button
down polo shirt was a brownish green which almost made his corduroy slacks
seem stylish. He pulled the cigarette to his mouth and breathed in lighting
up the end, then released the hold from his lips and breathed out. Suddenly,
I was surrounded by a pool of smoke that made my throat tickle and come up
with a dry cough. I was pulled up by the jolt three times before the tickle
couldn’t be scratched anymore.
The chair he sat in was different from all the others,
for “The head of the table is the special one,” he’d say to me. It had a dark
brown finish, made with his wrinkled hands. When looking at it, you would
think it was very uncomfortable, for it looked like a harsh assortment of
shaved wood. He let me sit in the chair once, and I’ve never sat in anything
more comfortable. It actually had a cushion on the inside so it relaxed your
back and made you never want to stand up again. The chair was the newest
addition to the house but, everything else in it was twice as old as him.
Everything, along with him, creaked.
His hands, cracked and tired, wrapped around the glass and he
pulled it to his peach lips. The top lip detached and made the slightest of
openings, letting in a teaspoon of gin. His arm moved downward and stopped
halfway. Tinkling. Tinkling. Counterclockwise this time the ice and golden
brown mixture moved around the glass. Instantly, it stopped, and he let down
the glass gently. The white paper lit up with a breath in and the room fogged
up with a breath out. Fascination filled me, overwhelmed me, as I watched the
cigarette spoil in Holly. Though the cycle never changed, there was always a
different moment being presented through all three steps. Sipping… smoking…
fogging… “Happy Birthday!” Sipping… smoking… fogging… “Joanne, where’s my
dinner?” Sipping… smoking… fogging… “Merry Christmas!” Sipping… smoking…
fogging… praying mantis. My little praying mantis.
Imagery — My Father
by DM
As I peer over my shoulder in a sleep-deprived trance I barely
manage to distinguish the time, 7:05 a.m. I can only begin to fathom how my
father has already been awake for over two hours and out working on our farm.
Desperation and longing for the cushioning and comfort of my bed clutches me
but I know my father is waiting.
By early morning the heat is already stifling, and the plants
engulfing me droop. The dew glistens in the sunlight while shadows darken the
soil. Approaching the looming cornfields my father stands with slight mockery
in his eyes. “What took you so long?” Lifting a bushel with little to no
exertion he seems to be handing me his way of life. Venturing into the
cornfield with towering stalks we all seem to fit together like pieces to the
puzzle. The soil under our feet crackles with many crevices. On each side of
us stand stalks with green coated corn illuminating the gray and blonde of
our hair. As I follow the leader I stand grasping the bushel as the corn
continuously stacks higher and higher. As we continue my father remains quiet
showing no signs of any weakness yet the sweat leaking from his face darkens
his hair. I realize he cannot do this forever. After multiple bushels of back
and forth work, the sky creeping from each corner grows ominous. It looks as
if it is going to open for the heavens’ rain to pour through. My father turns
to me with his stern eyes and says, “We are finished for the day.” Turning my
eyes I notice we have yet to finish a remainder of the rows. “We didn’t get
to those rows.” I become aware that the sweat from his face is retreating.
With a smirk of approval in his dark blue eyes he replies, “Tomorrow is
another day” as thunder sounds in the distance.
My Brother by DH
My pupils are the only thing in this monochrome room with the feeling of
life. The volume of books stacked neatly in shelves, the bored librarian
sitting at her desk waiting for 5:00 to arrive, even the humming of cicadas
from outside that creeps slowly into my surroundings, is all dissolving into
this gray and still atmosphere. My curious eyes rebelling against the nearly
frozen scene rest on a small silhouette sitting at a round table, accompanied
by four others like it, and one large one that is well separated from the
bunch. The small one’s face was white and expressionless, or so it seemed.
Closer inspection caused lines to form narrowed eyes and tight lips. The eyes
were fixed intently on a piece of lined paper with a debacle of charts,
variables, equations, and numbers scrawled onto it. The pencil was gripped
very tightly in the hand, as if it had no intention of release until the
absolute wreck of numbers somehow separated themselves into something
logical. The numbers sat on the paper, seeming to emanate the most depressing
gray color of all in a mocking tone.
Another pencil joined the tight one on the paper, this one having a proud
tone of its own that announced itself with color against the monochrome
wherever it moved. The narrowed eyes briefly forgot the blurred state of
mind, and became more interested in finding out the owner of this vibrancy.
It was uncovered as a towering young man, with a mess of curls that rested on
his head like dark waves. His aura left most with your typical idea of a
college kid – focused on parties, jammed with late nights, trying to get
through one of the craziest and most independent stages of life.
“Let’s work this out, okay?” the young man spoke in a tone that matched the
comfort of his emanating colors, accompanied by confidence that was not
speaking for the young man’s abilities as an elder, but rather directed at
the perplexed boy. Regardless, the boy nodded in desperation, and his twisted
face eased with the knowledge that this man was going to help him.
The young man swiftly moved his pencil across what little room
was left on the paper, and began to speak to the boy. I tilted my head
forward, brushing my dark hair, similar to the young man’s, away from my ear,
and strained it to capture the words. That aura that seemed to make him look
like the stereotype college partygoer was wiped away by his words like a rag.
They marched out at a steady pace from his lips, but would stop for all and
any questions which he refused to leave unanswered at the sake of the boy not
learning. Once the questions were answered, fluent demonstrations were
spoken, and, thanks to the assistance of the paper, appeared right before the
eyes. This all concluded with explanations and concepts to tie things
together. Now it was the moment of truth.
“So we worked out that problem. How do you think we should do
this next one?” the young man asked.
“Like this!” the boy finally spoke. He loosened his grip on the pencil,
dissolving the last of the gray that his mind had originally been tangled up
in. My mind was taken aback at the pencil’s new bold movements across the
paper, writing new numbers and figuring out things using methods that weren’t
at all like before. It all happened so fast, making it seem as if such an
epiphany wasn’t really possible.
I held my breath in anxiety. My eyes shut with anticipation for
the young man’s next words.
“You got it.”
The minute the words escaped from his lips, all stale stiffness
broke. The librarian looked up from her watch at the elated child and
instructor, and her impatience shifted into gratitude just for a moment. The
humming of cicadas was now accompanied by the rewarding notes of songbirds.
The kids all began shoving their homework at the young man.
“Mr. Kirk! Mr. Kirk! Can you show me how to do this one?”
I laughed, but only mentally, so as to not distract the group. Another
entangled mind freed from the villainously confusing logics of homework,
thanks to Mr. Kir- I mean, my big brother.
My Grandfather by SA
The warm salty breeze swells the blue sky. To my grandpa, the sounds of
birds wings’ is a symphony. He stands outside of the rusted and battered
pigeon coop - this is his heaven. With his old green baseball cap and his off
white stained tee-shirt, my grandpa begins to summon his soldiers. The slap
of the sturdy stick against the pavement sounds like thunder to my ears, but
like an alarm for the birds. A formation of white camouflages the blue sky as
the birds begin to fly, as their wings undulate through the clouds. Satisfied
by his cadets, he sits at the white plastic bench. His dirty and nimble
fingers reach out for an ice cold Samuel Adams. As he picks up the bottle a
slanted smile emerges across his face. After a long and well deserved beer,
he stands up and reaches for the tall flag. He waves it in the air in every
direction - a signal to his troop to return. As my grandpa peers up into the
sky he begins to smile for his birds are home. As if by command the birds
wait, dropping one by one onto the roof, and into the house, allowing the
clicking of their talons to act as their roll call. Grandpa shuts the coop
door and causes the name plate "Danza Loft" to shake. He turns in the other
direction and summons me to walk with him. The satisfied words " Have I
mentioned that I trained those fantastic birds?" roll off of his tongue. He’s
truly the captain of his soldiers.
Charis
by AI
The field, a sea of grass, undulated in the zephyr that caressed it. On the
outskirts, lay a hillock, and on that a small grove. The sun above, radiated
the warmth and gaiety found only on summer days. All belonged to Charis who,
I might add, was a tad conceited. She was the empress, and this her empire.
Though small by our terms it was enough for her, enough to frolic in the
field and find sport in the grove. This sport came chiefly in the form of
squirrels.
The squirrels didn’t (and still don’t) seem to realize that their residence
is inside the empire of Charis, and as Benjamin Franklin said, “Certainty? In
this world nothing is certain but death and taxes.” Charis’s taxes come in
the form of entertainment and are required from the squirrels whenever she
might see them.
Light paws grazed the ground leaving no vestige of their passing. The angular
face above surveyed her empire. As movement by the grove caught her eye, she
slinked forward, ears listening intently for the telltale chatter of a
squirrel. It came, and the change was immediate. The slightly lackadaisical
expression on her face disappeared and that of a calm and determined
disposition took its place. Her head now level with her crouched shoulders,
eyes gleaming with anticipation, Charis salivated. The squirrel was unaware
that Charis was edging closer and closer to it from around the tree, ready to
strike with more litheness than a pirouetting ballerina. And strike she did,
snatching up the unfortunate squirrel in one fell swoop of her maw. Gloating
with her prize Charis looked up expectantly (as if asking if she could eat
it) ignoring the frightened squirrel in her mouth. Once given a laconic
command, Charis let it go. Off scampered the young squirrel to live and fight
another day, a little bit wiser than the day before.
Charis has long forgotten that exciting day when she caught the squirrel, but
I will never forget it. It was that day that Charis proved her mettle to me,
that made me feel that she was truly my dog, and my friend. Though the things
of this world fade to dust, the memories of them can last forever
Josh
by HL
Ten permanently callused fingers, like a well-trained army, reach down and
assume position to play chord one on “Mr. Josh’s” light wood colored acoustic
guitar. Location is irrelevant; this routine has repeated itself hundreds of
times at countless events of any variety.
Right leg slightly raised to support his musical companion, my
oldest brother Josh’s face practically radiates joy as a fire radiates
warmth. Silly quotes on T-shirts accompany light denim and a pair of sandals,
but as far as you know, this is the clothing of royalty; nothing could
possibly be more grand and perfect. Strumming effortlessly, as though he was
born clutching a guitar, Josh’s instrument emits not only sound, but feeling.
Depending on the tune being played, the room seems to be full to the brim
with sounds of joy, sorrow, excitement, or even pain. It’s as if after each
strum, the ceiling might topple off because the area is so jam-packed with
emotion. Whether he’s particularly skilled in his trade proves hard to say;
the notes capture you so you listen not to the notes, but the music as a
whole.
Although this may not be his full time occupation, everyone knows
him as guitar man. The kid who dreamed of having his own business “Mr. Josh
Music,” who for a little while got to live his dream. For now, though, his
anxious little army of fingers will have to wait until the work day is over
to assume their true duty
MY BROTHER by N.M.
The night is placid, nothing but the echo of clicking and a low,
monotone voice. My brother is at work-his genius mind hindered until the
night before his essay is due. The only sources of light are the laptop’s
screen and the white lamp positioned next to the small laptop.
Mike, my lofty brother, relies on the fabric wheeled- chair to support
his back as he types. My brother’s arms and legs are so long it seems
difficult for him just to sit there and type. He wears a grey tee shirt,
which seems way too short, and jeans that seem to fit him in length, but not
so much in width. As usual, his hair is long and wild. As he stares at the
screen, it seems time and space stops so this brilliant mind can unleash the
power of his ideas. The only thing he glances at every now and then is his
two-inch binder- sloppy as a seventh grader’s locker. The binder is white and
seems to be at the maximum capacity of papers. It is placed on the small gap
of space between the laptop and the edge of the glass table. His keyboard and
his laptop are all he needs to create a huge academic playground, large
enough to keep everyone in the house from sleeping.
His typing is inspired by his continuous glances at the binder. His
movements express a rushing attitude, but it is really just his brain working
swiftly. As the sky gets darker, he is getting more and more into his
impressive essay. Four hours pass, Mike takes a deep breath, sits up
straight, presses the print button, and turns off the light. My family now
has the opportunity to fall asleep.
My Aunt by KH
The rumbling of the car slows to a hum as it rocks into place. The click of
seatbelts ring and accompanying them is the whir of retracting leather. We
exit the car, legs wobbling after the long confinement. Everyone takes their
share of party provisions as we step onto lush green. A motor is viciously
filling a giant pilgrim turkey with air in the center of the lawn. After
scaling the steep stone steps to my aunt’s front door, the familiar
phrase “What’s the password?” rings from within. My aunt stands at the door,
mischievously grinning, curly hair golden from contact with sunlight. I
giggle softly to myself as we respond with this year’s secret phrase. The
glass door swings open, and family stands waiting ecstatically. The large
screen projects lush green turf and cheering fans as athletes play their
favorite sport for all to witness. Though the small house is in turmoil, it
poses a joyous air. Post initial greetings of hearty handshakes and loving
kisses, my aunt vanishes. Off to the kitchen, the place in which she truly
shines.
Silver glistens on the counter as dozens of dishes encased in
tin foil lay side by side, castle walls protecting the king, the turkey.
Sizzling in the oven, the golden monarch rests. On the counter are the
dinner rolls. Merely servants, it’s their duty to only begin satisfying the
hunger of the gathered family. Then are the normal accomplices of any
Thanksgiving Day feast. Foods like potato, stuffing, corn, and green beans.
Followed up are the noble steeds of such delights, gravy and butter. The
butter stands erect in its turkey-shaped pride, the center piece my aunt
discovers on shelves annually. She truly is the goddess of the kingdom. The
sole person the people depend on. Though this holiday is lived differently in
every house, in the same way different kingdoms are ruled uniquely, her
domain is at the top. Her hands are wrapped in her festive oven mitts, the
pair she dons every year. The snowy rolls enter the warmth of the oven like
a child returns on a winter day to the warmth of his home. The turkey is then
withdrawn and the meat thermometer inserted. He bows to her presence,
showing no resistance. The juices secrete from the turkey where the small
breach between flesh and metal resides. Though the thermometer is used, it’s
not necessary. My aunt has very rarely needed a timer or meter to cook.
She removes the thermometer, satisfaction glowing in her dark eyes as stars
glow in the night sky.
After the turkey is sliced and presented on the annual
throne, the sides are carried cautiously to a small table in the corner of
her dining room by her siblings. Then my aunt comes out, turkey grasped
securely. She sets it down, making sure it is on the cloaked table and out
of harm’s way. Animated as she seems, her fatigue leads her to her sun room
to claim a refreshing drink after the day’s arduous work. The muscles in her
face tense. Swiftly her hands are shrouded by her autumn leaf gloves once
again as she lowers the door to the beige oven. Smoke billows from within,
and she is left groping throughout it, the ash cloud stinging her eyes. She
clenches the singeing pan and withdraws from the emanating heat, black mounds
crumbling dourly atop the sizzling sheet. She smiles sheepishly.
“Burnt the rolls again!”
D is for Daydreaming
by KB
Rriinng! I burst off the desk in a state of panic. I blinked my
eyes and attempted to waken from my slumber-like state. The bell had once
again alerted me to the end of a period, and had once again interrupted my
daydreams. I stood up and rushed over to one of my friends.
“What’s the homework again?” I asked anxiously, blushing slightly,
because it had become such a common question. I always caught up since I
paid attention to the important things, so it never became a problem, except
for how I often relied on my friends for the less important things. My
friend rolled her eyes and read off the homework to me from her planner, and
we both rushed off to our next class. As we walked down the halls, I
promised that I would pay more attention, but both of us knew that wasn’t
going to happen.
The source of my confusion and my friend’s annoyance was my habit of
daydreaming. My mind drifted into a world of imagination of musings. My
ideas and problems swirled around in a zone of past experiences, the lives
of others, and scenes from other lands I have never physically been to. Car
rides and boring classes were never entirely boring, because the ever-
changing scenery and the drone of a teacher’s voice were both fine backdrops
for the stories and plays that my mind would write.
I have always loved the lands and stories of my creation. That was
where my best ideas flourished, and that was where the line between fiction
and reality became fine and sometimes, broken. Going there has taught me
much. I have learned to think differently, and to explore places I may
never go. I can go to a place of magic and darkness, or a place from the
past. It is my world, until I am brutally yanked out by the everyday and
all of its distractions.
I have always visited this beloved place, ever since I was young.
Experiencing these scenes helps me to look at the world differently. It has
helped me look at people differently. I have become a better writer by
going to this place and opening up my imagination. It inspires me to escape
convention and to go to a place untouched by human flaws. It has taught me
to be an individual and to think like one. When I am there, I am part of
that place, and anytime I visit, I belong. At least until the bell rings.
2005-06 Students
B is for Blue
An Alphabiography by A.R.
The sky, ocean, lake, waterfall, and more are all this. They are
blue.
Blue is that tingly feeling you get when you go down a rollercoaster. Blue
is everywhere and anywhere. It makes you happy like a spring day sky, or
sad
like a teardrop falling down your face. It's the cool feeling of the wind
blowing across your body. Blue could be your folder or notepad or even a
descriptive emotion that you feel inside. To me blue is my life. It is
everywhere and it could be anyone.
Life's Lesson: Pick your color and you will feel better.
Riddle by: K.L & V.T
I have lanes, but no cars
Though I have shoes, I have no feet
I celebrate birthdays, but don't bring any gifts
I have pins, but I'm not a decoration
I can shelter you from the rain, but I'm not a home
What am I?
What Am I?
by M.R.
I may look like a balloon, but I don't fly away.
I'm not a pencil, but I have my own ink.
I can stick to you like glue.
I'm not air but can squeeze through cracks.
I can blend into my surroundings.
What am I?
What Am I?
by J.B. & D.J.D
I get fought over but never fight back.
I get kicked in the air but never kick back.
People lay on me, and I never get crushed.
I get swatted to the ground, but I never swat back.
I get held tight, but I never pop.
What am I?
What Am I?
by D.O.
I am always on the right side.
My doors open twice a ride.
I have two buckets and a bench.
I spin on rubber.
I go on gas.
What am I?
What Am I?
by J.B.
I am very hot.
I can smoke, but I'm not a cigarette.
I heat food up, but I'm not a microwave.
I can make objects turn into ash.
I can make myself very big and very small.
I'm blue but I'm not cold.
I can hurt people, but I don't mean to.
What am I?
Answers: bowling alley, octopus, football, car, fire
How Words Feel
by Period 1/2 and 4/5
Some words rumble like thunder and tumble
Some words are tough like buff and rough
Some words dance like fire and prance
Some words are tough like Hulk Hogan and rough
Some words dance like plie and prance
Some words are weary like tired and teary