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  Creative Nonfiction

My dream

By Melissa, 11, NJ, USA

My dream is to have all of my friends come to my house and make a club house in my back yard and every day we will play together. We can make a cake with each of our names on it. We can have a club where we can have fun. We have the nicest personality and be so polite. We can all like the same thing. We can all be the nicest kids and we can make people welcome to come in. And when we make our club house we can each sign our name on the house. Then we can make a time capsule and bury it with each of our things in it and sign our name on the pledge. And be forever. THE END (May 2005)

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Speed limit

By El, 10, Brattleboro, Vermont, USA

Whizzing past barns, houses, speeding past people
hitching a ride. Suddenly halting as fast as the speed
of light. BANG! Cars blowing up, air bags deflating,
sirens sounding, reporters reporting. People dead
falling out of smashed windows. A sudden silence.
Cars stopping to look. Then moving, talking noise,
another silence long and deep………More and more
crying people desperately looking to see if their loved
ones had been hurt, only to find their loved ones dead.
If only if only they followed the speed limit. (February 2005)

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How to be a super hero

By Colleen, 14, Ottawa, Canada

To be a super hero, you have to understand some things. You have to learn, you have to make decisions and sacrifices. Being a super hero isn't all about helping and saving people, but about you, yourself. Sometimes you have to do things that hurt, to not help you but to help another. Sometimes we all have to stand steady and sacrifice the things we love the most. Sometimes we're forced to make hard decisions, decisions that may seem for the better and turn out to be the worst. Sometimes we're fumbling with two decisions right in our very own hands, not knowing which to drop and which to keep holding onto. But sometimes, we just have to learn. Sometimes we think we know what's right when it really isn't, even after eagerly searching your weary heart and your difficult mind. Education of both intelligence and life is very important. Without each other, they'd both fall and so would all of mankind. Maybe this sounds familiar to you, because it is. It's life. Because there's always going to be a super hero in all of us, even at the most difficult edges of life, even when we feel there's no point in living anymore. Even when we're about to fall and never get back up again. Because you just pick yourself up and keep on going, knowing that with every fall, every mistake and every hurt is all about life. To be a super hero, you just have to be yourself. (January 2005)
More from Colleen

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A Decision

By Molly, 9, Oakleigh, Victoria, Australia

Is this the one? Should I take this wave and let the cool, refreshing water splash on my face as I ride down? Or should I stay lying on my boobey board waiting for the perfect towel breaker?
I only imagine how hard it is for the surfers to catch these waves. I forget about the surfers and concentrate on my boogey boarding.
Here it is! The wave I've been waiting for!

It starts off as a simple green hill. I jump out with the wave. I paddle and paddle to keep up with it.
Suddenly there's no longer a green hill. There's a big tube. It curls and crashes on my feet. That's when I find the ride. With a big grin on my face I ride the big cohuna to shore.
(January 2005)

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By Dhwani, 8, UK

Down, down, down, the mighty slope I swiftly glided on my bike with my dad running along the side. My head flooded with fear, I was as white as a sheet. Fear trickled down my spine. I thought cycling was as easy as ABC.

My body was as still as a rock and my eyes were as wide as owls!
I was petrified with fear. The wheels were spinning madly; the more I thought about them the more I hesitated. “Stop the bike!” yelled a voice in my skull. I could not do anything, I fell out of control! I felt sick!
My fingers were not letting go of the cold metal bars. My knuckles were pink! My face was hot! I held my breath! I didn’t know what to do! Should I stop? Or should I ask my father? Should I brake? These questions echoed loudly in my head. I didn’t say a word; my mouth was as dry as a bone. I knew what was going to happen; I knew that it would be one of the worst days of my life.

My worst nightmare had fallen out of my skull. Suddenly, I had a jam with the kerb. My cycle had fallen over and I was sitting on the kerb. “Are you okay?” my dad asked. “Yes,” I replied. I was as silly as a goose. I shot a fearful glance at my knee. Oh, the pain and the blood! It was flowing, and flowing and flowing until it reached my sneaker. I felt like someone had poured cold, icy orange juice down my leg.

I arrived indoors to put on a bandage. Blood slowly vomited out of my knee. I didn’t think I needed one. My mother decided to take me to NHS. The nurse cleaned my wound with water and put a bandage that was covered with fabric. I felt very comfortable. My dad drove us home. My nightmare had disappeared. (January 2005)

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One Frosty Window On A Winter Day

By Pearse, 5, Vancouver, BC, Canada

As I wake up at 7:30 sharp, I pull up the blinds.
Pull up the blinds to reveal a frost-coated window.
I look outside this frosty window.
I see other children playing in the snow.
Making snowmen, throwing snowballs.
Some make snowforts.
I pull on a shirt, some jeans, socks.
Once again, this shiny window glares at me as if it wants me to look out of it.
I look.
It's amazing what one frosty window on a winter day can do.
(January 2005)

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By Sian, 11, Croydon, Surrey, England

All my life, people have called me bookworm. I never knew what a bookworm was.
It's a pale worm that eats the glue that holds books together. Sometimes it eats the paper of the book, like magots in an apple.
In a way, it makes sense. Always, I have preferred books to human company, preferring to watch the character's life and destiny play out among the pages, then to watch pointless cartoons or go clothes shopping. I eat up the stories, what keeps the book together.
I prefer the whispering, rustling voices of books, to the hard, clumsy voices of human speech. It is much better to read, I think, and to dive into a sea of surprises and secrets, to wrap yourself in a blanket of peace and exitement, to walk in another world for a while, than to kick a ball around, apply hideous make-up to make your face beaustiful, to dance under blinding lights and flirt.

But best of all, better than to find yourself in a world created by another, better by far is to dream up your own world. To create everything you want, and no one to tell you how to make it. You can make it as colorful, magical, as exiting as you want. You can escape from the mold socioty has created to keep us all the same. In your own world, you make the rules, you decide the fate of all who enter. You are like a God or Goddess, creating the world, the animals, controlling everything.
So I let them call me bookworm, I let them laugh and tease and bicker. Because I am special. I can go into any world I want. I can create anything at all.
I am a bookworm.
(January 2005)

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Pages From Hudson's Notebook

By Lizzie, 9, Fishkill, NY, USA

Dear Diary,
It’s getting colder and colder in the year as we ride along the Atlantic, on my first voyage. It is the year 1607. I am Henry Hudson searching for the Northwest Passage. Land is in view, in a few days we will arrive at the land’s dock. My crew and I have been shivering for days in this harsh weather. My look out has seen smoke coming from the land. The Half Moon is breaking apart. Every night there has been a storm making all of us seasick. Tomorrow we will be on dry land eating dry food and our feet will be dry for the first time in weeks. Well, I better get some rest for tomorrow.
Ah, it’s morning! We are at the dock! I see there are people that welcome us! The crew have been worried sick if the people would be hostile. This land is so beautiful. The people repair our ship! They see we are famished so they give us the largest amount of food we have ever seen! We tell them we want to trade items to bring back to Europe. That very day the Indians threw a welcoming ceremony, and tile ceremony shows that these people trust us. And want to help us find the Northwest Passage I tell them the Northwest Passage will be hard to find and the trip will be nearly unsurvivable. I say with all, the food, water, and other things there will be just enough room for me and my crew. Tomorrow we must leave or everybody will be thinking we have been killed.
The next day has arrived and I must leave this wonderful place. As we sail along the bay I hear cries of the people saying good luck, we’ll miss you and I hope you will remember me. Before I know it I’ll be back home with all my friends and wife down in Europe.
(January 2005)
More about explorers, from Fishkill, NY

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By Katie , 13, Franklin, MA United States

I rise in the morning to hear the boat's horns. It is another beautiful day down at the cape. Sun is shining like a lamp, and a light, cool, ocean breeze takes us away into a relaxing daydream.
Go to the beach where there are nice warm grains of sand to sit in and have a break. Splashing around and climbing on the rocks is enjoyable. Listening to all the small children shouting and playing in the water. Oh, what fun it is to be by the seashore. (January 2005)

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In limbo…

By Mallika, 17, New Delhi, India

The scattered words in my head have to be put somewhere to give me the peace of mind I have dreamt of. Often I sleep with cluttered thoughts of the past and the unimaginable details of the future. Often I cry.
I try to push the thoughts away. As far as possible. And then these scary visions of tomorrow like monsters with green slimy fluid flowing out of the gaps in the skull. Life is unknown. It’s like a secret. Like a curse wrapped up in silver paper and tied with a bow to make it look pretty. To make the receiver feel so blessed. Like a pink cotton candy in a girls hand. Bit by bit taken away, eaten by oneself, sometimes crumbling, getting smaller with time. Leaving the hands feeling a little sticky.
In my search to meet myself, I found a void within me. A gap that doesn’t seem to fill. An air of pretence, falsehood all around me. A brick wall that I made around myself to protect myself from that unknown evil. And yet they call me an extrovert. Making jokes, laughing at the ones they tell me like a shallow pool of water where you pop in that little pebble and you can see it decaying moss stricken even after the water turned green.
I am scared of being myself, scared to be different, when deep down I know I am not the same. These insecurities are like scavengers, eating me away little by little. I think of the hundreds of dear ones that I have lost and the hundreds that am going to lose.
And it’s the loneliness that scares me, the thought of being all by myself that keeps me to myself. It’s the thought of letting go of a relationship that I don’t indulge myself into any. This goes on like a vicious circle. Loneliness to insecurities and back to loneliness.
I often wonder, how it would be to break all ties, to be free, to be myself. To feel what I want to feel. To not think of the consequences before doing what takes me to cloud no. 9.
In my dreams I have embroidered a life I choose to live.
I don’t know who I am. I fail to understand my actions and my beliefs. They say it’s all there in the mind. I look for it and I find disappointments, misery and heartbreaks or am I mistaking my mind with my heart. Yes, that’s my heart I was searching.
It scares me. I fail to unravel myself, for me that’s the biggest mystery.
Certain things that should’ve never happened happen. Certain things we should’ve never said we say. Make a speech with an angry tongue and it will be the best speech you will regret for the rest of your life.
The same things happen to me. The same things that happen to my best friend. The teenage problems as my mom put it. They are all the same.
Today I see those two girls, walking with that young lad in the middle. Both of them clinging on to his shoulders, as though silently competing with each other. The boy looking bored. Each one defying the other. I look at them and I see my reflection. I used to be one of these girls. I walked in their shoes. I used to hold hands to chain a soul. Kisses were contracts and promises the gifts we gave each other. I never learnt to deal with my insecurities. And then I found him. I looked into his eyes. he looked in mine. But I thought I saw so much more. Every relationship has its ebbs and falls. Mine too had a few. If I look back actually, I realise it was a lot more than few. But I turned my back to them. I read the warnings and ignored them. Blind faith, my friends mock me. So many ways to look at the same thing. And yet I lost.
Now I see those two girls walking and in their eyes I can see insecurities, in their voice I can hear the shallow hatred for one another. In their souls I see the greed to be loved. And in their hearts I see myself.
I am fighting life everyday. The irony is I’m fighting against it, not for it. They say to me, blessed are those who have their stomachs filled and a roof to sleep under. I deny. For my heart is hungry. Hungry to feel. And my bed is a curse. I wander in my bed to places I don’t want to go. Memories come back to me, rushing, Painted in a colour that is too ugly for my eyes to bear. Tossing and turning, kneading to sleep. To get up only with a heavy head and a heavier heart. The silence of the night echoes words I do not want to listen. The stars glint in my eyes blinding me with thoughts of loneliness. I grope in the darkness for the hand that isn’t there… the hand that never is…the hand that never will be… and yet each day I search for it, hoping, praying, losing…
The dancing shadows, the flickering lamp in the corner, the rubbles of broken promises and shattered dreams lying around the bed, pricking me, piercing my soul each time I try to walk across.
I do not fear death. Not now. I fear loneliness. I fear the tears in the eyes of my precious jewels. I fear broken hearts. I do not fear death. For I know, after all of this, He would have kept something nice in store. I don’t fear going to heaven alone, but I ‘m scared of being left back in this world, with strangers and friends. Friends I fear more.
For friends are the ones you love. You give your friend a knife when you pray for them. They have the power of stabbing you in the heart. But then I have learnt that friends come and go. But to a precious few you should hold on. I am just so bad at letting go. But life goes on. It’s all in the past, they say.
But my past, I buried it long ago. I have covered it with my Cinderella dreams and enveloped it with thoughtful words. Words… trying to convince others and myself. Persuading myself to believe in what I say. It’s difficult. Especially horrifying when every now and then someone tries to unravel the thoughtful words, to explore what lies underneath the Cinderella dreams. When someone comes to slit open the wound that took ages to heal. Especially difficult.
And then it’s life. We are born naked, wet and hungry. And then conditions get worse.
(December 2004)

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A descriptive piece

By Rebecca, 13, England

As the clouds plagued the sky, leaving the gentle breeze an outsider of the mountain walls, the two petite boats skimmed silently across the lagoon.

The sheltering roof of clouds left the weakening warmth to strengthen under its bulging layers of evaporated water. Leaving the diminishing air to reinforce for it’s next attack on the aging trees surrounding the huge pond.

The jade green water seemed bottomless: a deep spacious vicinity plunging down to darkness. The emerald glass surface was lucid and flawless, and the only interruption to its clear complexion was the creeping sea-crafts.

The silent boats moved across the lake with such ease - like a sharp, steel knife cutting into a cake; quick and silent. The scrutinizing eyes underneath would not have been able to detect such a petite fleet of boats if it were not for their looming shadows above, it may have been a sheltered sky but the boats were not sheltered from such piercing eyes beneath.

The guards of the lagoon stood superior to all the elements surrounding; their coats of ivy were rustling together, as if sharing a secret. The barriers’ faces looked old and worn, like an ancient book’s pages. (December 2004)

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By Emma, 13, Kilmanock, Scotland

Creative writing is full with exaggeration and describing words that can set you off into a new world. Each word, sentence, paragraph will help you when its your turn to write your story. Kids on the net are always looking for talents for writing that would want them to read on until the story finishes and they'd go; "Wow why can't I write that good?"
Every single story that got on means that their writing is much better out of those proberly fifty other kids trying to get their piece on the magic page.
I as a fan of writing (that still cant write good stories) I come to this page and give it my best and try to get in. If I don’t do that I love reading the stories. They are all breath taking. Each time I read one of their fantastic stories I almost faint! (A little too much exaggeration) And just to think, when I was younger and tried to get in my work, a kid like six years old would get in and not me. If that kid keeps it up they could be the new Jacqueline Wilson! Or Darren Shan (For them vampire fans out there). Just remember each story you write, the next one will always be better. So from me, the great fan here to write an article, Emma. (November 2004)

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By Erik, 13, Toronto (North York), Canada

Life is a fragil tree, its bare branches covered in cold white snow, its crusted leaves brittle and brown. Harsh winds blow and bend it low and all but break its back! Yet somehow, it stands again, silent and still, hopeful…waiting for spring to come.
(October 2004)

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The Milky Way - My Way

By Rachel, 13, USA

If I could visit the Milky Way, it would be a true delight indeed. I could picture everything there tasting so sweet and good. The stars would be made of cheese if it were up to me. If it were up to me, the clouds would be made of blue cotton candy and the black of night would be thin strands of black licorice glued together with sticky marshmallow glue.
The moon would be a pleasure to visit as well if it were up to me. For if it were up to me, the moon would be one big great sea. A sea of honey, sweet and gold. Forever in my heart, that though I will hold.
Unicorns would drink out of the sweet honey sea, while I'd be eating cotton candy - busy as a bee.
There'd be bright balloons, and lots of tunes, and everyone would be happy there.
If it were up to me, I'd recreate Pluto with glee. It's said to be the coldest planet, or so that's what my sister said. (Janet)
I'd go to Pluto with mittens and earmuffs, to change the cold to warm it would be pretty tough.

I'd have to wrap the sun's rays around Pluto, so that way it would stay embraced in a warm cacoon. I'd bring heaters and jackets and coats to that planet, my sister said she'd help me. (the one named Janet)
The Sun would never burn out if it were up to me.
I could be a great creator - can't you see!!!
(October 2004)

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My Guitar

By Samson, 11, California, USA

Out of all my toys, my bike, my Playstation Two, one is, above all, the most special of all my possessions.
The black base, like a black shadow or a never ending black hole.
The white scratch pad gleams in the light.
The strings are perfectly round, the stalk of powerful wood -- it catches your eyes.
When you slide your fingers down the frets, it feels like butter.
The tuning pegs are silver like my rings.
When I stare at it I grin.
It lights like a lantern in my heart.
My guitar is all mine.

When I put on my strap the guitar feels so balanced
like a tight rope walker on a rope.
When I finger the chords, it gives off an awesome sound.
Occasionally I mess up, but I will get better.
After this session of “head banging madness,”
my fingers throb,
each pad has grown a callous.
Tomorrow I will play again.
(October 2004)

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Summer Days

By Lauren, 12, Bloomfield, MI, USA

Drinking out of the hose on a warm summer day, and not rolling it back up the right way. It's having a sleep over with your best friend every night, doorbell ditching and staying out of sight. Your dad laying on the hammock, and mom watering the flowers while the sun goes down. Playing with your friends and hanging around. Then your parents sit down with others and talk about stuff I don’t understand, us kids playing ghost in the grave yard with an ice cream melting in my hand. Summer's about the good old days that no one can take away, summer's looking forward to playing in the snow but then again wanting it to be warm out side. As the final rays of sun goes down you and your friend sit around, another sleep over tonight, while we door bell ditch and stay out of sight
Summer days
(October 2004)

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Damsel in distress

By Sinclair, 13, Walnut Creek, California, USA

When I was a little girl,
My mom read me fairytales.
I always wanted to be the beautiful princess,
waiting for her prince.
But I have come to a decision.
I don’t want to be sitting and waiting for Prince Charming.
I can slay my own dragons, I can rescue myself.
I am not going sit around waiting for him. If I got myself into this trouble, I can get myself out too. If he goes looking for me and cannot find his beautiful princess, his loss.
I am not going to sidestep destiny, but I am not going to be the perfect damsel he’s looking for. I’m only human.
Now, knight, get out of my way, I have a kingdom to save.
(September 2004)

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Dear Sharen

By Crystal, 11, San Mateo, CA, USA

Dear Sharen,

I am sorry you aren't here down with us. I didnít know you very well and you probably didnít know me very well, ither. I remember your bright smile that rejoiced everyone. Your red hair that made you stand out and say "Look that's Sharen!".

At our school you were a counselor. I really thank you for that because you helped us with our problems. I remember after our vacation, our teacher told us about how you were murdered. This was fresh news to me. I didn't know it was you, until our teacher showed us a picture of you. And then my mind went snap! I had seen you walk around the school before.

I hope that up there in heaven you are doing great. I know that you are probably the most popular angel in heaven.Even though I never knew you well, I pray for you and your kids who must be really hurt.Every night I look up at the sky and focus my attention on the brightest star in the black sky. And I pray. I know that very bright star is you, Sharen. Shining above all the other stars that are intimidated by you, but you give them your huge smile and give some of your brightness to the not shining stars.

I wrote this letter to you because I wrote a recent poem about you at school, but in that poem I didnít put all I needed to say to you. And I am finally. I know that you may not be here down in this earth physically, but emotionally you are. You are in our hearts. We all have a little or big place just for you. Anybody else tries to conquer that spot, can't because that ís your spot.

I feel lucky to have had you as counselor in our school. We love you, Sharen. And our tears that fall down our cheeks are combined with sadness and joy. Sadness because you died and joy because you will always be part of our hearts.

When you died, our school was sad. We were devastated that this happened to you. There's not much I can say about this because it's hard to describe how sad we were. It's hard to describe how we felt that day.

Sharen, I hope you are good up there in heaven and telling us sorry you died. Because it's not your fault. At all.

I said everything I wanted to say. May you rest in peace in your graveyard, but may you be part of our hearts fore ever, Sharen M.



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Be Santa Claus

By Kristine, 14, Chula Vista, California, USA

Sometime around 5th grade I didn't link December and Christmas Spirit together anymore. Christmas was just a holiday. Break. Presents. Flashy lights. I read A Christmas Carol and agreed with the little mean man that hollered, "Bah humbug."
Just before break that year I was sitting in a classroom, listening to clips of conversation around me. I heard wish lists. I heard about people going skiing. Nothing about what they said hinted that they gave a hoot about giving, love, baby Jesus or whatever Christmas is supposed to be about. In my head I rolled my eyes.
Then, when all faith was lost, my teacher Ms. Betty Davis went and landed an assignment on us I'd never forget. Sporting a mailbag stuffed with letters, she smiled.
"Be Santa Claus this year."
'Santa freakin' Claus,' I thought, laughing to myself.
"There's a center in Africa. They take care of kids less fortunate than you. They had them write letters to Santa. You. The center can buy all they ask for with donations. You just have to reply to their letters."
We formed a line in front of the mailbag. Grabbed about three letters each. Went back to our seats, read the letters. Shared them.
So-and-so wanted an action figure.
Whats-his-name desired a ham sandwich.
That-one-kid would like a doll.
It went on like that for some time. But one letter. One letter from a little girl. Kelsey Kern read it to us. It was short and to the point. And it hurt to hear it.
Dear Santa,
All I want is my mommy back. Thank you.
We actually answered her. Put down something stupid, like 'sorry, can't do that, want a dollie?'
I imagined over and over what she does when she gets back her first letter from Santa. Cry? Give up? Move on? She must have thought he was like God or something to even ask for something like that. But we weren't God. We were 5th grade kids.
Every Christmas now when I feel another disconnect coming on I think of the little girl in Africa. I spend time with my family. Hang out with friends. Do the whole Christmas thing my way. I go around doing random acts of kindness like the Good Fairy. It's my way of making it up to her.
(August 2004)

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Exam week

By Harriet, 11, St. Neots, Cambridgeshire, UK

I was woken up by my Dad on Monday morning at 7.00am. I went downstairs to have breakfast then a shower. I put on my summer dress (school uniform). My older brother Henry who was 15 was annoying me by saying I was stupid. I tried to ignore him but it was hard. When it was time for school Mum drove us to the bus stop and we waited. the school bus was 5 mins late as usual.
At school it was exam week and the tests were hard. Our tables in the classroom were split so we couln't copy. James was sitting on the other side of the table and he looked worried. I was. The tests were handed out one by one, and I wanted to do well in the tests. Our first test was Maths, my worst subject, and I was nervous. It was like my brain had given up trying under all the pressure. Our teacher told us that we had 45 mins to do the test. I opened the first page. the first question was 12x12. I worked it out and put 144.
The days slowly went by and On Friday my teacher said I was 5th/17 in maths, 8th in English, 10th in history, 6th in science, and 10th in geography. I was so relieved because I wasn't expecting it.
(August 2004)

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