A magazine for young people by young people, to showcase all of the hard work that goes into the preperation for a writing career, or just a hobby! Show off your best work and get feedback from your peers. Become a better writer.
The stories, poems, plays, etc. that you see here are submitted by people from ages 5-18. They are all orginal works (except for the Classics Corner, which will be atributed to a different classical author each month). If you wish to congratulate the author of a certain piece, or offer comments, the screen names are listed. Just remember, there are different styles of writing, so don't cut down other people! Constructive criticism is fine, but please respect the feelings of others. If you have a friend online who would like to recieve or submit to the Kids Only Writing Showcase magazine, please tell them to e-mail Cheshrcat7@aol.com, or e-mail me and tell me their name. Keep those creative works coming in!
EVENSONG ©1997 TragicGlee
The old woman sits in the rocking chair on the porch, as much a fixture as the wooden rails flanking the four steps up from the ground or the ancient pine window box full of dying marigolds. I sit myself on the second step to rest out of the baking afternoon sunlight which seems frozen into that moment. The step does not report, nor are my footsteps louder than the dry, whispery creaks of the rocker on the wooden porch, but the old woman hears me, nonetheless. The rocking stills. "Who is it who takes refuge from the sun with me?" she asks in a voice older than the wind. I turn to her, and though her eyes are open they see not me nor any other thing, nor will they ever again. I look away from her milky gaze and answer, "Only a traveler, Grandmother, seeking a moment's breath upon you steps." The old one nods sagely, sinking back into her chair. "It is always a moment with one your age. Any longer and you feel your life will slip your grasp and pass you by." I shake my head, then remember that she cannot see the gesture. "No, Grandmother, I know it will not, but soon I must be into town to see my sister, who just moved here with husband, and their first son, born only a week ago. They are expecting me." The woman laughs, a young sound from an old face. "And what else would I mean by saying such a thing? Linger, my child. Stay with me and see the sun to his bed." I frown now, puzzled by her words. "I cannot. I thank you for the hospitality of your steps, Grandmother, but I do not want to worry my sister. So I bid you a good day." I stand and dust myself off and take one step forward when "Bide," the old woman's voice crackles. I turn back to face her. The rocker is halts again and the sightless moons of her eyes flash fire at me. "Come, child. You have had your respite upon my steps; humor an old woman and let me learn you face." I shrug, though she will not know it. How should I deny her? I mount the steps and cross until my toes are near the rockers of her chair, and I kneel. "I am here, Grandmother," I tell her. She chuckles, near-toothless gums showing between her lips. "Heavens, my child, I know that," she exclaims. I hold myself still as her hands move toward me. Fingertips touch my cheeks, skin warm and dry as old paper yellowed from the sun. Carefully, the old one traces my cheekbone, finding eyes and eyebrows, the sweep of the nose, the lips chapped with sun and wind, the firm set of the chin. She draws away, slow as snowmelt in the spring. "I know your face now, child," she says. "I know its lines and planes, its valleys and rises. It shows me you. I find your life in your face, ridges in the brow that mean too many moments, with not enough between; tensions in the mouth that speak of too few rests in your journeys." I am motionless. "That is so, Grandmother," I say, troubled. I do not understand how she can know these things. "Ah, my child," she murmurs, compassion in her voice, "Do you know that in twenty years, I have not missed a sunset. You think I cannot see; my sight is dark, but you . . . It is a great sadness, my child, that you who have eyes cannot see." A tear slips down my cheek, warm and wet on the parched skin, and I do not know why. I do not ponder the old woman's words. They speak to me in a way I cannot question, nor would I wish to question. The woman does not see this. She smiles sadly at me. "Go, child," she frees me. "Go now to your sister and her son. I have held you here overlong." I stand, my limbs as cooperative as those of any oak tree. My head turns toward the path leading from the porch. It takes a time before I realize my body will not follow suit. Ages pass, and as the shadows lengthen I acknowledge, finally, that I do not want to do so. Shyly, uncertain, I ask "May I stay here a space, Grandmother?" The wise woman nods, silent. I seat myself at her feet and, together, we watch the sun sink into slumber.
How We Got Our Cat Written 8/22/97 by Samantha Oliger (Samoliv), age 11 This is the story of how we got my cat, Charlotte. It all started with a visit with my grandparents. I was 5 and a half at the time. My little sister was about 2. One day I said to my Grandmother, "Grammie I want a cat". "Okay," she said "We'll get one tomorrow morning." I thought she was just kidding. But the next morning she really did! My parents went with us, and we picked out 2 cats: Buster and Sebastian. Buster had a twin named Charlotte. When we got home I started to pet Buster, or so I thought. About 2 minutes later I said," Mom, dad this isn't a boy." "You're right!" my dad said. The pet shop was 2 hours away, so we couldn't go back. We had accidently gotten Charlotte.
THE END
In the Attic ©1997 by Surfariusa
Thump! . . . Thump! . . . Thump!
Every step was harder than the last, and it was so hard she had to take a gasp of breath every few seconds. Finally she had reached the top of the angled, narrow, steps. The steps that led to the attic. The attic had always been her favorite place. It intrigued her, because it was stored away with all the little keepsakes and treasures and memories of they who lived there. Shawna looked behind her and looked down at the steps. Just a few months ago, those steps had only been fun to climb because they twisted and turned and she never knew what might be behind one of those turns. Now they posed a challenge, they were like climbing a mountain. She made her way to a small window seat with a white plush cushion and slowly set herself down on it. Shawna set down her cruches, the things that had encumbered her walk up the otherwise easy stairs. She propped up her left leg , which was covered from the foot up to just above the knee in a cast. She liked to look at it and read all the signatures and get-well wishes of all her friends and relatives who had visited her. There was the thick, forced writing of her uncle Andrew, the meticulously neat handwriting of her best friend Renee, and even the faint, spidery script of her grandmother. But she wanted to forget about the cast and the broken leg now, so she looked out the window, out to the garden and the fields and pastures with horses and sheep and cattle, and farther out to the forest beyond. Running through the different shades of green was something that looked like a twisting, serpentine river of gray, a gray so dark that it looked black. It was an old country road, basicly a usless road, because all it did was connect the country side together. It did not even lead to a highway or any other larger road. Then, Shawna saw a red car, a convertible, drive by so fast that from above it was little more than a red blurr. A chill ran through her and she looked away from the window and looked again into the comforting surroundings of the attic. That single red flash had brought back memories, memories that Shawna would rather forget. She remembered walking on that very same road with a Kevin, a friend of hers. She remembered thinking just earlier the day it happened that she was tired of people saying she had a boyfriend just because one of her friends happened to be a boy. They had been crossing the road, not seeing any cars. They had been talking leisurely, and Shawna always wondered for the rest of her life, what would have happened if they had just ran across the road and made their way. Then, coming around a bend with amazing speed, was a car, a red sports car. They were both in the middle of the road. Shawna had not really noticed it, she had only vaguely realized that there was something red, seen out of the corner of her eye. She was not aware of the danger they were in until Kevin pushed her out of the way. The car had tried to slow down, but it was too late. The last thing Shawna knew was a terrible pain in her leg, like it was being crushed. She heard an agonized scream behind her, but she could not even turn around. Finally, the pain was mericfully blotted out by unconsiousness. When she woke up, she was surrounded by white, by florecent lights, by the stinging smells of disenfectants and all kinds of medicine, and the nicer smell of clean sheets and clothes. Then she remembered what had just happened. She tried to sit up but she could barely move. She was also consious of a strange weight on her left leg. Then a nurse had come in and told her that she had been in the hospital, unconconcious, for a whole week. They had put a cast on her leg already, and all she needed to do now was gain her strength. Shawna listened to this with half an ear, not at all interested. Then, came the horrible news. Kevin had died. She remembered laying there in the dreary hospital bed, greiving for him, remembering what a good friend he had been. She also remembered how the driver of the car had been speeding. He had tried to slow down, but it had been to late. He must feel terrible. Then a horrible through came to her mind. What if it was her fault, too? She had been the reason Kevin stood still for a few seconds, so he could get her out of the way. If only Kevin had been crossing the road that day, woudn't he be alive? She lay in the hospital bed, thinking like this, not caring to see her parents or her friends. Finally, the long ordeal was over and she could go home. She could see the forests and the garden and the feilds, and all of them were delightfully fragrant after the sterile hospital room. She had still been sad, though. The feeling of guilt hung on her like a heavy burden that she could not cast away. Then, she told her grandmother one day she was visiting her. She loved her grandmother's house, because it smelled like cinnimon and fresh bread and apples, and had a sense of warm comfort and welcome. Shawna had told her grandmother all that had happened, and how she felt so guilty. Her grandmother had said "It wasn't your fault. It was just chance that it happened that way. You have to forget the death and just remember, how he was your friend, how you liked him, and I think you loved him too, like a brother." True to her words, the pain did fade away, and Kevin held only a find place for Shawna, as she looked out the window and up into the starlit sky, dreaming of earlier days.
The End
Oscar the Orphan Puppy 1995/96 school year,by Sarah Shulman(LADSS), age 8 1/2 Once upon a time, a puppy arrived at Laura Shulman's house. She did not know where he came from! She decided to keep the puppy, and name him Oscar. Oscar was a good puppy. One day Laura noticed that she had got Oscar that day a year ago. She planned a birthday. That day Oscar recieved a huge puppy bowl from Laura. Oscar loved his home. Then that night, Laura took Oscar for his walk. When they got back, Oscar was very tired. But he had had a birthday!
The End
Gifted Hands ©1997 by Cheshrcat7 I caught the basketball as it bounced off the rim, and I moved in closer for a layup. The rebound slipped through my fingers and across the yard, landing at the foot of the steps that led up to the front porch. There my mother stood, flour-dusted apron covering the lower half of her floral print house dress. Her shoulder-length blond hair was obscured by a handkerchief tied around her head. One hand rested on her rounded hip, the other beckoned me patiently. Reluctantly abandoning my shooting practice, I approached Mom with a sigh and a what-do-you-want look. Totally undaunted, she smiled good-naturedly and ruffled my hair. "Mrs. Gadient was nice enough to bake us another batch of those gingersnaps you kids like so much. I thought that since she doesn't get out much anymore, she'd like some of our fresh fruit." I glanced across the yard at our neighbor, Mrs. Gadient, who seemed to me the oldest lady in the world. She was sitting, as usual, on her porch, rocking back and forth in one of the hand-carved rocking chairs her husband had made. "But Mom," I protested. "She'll just start talkin' and talkin' an' I'll never get back to practice!" "Some things are more important that basketball. Now go on," she instructed as she handed me some fresh-picked apples from our tree out back. "And remember your manners," advised Mom over he shoulder as she bustled back inside. "Who am I, Little Red Riding Hood?" I muttered to myself. Stuffing the apples in the grungy pockets of my denim shorts, I trudged across the lawn and up the stairs of my neighbor's porch. I rapped gently on the edge of the screen door. "Come in child," I heard someone say. "You're always welcome here." I shuffled in, letting the door slam behind me, and held out the apples. "Mbbfmmble hmhpfmp from Mom ambrmmbl thanks," I mumbled. "Oh! Well, dearie, you didn't need to- oh thank you! Come on in," she invited, rising slowly from her chair. "No!" I burst out. "Um, I mean.... No thank you, ma'am. Ya see, I've got all this stuff-" "Nonsense, child. You've been shooting hoops all afternoon. Surely you have time for a glass of fresh lemonade!" I sighed and resigned myself to an hour or two of boring chatter. Seeing that she'd won, Mrs. Gadient motioned for me to come inside. For several moments she fumbled with the latch; her hands, obviously not as dexterous as they once were, trembled incessantly and made it difficult to grip. Eventually she managed to open the door, and we both went inside. "Make yourself at home," she insisted as we entered the parlor. "While I get some refreshments." I wandered around the room for a while, admiring the intricately embroidered tapestries, framed and hung on the wall with pride. I especially liked the one that showed a peacock in a forest. Its tail was spread out in full view. Its head looking back over its shoulder at me. The trees of the forest were large and thick, with lots of leaves. Through the darkness I thought I saw several more birds hiding in the foliage. As I looked closer I could tell the work was that of a real master. Embroidered into the bottom corner was the signature: L. Gadient. While I was still admiring the peacock, Mrs. Gadient returned with a pitcher of fresh-sqeezed lemonade and a tray of gingersnaps, which she set on the coffee table. I took a seat next to her on a well-worn, overstuffed couch and began to munch. Mrs. G took up a needle and a half-finished piece of embroidery, which she worked on as we talked. "I've watched you all summer, practicing basketball. You seem to have improved a lot." "Coach says I have." "Really? I didn't know you played on a team. What position are you?" "Forward "Oh? You're not all that tall," she remarked, sizing me up. "You must have good hands." "I guess." There was a lapse in conversation, so I leaned over to see what Mrs. Gadient was embroidering. I guessed that it was a teddy bear, because it was brown and sort of bear-shaped, but the lines were shaky, and there were many stray and loose stiches. It looked almost as bad as my home ec project last year: the one I failed. I watched Mrs. Gadient's hands. They shook uncontrollably, and I could tell she was having a hard time making them go where she wanted. As she pushed the needle down for the next stitch, I heard her gasp. She pulled her hand away, and I saw a small dot of blood on her pale, papery skin where the needle had pierced it. Hastily, she stuck her finger in her mouth. I reached down and picked up the embroidery hoop from where it had fallen. She gazed at it forlornly, shoulders slumped, hands folded in her lap. "It's pathetic," she lamented. "It's not all that bad," I lied, noticing the tears gathering in her eyes. She stood and walked to the wall, stopping in front of the peacock tapestry. "Compared to this?" she implored me. I looked that teddy-bear picture and didn't say anything. Mrs. Gadient ran one shaky hand over the peacock. "Why can't I do that anymore?" I considered her question, but could find no answer. I idly nibbled the cookie in my hand, noticing again how very delectable it was. "Maybe this isn't as good as you'd like it to be," I remarked, holding out the embroidery hoop in one hand. "But these couldn't be any better." I held out her cookie in my other hand. "Maybe you've had enough embroidery for a while." Mrs. Gadient stared at me for what seemed to me like a very long time, and I saw a smile dawn on her face. She resumed her seat next to me and picked up her embroidery hood. "Mrs. G-" She held up a finger to silence me and continued stitching for several minutes, while I nervously nibbled my cookie. "There." She set down her needle and showed me the picture; the bear now held a warped brown circle, representative of a cookie. We both laughed, and she set it aside for good. Mrs. Gadient and I ate the whole tray of gingersnaps.
The End
Easter Bunny August 27, 1997 by Hilah Panichelle(HRPanic), age 10 On Easter Sunday I was feeling blue Cause I didnt get the bunny I hoped to get from you. I got my bunny soon enough: Three days after Easter we picked her up. Now she has a home as snug as can be And this is a true story you're hearing from me.
The Story of Elizabeth Anne Winchester Historic Girls of America Series: Book 1 by CaseyNissa
1611, Middle Plantation, Virginia Chapter One
³ Mother, come.² Elizabeth talked quietly. Her blue lips shivering from the cold. Her mother followed slowly carrying baby Mary. The wind howled and the evergreens prickled Elizabeth as she walked. ³Mother,tis¹ so dreadfully cold. May we stop?² Elizabeth stood still thinking about her past. Her father had died in the starving time and her mother could not stand the truth, so they wandered out of Jamestown Camp to find a new life. Elizabeth was scared. She had never seen her mother so detirmined to go away forever. She also wondered what lurked behing the trees. It could be the Indians out to massacre them. Elizabeth pulled her wool cape closer. This was a strange place. The awful swamps that had brought diesease to the settlers were frozen tight, and the wind howled as if it were coming. Coming to get them. ³Dear Elizabeth, we are not to stop. Never.² Elizabeth looked at her mother. Was she going mad from the cold? ³Mother, please. You, I, and even Mary need rest, so lay upon the blanket.² Elizabeth shook as she watched her mother collapse into a deep sleep on the blanket they called ³home². ³Mary, sleep now.² Elizabeth took the child in her arms. She need Mary, more than anything.² Elizabeth kneeled down to pray. ³Good Lord, please let Mother get some rest and get over this awful truth? May you watch over Mary and make sure she grows good and strong. And do not forget me, please. And keep savages far away from us. Amen.² With that Elizabeth fell asleep.
Chapter Two
Elizabeth was wakened by a rustling in the woods. She jumped up, startled. She grabbed her father's musket and pointed it towards the noise. An Indian stepped out. Elizabeth nearly fainted, but she pointed the musket firm and steady. They must have stood there for ten minutes. Staring and standing. Then Mary could hold the musket no more. She lowered it to the ground. The Indian motioned for her to come. Elizabeth stepped cautiously closer and closer, her heart pounding. She felt dizzy, as if she was floating on air. Carefully, now. She thought. She stuck her buckle shoe out again. She was close now. She could see the Indian's breath as a white puffy cloud in the cold air. She looked up slowly, her chin trembling. "Don't be scared, white girl." The Indian said slowly. "We see you can not hurt us. Not Lady, young one, or you. " He knew English, and this relieved Elizabeth. She took a sigh. A strand of her blond hair fell on her cheek; she blew it to the side. Her heart beat fast, but she was relieved. She turned back to see her mother sitting up, holding Mary close. "Miss White Lady, we welcome you to our village. Come with us." "Why, yes, yes, we would enjoy that." She walked over with the blanket. The Indian turned around and walked away. Elizabeth and Mother followed. It was hard to catch up with the fast pace of the Indian brave. Then they came to a clearing. Here, little brown huts stood and children ran around a large fire. So this is a Indian village, she thought. They were lead to a hut where food was layed out. Elizabeth stuffed herself. She was satisfied. She was glad she did not shoot the Indian; that would of been foolish. That night Elizabeth lied down filled and happy. As she was about to fall asleep, she heard her mother say, "Well this is a good start!" Two more chapters next issue!
My New Look 1996 by Morgan (Never10183), age 11 1/2 There once was a little girl with curly curls. One day when she was walking to school, There were girls acting cool. "I love your shirt and hair," one of the girl said, "But dont you thinks its a little queer That you dont have any holes in your ear?" The next day the girl shopped for a new wardrobe She shopped, and shopped, and shopped some more Until it a became a bore. I look hip in my new clothes and holes! I even got a earing to go in my nose!
The Doom Cat August 20, 1997 by NEC: Naomi Lund, Eric Heuer, Carl Johnson (Speeder bn), age 12
Janice was walking down dead mans drive when a man stopped her. "Where are you going?" he asked her. "To the graveyard," she replied. "Take this with you," he said."It will give you good luck." He handed her a package. She lifted the lid. Inside there was a small black kitten. "Do not let him inside the graveyard by himself," he warned. "You only must accompany him, or he will spread doom to your entire family." " What makes you think I'll believe that?" Janice asked, now scared and puzzled. "Because by holding this cat while I speak, you tell me that you are superstitious." "What is superstitious?" Janice asked. But now the man was now already out of sight. So Janice proceeded into the graveyard. When she was heading home, the kitten (which Janice had now named Gregory) lept out of her hands and into the graveyard. Janice froze, then cried out in pain as a bright flash of lightning struck a tree which fell on her. As she lay dying on the road she wondered if she had saved her family by martyring herself. If so she would be a hero...no such luck. Just monents after Janice's death, a tornado ripped through her parents house. Their bodies were found and buried in the graveyard on Dead Man's Drive. Gregory placed a flower on Janice's grave, and ran off to find the man who had warned Janice about the doom cat.
The End
Classics Corner! Every month we featrue a classical or famous author. Not only is this very entertaining, but help expose everyone to great literature, and may even encourage some of us to read it! This Month:
Classics Corner! Every month we feature a famous author. Find out everything you need to know about an author, from "D Work", what he's written, to "D Buzz," what critics say. Not only is this very entertaining, but help expose everyone to great literature, and may even encourage some of us to read it! This Month:
Anna Sewell *D Author: A refined Quqker gentlelady who lived in the 19th Century, Miss Sewell sold Black Beauty to a publisher for a mere 20 English pounds. Soon it became a classic. *D Work: Anna Sewell only wrote one book in her lifetime: Black Beauty *D Flavor: Told from the viewpoint of Black Beauty, a horse who has a mix of good and bad experiences with humans. *D Best: The one and only Black Beauty, a classic tale of heroism and spirit. *D Place: Any library, you school, your parent's or grandparent's attic.
That's all for this month's issue. Remember to turn in work for the upcoming special edition. Keep that work coming in, and make sure to tell all your friends about KOWS!
Bonus Section! Would you like to be published by a non-online publisher? Do you feel confident that your work is good? Here are the names of a few publishers who specifically publish the work of young people.
*Boodle: By Kids, For Kids PO Box 1049, Portland, IN 47371. (219) 726-8141. Published quarterly. One hundred percent of magazine is written by children. Audience: children ages 6-12 Publishes: Student-produced stories, articles, poems, mazes, and puzzles. Readers are invited to write and illustrate their own ideas and send them to the editors. Uses about twelve short stories and twenty to thirty poems per issue. Seldom published sad or depressing stories about death or serious illness. Especially likes humor and offbeat stories and poems. Submission Info: Never devotes more than two pages to any one story, so long stories are not acceptable. Handwritten material is OK, if legible. Please include full name, grade when written, current grade, name of school, and a statement from parent or teacher that the work is original. Send SASE (self-adressed stamped envelope) for reply or if you wish your material returned to you. Guidelines available for SASE. Sample copy $2.50. Student authors recieve two free copies of issue in which their work is published. Reports in two months. Editor's Remarks: "Young writers and artisit should read Boodle to see what kind of material is published, but do not try to write the same type of material you read. Try to think of something different. What kind of story would you like to read but didn't find in the magazine? The best way to get your story or poem published is to make the editor smile or laugh when she reads it." Subscription Rates: One year (four quarterly issues) $10
*Creative Kids Prufrock Press, PO Box 8813, Waco, TX 76714-8813. Kids from all over the nation contribute to the largest magazine written by and for kids. Publishes: Stories, games, puzzles, poetry, artwork, opinion and photography by and for kids ages 8-14. Work must be original and submitted by the author. Work submitted to Creative Kids should not be under consideration by any other publisher. Submission Info: Each submission should be labeled with child's name, birthday, grade, school, and home address and must include a cover letter. All submissions must include SASE for reply. Send SASE for detailed guidelines. Sample copy $3. Editor's Remarks: "Creative Kids, the National Voice for Kids, bursts with new ideas and activities to entertain, excite and encourage the creativity of kids ages 8-14. The magazine includes exciting examples of the most creative student work to be found in any publication for kids." Subscription Rates: One year (six issues) $19.95
*Majestic Books PO Box 19097M, Johnston, RI 02919. Publishes anthologies of stories by writers under age 18. Publishes: Stories and essays suitable for children of all ages. Occasionally accepts stories. Submission Info: Use standard format; include SASE with all submissions and requests, indicate age of author. No guidelines. Payment one copy; occasionally pays small flat fee. Sample copy for $3.50 or $2 plus a 6' x 9" SASE with $1.24 postage. Editor's Remarks: "Use your imagination and be original. We prefer stories that leave a reader thinking long after the last word is read. Manuscripts are judged against others of the same age group, and we use anything that is considered good for that age group. Make sure to include your age. We comment on manuscript if requested."