A child enveloped in firm flakes smiles softly at the drip, drip of an overhead ice crystal. She is visible only by a golden garage light spilling into the worn snow banks. It's hovering around the child's bedtime and the moon has long since replaced the sun among the stirring sky. Snowflakes tickle her rosy nose before drifting among the asphalt's icy coat. A door opens from afar sending the child jumping up and off the snowbanks, the promise of play hovering close. With the shake of a head and scrape of a shovel, she hops up on the bank slightly defeated. She dances faster and faster accenting the steady beat of the shovel thumping. The snow is falling in earnest now and the snowflakes blurring into lines. She's tired, but she's waiting. Clumps of snow turn into heart sculptures as the knuckles of her gloves rotate in the top of a ball who's brown color is hidden in the distant light. "How much longer until they get here" she enquires, to no certain answer.
It was a biting morning, one that drifts and settles in the center of your heart. The trees sparkled serenely against the stirring grey sky. Innocent scattered among the ominous. Lily sat on a crunchy yellow towel bunched on the freshly shoveled snow. Soft copper strands hung loosely brushing against textured paper; waiting. Her eyes reflected the ocean and the sky, blended evenly on a never ending horizon. Splattered brush in hand she traced the top of her eyebrow in thought, eyes wandering through the sharp outlines of the forest. There was something there, something that lit up the back of her eyes. She leaned forward, eyes following the shimmering sphere of light expanding amongst the darkened trunks. Ahe dipped her brush in the pigment dragging it across the page in a watery patch of snow. Peace settled through her bones as her brush skating across the paper. The ball drifted ever nearer, ever brighter.
Catch me as I sail upwind, Before the thunderous waters have thinned. As my sails flap in a frenzied dance, Please guide me before I crash by chance. Help me gain back the tillers power, Under the strong boom I cower. For I have made a querulous mistake, I have chosen to cross straight through the lake. I sailed upwind in my haste and greed, Ignoring the journey and aiming for speed. The lack of lengthy jibes and tacks, Has caused the boat to stall in it's tracks. As smaller and patience boats sail past, I watch with fear my swaying mast. Save me now from my hopeless race, Of last- I've learned there's much worse things to face.
I have a huge problem, I hope you can see. I got smacked in the head By an elephantee. Now, oh dear, I fear for my mind, As my thoughts are all scrambled, And not at all kind. As I try to type this A man with a hat, Smacks my small frontal lobe With a metal baseball bat. The man picks up the words, And jumbles them fast, Into great long columns, With carefully placed lasts. Please, please help me, I'm afraid it is true. I can't stop rhyming Oh what do I do?
Last week my friend, Lena Kerest, and I competed at National History Day in DC. Over the past school year we have been conducting research to help us build our exhibit titled Women Resisting the Taliban. As we moved from Vermont History Day to National History Day we decided to move beyond research and transform our research into action. To accomplish this we began a fundraising campaign for something we are both passionate about-- girls’ education.
Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say they were perfectly abnormal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything ordinary because they just didn't hold with such boringness.
Mr. Dursley was a slim man without a speck of hair on his shiny head and above his thin stretched lips. He was the head of the transportation department at the Ministry of Magic and was known to be a level-headed, pleasant man. Mrs. Dursley was a professor at Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, and a disorganized one at best. Her office was littered with empty potion bottles and the glittering dust of crushed unicorn horns. Mrs. Dursley simply didn't care about the ongoings around her and walked around with a dazed look about her reminiscent of a strong confundo charm. They had a small (well, not really) son named Dudley and in their opinion, there was no finer boy anywhere.