CONTENTS 2007 Young Georgia Authors’

Writing Competition Winning Entries

Kindergarten Tahlar Bones Eastside Elementary First Grade Alicia Mercado Holly Springs Elementary Second Grade John McElroy Arbor Station Elementary Third Grade Laura Mercer Winston Elementary Fourth Grade Nicolette Andrey Brighten Academy Fifth Grade Quentin Lewis Mt. Carmel Elementary Sixth Grade Cambre Goodlett Yeager Middle Seventh Grade Madison Garver Chapel Hill Middle Eighth Grade Travis Ritchie Yeager Middle Ninth Grade Tim Olivier Alexander High Tenth Grade Ana Kabakova Alexander High Eleventh Grade John McArthur Alexander High Twelfth Grade Malone Thornton Alexander High

2007 Young Geor-

gia Authors’ Writing

Competition

Winning Entries

Doreesa Snowgirl Doreesa is alive Snowgirl. She sleeps in my freezer so she won’t melt. She comes out to visit me to watch TV. Then she goes to the freezer to take a nap. She wakes up in the morning then she comes in my room to wake me up for school. Then she goes outside to look for her friends. When I get home from school she goes back in the freezer. Tahlar’s Teacher: Linda Lee Tahlar is a creative and imaginative story teller. "Doreesa Snowgirl" is just one example of the stories she loves to write. Tahlar is inquisitive and loves to be challenged. She is an in-dependent learner with remarkable potential. Tahlar exceeds expectations in all academic areas and is a joy to have in class.

Tahlar Bones Kindergarten Winner

Eastside Elementary School

Alicia Mercado First Grade Winner

Holly Springs Elementary School

Birds

The Best Day Ever

One day a little girl went for a walk. Sud-denly an beenstalk grew. The girl was cu-rius so she climed the beenstalk. When she got to the top she gasped, it was ponyville! So she stayed for a while. The first pony to greet her was Rainbow dash “good morn-ing dalling” she said with her axentid voice. “Hi” the little girl said. Rainbow dash gave her a tour of ponyville. It was bitafuler than ever. She wanted to stay for-ever but she could not. She went home to her mom.

The End

Alicia’s Teacher: Kim Earl Alicia is a very imaginative and creative writer. She always does an excellent job in conveying her thoughts through her writing. Her use of ad-vanced vocabulary is also present in her writing. She consistently uses proper grammar and me-chanics as well.

John McElroy Second Grade Winner

Arbor Station Elementary School

A Magic Carpet Ride

If I had a magic carpet, I would spy on Santa clause. I would see what my Christ-mas present was. I would see if I was naughty or nice. Then I would go to the Valley of the Kings in Egypt. I would take the rubys, gold, crystal, games and toys. Then I would do spy missitions and save the world. It would be cool. I would fly over mountains, buildings, tow-ers, sky scrapers and the United States capi-tal. I would help the police. I will help them arrest people. I will fly over boba traps. I will share my magic carpet with people who are nice. I will use my magic carpet as a taxi to get money to buy toys. I will buy toys to sell for money to get a motorcycle to ride on. My magic carpet will tell me if a villain was near me or not. It will tell me what they can do and how week and strong they are. I like my magic carpet.

The End

John’s Teacher: Gail Cone

John is a very good student. He is self motivated in read-ing and writing. John writes very descriptive and detailed stories. He is very creative and has a great imagination when writing stories. He enjoys writing for pleasure. “Creativity represents a miraculous coming together of the uninhibited energy of the child with its apparent oppo-site and enemy, the sense of order imposed on the disci-plined adult intelligence.” —Norman Podhoretz, senior fellow of the Hudson Institute and member of the Council on Foreign Relations

Stella’s Interesting...Dog Show?

“Now guys, remember, this is a dog show. If you see any contestant that looks like a dog, radio me on your walkie-talkie, which will be installed in a drawer under your booth.” It was the weekend of Stella’s dog show, and she insisted on reading off the rules while they were setting up the course. “Okay, and we have ...let’s see...ten golden retriev-ers, twenty shelties, sixty black labs, and thirty Eng-lish sheepdogs, one hundred dogs in all.” Beatrice Interesting, the organizer of the annual 4-H Dog Obedience Club Show of Lithia Springs, Georgia, read off the types of dogs. “Alright, we’ll have fun with this! Now all we have to do is get a good night’s sleep, be here by eleven, to just help me get everything ready, and let’s get this course done, so that we can have a dog show in the first place!” Stella shouted excitedly. “Put your hands in. on three. One...two...three!” “PETS ARE HUMAN’S BEST FRIEND!” That was their favorite saying. Stella continued, “Let’s put the jumping pad here, the wall here, the trampoline right here, the registra-tion booths over there…” “It’s time for the sec-ond annual 4-H Dog Show! Come and get your entry here! $5 per dog.” a sign by Stella’s booth said. “Want a nice warm bag of popcorn? Or maybe a nice cold Coke? Get refreshments here, at Priscilla’s Parlor!” “Extra! Extra! Think all about it! Need a chew bone? or maybe a new ball that your dog hasn’t popped yet? Get your pooch some luxuries here at Beatrice’s Pretty Pooch Parlor!” In fifteen minutes, the lines built

Laura Mercer Third Grade Winner Winston Elementary

up, and Beatrice’s was the longest of all! “Go to the Pretty Pooch Parlor!” everyone was saying. “Go to Priscilla’s Parlor!” all the grannies were announcing, though. “Register here!” Stella kept on having to shout. “Register here!” But soon, she heard her walkie-talkie. “An entrant at my stand has an animal that looks like a cat!” Priscilla told her friend. “WHAT?!” Stella in-quired. “I said, there’s a cat over here!” “I’ll send Shaun Michael over right now to tell that woman that it’s Dog Show or Bust, and you –know-what-Bust-means, right?” “Right. You mean Dog Show or a Kick in the Behind.” “Correct.” “Well. hurry. Ms. And just finished counting her change, and she’s going over to the Pretty Pooch Parlor right now.” “Poochie to Milk-shake. Poochie to Milkshake.” Stella called over her two-way. “Yes? Over.” “Cat in Pooch Parlor. Over.” “Alright, Poochie, I’m coming. Wait right there until I show up. Tell Priscilla that she needs to close her stand, too and I’ll tell Beatrice.” “Okay, just GO!” “I’m go-ing!” “Good!” “Click.” Five minutes later, Shaun Michael came to Stella and Priscilla, holding a woman’s shoulders while she walked. “And you must be Ms. And, ma’am,” Stella said politely. “I’m Stella, and these are Shaun Michael and Beatrice, here.” “Never mind that. My dog is a dog, not a cat. And if you go against me, you’re going to get a kick in the behind.” “Oh, no, you don’t. We’re starting in two minutes, and you better get to the room quick, Ms. And.” “Alright, Ms. Poochie.” “Tell me that I’m crazy, but Ms. And is definitely not a vanilla milkshake! Oh, crabshacks! I almost forgot! All contestants and judges into the Canine Room, all contestants and judges into the Canine Room.” Stella called over the intercom. “Yay!” “Woohoo!”

“Good boy, Fluffster.” “Be good for the walker, Sylvester.” The room was filled with chatter. “Will Ray D. Aider please come up to the front with Fluffster?” “Sheila, let Mr. Aider pass, please.” Ms. And scolded her dog. “I’m finally here, Ms. Thyme,” he joked. “Good. Fluffster, jump over the wall.” Thump. “Do a tuck-jump on the trampoline.” Thump-thump. “Good dog. Sit.” Thunk. “Shake.” He-he-he. “Roll over.” Thunk-thunk-thunk. “We now need Ms. And and her dog, Sylvester.” Thump-thump-thunk-thunk. “Alright, Ms. And, what is your first name? You forgot to fill that out on your entry form.” “I am Tammy Too And.” “Alright, Sylvester, jump”. Thunkthunk. “Sit.” “Mew?” “Arf, arfarf arf!” “Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!” “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek!” “Poochie to Milkshake, Poochie to Milkshake, We have a person in need of a Kick in the Be-hind.” “Sure! I’m in the stands now, and I’m taming the dogs. Gimme two minutes.” “One, two, three…” “Oh, you shush! I’m right over here!” “Get that woman!”

Splat! A watermelon landed on her head. “Eeeeeeek! Stella Thyme, you come here this very min-ute!” “Hello, Tammy Too And. Hi, kitty katty.” “Oh, will you shut up?!” “If Shaun Michael kicks you out, I will!” Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thump-thump. “Bye, kitty cat!” Stella called after her. The next day on the news, Stella saw her story. “We would like to thank Stella Thyme, Shaun Micahel O’Snap, Beatrice Interesting, and Priscilla Plays.” “Well, you’re welcome!” Stella cheerfully told the TV before heading to her room. The End...Already?! Laura’s Teacher: Nancy Northcutt I have never known such a talented writer as Laura! I can hardly wait to read her further adventures of Stella. She is so very creative in her choice of words and situa-tions. She never ceases to amaze me or her fellow class-mates.

Nicolette Andrey Fourth Grade Winner

Brighten Academy

Cinderella; the Real Story

Okay this is how it really happened. It was a Sunday afternoon and Cinderella had just come inside from checking the mail. There was an invitation to Prince Darrel’s ball. He was looking for the sweetest, prettiest, and smartest girl in the land. Cinderella was so excited. She begged me and begged me to go. You would think I would say yes after all her begging, but I said no. I told her that I did-n’t want her to go because so many girls go to balls and get their hearts broken. I talked to her for a while because she kept begging me. Soon the night of the ball came. Cinderella was doing her chores. (It was part of her punishment for sneaking out with her animal friends). She was thinking that it wasn’t fair, so she left her chores and went into her room. She took out a dress and put it on. As Cinderella walked out of her room her stepsisters passed her. They asked her why she was all dressed up and that she needed to be doing her chores. They ran as fast as they could to tell me. But as they ran Cinderella ran after them.

Cinderella finally caught up to them and they all started to fight. They tumbled and tumbled. When her stepsisters finally got away all three of their dresses was torn like old rags. Cinder-ella started to cry and she ran outside to the backyard. I watched her as she cried on the bench. But I didn’t bother to go out there be-cause she would get mad at me. I sat by my window and watched her with sadness in my heart. (Yes I do care about her. What kind of stepmother do you think I am?) I was done drowning in my tears until I saw something that made me feel like all those tears were for noth-ing. Cinderella got up off of her bench and her face was as clear as daylight. She hadn’t really been crying, she was faking it the whole time. Then she went to the bushes on the side of the yard and pulled out the most gorgeous dress that I ever saw. It had beautiful lace on the edge of the arms. The dress looked as if it was manu-factured by an angel. She slipped it on, opened the gate, and left out of my sight. I was so frustrated. My mouth was hang-ing wide open and my face was turning as red as the lipstick on my lips. I screamed so loud that I could be heard all through the house. I told the girls to get dressed because we were going to the ball. They were so excited. When we got to the ball it was crowded with girls mostly. We stood there for what seemed like forever. Then suddenly a girl who seemed to look like Cinderella came bouncing

down the stairs. The prince didn’t even look up because he was still dancing with another girl, who by the way was so ugly that the prince couldn’t even look her in the face. Once the girl got down the stairs, I realized that it was Cinderella. I thought I was dreaming, but I wasn’t. I watched her bump the girl out of the prince’s hands and throw herself into his arms. The prince was so surprised. The music started and every-one watched. The prince wasn’t really im-pressed with Cinderella’s dancing. Once the music stopped the prince told Cinder-ella that he didn’t really like her dancing. After that Cinderella ran out of the place crying so much her face turned red as a juicy apple. We decided to stay for a while. Then we went home. When we got home Cinderella was doing her chores quietly. I didn’t want to frustrate her anymore. The next day I told her what her punishment was for going to the ball. All of a sudden she started yelling at me saying that I set the whole thing up so that she wouldn’t get married. Then she said I was jealous of her beauty. After that I informed Cinderella that she was going to be so sorry for all her disobedient actions. Cinderella didn’t talk to me for a while. But I thought that she would be alright. Soon everything was back to normal and Cinderella had her own life with her animal friends. We all lived

happily ever after. At least until the next time she does something as shocking as this. The End

Nicolette’s Teacher: Kelly Cadman Nicolette Andrey is a naturally gifted writer. She won the writing competition in 2nd grade and continues to hone her writing skills. She engages her audience with clever dialogue and description. It is always a pleasure to read her stories!

I’ll never forget that great day. The day I babysat Howie. I was just sitting in my lazyboy chair, waiting for something to happen. Then, out of nowhere, the unex-pected happens. Rinnnnninng!, sounded the phone. I picked it up, slightly alarmed by the noise, “Hi, I’d like to ask you something, Quen-tin”. It was my annoying and favor-asking friend, Sam. “Um, um, would you please babysit Howie?”, he asked hurredily, half expecting me to blow out his eardrums. “Sure, bring him to my house”. He went on, telling me all about how he was going to visit his grandmother in New York. So I sat, thinking diligently about how I would take care of my friend’s monkey. Little did I know, this would be one of the most tiring days of my entire life. When Sam finally reached my drive-way, I was nervous. I had never met Sam’s monkey before, even though he had told me about Howie before in class. The mo-ment was here, Sam was walking through the door, holding Howie in his arms. He placed Howie on the ground, hoping I would have a wonderful first impression of him. I thought of my idea that I had planned for our day, going to the park. I

Quentin Lewis Fifth Grade Winner

Mt. Carmel Elementary

picked Howie up, then saw something that made my stomach turn like a spin cycle at the laundry mat. There was fur all over the floor where Howie was sitting. We started on our journey to the park, on foot, since it was directly down the street. When we got to the park, we sat down to eat lunch. As we were eating, a boy threw a football in my direction, and it landed right in my pizza. Suddenly, Howie picked up the football, threw it the boy’s face, stole my pizza, and ran. I ran after him slightly glancing at the boy whose nose was now bleeding. Howie was just too quick to catch, but I kept on running. I fi-nally caught him, after a full forty-five minutes of chasing him. By that time though, Howie had destroyed a table, dis-lodged the entire water fountain from the wall, and stepped in five ant piles. When we finally made it home, I cleaned Howie and called Sam to come and retrieve him, leaving out all the trouble he caused me. Just then, the doorbell rang. I answered the door, and Sam walked in. “So if you really enjoyed yourself”, Sam said curiously “then you’ll do it again to-morrow, right?” I immediately ran into my room, closed the door, and fell asleep.

Quentin’s Teacher: Kim Houston Quentin is a very expressive and creative writer. He clearly understands how to engage the reader by adding rich vocabulary and elaborate details. His classmates thoroughly enjoy reading/listening to his stories. Mt. Car-mel is very proud of Quentin's accomplishments.

The Metamorphosis of Bob

My name is William Robert Alexan-der Thomas IV, but you can call me Bob. I live the complicated life of a rock, an igne-ous rock to be exact. Well, at least I am for now. You make think it is all fun and games being a rock, but think again. Try living in such an unstable environment, al-ways changing and moving from place to place. It can be very stressful. Oh yeah, now you say ‘Oh mommy I want to be a rock when I grow up! Rocks are so cool and carefree! They just sit there and enjoy life. I bet being a rock is awesome!’ News flash! It’s not that easy. My parents al-ways wanted me to be a doctor or a rocket scientist, but no, I had to run off and be-come a rock! Now it seems like I can’t get out of it. I’m stuck in this never-ending process called the rock cycle. It all started about a million years ago when I first formed. Originally, I was a sedimentary rock and I just kept changing from there. The only advantage about be-ing trapped in this on-going cycle is that it is very predictable. It takes a long time to complete a whole turn in the rock cycle, but

Cambre Goodlett Sixth Grade Winner

Yeager Middle

the way I put it is that this is going to keep happening for the rest of my life so I might as well get used to it. As I mentioned, this rock cycle is predictable The same things cause this to happen over and over again. For exam-ple, I am an igneous rock. I became an igne-ous rock when hot magma cooled and hard-ened. That is basically what an igneous rock is, hardened magma. Next, I will probably be-come a sedimentary rock. I will get broken down through processes called weathering and erosion. Weathering is the surface process that works to break down rocks like myself. There are two types of weathering, chemical and physical. An example of chemical weathering would be acid rain. The chemicals in the acid rain work to break down the minerals and ma-terials in rocks. Physical weathering would probably be the most common type of weath-ering. Physical weathering can occur when wind, water, or other elements work to physi-cally break down rock. Yeah, I know I’m bor-ing you with all this science mumbo-jumbo, but all this is very important in the rock cycle so just hang in there. Erosion is the actual breaking down and moving of rocks from one place to another by gravity, glaciers, wind, and water. When rocks are broken down they be-come sediment. When these sediments are compacted and cemented together they be-come sedimentary rocks. When they are com-pacted and cemented it means they are pushed

together by pressure. Sedimentary rocks usually form in layers. So when all that happens I finally become a sedimentary rock. The fun doesn’t stop there. Next it is on to a metamorphic rock. A metamorphic rock is a rock that has been changed by heat and pressure. Metamor-phic basically means change, hence meta-morphosis. So now that I am a sedimentary rock, heat and pressure will act on me to change me into a metamorphic rock. One way this might happen is if I were to be pushed down with great pressure into a hot part of earth, I would most likely turn into metamorphic rock. So I have changed again. I make Houdini look like a fool, pulling rabbits out of hats. Please! I can change without moving a single grain. I’m sure Houdini didn’t have the help of the processes of the rock cycle though. So I guess we’re even. Wait a minute. It is time to change again. I’m sure your probably wondering how I could change again. Well, actually, it is quite simple. Metamor-phic rocks can melt back into igneous rocks. For example, when metamorphic rocks are pushed down into the mantle they tend to melt into molten rock. Once the rock is magma it can erupt back onto earth’s surface from an active volcano. Now we are back where we started as an igneous rock. All this is caused by the

processes of the rock cycle which are weather, erosion, compaction, cementation, heat pres-sure, and melting. Now I have pretty much predicted my future for the next million years. This is going to keep going on for a long time so I guess I just have to hang in there. It’s a hard enough life for us! If I could write a book about the stressful life of your average rock, I would. Being a rock is complicated, but at least we don’t have to pay taxes. I guess I just have to go with the flow and continue the rock cycle. So join me, William Robert Alexander Thomas IV, a.k.a., Bob, as I embark on the journey of the rock cycle. Until next time, bye! Cambre’s Teacher: Tracy McNeill Cambre Goodlett excels in writing as well as many other diverse interests. She is a rare student who main-tains her GPA as well as her sense of humor. Her writ-ing ability shows in her ex-cellent projects and daily commitment to reach her goals. I am honored to be her teacher.

Madison Garver Seventh Grade Winner

Chapel Hill Middle School

A Fish Out of Water

It seems that my entire life is a meta-phor. I have always been a fish out of wa-ter—a person that sticks out like a sore thumb. With my dad in the Army, each place we move seems like the same thing over and over. Is it déjà vu? No, it is sim-ply my life. In every place the same old things happen, even though each time is a differ-ent experience. It may sound very strange to some, but it seemed to me that Kansas would be the most normal place to live. You see, we lived on a military base. Eve-ryone there was going through the same things as our family. Everyone moved after a year or two. It was easier to make friends because people did not get so attached. We kids had a sense that after a year, we would move on and find that next best friend. There would always be another Molly, Kate, Marisa and Matt. Even the teachers at school had an understanding of it. Don’t like your neighbors? They will be gone in twelve months. Looking back, I believe I fell into a false sense of normalcy there. New York, on the other hand, was

really hard. My family was the only military family in the entire area. No one at all under-stood. At school, I felt like I was intruding on something. Everyone knew who everyone else was. Then I entered the picture. I was just that new kid at school—the one who talked too much about what Kansas was like and constantly rambled on about her life. My best friends even grew weary of it. That, I be-lieve, was the worst part of New York. Life for Johanna and Makenzi in New York had been strictly that, Johanna and Makenzi. Johanna and Makenzi are going on vacation together. Johanna and Makenzi are going to the mall together. Makenzi is spend-ing the night at Johanna’s house. Then I ar-rived. Suddenly, it was Johanna and Makenzi and Madison. I felt odd between them. They had their lives perfectly set out, and then I came into them. They had to make room for me after twelve years (they were born on the same day), and I felt too intrusive towards their friendship. At the end of that, I felt horrible. I won the D.A.R.E. Student of the Year award, and I won a President’s Award as well. It sounds great, right? Well, it was not so. All of the people in my class had been going to this school since kindergarten. Suddenly, I had come in, taken these awards away from them, and moved two weeks later. I could not wait to get out of the state.

Moving to Georgia was a little better for me. There were at least a few Army kids in the area, and we had all just come from elementary school so no one really knew anyone. Summer really stunk, though. We moved to Georgia at the very end of June, and we were in school on Au-gust 1. Pack, move, and unpack. That’s just the way everyone wants to spend her summer, right? I figured that Georgia was a good way for me to start over. Sixth grade was hard; it seemed that it took me a really long time to adjust to the different ways of Georgia. Here there were gifted classes that we had never had in New York, and I had to take a test to get in them as well as advanced math. I went through two sched-ule changes that year. If that did not make me weird enough, imagine having to get used to five different classes. I was pretty much labeled a geek in all of them, so that did not help. Seventh grade has been much better for me, but it is still really hard being the Army kid with my dad in Iraq. People sometimes treat me differently because of it when I wish they wouldn’t. Life is hard as a fish out of water, but I have discovered

that sometimes I just have to develop the right gills to breathe.

Madison’s Teacher: Kay Eddleman Madison is a mature seventh grader who enjoys writing. Her style is often conversational and al-ways interesting. Relying on a variety of experi-ences and in-depth thoughts, she takes a topic, ex-plores it fully, and offers her readers her own unique perspective. Madison's work is an example of the development of a writer's voice.

Travis Ritchie Eighth Grade Winner Yeager Middle School

The Fallen Saviors

As I trudge along the muddy beaten ground that lay before me, I see glimpses of my serene home and loving family; this is the motivation that would deliver me through this unimaginable journey. I am an American sol-dier. My helicopter was shot down by a ground missile in the middle of this desolate jungle. I am the only one that has survived this horrific crash; the rest of my comrades have moved on to a better place. With only a rifle and my will to live as protection, I am forced to press on. I hear gunshots all around, knowing they are meant for me. The enemy has located the crash site and is now in search for what they truly seek: my head. They are well aware that a lieutenant (me) was on the helicopter. I have what they want in my left pocket: a crumpled piece of paper depicting America’s new attack plan on the terrorists. The terrorists have been slaughtering thou-sands of innocent civilians in the middle of God knows where, which is why the United States has stepped in: to put an end to the vio-lence. Now that I have the attack plan, they will do absolutely anything to get their hands on it. I know what is expected of me. It is my duty to my country to deliver this piece of pa-per to the United States Armed Forces base

just across the border. If I fail, the United States fails. As I meander my way through the thick fo-liage that surrounds me, I ponder where to go, what to do, and where to hide. I know the dark-ness will soon set in, and locating a good resting spot is my number one priority. The gunshots have died down, but I am positive their pursuit has not. I scurry my way through twigs and under-growth, until I find a comfortable spot to settle down. As night sets in, I realize just how beauti-ful the tranquil sky is. I note the location of the North Star, knowing I need to head west. This will help me with tomorrow’s journey. I take a moment to pray, knowing that my Lord and Sav-ior is really my only hope. I curl up in the fetal position, hoping to remain warm as I attempt to sleep. Just as I enter into a deep slumber, “SNAP!!!” A twig has snapped just outside the thicket not twenty feet away. I cannot make out who or what snapped the twig. I am motionless and concentrated on the spot where the twig was snapped. After nearly five minutes, which felt like five hours, no sound was made. I was pretty sure that it was just a wild animal, since any half-way trained soldier would have searched the thicket. I try to remain calm and return to sleep, but find it very difficult. I spend the whole night shivering and trying to remain clam about the whole scenario. As the sun rises, so do I. At this point I am tired, cold and starving, but once again forced to move on. I slowly scamper my way up the side of the ridge to get a bird’s eye view of things.

This is extremely risky since I can now be eas-ily spotted. I reach the crescent of the ridge and take in my surroundings. I am surprised at how far I can see. I try to locate my planned escape route, the Tepor River. This river will lead me to my destination since it runs within a few hundred meters of the base. I know be-cause many soldiers at the base enjoy taking a midday plunge on hot summer days. To my good fortune, I spot the river and start to amble down the other side of the ridge, not knowing what I would encounter later that day. I am astounded that I have not seen an enemy or heard a gunshot all day. Maybe the search has been abandoned. As suddenly as the thought had occurred to me, a gunshot flew by me, parting my hair. I turn to my left and spot three terrorists. They appear to have no fellow comrades, so I quickly take a shot be-fore the one that fired pulls the trigger once again. My shot struck the gunman in the chest, silencing him immediately. I quickly take shelter behind a mossy tree and pick off the remaining terrorists one by one. Though star-tled, I continue to march through the thick jun-gle knowing the river is near, as I can already hear the roar of the water crashing down upon itself. As I push aside the last palms separat-ing me from the river, I set my eyes on the thing that will guide me home, hopefully. I quickly taste the brown muddy water, despite knowing that there are millions of parasites and bacteria in it, but not caring since liquid has not touched my throat for around eighteen hours. With the water raising my

hopes, I now take a moment to look around. I know that I must head downstream for about three miles. Not bad considering during basic training we marched ten, but then again during basic training you didn’t have hundreds of ter-rorists hunting you down like a rabbit during open season. So I slowly wade in and get a feel for my surroundings. I decide the best route will be to creep along the bank, so that a quick escape will be available if necessary. I start my journey home with high hopes for an easy and safe escape, but after just the first bend of the river I lay eyes on the most haunt-ing sight I have ever encountered. A brigade of terrorists was disposing of bodies in a small inflatable dinghy. I observed the terrorists for thirty minutes before they finally scrambled up the muddy embankment and disappeared into the jungle. I slowly progressed on as silently as I could, scanning the area like a hawk for any movement. Within a short period of time I caught up to the dinghy and the true horror of war overwhelmed me. The corpses were those of my comrades, mutilated and burned. I rec-ognize them by the American flag on their charred uniforms. Since I have been stationed at the United States Armed Forces base, two other bodies have also returned in this same fashion. The terrorists put the mutilated corpses in a floatation device of some sort and let it float downstream to the base. They do this as a war tactic, to mock us and show us our long time friends, and sometimes even brothers, in a dishonorable way. I decide to turn this gruesome occurrence into a more

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positive one. I could use the dinghy to my ad-vantage. The terrorists are looking for a live soldier, not a dead one. So if I were to hide among the corpses of my fellow soldiers, I can hopefully evade being captured or killed. So I burrow through the remains of those who were like brothers to me. The stench was so atro-cious that I had to use everything in me to keep the vomit down. I soon find a comfortable spot among the corpses, where I am well hid-den but still have a fresh air passage. Only a couple hours and I will be back to the base, safe and sound. Finally, cold hard reality sets in on what I am doing. I am actually lying among corpses of friends, their cold forms pressing against me like a thousand stones. I cannot help but to sob for several minutes, not knowing if I will ever see anyone I hold close again. I try to pull myself together and regain my composure, but find myself wishing to be anywhere else in the world. I finally get control of myself. Just in time, because at this moment I begin to hear voices in the distance. I have no clue who the voice is projecting from or what language they are speaking. I try to get a glimpse of the peo-ple by raising my head above the corpses. Much to my disdain, in the distance was a group of ten or so terrorists, wading in the wa-ter like alligators on the hunt. I know they were in water because they have predicted where I would attempt to make my escape, but I see what I have been wishing for all along. In the distance, is the blurred outline of the United States Armed Forces base. The terror-

ists are waiting on the border, plotting their last attempt to capture me. With the terrorists ap-proaching, I nestle back down among the corpses, praying to safely pass the enemy line. With my pulse pounding, I dare not breathe as I hear the terrorists around the dinghy. Wait! Why have they stopped the dinghy. Oh no, I am sure to be found. Despite being in a state of panic, I become frozen, knowing it is life or death as the last body between the terrorists and me is removed. I can feel the terrorist checking my pulse; he is sure to know I am alive. All of a sudden my eye is forced open by a grimy hand. The person is dressed like a terrorist, but looks like a Caucasian male. Then I realize whom the hand belonged to, my best friend, Jerry Cage. The rest of his unit from the base surrounds me. Then they all say to me in unison, “No one gets left behind.” As I stand in the General’s office handing over the crumpled and nearly destroyed attack plan, he tells me that he knew the whole time I would survive and would make the country proud. He then explains that the rescue unit had to dress as terrorists to avoid being attacked by actual ones. I tell him that I have never been so relieved to see a terrorists in my life. He chuckles, then hands me my ticket home. At this moment a wave of relief washes over me like a cleansing rain. I gratefully take the ticket and depart to collect my belongings. The next day I am reunited with my family and I am overjoyed to be able to embrace the one I love again. However, I doubt I will ever fully recover from my escape among the corpses.

Many people complain about something as insignificant as a paper cut or a bad day at work or school, without remembering the hundreds of sol-diers overseas literally fighting for their lives. Many do not make it home to see their loved ones again, as I was fortunate enough to do. So next time you have a complaint about something small, just remember those that are going through much worse and are suffering for you and our country. You’ll be surprised at how fast your problem be-comes insignificant. Travis’ Teacher: Michelle Giesey Travis Ritchie is an amazing young man, with multiple talents, including his instinctive ability to write in such an interesting way that the reader is immediately en-thralled. His writing has a sharp, distinct voice, and he turns the most boring topic into an incredibly intriguing reading adventure.

Tim Olivier Ninth Grade Winner

Alexander High School

A Soldier’s Horror As the dark shadow moved steadily through the abandoned town, he heard the yells and screams of the fired upon platoon. He moved along the dark walls of the old bakery reaching the corner of the building and stared with horror as he saw his pla-toon lying on the ground. Hundreds of gunshots, pierced flesh, and the rubble of all the tattered buildings lay on the road. He stared in shock, as the enemy soldiers left the bodies as they were and took every-thing they had in their pockets of the dead. They laughed as they walked back down the street. The young man went up to the bodies and noticed the face of his brother and father that had been with him through-out the entire war. The young man ran in terror and hid in the back alley till morning broke. He needed to find another platoon to join and tell them what had happened to the others. He awoke to more gunshots; they were coming from the other side of the street. He grabbed his rifle and moved slowly to see what was going on. As he moved closer and closer, he found that it was another platoon that had moved in the

previous night. He saw that one of the sol-diers noticed him and screamed for him to come and help with the brutal war that was taking place in the small town. He noticed some of the soldiers that had tortured and slaughtered his platoon. He began shooting maniacally at the opposing soldiers. After hours and hours of shooting and killing, the enemy retreated back to across the town. The young man and the platoon were joy-ous in their stand against the German’s army. “Where is your platoon?” the gen-eral asked. “They were captured and killed by some of the soldiers we have forced out of our town” the young man replied. The general gave the young man a stone cold stare that made it send an icy chill up the young man’s spine. “Where were you at the time this took place?” the stern general questioned. “I...I watched them get killed…..there were too many for me to handle alone...I only wish there was some-thing I could have done…” the sobbing young man said. As the general stood there silent, the young man walked down the street, alone, and scared as he walked down the desolate street. When he reached the corner of the abandoned street, he fell to his knees. As he glanced down at his crimson chest and rolled over to his back and took

his final breath, through his rifle over to the side of the street and thought of the family he had left behind.

Tim’s Teacher: Debbie Rager After studying a unit on short stories in class, Tim was inspired to write a piece inspired by the peren-nial favorite "The Sniper" by Liam O'Flaherty. His description of the war scene in his story in con-junction with the characterization of the protago-nist demonstrates Tim's proficiency at writing nar-rative fiction. His pared prose style echoes that of great American writers such as Ernest Heming-way, as does his penchant for creating fast-paced action sequences.

Ana Kabakova Tenth Grade Winner

Alexander High School

Bella was watching the mundane scenery dance by the window. The sun had slowly begun to set above one of the high mountains of what she presumed to be Utah when a stranger slid open the cabin door. He seemed extremely out of his element with his ruffled brown hair and his an-drogynous figure. He managed to glance quickly in her direction before crashing down onto the seat diagonal from Bella and pulling out a frayed sketch pad. Since she had been in solitude for most of the train ride except occasional in-quiry by a stewardess who had identified herself as Clarice, Bella was desperate for some type of human communication. “Are you an artist?” Bella asked the intruder. He looked up. Bella noticed his arc-tic gray eyes. “Oh, well, you know,” the stranger said, “I try.” “Ah,” Bella said, sensing that he wasn’t interested in conversation. After drawing several peculiar draw-ings, the stranger spoke again. “I’ve been rather rude; sorry for not introducing my-self. I’m Darth.” “Darth?” Bella asked, “As in Darth Vader?”

Darth chuckled. “Yes, my parents were quite the fans of Star Wars back in their day. It’s quite embarrassing, actu-ally.” “Oh, I think it’s very unique. There’s a new film coming out in May. The Phan-tom Menace. I’m sure you know.” “Ah, yes.” Darth paused, and then started staring at Bella intently. “Why are you looking at me like that?” She asked. “I’m trying to decide whether you look like a Blair or a Bella.” “How on earth did you know?” Bella was dumbfounded. “So, which one is it? I bet it’s Blair.“ “Nope. Sorry.” Bella responded. “I’m quite interested in how you figured that out, though.” “There are people who BS their way through life pretending they know things, and then get lucky, and then there are the people who really do know things, but just don’t let on. Those are the people that are real. Genuine. You don’t meet people like that too often.” This answer struck Bella as odd. This boyish stranger had just guessed her name and inadvertently concurred with her personal outlook on life in just a few short minutes. Bella sank down in her seat and

picked up the daily newspaper. The bold headline blared: 12 students and 1 teacher killed at Columbine High School Massacre in Colorado. She read the arti-cle dated April 21st, 1999, which was ac-companied by a picture of an injured stu-dent being helped out of a window of what was presumably a school by a SWAT team as well as school pictures of two teenaged boys. “How terrible,” Bella thought out loud, “These guys were my age. I mean, I understand that we all experience stress, but violence is a false resolution.” Darth seemed to be troubled with her musings. “I hate things like this. The me-dia is going to end up making this story very one sided and biased. What if these guys were not simply bored and malicious? What if they were taunted and ridiculed, and finally thought that a life of obscurity wasn’t worth their time?” “So because they were made fun of, they had to kill innocent people?” Bella felt herself getting angry. “I’m not saying that, not at all”. Darth leaned towards Bella. “My point is that the opportunity for the antagonism leading to this (He gestured to the newspa-per.) should not happen. How many people do you think could have prevented this? How many people could have reached out to these teens with a smile or a hello, some-thing to give them the feeling that they got

a break? It’s idiotic to think that these things just happen. They’re provoked.” The train lurched. “Hello. This is your stewardess from the main cabin, Daisy speaking,” said a metallic voice from a box on the ceiling. “Please don’t be alarmed by the train’s movement. If you need anything, please tell your stew- - - .” The announce-ment was cut off. “I never really thought about stuff like this, to tell you the truth.” said Bella slowly, her anger fading as what Darth had just said was sinking in. Thoughtlessly, Darth held up a sketch of a severed pig’s head on a stick. The cap-tion on the bottom said, in spiked text, ‘sharpened at both ends’. “How does it look? Does it need more gore?” Darth mumbled half-heartedly. Bella could tell that he didn’t really care what she thought, and simply turned her head to look out the win-dow again, noticing how the sunset had changed into a fiery blanket covering the sky. The train began to slow. “Are you afraid of the blood? It’s a constant in life; it’s comparable to air,” Darth baited. “No, I’m not. I don’t care about the blood, or the gore, or the grotesqueness. I hate admiring awful things. It’s absurd to spend my life admiring things that will bring me down. I like to live for the positive.” Bella answered.

“I’m a misanthrope, a pessimist, and a cynic. It’s not normal for everything to be happy. Humans are here to suffer,” Darth refuted. The train jerked to a stop. The metal-lic voice from the box dutifully notified the passengers that they were in Salt Lake City. Bella stood up, and picked up her suitcase. “It’s all mental,” she said, “The key is to surround yourself with things you like and people you love. Find something that makes you happy, and do it as long as possi-ble. It’s as simple as that. Happiness is tangible.” Bella slid open the cabin door, and stepped out into the hall-way, preparing to disembark. When she turned to shut the cabin door be-hind her, she thoughtfully added, “Goodbye Darth, and good riddance.” Ana’s Teacher: Vickie Burnett A Governor's honors nominee, Ana's love for litera-ture is evident in everything she does. She is fluent in both Russian and English, and she is sensitive to the subtle nuances of everyday life.

John McArthur Eleventh Grade Winner Alexander High School

Goldilocks and the Three Bears . . . ee cummings style

Goldilocks walking the she upon was through woods came a house in the woods and after picking the lock went inside being hungry she began to eat the food that was sitting out

which happened to be porridge after the porridge was eaten she became tired and went to sit in a chair seemed to chairs fit the until of she none tried out the smallest one it was comfortable until it broke and crashed to the floor then being tired she went to

the bedroom to find a place to

sleep she took

a nap and when she awoke

the bears came and

m h t d a e o e u r a l t e h d

Malone Thornton Twelfth Grade Winner Alexander High School

Teacher Adventure

It was spring in the year of 2007,

With the flowers blooming, it was just like heaven.

The teachers were stressed to the core

And they all felt that they needed more.

Class by class, day by day.

They were counting down the days till they could play.

Major cases of senioritis were being detected,

And all the teacher’s lectures and notes were being rejected.

Exams, quizzes, and worksheets were profusely handed out -

Both students and teachers had reason to pout.

There was one question:

“Where should we go for a vacation?”

“Off to Scotland! I said,

“Let’s find the sea monster of which I’ve read!”

They were teachers all, adventurers, too;

Determined to seek and find something new.

Would Nessy be red, yellow, brown, or blue?

Who knew?

This is where our adventure began:

There is a history teacher, a learned man.

Mr. Smith is his name;

Of the teachers I’ve met, there are none the same.

Corny jokes spout from his grinning mouth;

With his “Georgia” attire, you sure can tell he’s from the south.

He has white hair and a happy face.

Being in his presence isn’t too bad of a place!

It was history and mystery that Mr. Smith was looking for

On this trip with the other four

Another, Mrs. Jones, eloquent in speech,

Is an ideal candidate to teach.

She’s prone to song in her soliloquy

(Yes, I have heard her and she’s seldom off key!)

Eternally pregnant, she waddles with pride -

For her, mom and teacher - they truly coincide!

In spite of her pregnancy,

She goes in search of her ancestry.

Though hoping to view castles of many kinds,

Her doctor would not want her to wait in very long lines

Sitting beside her on this trip

Is science teacher John - Pepsi in hand, ready to sip

Mr. Miller: a merry man is he;

Though once, he did give me a test grade of “B”

A permanent smile is fixed upon his face;

With short gray hairs, I am not amazed.

For it is said gray hairs make a wise man,

“So explain again, Mr. M, for I do not understand.”

His amusing personality never ends

Of which he will, too, supply his teacher friends.

While on this journey crossing the wide sea,

With test tubes he seeks to discover a chemical analysis on Nessy.

The final adventurer is Mrs. Brown.

Though very proper, this lady is a real jaw-dropper.

With beauty and grace she commands much respect.

The allure of Brit Lit, she let no one reject.

She rises above the rest

Because she pushes her students to do their best.

Well dressed and with an air of confidence,

She is a woman of great accomplishments.

All these qualities, not withstanding,

For Mrs. Brown the strain was too much.

So she packed her bags (no books and such).

She felt she had to flee,

And so to Scotland she went in search of Nessy.

My fellow students, they ask me -

“Why do you leave with them?”

To that I reply,

“Because I, too, want to go to Scotland.

I’m with Mr. Smith - oh yes sir!

I also want to see the Loch Ness Monster!”

Malone’s Teacher: Cheryl Johnson–Herring I sincerely enjoy having Malone in class as she tends to do well in everything she attempts. Malone enjoys singing, writing short stories and poetry --and signing. In fact, she plans on majoring in American Sign Language! An earlier poem, enti-tled "Brothers," won first place in a Mississippi writing contest.