Stop the Clock

Welcome back for our February installments! 

Have you ever had a special time on the clock?  You know, that number that always seems to be staring back at you when you happen to check the time, almost like it's supposed to mean something?  For this writer, it seems that the time is 3:45. 

Enjoy a suspenseful ride in this seventh-grade short story.

3:45 PM

 Clap! The pitter-patter of the rain splashed against the car window as the music from my headphones brightened my mind. I guess tuning out the world was my specialty as a teenager. My brother seemed to be pounding on the keys of his whatever-he-was-playing, and I could care less about what he was doing. And my parents were mumbling about boring stuff, as they always are.

I checked the time on the car monitor, and it read 3:45pm. “3:45” I pondered. I sort of just stared at the time until it got blurry. And I didn’t even bother blurring back. It felt so good, relaxing my eyes. It made the world so much easier to tune out. Then I saw something peculiar, frightening. There were two huge bulbs of light, screaming right for the car.

I was franticly shrieking, pointing at the lights. They were getting brighter by the second. I managed to sputter out two words. “Dad, Car!” His eyes darted ahead and he swerved the car sharply. The screaming was unbearable, and I squeezed my eyes shut like the scared, cowardly girl I was.

I braced my arm on my brother’s chest as the jolt sent me flying. I couldn’t see a speck, but it felt as if thousands, millions of little shards were breaking around me. Thud! Pain shot through me as if a thunderbolt were striking my chest. I could hear the glass shards scraping, jingling on the concrete. And that was the only sound I could hear, but there was something else. I tried to turn around, but pain was pulsing through my veins. I stopped looking when I realized the screaming was me. I was screaming in worry and agony. I started to take deep breaths so that I could use my energy to turn my head aside. However, when I strained my head to look, all I could see was grey and red blurring my vision.

The rain dolloped my eyelashes as if to wipe the red away from my scraped face. As my vision cleared, all I could see were disembodied parts of scrap metal and thick, needled shards of glass. The scent of rubber was wafting in my nose. My long, golden hair was all strewn about. I couldn’t see anyone; no one was in sight. All was silent except for the pulsing in my skull. My chest became empty, and it almost felt like I couldn’t breathe, like a ball coming up my throat. This is hopeless. The stinging in my eyes throbbed as streams of warm water swiped down my cheek, bringing ash with it. I knew this was it. This was it. Nothing could be done to help me. No family in sight, and no hope in my heart.

I gave one last piercing scream to take away all the pain, to take away the awful memories, to wipe my slate clean. I didn’t even get to say good-bye, and I wanted to die right there. It would’ve been so simple to give up, to never have to think of a worry again. I could play in the golden light, smile until it hurt, and see old friends. But the feeling in my guts told me that I had to hold on. I needed to hold on to my life with my bare hands. I could almost feel my fingers losing grip, becoming slippery and my vision was becoming hazy. But I knew I couldn’t fall. I couldn’t let go. A heart is a burden that you can’t let go of; it’s too valuable to be lost. All of a sudden, I felt a rush of blood, paralyzing everything. Terror and blackness overcame me.

I woke up to the sound of beeping in my ear, a weird- thick smell of medicine, and latex gloves. The fluorescent lights blinded me, and I shut my eyes tight. As my eyes adjusted, I realized that I wasn’t here before. I have never been here before. I was lying on the cold cement, holding on for my family, screaming the pain away. But no; now I’m here. “Where is my mom, My Dad?! WHERE IS MY FAMILY?!” I cried. Doctors and nurses of all kinds came rushing over to me with worried looks on their tired faces. They were pressing buttons, writing down stuff. I didn’t want to know what they were doing, or where I was. I just wanted to know where my family was.  

From what I could collect from the nurses and doctors blabbering, I felt like a cold, angered, force was sliding against my stomach. “Yes this is the girl from the crash, age 14… no other victims found on site . . . get more medicine now!” I swear I felt that force slip right into the pit of my stomach. NO, NO, NO!  I started to wail hopelessly, but no tears would come out. I wanted to sulk in the corner where no one could find me, to hide in the closet so I could get away. I wanted to get aside from everything. I never wanted to see a thing again.

When the doctors cleared out, I slowly got out of the springy bed and peeked out of the door frame. Looked left, looked right. None are in sight. I slipped out of the door frame and sprinted through the cold hallway. I sprinted faster than I ever had before. There was a deep pulsing in my calf that felt like it was ripping my leg apart. But I kept running anyway. Not only from the doctors, but the dark, confusing past that laid behind me. I kept thinking, I gotta get out of this nightmare of a place. All the hospital was rushing past me in a blur of blue and white. My bare feet were making a slapping noise against the cool tile. No one could’ve stopped me. The world took my family away in an instant, and I wanted to be gone in a snap. The throbbing in my eyes came back to me. But I couldn’t cry, not then. I needed to find my family, where ever they were.

The parking lot was huge and all I could see were vans and cars, dotted along the vast space. I ran anyway, the white coated doctors trailing behind. The sky almost looked just as hurt as me, for it was raining drops and tears, making everyone else hurt with it. My eyes spotted a cross walk, an escape from this cruel place.

            I could see my pale feet against the stripes as I stumbled flat on my face.

I wished to sink into the yellow and let them blanket me. I wanted to disappear, just as my family did. I wanted to go home, and to go now. No one knew a thing about me. No one knew what I’m like, or what I had just lost, or what I was about to go through. So I thought that I might as well go join my family, wherever they were. I closed my eyes to the point where I could see only black and faded, blotched, colors. And I thought back to where I last saw my family. It was when I saw that time, 3:45pm. All the thoughts from that moment swirled through my head with colorful slashes in the dark.

Nothing is happening;

I’m so bored!

I want to get out of this stupid car.

            Well, I guess got my wish. I never knew how precious time was, until you lose it, until it matters no more.

I blurred my vision on the passing cars, imagining that I was blurring out to that time, 3:45, what a beautiful time. I could almost feel the air of the warm car, wrapping me in comfort. But I could only hear the tires roaring past the tip of my ear. I screamed and let it echo in my head until all turned white, blurry white.

The jolt of the car caused me to snap my eyes back to reality.

 What?

 My body was still in the seat. The car was on the road. It’s like it never happened. Because it didn’t happen I thought. It was so real. It had to be, but no, we are on the road. My dad avoided that car; he swerved away from it. My music was still blasting in my ears as if it were saying that everything was fine. Nothing was going to hurt me, and nothing ever will. I gave a big sigh of relief because I knew that the nightmare of my imagination was over; my stupid imagination. I looked back at the car monitor, and it read 3:45, that precious time. My precious time.  

by Gigi F.

Grade 7

The Lonely Train

artwork by Audrey K.
Grade 9

This poem, written by one of Miss Levin's students, captures the craving for connection that we all have.  Instead of writing about a character, however, she personifies a train. 
.

The Lonely Train

The lonely train never rests
forever confined to the unforgiving steel track

                            burden
collecting upon
                            burden

traveling   m i l e   after   m i l e

temporary destinations merely a veneer
for the brutal reality of the endless journey

The lonely train has no companion
passengers board from different walks of life --
no face, no story, no demeanor ever the same
but all similar in the way they seem
to depart without a second glance.

The lonely train grows weary
vibrant sceneries blur with the haste of the trek
as it rambles through the days . . . weeks . . . months . . . years . . .
while the once-powerful engine becomes
weak and wheels rusted

The lonely train cries
its melancholy whistle piercing the stillness of night

echoing
                      echoing

                                           echoing through hills and valleys

telling the tale of a journey long traveled
pleading for a connection

by Jamie B.
Grade 9

An Ordinary American

artwork by Hugh C.
Grade 8

As eighth-graders at Holicong study American history, they work with their English and social studies teachers to craft lively historical fiction using facts gleaned from their studies and research.  The project is called "An Ordinary American," and students are helped to assume the perspective of an early citizen in North America. This excerpt is from the story of a fictional character, Maria Gonzalez.

Maria Gonzalez

October 7, 1724

The galloping of hooves outside of my windows awakens me. I hurriedly get dressed, and rush downstairs, still groggy eyed. Black horses canter around my house. Miguel strolls up behind me.

            “What’s going on?” he asks.

            “I have no idea. Are the girls still asleep?”

            “Yes.”

            “Good.” I breathe a sigh of relief.

            The King’s minister strides over with a scroll, a menacing gleam in his eyes.

            “What is the meaning of this?” Miguel demands.

            “I’ve come for Maria Gonzalez. She’s to be branded for slander.”

            I panic. “What? But I didn’t do anything! What happened?”

            “It seems as though Po Daniels, the man you chose to be punished for vandalizing the King’s statue, was innocent. The real culprit was Eustice. The other day, as he lay on his death bed, a witness overhead his last words.”

            “Which were…?”

            “’Shame on King George II! I’m exalted that I desecrate his statue with pig manure!’”

            “But… All of the clues lead to Po Daniels… It couldn’t have been …” I stutter.

            “You’re to be branded on the tongue. The townsfolk trusted you. They had faith in your decisions. Now, you’re nothing but a shame to Chester, Pennsylvania.”

            “This is not happening.” I stare at him in disbelief.

            “You can’t do this!” Miguel argues. “What will become of our children? They have a whole life ahead of them!”

            “You should’ve thought of that before.”

            He grabs my arm, dragging me to a horse that’ll bring me to the town square’s punishment area. To my misery.

            “Stay here, Miguel. Don’t let the children see.”

            He has tears in his eyes as I ride away with the minister.

**********

            The crowd hoots and chants. Yelling echoes through the open area. I can’t believe it. Just a year ago, Po experienced the same. I was loyal to these people. They depended on me. I was the one they turned to in times of need.

            I’ve fallen short of their expectations. Betrayed them without meaning to. I deserve to be punished.

            Stepping up to the one who will brand me, I allow tears to slip down my cheeks. I tentatively open my mouth, instantly regretting it when the searing brand scorches my tongue. I’m marked with an S for slander. If I could scream or cry out, I would, but it burns too much. The rapid tears continue dripping from my eyes as the crowd cheers. The people I thought to be my fellow neighbors and friends pump their fists in the air.

            I failed them.

 

 

by Alesandra T.

Grade 8

A Myth

artwork by Vivien A.
Grade 7

Recently. Mrs. Trammel's classes studied mythology, and after learning all the trappings of Greek mythology, she challenged them to craft an original myth.  The assignment unleashed Isabel's creativity, as you can see below.  She shows us Disney is not the only one who can craft a tale of frozen whimsy.

Kairos

         Kairos is the goddess of time. She lives on Mt. Grandfather, separate from all the Olympians. On this mountain, she makes time pass, controls night and day, decides when people are born, and when they die. Kairos has the ability to pause, rewind, and fast-forward time. She is neither good nor evil, but the universe would not work properly without her. Many people, even a few of the gods, do not like her. They believe she possesses too much power over the world. Because of this, Kairos is a bit of an outcast among the gods and is very lonely on her mountain. She does not even like her own powers much.

       When Kairos first learned of her powers, she was felicitous. She traveled all over time seeing the wonders of the world, and she loved it. She saw much more than most had, and because of this, Zeus made her swear by the river Styx to never tell anyone other than the gods what she saw. Kairos saw beyond Greece and beyond the ancient world. She knew well about the modern cities and technologies that were soon to come and about the dinosaurs and cave men who inhabited the land long ago. 

        One day, when Kairos was weary of time-traveling and controlling the fates of human beings, she decided to explore Earth. Seeing the beautiful green rolling hills, peaceful forests, and majestic snow-capped mountains reminded her that present-day Earth itself is full of wonders. Kairos was walking through a small village when she started a conversation with a poor man named Lykaon selling crops on the street. Kairos enjoyed the man’s company, so every time she came down to Earth from then on, she and Lykaon would get together and talk.

      Eventually, they fell in love. Kairos could no longer resist the temptation to bring Lykaon along with her on her adventures throughout time. For one whole day, the two traveled far and wide from places like New York City in two thousand fourteen, to the planet Oolzynus in three thousand fifty. They had such a wonderful time that Kairos forgot about her oath by the river Styx. 

       At the end of the day, Lykaon’s human body was worn out from all of the time travel and he died. Kairos was too depressed to care that she was deprived of ambrosia and nectar, and she mourned Lykaon for years. She had decided that the company of others was not good after all and went back to being lonely on her mountain. Sometimes, she would cry so hard that her powers got out of control, and time would freeze, freezing her tears with it. 

      This is why we have snowflakes.  They are Kairos’s frozen tears.

 

by Isabel A.

Grade 7

I Believe in Little Things

Whether it is the gears inside of a watch, or the optimism inside of or hearts, little things keep the wide world turning.  Both the artwork and the poetry in this month's final post emphasize this fact.

artwork by Natalie D.
Grade 9

Little Things

For every salty teardrop,

There is a gentle smile.

For every rainy day,

There is a rainbow.

For every hateful person,

There are thousands more who give their lives for others.

For every goodbye,

There is a hello.

For every Monday morning,

There is a Friday afternoon.

For every second that passes in your beautiful life,

Is another memory made,

For life is not measured in time,

It is measured in moments,

Keurig coffee on a rainy Sunday morning,

Pastel sunrises beyond the horizon of the vast ocean,

The aroma that fills the whole house when there are homemade chocolate chip cookies in the oven,

The carefree innocence of a baby’s giggle when you do something silly,

Waking up to a soft, white blanket, covering the town in December,

The first sunny day in April,

Smiles from a passing stranger,

Warm sips out of a steaming mug after a day in the cold,

Long hugs with the ones you love,

When your favorite song blasts through the fuzzy car speakers,

The smell of freshly cut grass,

Sand making its way between your toes,

The rays of sun that beam, radiating warmth on your skin,

For these are the moments,

That make the struggles worth it,

For you cannot experience the beauty of joy without the pain.

Life is not measured in time,

It is measured in moments.

by Lauren B.

Grade 9

To celebrate the recent production of Peter Pan at CB East, Rachel C. designed this artistic typography to share with our readers. It reinterprets the first page of J. M. Barrie's classic, Peter Pan.

Darkness and Light

For the first time in the history of sevenatenine, we have poetry and artwork created by the same person this month.  Notice how one resonates with the other, even though they were created at different times.

Love

Is love

A pair of rings?

A kiss?

Two hands entwined?

A smile passed between near-strangers?

Is love

A mother's warm embrace?

A father's pride?

A brother's sticky-fingered high five?

A sister's shared Barbie doll?

Is love

A flutter in your stomach?

A racing pulse?

A blush, coating your cheeks?

An unconscious smile?

Is love

Something that can be measured?

Something that can be counted?

Something that can be weighed?

Something that can be calculated?

Is love

To be taken for granted?

To be cherished?

To be strived for?

To be upheld?

Or is love

Something different

For each heart?

by Evelyn H. 

Grade 8



artwork by Evelyn H.
Grade 8

A Little Bit of a Riddle

This month, our poet asked that we withhold the subject of this poem, excluding it from the title and the introduction.  The imagery speaks for itself, and we believe you can figure it out on your own! 


Requiem

A flood of pain washed over me.
It felt as if the world had ended.
Sorrow, loss, and anger built up inside of me.
It was like my life was dangling from a thread.

2% . . . 1% . . . 0%

The thread broke.
My life fell.
No hope remained.
I was useless without it.
I heard someone offer up their charger,
but it was too late.
My electrical honey-gold heart had died.

by Angelina A.
Grade 7

artwork by Emily W.
Grade 7

artwork by Georgia K.
Grade 7