March Forward

 It seems we have had trouble escaping the winter chill this March, but that means it's time to snuggle up to some excellent writing, right?!?

Enjoy this month's post! 

Artwork by Yana R., Grade 9

Prerequisites to Eating Your Birthday Cake

In my family there are three prerequisites to eating your birthday cake: you blow out your candles, smear your name, and make a wish about something irrelevant to the world. I wish I could get a Labrador puppy. I wish I could be the queen of England. I wish my mom would buy me a trampoline to keep in our backyard.

My 15^th birthday that all changed.

My dad is sick upstairs, locked away in his room. My friends are unable to join the “party”. My brother complains that he prefers chocolate to the creamy vanilla icing that decorates the smooth vanilla cake. ‘Happy Birthday Calli!’, it reads in beautiful cursive. All in all, this was a birthday too easy to remember, yet sometimes I want to forget.

When Covid-19 struck America in early March, nobody expected that in mid-June it would still be raging; nobody expected hundreds of thousands to die. Yet, here I am four months later blowing out my birthday candles with a paper plate, smearing my name with a plastic spoon, and wishing for people to stop dying.

I woke up on June 15^th, 2020 on the right side of the bed. My golden birthday! ‘15 on the 15^th’ I caption my Instagram post. Creative, I know. I walk down the stairs to sprinkle-covered pancakes and a brother with presents in hand. My mom stands next to him, a proud smile on her face.

“She didn’t burn the pancakes this time,” Aidan chuckles.

“Very funny,” my mom throws back nonchalantly. Nothing seems off for a moment, but then my mom’s smile begins to falter a bit. I look around and walk into the answer of the question I didn’t know I had asked.

Aidan slowly states, “He couldn’t taste his breakfast this morning.” There’s a gaping dad-sized hole at our kitchen table. Oh no. Everyone knows that losing your taste and smell are sure signs of Covid-19. Nobody wants someone they love to catch the virus. Who knows how my dad’s weakened heart will take it? Quickly, I whip my phone out of my flannel pajama bottoms.

“U feeling okay?” I text my dad.

It takes thirty long seconds for him to respond. Like watching a rocket prepare to blast off from its sturdy structure, I count down the seconds to a reply. Houston, do we have a problem? Finally, my phone vibrates in my pocket: “Meh. I’ll survive. Happy birthday Caj!” Everyone’s spirits rise a bit when we see my childhood nickname being used. If my dad has the energy to poke fun, then he must be feeling okay.

I scamper up to my room to change, wearing a blue medical face mask just in case. I bound back down the stairs in a flash and grip the golden doorknob to the outside world; quickly, I shove the door open and am bathed in the glow of the early morning. A flash of color on our typically dark driveway catches my eye.

“Happy Birthday Calli” shouts the chalk. I run down the steps and see my neighbors lining the driveway.  They’re an odd group, ages ranging from 5 to 55, but there’s no one else I’d rather celebrate with. JJ, my 5-year-old next door neighbor, tutoring trainee, and babysitting burden runs up to me to do our not-so-secret handshake. At first, I’m excited, but then I realize what I must do.

“Sorry, not today little man!” I shout as I jump backwards, “My dad’s not feeling too great so keep six feet away.”

“But I only have two feet!” he complains.

I guess that’s the next unit we need to study... I think to myself. The three other families around the driveway take an unconscious synchronized step backward.

“Is your dad alright?” JJ’s mom asks.

“He will be,” I respond. “or now he’s staying locked up.” The mom frowns as she pulls a card out from behind her back, ‘Happy Birthday’ it reads. I’m starting to think this birthday might not be so happy. I run back inside for a moment and slide the buttercream covered birthday cake into my arms. Slow and steady wins the race. I remind myself. When I step back on to the rainbow covered driveway a small card table is set up in the center… We used to play poker right here, using goldfish as our chips… my dad always dealt… Carefully, I slip the cake onto the table.

 My mom and brother, each wearing the dreaded blue medical mask, walk out the front door. The click of a camera flies into the air and slowly people begin to sing. “Happy Birthday to you…” they begin, adding “HAYAH”’s between each line. Nobody ever knows what to do when others sing happy birthday. Standing over my cake I awkwardly dance and wave in a circle. JJ does the same, convinced the cake was made just for him. Finally, the last “HAYAH” arrives and I reach down to smear my name for good luck. My mom grabs my hand and pushes it away.

“Better safe than sorry,” she says as she hands me a plastic spoon and paper plate. The spoon doesn’t smear icing as well as my finger, but hopefully it brings the same amount of luck. I “blow” out the candles by fanning the paper plate: up, down, up, down. A slow, squeaky noise comes from above our heads and the neighbors go quiet, looking up towards the window. My dad stares down at us from behind the window screen in Hershey pajama pants and an oversized sweatshirt.

“Happy birthd-“ he starts to say before breaking down into a coughing fit.

“Thanks padre. Go get some sleep,” I call up to him.

A second later millions of worries shove themselves into my head: How many more sailing trips will we go on, trapped in the middle of the sea with waves crashing down? How many more pens will we steal from the cleaning carts around The Hotel Hershey? How many more movies will he force me to watch: Dirty Dancing, JoJo Rabbit, The Polar Express? I pull these thoughts from my brain and place them into the ever-growing list of things I want to forget.

In my family there were three prerequisites to eating your birthday cake: you blew out your candles, smeared your name, and made a wish about something irrelevant to the world. Did blowing out the candles and smearing my name truly make my wish come true? I’m not sure. All I know is that two weeks later my dad was finally able to get out of bed, but eight months in the future half a million Americans are dead and dying. I didn’t get to smear my name, sure. But they will never again get to eat a cake or make a wish. Who will celebrate their birthdays?

by Calli P., Grade 9

 

Artwork by Jacob D., Grade 8

Last month, we published the opening to a play, Pheidippides, written by a group of seventh grade students.  Though we do not have ample space to publish the entire play, we did want you to see the intrigue of the concluding scenes, published below.  We hope that when Broadway reopens you will have the chance to see Pheidippides live and on stage. 

Scene 6

The curtain rises in the deserted agora. There is no one to be seen in the usually busy agora. The wooden stands are abandoned. Pheidippides continues to walk through the streets of the agora.

Pheidippides: That is weird. Usually, the agora is buzzing with people.

Narrator: Pheidippides spotted a person hurrying through the street. When Pheidippides asked him where everybody was, the man said that everyone was in their houses because the Persians were about to attack. He also said that he was left behind to tell Pheidippides that he needs to go to the battlefield so he can bring the Spartan army with him. So, with all the strength Pheidippides had left, he ran to report to the battlefield. When he got there, Miltiades was waiting.

Miltiades: (with a disappointed look on his face) Oh, you’re here.

Pheidippides: (Pheidippides out of breath) You sound disappointed.

Miltiades: I am not.

Pheidippides: Am I too late?

Miltiades: Yes, you are. But we won anyway.

Pheidippides: So, you are telling me I ran who knows how far, for no reason?!

Miltiades: Hmm...let me think... yes you did! Now I need you to run back to Athens and tell them we are victorious.

Pheidippides: What? Are you insane!? No. I need a break.

Miltiades: You wanted to do this job, so finish it.

Narrator: And with that, Pheidippides ran all the way back to Athens to ring the town bell. By ringing that bell, he is telling everyone to meet in the agora.

Everyone cautiously walks out of their homes and into the agora.

Pheidippides: (now wheezing and clapping) We...are...victorious. (he is starting to cough.)

Narrator: And with that, Pheidippides is soon wailing as he passes out and falls. Many people ran to get help, but by the time a doctor got there, Pheidippides, the best runner in Athens, had died.

In the background there is Dun-Dun-Dunnnnn. Miltiades gets word of Pheidippides and is the happiest man alive at that moment.

Miltiades: (with a smirk and happy tone) Well, that’s the end of him.

Scene 7

The camera cuts to the event of Pheidippides’ funeral, where Miltiades happens to be making a speech. Almost the whole city of Athens is there.

Miltiades: (As sad music plays in background) It is so unfortunate that we are gathered here today to grieve over the death of Athens’ own Pheidippides. He was a great friend of mine, and was without a doubt the best runner in Athens! I-

Miltiades is cut off by a man who comes running from the street. The music cuts off.

Athenian Man: As if you have a right to be speaking like this! Pheidippides was the first to volunteer to run to Sparta, but instead, you ignored him and acted like he didn’t exist. When he was gone, all you did was insult him and say how he would never make it back. Then, when he ran all the way to Marathon to find you, you sent him back HERE to declare a victory. So long story short, this guy would still be alive if it wasn’t for you.

The crowd of Athenians nod and mumble in agreement, and Miltiades soon rushes off the platform in embarrassment. The Athenian man rushes up onto the platform.

Athenian Man: Pheidippides was one of Athens’ true heroes. Strong, respectful, and willing to do anything for his city. I went to school with him, and all of Miltiades’ tales of him being a “bully” and “dishonorable” are completely untrue. So, everyone, please take some time to pay your respects to the best runner in Athens, and possibly Greece. Pheidippides!

The crowd cheers as the curtains closes.

The End

 by "The Burnt Potatoes" including Zara C., Reuben B., Brady C., Emelia O., Michael A., and Katlyn C-Z. 

Something New

 In February we found ourselves buried under endless snow, but as the month wraps up, the sun is giving us hope of something new: a little warmth, green buds bursting, and a play written by seventh-grade students set in ancient Greece.  For the first time in its history, Sevenatenine features a script at the end of this post this month, created by a group who calls themselves "The Burnt Potatoes." The plot might leave you asking . . . will it get a second season in March?  You will have to wait and see!

 But first enjoy two pieces from our editors, a poem about dreams and a short story that just might haunt your dreams and leave you wanting more.  The infamous longest-shortest month of the year is ending.  Take some time for reading the wonderful work our Holicong students are creating. 

Artwork by Brendan K., Grade 8

Dreams

Dreams are a half-thought-out joke, scribbled on a page.

Unwritten stories, sketches, and plays.

Dreams are stares in the mirror,

A reflection of doubt.

Dreams cling to hope,

That ideas may wander out.

So maybe someday,

Above the crowded streets of a city,

There will stand a girl

It’s her thoughts that are pretty,

Those unwritten words, the half-thought-out wit,

It pours from her mouth,

and no one will sit.

Dreams are large, growing, and vast.

And you will reach them,

Releasing your past.

by Zoe L., Grade 9

Artwork by Mia M., Grade 8

Too Big

A cat strides through the dark, a beacon in the night. Its glaucous fur illuminates its path as a fuzzy halo, an interruption to this mysterious black void it seems to be in. The cat moves forward, but nothing appears. Just more and more black, like water had been poured on the sun and it turned cold, oozing its tar remains all over the planet. If the cat wasn’t there shining its blue light on the landscape, there would be nothing. Nothing at all. 

So this feline must be important.

And that’s when the mysterious creature stops. Only for a moment. But a glitch in the program, big or small, means something amiss. Something worth paying attention to. Something dangerous.

Now the cat stops again, and sits, it’s tail swishing back and forth, creating a fan of light behind itself. And in this same moment, this cat transforms. Into a girl. She has long, glowing locks the same color as her past feline form. They are floating off her shoulders, still the only source of light. She looks to be around seventeen, and she is wearing all white. It stings to look at her, illuminated against this miserable black place.

And her eyes.

Oh, her eyes.

They must’ve been the same as they were when she was a cat, as her pupils were slits, cautioning, and alert. But it is their color that makes them so abnormally beautiful. They are, of course, white. The flecks, though. Glaucous, and stunning. They glittered against her matching aura.

She speaks, and her voice echoes off invisible walls. “What is foolish enough to join me here?” Her words are strong. Dangerous.

Nothing seems to happen, but the girl glares, and shifts her position. “Don’t you dare taunt me. I can destroy you with the snap of my fingers.”

Another voice booms throughout the dark, and the girl stiffens. 

“You may have stopped the others. But you will never stop me, dear Evangeline.”

The girl called Evangeline’s eyes flick toward the side. “How do you know who I am?” She growls. 

A chilling, evil laugh reverberates around, and Evangeline closes her eyes.

“I’ve known you since the first time you came here. Because I was your first enemy.”

Evangeline’s aura flickers. “You,” she whispers, suddenly shaken. “How?”

“The Wonderers don’t know what they don’t know, honey. And neither do you.”

“Get to the point.”

“Well... when you defeat darkness... it doesn’t just go away. When you turn on a light, is the blackness vanquished? No. Because when you turn that light off again, it’s right where you left it. Ready to play.”

“What are you saying.”

“I’m saying that you and your team of so-called warriors are no heroes. And neither are you.”

Suddenly, the darkness surrounding Evangeline becomes darker somehow. Like a fresh layer on a faded streak of black paint.

Her glow flickers once more.

“No.”

“Yes,” the voice counters. “We’ve been here the whole time. Resting. Watching. Learning. So that when we do come back, we’re stronger, and smarter than before. And so that we can get rid of you, and everyone working against us for good. So that the light can no longer vanquish the darkness. And we can survive.”

That’s when everything bright about Evangeline is taken away, and she seems to be eaten by the surrounding midnight. Now the only thing left is her voice.

“Lucian, can you hear me? I need backup. I can’t beat it this time. It’s too big.”

“No one can save you, Evangeline. Because you’re right. I am too big.”

And that’s when every trace of Evangeline disappears. And all that is left is vile, suffocating, darkness.

 

In another place it’s all white. A boy sits slumped at a desk, fast asleep. 

But not for long.

Like a ghost had walked through him, he screams and jumps up, paler than a sheet. 

Through heavy breaths, he says: “Evangeline? Hello? Yes, I can hear you! Evangeline? Wha-what’s happening? What’s too big?”

He is silent for a moment, then he stumbles backward, falling into his chair. His hand flies to cover his mouth.

“EVANGELINE!” he screams.

by Emery F., Grade 7

Artwork by Kathryn B., Grade 8

Pheidippides

Act 1

Scene 1

 

Curtain rises in the agora which is bustling with people on a Sunday morning. There are wooden stands everywhere and it is very noisy. The narrator speaks with a lot of emotion, and wears a white toga. The narrator also carries a clay tablet and stands in the right corner of the stage; downstage.

Narrator: Our story takes place in Ancient Greece, in the middle of Athens on a Sunday morning. Everyone is out, trying to buy things they need before they must go back to work. But then something happened out of the ordinary Sunday Athenians usually have.

There is a man dressed in a white toga in the middle of the Agora on a bench. This man is the Athenian army and navy general Miltiades. Miltiades is a strong, tall man in his middle ages with blonde hair on the top of his head. He also has rough hands and a soft-spoken voice.

Athenian General (Miltiades): Attention, attention everybody. (The crowd in the agora quiets down.) I sadly bring terrible news. We have just gotten word that the Persians are planning to attack and are marching towards us right at this very second. (The crowd whispers and murmurs in panic.) Now I know this sounds scary, but luckily, the Athenian army and navy are already set for battle.

Narrator: There are thankful sighs of relief from the Athenian people, but they don’t realize that there is more news to come.

Athenian General (Miltiades): But we don’t have enough men for battle, which is why we need to ask other city-states for help. And when I mean city-states, I mean Sparta.

Narrator: Now, the Athenians and Spartans have always been enemies. They have always been rival city-states. Now imagine how much backlash Miltiades got from telling the Athenian people they need to ask for help from Sparta. Yeah… that did not go so well.

There is an uproar with the Athenian people, and they start calling Miltiades crazy.

Miltiades: I understand your frustration. (As the crowd starts to calm down.) We have been rivals of Sparta for many years. I don’t even want to ask them for help, but it is what we have to do if we want to survive and if we want to provide a brighter future for our city.

Narrator: Wow…now that is how you give a speech! Although the Athenians did not like the idea of asking Sparta for help, they all agreed it was the only way to not get slaughtered by the Persians. But there was one problem, and that problem was someone had to go all the way to Sparta to ask for help.

Miltiades: Oh, come on! No one wants to do it?

Pheidippides: I’ll do it.

Miltiades: (Turning his head to look who said that.) Great! We have a volunteer. Now who said…Oh no. (He whispers to himself.) Anyone else? (trying to act like he didn’t hear Pheidippides.)

Pheidippides: I said I would do it. (Speaking louder so Miltiades could hear him.) Wow. I guess all the time he had spent running into boats has taken a toll on his hearing.

Pheidippides is a shorter man with brown eyes and black hair. He wears a brown toga and has old sandals. Pheidippides has a poor attitude, is rude, and is short tempered.

Miltiades: No, I heard you, but I was ignoring you because you are the last person I would want to send to Sparta. (Miltiades is now stepping down from the bench and walking to Pheidippides.)

Narrator: Now for all of you viewers, you might be wondering what the heck is going on! Well, I am about to tell you. If you haven’t figured it out before, Miltiades and Pheidippides hate each other. They are complete opposites. Pheidippides is more of a goof off who doesn’t really care about work, and Miltiades is a goody-two-shoes who got good grades at school and worked his way up the job ladder to an army general. Pheidippides is just a common Athenian. They were also in all classes together in school throughout their childhoods, and they did not get along. So, whoever made the saying opposites attract...well, they lied.

Miltiades: (Now at Pheidippides.) Look buddy, I am not going to let you go to Sparta and ruin this important mission.

Pheidippides: Well, I have changed and have become more responsible.

Miltiades: That is what you always say! You said you changed when we were in fifth grade, but then you put hot coals in my slippers. And then after that you apologized and said you would change. And take a guess at what happened next. You put melted cheese in my brand new Gugi’s. (Shows a spin off version of Gucci shoes) What I am trying to say Pheidippides, is that you will never change, ok? You will always be a self-centered jerk! (Now in Pheidippides face.)

Narrator: Now, you also don’t know that Pheidippides was very short tempered, so if someone said or did something that he didn’t like, he had to lash back out and that is exactly what he did. (As Miltiades is walking away Pheidippides trips him and Miltiades sprawls on the floor.) See what I mean? But while Miltiades was on the floor and the whole crowd was laughing at him, he realized something. He was going to allow Pheidippides to go on the quest to Sparta. And hopefully Pheidippides would die during the quest. It was an evil plan, but you have to admit, it is genius.

With his evil plan and a smirk on his face, Miltiades gets up. Acting like he and Pheidippides are best of buds, he swings his arm over Pheidippides. Miltiades then quiets the crowd and announces.

Miltiades: I have decided to let Pheidippides embark on the quest. (Pheidippides has a look of surprise on his face.) I believe that he is the right person to go on this quest and I believe he can get the Spartan army to join us in defeating the Persian army! (Miltiades throws Pheidippides arm in the air and the crowd cheers. Miltiades now turns to Pheidippides as the crowd disperses.) You will leave at dawn tomorrow so pack your bags and sleep well; you have a long journey ahead of you.

Narrator: And with that, Miltiades walks away and leaves shocked Pheidippides in the street. There is Pheidippides’s chance to prove his worth to the city of Athens and he knows he can’t blow it.

The curtain slowly comes down while the narrator is talking.

 

by "The Burnt Potatoes" including Zara C., Reuben B., Brady C., Emelia O., Michael A., and Katlyn C-Z. 

Things Change. Things Stay the Same. We Carry On.

We all thought 2021 would be a better year, and . . .well . . . it may be that we have started off on the wrong foot.  But there is still lots of time left in this year, and if there is one constant in life it is this:  Everything changes. What changes will this year bring?  For you? For our school?  For the world around us? 

Uncertainty can unleash creativity, and we hope that you'll enjoy this month's edition of the magazine.  We also hope that you are taking time to write and record the wild ride of this new year. Remember to share some of that with us by submitting your own work for publication. 

Artwork by Jacob D., Grade 8

The Adventures of a Teen Caught In a Pandemic

The day is March 13^th. It’s currently lunchtime, but I’m staying in Mr. K’s room to review before a math quiz. I’ve heard the rumors about a new pandemic arising globally, but like everyone else, I did not think much of it… until ten seconds later.

“Rayan, the championship game’s canceled”, my teammate, Jack hollered across the hallway while I was peering at my notebook through the open door of my dark green locker. I quickly put my notebook down and ran towards Jack.

“No way, you’re kidding me,” I said in desperation.

“No joke,” he replied, “They’re having a team meeting in the cafeteria, but since we stayed in we could not hear any of it; the only reason I found out was when I was picking up my lunch." My heart felt as if all the possible anxiety and stress just arrived… and I had a math quiz in 20 minutes. Great, great stuff Rayan, I thought to myself with a small hope that I was dreaming, and this news had not struck me as the freight train it was. I started walking back towards Mr. K’s classroom.

“I heard your little championship game got canceled; that’s unfortunate,” Mr. K said with a smirk indicating his usual sarcasm. I ignored and tried to start and focus on my geometry terms. 30-60-90 Triangle Theorem and Properties, I slowly read to myself. I could not remember any of the theorems nor any of the properties. This sums up the day pretty well, can’t wait to blank out on the quiz in five minutes because of the uncertainty of our game, I enviously thought. The bell rang and immediately, I stepped out of the classroom to try to gather more information on the situation from my friends and teammates. I saw our team captain Jake, who also happened to be in math class with me, walking towards the classroom.

“Jake is the game off?” I said enthusiastically, eager for a quick response.

 “Yeah, it’s actually off bro; it’s BS,” Jake replied. I quickly nodded and stepped into class, so I was not counted as late for the period. I was still processing everything that happened. The quiz was a complete blur; I still have no recollection of how it went since we never got it back due to the pandemic. My last and final class for the day was Spanish. I waddled through the hallways, avoiding eye contact with everyone in my way. Nothing was out of the routine in Señora Kincus’s 7th-period class. Señora gave the players on the team kind words of encouragement as always, but I still could not believe I was going home on the bus in 20 minutes. The whole atmosphere was a bummer. I tried my best to focus, but as the bell rang, I just wanted to do my best to get out of there. My arm slowly pushed against the door as I exited with everyone else behind me; eager to get home as well.

“Don’t forget about our quiz on Tuesday!” I heard Señora say on our way out. No one acknowledged it and the class at large kept sauntering on their way to the locker areas. Little did everyone know this was the last time they would see their lockers for an exceedingly long time.

Beep Beep Beep, my alarm rang. I slowly got up and clicked the “Stop Alarm” button on my phone. My body ached from the chest and legs; I could feel the stiffness in my bones and body. I eventually gathered enough willpower to get up and get ready for the day ahead. In the moment, I was not expecting to arrange anything significant, solely go to the gym for a little bit, watch TV, read part of my summer reading book. I started walking downstairs and peered at my phone that read “11:29 AM.” I quickly ate breakfast and asked my dad to drop me off to the gym for a few hours.

“Remember your mask,” my dad hollered from the car. I grabbed my mask, bag, and water bottle and left for the car. 20 minutes later, I stepped out of the car and headed towards the YMCA entrance. I’m going to try to lift for the initial 30 minutes then conclude with basketball for the preceding hour or so, I thought with speculation in my mind. I entered the fitness center with a not so pleasant greeting,

“You need your mask on upon entrance, please.” Ah yes, I partially forgot about the fact that we remain in a worldwide pandemic that could not escape anyone’s mind or actions. Slightly embarrassed, I place my mask on and secured it to be above my nose. Almost everyone had a mask on; some maintained it hanging down below their mouth while using workout machines which was understandable. I remember thinking to myself, wow this is the world we live in at the moment. Masks everywhere on every occasion. Restrictions on restrictions. You could not escape the virus. Its remnants are with you wherever you go and whenever you go. I could not believe looking back that this was only believed to be like a 2-week minor inconvenience. Nobody would’ve thought that it would’ve extended to everyone looking like surgeons and some going to the extent of hazmat suits.

I ended up only lifting for 20 minutes in the beginning because I saw friends working out on the courts. When I exited, I was sweating, and my hands were closely clenched on my water bottle which only had a few more sips left to offer to my drained body. By the time my ride pulled up to the entrance, it was empty, and I slumped down in my seat and grabbed a Gatorade from the side holders next to me. When I returned home, it was 4 pm sharp. After an hour of sitting on my phone, I honestly did not feel too tired. I asked some neighborhood friends if they wanted to bike around for a little bit. They agreed and by 5:30 we were all together. We did not know what direction we were going; we just kept going down random roads and crossing streets on our bikes till I pointed out that we were on Holicong Road. We all looked at each other; no food nor water, like scavengers eager to find something of value. The boredom of the pandemic and all the closings had gotten to us. I quickly took out my phone and pulled up Google Maps to make sure we were going the proper direction. We started along the road with our bikes slowly but surely making it up the first hill of the 14 long miles ahead of us.

After thirty minutes of biking along and across a few more busy roads and unnecessarily fast motorcyclists, we arrived at an intersection away from the big “H” at the front of Holicong. As I looked behind, I could observe even bikers wearing a mask, and a few people in their cars had masks on as well. That’s how everything was now; precautious with face coverings on and it’s something everyone had gotten accustomed to. When we ultimately got to Holicong, we biked down the empty parking lot only to make a loop near the gym entrance. We could see the empty football field, which still had remnants in my mind of the packed games that everyone has gone to at least once in their high school years. I restrained for a few seconds to regain my breath while my friend was already going ahead and back into the road to consider making it home before it got dark. That’s additionally the moment I recognized that water is always essential on bike rides and we suffered a lack thereof. I gradually positioned my foot on the pedal, turned the gear down a few levels, and started pedaling back the way we started. Brutally tired and hungry, we all just wanted food and some kind of beverage. No one had any cash or masks so there was no chance to pick up anything at the Wawa nearby. We undertook the hasty journey back and by the time everyone said their farewells, I was exhausted. I ran into my house and snatched the first piece of candy and bottle of water I laid sight on. I reflected on the extended, perilous day and thought about how different life was from that one random Friday in March; to now with millions of lives impacted in one way or another. A day for the history books, I thought with a hushed silence throughout the house.

by Rayan T., Grade 9

Artwork by Anya M., Grade 9

The Autobiography of a Reader

Books are like Leonardo da Vinci’s Mona Lisa or Michelangelo’s David sculpture; they are simply works of art. We seem to take for granted the true power of books, painting a picture in our minds, forming a true friendship with the characters, and tearing apart our emotions: sadness, joy, or anger. The authors are the artists, creating magical, vivid masterpieces with every word. When you read, you get lost in the author’s world, walking beside the characters, seeing and feeling everything they do. Books are not just for reading, they are for experiencing.

I could see the crisp, white moon through my window, floating in the endless black sky. The lamp next to me emits its soft glow, following me as I climb into bed. I place The City of Ember on my lap, opening to where the fading blue bookmark stood. My eyes scroll through the pages and soon, I am lost in my book. As I wander through the pages, my heart beats faster. I hold my breath as I turn the page, too excited to see what would happen next. My eyelids start to flutter, like a monarch butterfly’s soft, delicate wings. I shove the bookmark between the stiff pages, toss the book carelessly onto the floor, and fall fast asleep, like a cat resting in the sun.

            Never before had I encountered a book so engaging, one that I just could not put down. I never realized that just a few simple pages of words could suck you in so deeply and never let you out. The City of Ember helped me appreciate books much more than I had before, opening my eyes to other, more advanced novels I would read in the future. It allowed me to read with a clear, open mind, a fresh canvas awaiting the brush strokes filled with color. Now, I finally saw how incredible books could be.

            There I sat on the rough, forest green carpet, my legs crossed and my back straight as a pencil, ready for the story to begin. Finally, the teacher sat in the rocking chair, white flakes of paint chipping off from past adventures she had read. She opened the book and began to read, her loud yet soothing voice, echoing through the classroom. Page after page, my eyes grew wider, like a bright yellow sunflower blooming in the morning light. I was filled with joy as a smile inched across my face. My sticky 8-year-old hands clenched my Cotton Candy lollipop, getting smaller with every lick. My entire class stood still, too engaged in our story to say a word. The room was silent, like a dark forest on a windless night, not even the wolves howled at the moon.

Artwork by Olivia Z., Grade 9

        

    Although I was in second grade at the time, this particular book still sticks with me. I realized for the first time how an author can draw a picture in your mind through their astonishing words. I finally began to learn that books were not just ordinary pieces of paper, they were truly works of art. This book placed so many images in my head that it almost felt as if I were there. I could feel Ivan’s silky black fur between my fingers and Ruby’s trunk brushing against my arm. I never knew a book could do that until I read The One and Only Ivan; it helped me discover author’s beautiful imagery in many novels I would read throughout my life.

            Books can teach you a lot of things, like how to connect with the characters or how to imagine what the author is writing, but most importantly, they teach us the power of words. Words can break us, comfort us, engage us, and help us experience life with the characters. Words can do anything, both good and bad, we just have to appreciate and live everything the author gives us. Without powerful words, books would be nothing, the beach without sand or the sky without birds. Books need valuable words, or else, they will drift away, like a lost shell, vanishing into the endless sea.

by Lila S., Grade 9

The Closing of a Memorable Year

 As frustrating and painful as COVID-19 has been for everyone, it has forced us to slow down, think, and -- with a stroke of inspiration -- write about these wild days at the end of a mad, mad year.  

December reminds us that time moves forward, a new year awaits, and like all books, things come to an end.  The reflections we publish this month not only capture a moment in time, but a mood, an era.  We hope you enjoy reading this month's publication.  

“COVID-19”  

The bitter tasting word burnt my tongue   

As it rattled  

Out of my mouth.  

It set off ringing from eardrum to eardrum,  

Making me fume,  

But it was inescapable.  

I peered down to see the phrase  

inscribed across a firetruck red dot under my feet  

As I waited in line to buy a single roll of toilet paper at Target.  

I looked up to see blank masks  

Acting as a canvas for the unspoken word.  

Like the word was a baby goose  

And I was its mother,  

It followed me.  

“COVID-19” was everywhere.  

by Cassandra K., Grade 9

Artwork by Kate I., Grade 9

I stared outside the sad window of my apartment, looking out below at the empty streets. The once bright outside was now dark, reminiscent of all the cold dilapidated cities within apocalypse movies. Well, it was basically an apocalypse. A virus spreading and wiping out humanity is often the plot for many an apocalypse movie. And while it isn’t completely a mass extinction, like in movies, the amount of people outside would make one think it was. Only a few stragglers wandered the streets, avoiding each like the plague (literally). The occasional car passing by frightened those, showing the anxiety and fright hidden underneath the masks they wore, both physical and metaphorical.

            Turning from the window, I plopped down unto the small couch squeezed inside the apartment. I stared at the ceiling, remembering of the past bright lights. The first day of seeing center square, the bright advertisements and lamps lighting up the sky. The busy sound of traffic, people talking and walking, the city itself seemingly breathing and living. Compared to now, that was a distant memory, a light fading away, the once living city, the “city that never sleeps” now dead. In place of the shining city was simply a dead husk of what it once was.

I close my eyes, trying to remember the comfort of the complicated, diverse, bright city New York that was famous, not this one that is cold and leaves a chill down ones spine from the loneliness, the tension, and the pressure in the air. Sighing, I continue to do what I had been doing for a while now, what with the quarantine and the like. I turn on the tv and start looking for a movie. A movie to allow me to escape this reality. I select a movie and begin watching, trying to leave behind the cold, empty, city even if for just a small, brief period of time. The movie starts, and the memory of world outside fades, my mind now occupied with the flashing colors, blinding me from atrocities on the outside for a few moments.

by Nicholas B., Grade 9

Artwork by Olivia M., Grade 9

Stained Rugs

Like an exquisite, white rug,

stained by colorful juices,

everyone has their imperfections.

 

And the tragedy to discover,

our own role models have stains:

dark colors emerging from their walls

of flawless white.

 

But what if…

what if we appreciated these colors?

We all acquire stains:

blues, purples, and reds,

that paint our surface.

 

Let us embrace our stains

and wear them with pride.

Because after all,

what’s the fun

of a blank rug?

by Chantal V., Grade 9

Cold Season, Warm Welcome

 It has been a start of the year like no other, and the first edition of our online magazine has been slightly delayed!  But we are glad you have come to join us in this space.  We have already enjoyed a memorable online coffeehouse event, our opening editor's meeting for the year, and some time to come together as a team of writers and artists.  But of course it is your submissions that make this annual online magazine what it is.  We hope that YOU will become a part of Sevenatenine by emailing submissions to your English teacher or to one of our student editors. 

Enjoy this preview of the excellent work we will share this year on Sevenatenine, your Holicong Middle School literary magazine.  

Leaves

How silently they come

Drawn off branches

To lay a carpet on the ground

 

I imagine a sandbox in this leaf

Mixed with fire and sun

Colors gleaming

Rough, colorful, dry

 

Curled like the ends of my hair in the wind

Dancing as the wind brushes by

Till no more.

by Inaya K., Grade 9

Artwork by Jane H., Grade 9

Spills

Spills equal disappointment,

embarrassment.

Shame

s p r e a d s

and soaks through every layer of you. 

Like ketchup sprayed on a white shirt.  

Spilling on something you love, 

from someone you love.

their kindness now covered by the smell of coffee. 

S1 Ep1: A Dunkin Donuts Disaster

Ideas,

well, they spill too.

Meeting someone for the first or the hundredth time,

slooooow and controlled words suddenly jolt,

and you begin to tell them about the pimple on your forehead,

your hopes,

your dreams and aspirations.  

by Zoe L., Grade 9

Artwork by Molly P., Grade 9

Artwork by Molly P., Grade 9

The End of the Year As We Know It

Well, the year took an unusual turn, which interrupted our usual publication schedule.  Still, we are happy to bring you two memorable memoirs to make you smile at the end of this year as we enter this time of reflection and pause to consider all the things we are grateful for despite our tumultuous end of the year.  Thanks to Ava, Anthony, and Charley for sharing their work with us in this final post of the year.

Photograph by Charley W., Grade 9

The Mystery Man's Shoes

When I was six years old, I shook my bloody hand with a random man. Turns out, we live together now.

              Hours earlier, it began with curiosity. What does he look like? What does he sound like? Is he nice? This mystery man was in our house: Taking up time with my mom. And I can’t even meet him.

              My parents had been divorced since I was two. It had always just been the two girls, so my mom and I were inseparables. About four years after, my mom started “talking” to someone. I was only six, but I was not happy. Some man I didn’t even know was coming over, and I had to stay in my room and sleep. Now even though I was extremely eager to meet this person, I stayed in my room like a good girl and respected my mom and her little “friend”.

              As my mom tucked me in bed, I could tell she was antsy. And then the doorbell rang, and my door slammed shut. My mom rushed out of my room and forgot to turn my nightlight on. This was a strict routine broken for some random person. Already a red flag in my head. At the time, my nightlight needed to be on for me to sleep, so I quietly got out of bed. It was so dark; I was swatting around trying to feel for the switch.

All of a sudden, I knocked over my collection of Dr. Seuss books right off my bookshelf, where it hit me straight in the nose. I could immediately feel the blood ooze out. I quickly ran out my door, straight to the bathroom. I felt fine, but my nose did not want to give up. I could hear laughter under me. My mom told me not to come downstairs because she didn’t want me to meet the mystery man yet, so I was alone and panicking. From the stairs I knew I could stand near the balcony where I could peer downstairs and possibly get my mom’s attention. I sat in the bathroom trying to stop the blood thinking of all the ninja moves I could do to get to my mom, but also knowing I only have one hand with the other holding the tissue firmly.

              About an hour had passed, and the blood did not slow down. At this point I could feel it drizzling down my throat as I would quietly gag. I finally gave up and peered over the edge of the stairs like a spy. I kept watching their feet move from the kitchen to the living room. My number one thought at the very moment was, “I really don’t like his shoes.” When I was done my shoe critiquing, I could see the man walking out where I could get a clear vision of him. I shut my eyes immediately when he came out like he was Medusa. I wanted to play it safe, just in case my mom could tell I saw him. She somehow knows everything.

              I stood there for another hour. Thoughts raced back and forth to the pace of my feet. Finally, I realized I need help.

              “Mom…” I called down.

              “Ava!” my mother shouted surprisingly.

              “I’m really sorry. I hit my nose and I—”

My mom looked at me and saw the tissues piled into my face like a cushion. She ran upstairs. Mom to the rescue! I explained to her what had happened. She laughed and helped me stop the blood. After cleaning my nose, my mom brought me downstairs to finally meet the mystery man. After all this, she knew she couldn’t keep me away. I was brought downstairs where I shook my sweaty hands full of dry blood with Dave. My stepdad of almost 10 years. I made sure that he never wore those shoes again.

Growing up with a stepdad was difficult for me at a young age. I missed my mom. I missed my dad. I was jealous that my mom had another focus. It turns out, having a stepdad is one of the best things that had happened in my life. I had someone else to take care of me, to take care of my mom. I was introduced to my love of snowboarding and traveling. I learned how to toughen up, and standup for myself. I got the opportunity to grow up with a father. Even if I just call him Dave. Now I have to do it all over again, this time with a stepmom…

by Ava L., Grade 9

Photograph by Charley W.

The Summer Tree

It was a perfect day to go to the tree that beautiful summer afternoon. Birds were singing their joyous and playful songs, the flowers were in full summer bloom, the sun was up and smiling down at the world, and the soft hum of cicadas finally coming out of their shells created a warm, comforting environment. “This is a great day to go out into the woods!” 8^th grade me exclaimed to my aloof brother, who was too busy playing FIFA on our Xbox to care about what I was saying. “Maybe I’ll go out to see the tree today again…”

          “The tree” was an irreplaceable staple of our woods, which resides right behind our backyard. It’s not any ordinary tree; however, it stands miles above the rest, wider than all the others combined, and there was one thing about it that really made it stand out as one in a million, quite literally. During a thunderstorm a few summers back, it was struck by lightning. But instead of falling over or catching fire—as trees always seem to do—it did something seemingly impossible and utterly inexplicable. All of its bark exploded off of its exterior, like a bomb that only touched the exterior of trees, leaving the white wooden interior exposed. The branches were desolate and void of life as well, without leaves, bark, squirrels or anything at all, looking like daggers pointed to the sky in rebellion against the forces that made it like this. And somehow, whether it be through luck or some sort of undiscovered magic, the tree continued standing proud like the god-defying giant it is.

          Ever since I found the tree when I was in 6^th grade, I made it a yearly summer ritual to make my visits often to the tree, where I’d sit down on one of its collapsed, smaller and more unfortunate brothers and read a book or examine its black burn marks on its white skin, stretching up, down, left and right, like veins on a leaf. Making sure that the area around the tree stays clean has always been a chore for more, but one that I generally enjoyed doing. Making sure no weeds got too close to it, ensuring no one left their litter around, and especially making the ground a good place to sit down and chill out with a bag of chips and some entertainment on a hot summer day.

          This time around, for the second time that week, I had decided I would go out with my phone, earbuds, some snacks, a towel and a book. “I’m heading out now!” I called to my parents, who were still asleep on this calm, uneventful day. Once all my things had been gathered, I left the house. Through some thorn bushes, over our creek, taking the route of another tree that had fallen, and through a small make-shift path of dirt and stones, I reached the tree.

          Once I had made it to my destination, I looked up at it, admiring its resilience and stubbornness, refusing to fall down despite its suffering. It was a source of inspiration for me. I laid my towel I brought over the ground, took my earbuds out, and started reading my favorite fantasy book as some Twenty-One Pilots played loudly in my ears while I bumped my foot softly to my favorite song of theirs, “Bandito”.

          I still have no idea how long I read for. It was likely multiple hours on end, since I was nearly finished my book by the time my phone buzzed. “Anthony, come home soon, we’ll be having dinner in a couple minutes”, the text message from my mom read. As soon as my eyes finished reading the screen, I was already standing and packing my things up. Since the walk was fairly short and I still had ten or so minutes to get home, I took my time walking back. Appreciating the scenery, such as the other trees, small canopies created by hollow bushes and the winding creek, I slowly trekked my way back home, back through the walkway, over the creek and through the thorns, when my house came back into sight.

          I walked in and was immediately greeted by a loud “Anthony, wash your hands before you sit down” from the kitchen, even though I always did that and there was no need to remind me of such basic human decencies. Either way, I was calm, relaxed and we were having chicken a la king for dinner. I was perfectly content with that day, and slept like a baby that night, my thoughts filled with peace, calm, and trees.

          Ever since then, I’ve learned that whenever I’m stressed or angry or filled with any other negative feeling, I always remember that tree, because in the end, I learned that when I’m feeling down, I’ll have somewhere to escape to at any time. Whether it be my bedroom, the internet, with friends or the dead center of the woods with my favorite tree, having somewhere to go when I just need to let my feelings out always has and always will feel good.

by Anthony M., Grade 9