New Anthology this Sunday!

Each year we unveil an anthology of our students' work and this Sunday, September 25th, the new 2011 anthology will be cause for celebration! Please join us in honoring our students and their work at Breakfast Of Course on Trade Street in downtown Winston-Salem at 4:30. Students will be reading their work and you will get a chance to peruse the new anthology. Copies are available for students and their family members, and additional copies are available for order. 

The anthology this year is 245 pages of enthralling stories, poems, songs, plays, drawings, inventions, board games, and more! We are so proud of our students! See you this Sunday at Breakfast Of Course...chirp...chirp.

Student Work: Story Excerpt by Leah Wilson

This is an excerpt from a group story students have been working on this year that will appear in its entirety in the upcoming Story Hatchery Anthology this summer. 

            

Story Excerpt

by

Leah Wilson, age 13

             I walked quickly up the hallway to homeroom.  My bus was always late, so I had to hurry.  Other kids laughed and shouted across the hallway.  I hated how they could never be quiet.  Quiet was much better.

            “Jeremy!” yelled a voice from behind me.  I knew who it was without seeing him.  It was my worst tormentor, a bully named Dan.  I tried to run through the crowd, but my backpack was so heavy running was impossible.

            Dan grabbed my backpack and yanked it as hard as he could.  I was pulled to the dirty tiled floor by the force, landing painfully on my lumpy backpack.  Dan and his gang snorted with laughter.

            “What you got in there, Jeremy, an elephant?” jeered Dan.  “That would be useful—you could stand on it in basketball so you could put the ball in the hoop.”  Laughing again, Dan and his gang strode off in a pack. I heard Dan say, “He’s not even worth beating up.”

            “Yeah, he’s so wimpy it would be over so fast nobody could see it,” agreed one of his friends.

            My heart pounding with anger, I stood up, trying to ignore the pain in my back, and hurried to homeroom.  I got to my seat just as the bell rang with a loud, annoying buzz.  I set my heavy backpack next to my desk.  Most kids went to their lockers before coming to homeroom, but I needed to be prepared for anything, so I crammed all my stuff in my ratty old backpack and carried it everywhere.

            After the Pledge of Allegiance and the announcements, my teacher handed out tests from last week.  My math test grade was a C-, my language arts test grade was an A-, my science test grade was a B, and my social studies quiz grade was a D.  None of this surprised me.  I didn’t have much time to study, with my job, buying food, and homework, and social studies and math were my worst subjects.  I was okay at language arts because I like poetry, which is what we’re studying now. 

            “Some of your parents will be very disappointed with your grades,” my teacher said, handing a paper to a girl who glanced at it, turned to her friend in the seat behind her, and squealed, “I got a hundred!”

            I rolled my eyes. Marta, the girl who always got A’s, and her best friend, Ella, were showoffs.  They got an A+ for popularity, and they were model students.  They and the rest of their group were the prettiest, most liked girls in eighth grade.

            My teacher, who disapproved of talking in class, didn’t notice Marta speaking to Ella.  “Some of your parents,” she continued, “will not be very happy at all with the lack of effort some of you show.”

            A stab of longing pierced my heart.  Maybe it would be nice to have parents that cared and were disappointed when you didn’t do well.  But my parents never cared.  My dad didn’t care about anything, and my stepmother was too busy in her teenager world.  I think she just never finished growing up.  And my real mother?  I didn’t even know if she was alive, and if she was, she obviously didn’t care, or else she’d be here with me.  I pushed my longing away.  Who cared about parents?

            After the teacher dismissed us, I headed down the hall to art class.  It was the one subject I really, really liked. As I trudged through the mob of noisy kids trying to shove me to the dirty walls so they could get past, I heard something clatter to the floor behind me.

            I turned around and faced Marta and Ella, both holding pink cell phones, tiny keyboards slid out, as if they had just been texting (which they probably had been, since they texted their friends all the time).  Ella was holding my iPod, which must have fallen out of the pocket in my backpack I stored it in.

            “OMG, this is, like, fifty years old,” said Ella, disgusted. I was sure she and Marta only bought the newest, coolest iPods.

            “I don’t think iPods were invented fifty years ago,” I said, holding out my hand for my iPod.

“OMG. He’s, like, so weird,” said Marta.

            “Well, duh.  He’s Jeremy,” explained Ella, flinging my name off the tip of her tongue with distaste.  Marta laughed, and Ella dropped the iPod on the ground with a crash. “Here, have your stupid iPod.  Who would want it anyway?”

Student Work: Story-in-Progress Excerpt by Skyler Grogan

         Excerpt from a story in progress at The Story Hatchery. This story will appear in its entirety in the 2011 anthology coming out this summer. 

Story-in-Progress Excerpt

by 

Skyler Grogan, age 13   

            The screen door creaked as Donna trudged into her rusty trailer. The sounds of crickets and frogs chirping leaked into the musky living room air, signaling the beginning of spring. Life finally blooming in the empty winter’s lungs.

            Dan, her son, sat at the TV, eating a microwave dinner. He was hunched over the lukewarm corn, shoveling it into his gaping mouth. Donna sat next to him, stirring dust from the mushy cushions.

            “Hey, sweetheart. Sorry I couldn’t be here earlier. I was working overtime for Matilda,” she said, taking off her shoes and massaging her calloused feet. Her cheekbones sharply jutted from her narrow face, supporting fat bags under her eyes. Once she had been a beautiful girl, but hours of slaving at restaurants had sucked most of the beauty from her like a ravenous leech.

            “That’s what you always say,” mumbled Dan through a mouthful of watery corn. Donna guiltily looked at the dingy carpet.

            “At least you don’t have to work,” she said. “There’s a poor boy at the bakery who’s so skinny, if he stood sideways he’d disappear.”

            “At least he has a mom.” Dan kept staring at the TV, but what he said was sincere.

            “I don’t believe he does. He’s a nice boy, doesn’t talk much. I’m not even sure he has a home. His name’s Jeremy.” Donna continued up her leg, soothing the raw muscles in her calves. Dan looked at Donna, furrowing his brow.

            “Jeremy? Jeremy what?” He dropped his spoon.

            “I think it was Mabe, or May, or something. Why?”

            “No reason.” Dan leaned and dropped his empty tray into the wastebasket. “I’m going outside for a little.”

            Donna didn’t look up from her leg. “Be back by 1.”

            Stepping into the crisp air, Dan gulped in breaths. He dragged a hammer off the porch and smashed it into a rock. It chipped and showed white specks. He smashed and smashed, sending sparks everywhere. The rock turned to minute pebbles, and Dan began striking bare ground. He threw the hammer across his yard and dropped. He was silent.

            Jeremy knew his pain. And it made him sick. 

Feature in the Winston Salem Monthly

The Story Hatchery Contest Winners are published in this month's Winston Salem Monthly! Check out the online version at the link below, or better yet, pick up a print version for the full experience. Each winning story has an illustration and the article has some wonderful photographs of our students at work in The Story Hatchery. Look at the wonderful cover art of the magazine! It's all for you, wonderful students, who are so dedicated to expressing yourselves through crafted language and art! Congratulations to all our winners, finalists, and participants!

http://www.winstonsalemmonthly.com/index.php/site/features/hatching-stories/

Personification--or giving weird objects eyes and a mouth!

Personification is giving human traits (qualities, feelings, action, or characteristics) to non-living objects (things, colors, qualities, or ideas).


To have the most fun with this, turn to the many objects sitting around you right now and imagine giving one of the objects a pair of eyes (or one eye) and a mouth.


...are you laughing yet? 


I just imagined a vase on my mantel with eyes and a mouth. It is a vase I have filled with sand and sticks--a minimalist arrangement I swear looks good! And now the vase is telling me in a British accent that I have no taste and the sticks are crude and he will not stand for one more scratch. "I am made for fresh flowers and the dishonor you have visited upon me...oh, I can't bear to think of how many years I am imprisoned to stand here like a yard waste bin full of the dead and discarded. Miss, how do you sleep at night?" 


Oh, the poor vase. I must get some fresh flowers! 


Check out this video of a wonderful character created from an object named Marcel. Try making your own short video personifying an object. 

Student Work: "Cute to Some, But Not to All"

 Cute to Some, But Not to All

by

Alex Elliott, age 9

            Jamaica was desperately trying to get her hair done in curly braids all by herself because Sammy, her mom, had gone out to get a taco. She was getting her hair done in preparation for her concert because she was a famous child country singer.

            Meanwhile, Cop Ralph, her bodyguard, tapped on the door. “Jamaica, how are the curly braids coming?” Cop Ralph knew it wasn’t possible for Jamaica to do her curly braids by herself, so he used a little exaggeration.

            “Cop Ralph,” Jamaica groaned.

            “Uh, yes, Jamaica.”

            “My curly braids aren’t working!” Jamaica yelled as she stomped her foot. “I want my mama!”

            Now, Jamaica was five years old, so her fame wasn’t going to last long. It was mostly due to her cuteness. Jamaica had a whiny voice, but also little green eyes, an everlasting smile, and long wavy hair. Her mama was very careless and left her child alone with Cop Ralph for long periods of time. Once, she even left her because she needed a pack of gum and to catch up on the latest magazines.

            Cop Ralph was desperate. “Where’s your mom?” he asked as he paced Jamaica’s dressing room floor.

            “Out getting a taco,” Jamaica answered.

            “Should’ve guessed,” Cop Ralph muttered, shaking his head.

            “Hey,” Jamaica snapped. “Back to my hair! Fix it, Cop Ralph,” she moaned.

            “I am a man,” he yelled. “I don’t have little girls. I’m just plain old Cop Ralph. I don’t know how to curl hair.”

            Tears filled Jamaica’s eyes. “Oh. I guess, I’ll just put on a hat,” she whispered, shuffling her feet around the room with her head lowered.

            “No, no, no, I’m sorry. I’m only frustrated,” Cop Ralph said as he rubbed his bald head.

            “Cop Ralph,” Jamaica said, “speaking of hair, you could use some of your own.”

            “Oh, for crying out loud,” Cop Ralph said.
            “Sorry, Cop Ralph,” she giggled.

            “Oh, just give me that head of yours and I’ll make these braids curly.” Cop Ralph stood over her and shoved his fingers into her thick head of hair. “Hmm, let me get the curling iron. Where is it?” Cop Ralph started searching, lifting seat cushions and opening drawers.

            “I’m hungry,” Jamaica whined.

            “Get it yourself,” Cop Ralph said. “I’m busy.”

            She walked over to a cabinet and pulled down a bowl, a spoon, and some corn flakes. When she dumped the cereal in the bowl, out fell a curling iron. “Cop Ralph, look,” Jamaica cried.

            “Really?” Cop Ralph muttered as he turned his head. “What in the world is it doing in the cereal box?”

            “Hey,” Jamaica said, “now you can curl my hair while I eat!”

            “This world is full of surprises,” Cop Ralph said, rolling his eyes. Jamaica sat down and Cop Ralph stood behind her with the curling iron. He rolled it up and down her hair, unsure of how to work it.

            As Jamaica dipped her spoon into her corn flakes, applause and the sounds of a cheering crowd rose from outside the dressing room.

            “Oh, I give up,” Cop Ralph said, dropping his arms. He fumbled through a drawer and pulled out a big, floppy tan hat with a bow on the front. He put it on her head with a satisfying plop and pulled her up. “Come on, Jamaica. Show time!” Cop Ralph tugged Jamaica by the hand and led her backstage.

            “Wait, woah, woah. What if my hat falls off and I get embarrassed, or what if it falls in my eyes and I can’t see where I’m going, and I trip? Or, someone might even pull it off my head to keep, since it is, after all, something I’ve touched and I’m the great Jamaica, a living legend.”

            “Uh-huh, come on, get over here.” Cop Ralph tugged her to the edge of the stage. Lights shone brightly from the stage, where an announcer stood with a microphone.

            “Wait, wait,” Jamaica said.

            “And now,” the announcer sang, “please welcome to the stage, the cutest of all, Jamaica!”

            Cop Ralph shoved Jamaica out onto the stage and she began to sing:

                                                            There was a flower,

                                                            there was a bug.

                                                            The bug was snug

                                                            on the flower’s rug.

                                                            The flower was rosy.           

                                                            The bug was blue.

                                                            Then, with a twitch,

                                                            the bug went achoo.

                                   

                                                            It blew the petals

                                                            off the stem.

                                                            The bug was homeless,

                                                            so he found a cozy limb.

            The crowd erupted in cheers. Cop Ralph fell back into a chair, breathing a sigh of relief.

The End

This story first appeared in the inaugural Story Hatchery Anthology last year. 

Art According to Story Hatchery Students

A few months ago, a Story Hatchery student came into class with something she wanted to discuss. She had been on the bus for school and saw a boy draw a slanted line in the condensation on the window. The student was perplexed why the boy didn't draw a picture like the other kids on the bus were doing. The boy drew the line and then did nothing else but stare at it.

This sparked a conversation at our round table. Story Hatchery students came up with ideas (listed below) as to what this small action could represent of a character in a story.

1) The boy feels his life is downhill.

2) The boy unconsciously draws the line. 

3) The boy is experiencing, feeling, and noticing what others take for granted. 

4) The boy draws it to evoke reactions from others on the bus, to create mystery. 

5) The line symbolizes uncertainty, an unfinished childhood. 

This list lead to a class discussion of what is art. We talked about some paintings in museums seeming just as simple as a line made in condensation on a window. Could the line the boy drew on the window be art? Is everything that hangs in a museum art? Out students came up with some possible definitions of art: 1) Art is personal creation. 2) Art has meaning to the viewer or artist. 3) Art is expressing yourself. 4) Art is symbolic. Our students wanted to make sure their definitions could not limit art, but some students thought art should be limited. 

What do you think? What is art? What is it for? Can art have a definition? 

Inspired by this discussion, this Story Hatchery class of 12 and 13 year olds have been working on a story about a 14 year old boy named Jeremy. Look for this story in our upcoming anthology coming out this summer. 

Student work: "Diary of: My Sister Rocks"

Diary of: My Sister Rocks

by

Eva Bey, age 8

May 13, 2000

            Today my sister Karly told me that Molly is going to try out for the soccer team. I know I shouldn’t be worried about her, but she has cerebral palsy, so she can’t run well. So I went to talk to Coach Winslow and he said, “She will get hurt.” I think I’ll go tomorrow to her physical therapy appointment.

May 14, 2000

            Today I went to Molly’s therapy thing. It was boring, but it helped her. Barely! So I am going to help her myself. When I got in the car to go too, Molly asked, “Why are you coming?” I just told her I wanted to see what happened there and I had nothing to do at home. Karly had friends over again. And Ron, my brother, was playing video games. And my homework? Well, I didn’t have any homework. Yippidy-do!

May 15, 2000

            Today I helped Molly. She was okay, but she wasn’t fast and she kept falling. But I’ll keep trying to help her.

May 16, 2000

            Today after church I helped Molly again. She wasn’t that much better. So I gave her homework: practice lifting your knees when you run. After dinner, she practiced kicking the ball.

May 17, 2000

            Today was try-outs. Molly did NOT make the team. It’s not fair. She tried so hard, and so did I. And now every time Molly wakes up, she cries. That’s why I’m writing at four o’clock in the morning. She is STILL crying.

            Okay, now she’s stopped. Maybe finally I can get some sleep.

May 18, 2000

            Ron got the most amazing idea. Molly, Ron, Karly, and me are going to make our own soccer team. In our own backyard! We practiced for a half hour and are going to every night. We play against our mom, dad, Aunt Betty, and Uncle Harry this Saturday. Karly made our team jerseys. I’m number 18, Karly’s 17, Ron’s 16, and Molly is 15. Our team is called the Panthers. Our team rocks, just like my sister, Molly!

The End

This story first appeared in The Story Hatchery Anthology last year. 

Our 2011 anthology will be coming out this summer, presenting the 

student work completed within 2010-2011. 

Thrift Store Fun

Get creative at your local thrift store with some of the fun adventures below.

1) Find an old book and tear out a page. Cut out all of the sentences and rearrange them to create different outcomes. Try cutting up a few more pages. Can you make a story?

2) Take photos of the faces of all the discarded stuffed animals. How do they feel about being at a thrift store? Who do they miss? Where do they want to go? Do you have a solution? 

3) Find a pair of shoes. List out the places they have been. Draw the person you imagine wore them. Draw the person who made the shoes. Write what you think could happen to this pair of shoes. 

4) Look at the discarded appliances. Come up with new functions for them. A blender could become an alien spaceship; a toaster could become barracks for green plastic army men; an old typewriter could be a....

Have fun with the best toy in the world...your imagination! 

Curiosity

Every day at The Story Hatchery I get to witness students' curiosity. I think it may be the most beautiful thing in the world. 


I think, at a child's birth, if a mother could ask a fairy godmother to endow it with the most useful gift, that gift should be curiosity.  ~Eleanor Roosevelt


Millions saw the apple fall, but Newton asked why.  ~Bernard Baruch


The cure for boredom is curiosity.  There is no cure for curiosity.  ~Dorothy Parker  


I find that a great part of the information I have was acquired by looking up something and finding something else on the way.  ~Franklin P. Adams


I have no special talents.  I am only passionately curious.  ~Albert Einstein


Be curious always!  For knowledge will not acquire you; you must acquire it.  ~Sudie Back


Curiosity is a willing, a proud, an eager confession of ignorance.  ~S. Leonard Rubinstein, Writing: A Habit of Mind


The important thing is not to stop questioning.  Curiosity has its own reason for existing.  One cannot help but be in awe when he contemplates the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality.  ~Albert Einstein


Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery will.  ~James Stephens, The Crock of Gold


Curiosity is the very basis of education and if you tell me that curiosity killed the cat, I say only the cat died nobly.  ~Arnold Edinborough



I keep six honest serving-men,
They taught me all I knew;
Their names are What and Why and When
And How and Where and Who.
~Rudyard Kipling


Curiosity is little more than another name for Hope.  ~Augustus William Hare and Julius Charles Hare, Guesses at Truth, by Two Brothers, 1827


There are no foolish questions, and no man becomes a fool until he has stopped asking questions.  ~Charles Proteus Steinmetz


The one real object of education is to have a man in the condition of continually asking questions.  ~Bishop Mandell Creighton

Make Your Own Dictionary

Words mean more to us than their definitions. Words have connotations and associations that enhance or complicate their meanings. For instance, the words "trust" and "faith" have similar definitions, but through social, cultural, and personal influences, their connotations and associations are very different. The word "trust" has links to friendship, marriage, banks, etc., whereas "faith" has links to church, spirituality, death, etc. Then, we have our personal experiences with the words that further specify their meanings.

Writing Ritual:

1) List out specific words that have particular significance in your life. Perhaps words that you heard or still hear your mother, father, grandparent, or sibling say frequently. Words that began a transition in your life. Food, colors, activities, verbs. Words that you are afraid of.  

2) Try writing out personal "definitions" to the words you've listed. For example: Pancakes--A soft, flat cake prepared each morning by Mom from grades 1 through 9. Couldn't eat them unless they were no bigger than a silver dollar. Never cover in syrup because sogginess is gross. Eat like a cookie. Brother was always in bad mood in the mornings until he ate his. Brother and sister would compete on the weekends to see who could eat the most, while I ate Kix cereal. I stopped eating them all together in grade 7. 

This exercise is a fun experiment in memoir writing. Have a reminiscent day! Chirp...chirp...

Student Work: "Postcard Stories"

Below are two "postcard" stories--a story you can fit on a postcard. This is a fun experiment to try to see if you can convey a vibrant world of rich detail, complex characters, and conflict in-between the written lines, or, in other words, through subtext. Story Hatchery student, Maggie Cox, does this exceptionally well. Enjoy! 

Postcard Stories

by

Maggie Cox, age 12

I

            A cloud of dust sprang up. Rubbing the grime out of my eyes, I reached for the naked bulb. Light flooded the attic. I walked softly so he wouldn't hear. A crash of glass sounded from below, followed by shouts. Forget that now, I told myself. I was safe with the books. 

II

            As the cold water rushed in my mouth, it flowed through the hole where I was missing a tooth. It was so refreshing. I thought if I could get enough water, I could wash away the bad taste my last foster family had left in my mind. I could wash away all the bad memories that I knew would always remain. 

Student Work: "Zora's First Day of Super School"

Zora’s First Day of Super School

by

Elise Johnson, age 7

     Kaleigh Thomas, age 7    

Leah Johnson, age 9

            The silver and gold door of Super School is daunting as Zora pushes it open. She looks all around her at the other students heading to classrooms. Oh no, she thinks, no one else has pointy wings! Zora notices that the walls and the floor are made of glass. To her surprise, she sees a boy with blue hair sink right through the floor. Another student, a girl with striped wings, begins to walk up the wall and onto the ceiling. Zora hears a girl with pink curls say, “I think I’ll take Invisible class.”

            Zora wants to take the Invisible class, too, so she can start to learn all the powers Super School has to offer. She walks into the classroom and sees Coach Viz. She notices his bald head and thinks that maybe his hair is invisible. She sees her friend Rola and sits down next to her. Coach Viz says, “Okay! To be invisible, you have to pass a test. First, you have to snap your right hand, then clap, stomp your right foot, snap your left hand and turn around.” The class gasps as Coach Viz disappears. Zora and Rola look at each other. Coach Viz says, “And that’s how you do it. But you have to use the power you were born with and believe that you can be invisible. Okay?”

            Everyone tries to succeed in the weird combination. Nothing happens. No one disappears. Rola and Zora look at each other in confusion. Coach Viz says, “Believe. Try harder. Imagine you are invisible. Try!”

            Rola and a few others turn invisible and disappear. Zora tries again and nothing happens. Zora’s wings droop and she holds them, not knowing that they have turned invisible.

            Coach Viz says, “Thank you, Zora! You have shown us how to turn individual parts of the body invisible.” Everyone turns to Zora.

            Zora notices a girl in the class glaring at her. Rola whispers to her, “That’s Vina. She’s not nice. Vina has the power of flame. If you are not careful, you will become hot all of a sudden.”

            Zora says, “Oh! At least she can’t joke about my ugly wings if no one can see them.”

            “Your wings are not ugly,” Rola says. “They are actually better than a lot of other people’s. You can probably fly faster because they’re pointy.”

            Zora shrugs.

            Coach Viz asks Zora to demonstrate again. He turns her wings visible with a flutter of his fingers and Zora tries again. She snaps, claps, stomps, snaps, and turns around. She looks up and sees everyone frowning at her.

            “Sorry,” she says, seeing that her wings are still visible.

            Vina says, pointing her finger, “You didn’t touch your wings.”

            Just then, Vina demonstrates the combination and her wings disappear. Vina looks around the room before turning her nose up at Zora.

            Zora tries again. She stands in the middle of the room and puts on a confidant smile, straightens up, and she does the combination steadily. Keeping her eyes closed, she touches her wings, then hears Coach Viz say, “Good job, Zora. Now you have the power of invisibility.”

            When they leave the class, Vina walks over to Zora and Rola, who have gotten their lunch trays and are sitting at a table in the lunch room. Just as Vina walks by, she sticks out her elbow and knocks Zora’s tray off the table. Her chocolate pudding splatters all over her invisible wings, so there are chocolate globs floating in the air beside her.

            “Hey, my wings!” Zora yells. The chocolate goop drips to the floor. She pulls her wings toward her shoulders to hide them.

            Vina says, “Oops, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I would help you, but I have to get to class.” Vina turns her chin and flicks her hair. She smiles, but her nose crinkles and her eyes narrow.

            Rola says, “That’s Vina for you. You’re lucky you didn’t get fried.”

            “She makes me want to hide in a hole,” Zora says.

            Rola and Zora go to the girl’s bathroom, where Rola helps Zora clean up her wings. As she does, Zora’s wings start to appear again.

            “It’s okay, Zora,” Rola says. “No one will laugh, at least I don’t think so.”

            In gym class, Coach Im breaks students up into groups of two.  “All right everybody, we’re going to have a tournament.” The gym is made of glass but there is no ceiling. The coach instructs everyone to fly up in the sky as high as a plane can go. Everyone in the class floats in the sky, fluttering their wings.

            Rola and Zora are put in the same group. Vina is placed in a group with Michael, a senior with long hair to his feet.

            “The game is called Save the Citizen,” Coach Im says, holding a life-sized doll with the word citizen across its yellow t-shirt. “One group will try to defend the citizen and the other group will try to kidnap the citizen by taking the citizen across the middle line.” He throws a fist full of black dust that paints a line in the sky between the two teams. “Above all, each team must keep the citizen safe. Understood?” Coach Im points to Rola and Zora. “You two, defenders.” Then he points to Vina and Michael. “You two are the kidnappers.”

            Vina says, “Oh, this will be easy.”

            Michael says to Vina, “You have no clue what a tournament is, now do you?”

            “Oh yes I do,” Vina says, but Zora can see Vina looks scared by the way her face turns red.

            Coach Im says, “You can only use your natural power three times before you are out.”

            Zora raises her hand. “What’s a natural power? Is everyone born with a power?” Vina laughs out loud.

            “Michael can shadow travel,” Coach Im says. “Vina, what’s your power?”

            “I have the power of flame throwing,” she says, glaring at Zora.

            “I can freeze things,” says Rola.

            “What about you, Zora?” Coach Im asks.

            “I don’t know what my power is. I just learned how to be invisible, I guess.”

            “Everyone knows how to be invisible after taking that class!” Vina sneers. Zora looks around and sees all her classmates floating in the sidelines snickering and staring her way.

            “It’s okay,” Rola says. “Let’s play.”

            “On your mark,” Coach Im says, “Get ready, set, save!”

            Immediately, Vina shoots flame at Zora. Zora falls to the ground and, before she can feel the burn, Rola uses her freezing power to put out the flame. While Zora stands up, she realizes Michael traveling in her shadow toward the citizen. Before Zora and Rola know it, Michael and Vina have the citizen and are nearing the middle line.

            Zora shakes off her wings, trying to get a hold of herself after having been engulfed for a moment in Vina’s flames. Rola shoots ice streams from her hands at Michael and Vina and freezes them both. Zora flies over to the citizen, while Vina begins to use her flame to slowly melt the ice off of herself and Michael. Zora and Rola grab the citizen.

            As Zora and Rola fly back to their base, Rola turns and yells, “Watch out!”

            Zora turns and once again feels Vina’s flame all around her. The citizen is pulled from her arms. Rola says, “I’ve got you, Zora. Don’t worry.” Then Zora feels the cold come over her again, but this time, once the flames are out, she whirls her wings back and flies as fast as she can toward Vina holding the citizen. Vina has already crossed the middle line, while Rola and Michael juggle with competing powers. Zora can hear Coach Im announcing the winner. But, Vina looks back and sees Zora coming her way, and shoots one last flame. Vina loses her grip on the citizen and Zora sees the citizen plummeting through the air toward the ground. Zora dodges Vina’s flame and flies even faster, going straight down like a diver toward the ground. She catches the citizen just in time.

            The rest of the class erupts in applause.

            Coach Im says, “Very good effort, teams. Very close call. Michael and Vina, technically, you have won for bringing the citizen across the middle line, but Vina you must be careful with your flame-throwing. You dropped the citizen because of your carelessness, and if it hadn’t been for Zora flying so fast to catch the citizen, the citizen most certainly would have been seriously harmed. Congratulations to both teams, but Zora, you have found your true and natural power. You fly as fast as lightning. Everyone, give Zora a flutter of your wings.”

            Zora lowers her head and blushes as all her classmates swarm her with flapping wings. Michael says, “That really was amazing, Zora.”

            “Thank you.”

            Vina walks over to Zora with her wings bent forward. “Hi.”

            “Hi,” Zora says.

            “Nice playing,” Vina says.

            “Thanks.”

            Michael and Rola float nearby. Michael says, “Hey, let’s fly up to the sky deck and have milkshakes to celebrate.”

            “Sounds like a plan. Want to race?” Zora says.

            They all laugh together. “No way,” Vina says. “We haven’t earned your power yet.”

            Zora stretches her wings out to the side and glances at their bold points. “I think I’ll get chocolate!”

The End

This story first appeared in The Inaugural Story Hatchery Anthology last year. The students wrote this story together as a group, experimenting with visual art, improvisation, and playwriting in the process. 

Student Work: "A Surprise in the Woods"

A Surprise in the Woods

by

Maris Bey

            The day the stock market crashed, it was my sixth birthday, the day I got my first bicycle. The next day it was gone, sold to pay the bills. Sarah’s bike was sold two days later, then Mama’s car, and finally Papa’s car, too. Everything went, until finally we had an almost empty house, which was eventually sold, too.

            We now live by Lake Erie, and for my eighth birthday, I got a blanket of my very own to wrap up with on cold nights in the tent. My sister Sarah and I had been sharing one, but now she was glad to have one to herself, even though it was itchy and brown. The winds that came off Lake Erie were bone chilling, so I still snuggled with Sarah for warmth.

            Papa had been trying to get a job for two years, but none were available.

            That changed the day after my birthday. He had found an old fisherman’s boat and had been repairing it for weeks. He had made makeshift fishing poles out of long pieces of oak and had attached strings he’d taken from our tent. He had made what he called hooks, but they looked like little twigs that would break with the smallest fish clamping its mouth over it. Papa was going to try to catch enough for us to eat and to sell at a store. I highly doubted him, but I didn’t say so as he left our tent. The tent was supposed to be hunter green, but it had faded to the color of split pea soup, which was all we had to eat now. Well, except if Papa actually caught some fish. “Good luck,” I yelled just before he was out of sight, past the cluster of bare oaks. He didn’t say anything. Perhaps he didn’t hear me.

            Sarah yelled at me from the woods where she was collecting fire wood. “Amanda, come here! Look what I found. Hurry!”

            I ran as fast as I could. What could it be, a bike? I still dreamed of owning a bike, but it seemed impossible now.

            I nearly ran into Sarah, dressed in Papa’s old overalls, which Mama had tightened and patched and shortened, until they looked as good as new.

            I realized Sarah was leaning over the most pitiful little creature and, at first, I couldn’t tell what it was. It was covered in dirt and blood, and I didn’t even know if it was alive, but it was. I suddenly saw it was an infant deer, a fawn, living in the leaves. The smell of blood made me gag and cough.

            “We have to take it back to the tent,” I said. “Mama won’t like it, but she has a soft spot for animals, especially for baby animals.”

            I still had my blanket wrapped around me to keep off the chill, so I wrapped up the fawn, taking my chances of getting blood stains on the soft baby blue wool, my birthday gift.

            We carried the fawn back to the tent. Mama wasn’t back yet from getting more bags of disgusting split peas, so we had a little while to think up good reasons to keep it. We got out the white strips of cloth Mama kept for wounds, hair ties, and anything else we could think of.

            We bandaged up the poor creature. The whole time it was bleating pitifully. Sarah asked, “What can we name it?”

            “Well, it’s a girl, so that limits the choices. How about Willow?”

            “Perfect.”

            At that moment, Mama walked in.

            “What’s perfect?” she asked.

            “Well,” Sarah said, buying herself some time to think. Luckily I came up with the perfect excuse to keep Willow.

            “Mom,” I said, “you know how you wished you had a lawn mower to trim the grass outside the tent? Well, we found a solution.” I sounded like an Arm and Hammer radio ad. “We found a deer in the woods today and it’s injured and we brought it home and fixed her up and she won’t be difficult…and…and…please?” If there had been a race to see who could talk the fastest, I would have won.

            Mama only stared at me. “I…I guess so,” she answered. “As long as she eats only grass. And she has to sleep outdoors.”

            All I could do was grin. I might not have had a bicycle, or a home, or fancy dresses, but I had a deer and that was all I wanted. I thought I could never be happier, but I was when Papa came home with more trout than I had ever seen in my life. Even though I had to give up my new blanket for Willow, and Sarah and I had to start sharing again, I felt we had a home again.

The End

Maris Bey has won first place in The Inaugural Story Hatchery Writing Contest, 13-15 age category. Look for her winning story, "La Decisión" in the upcoming May issue of the Winston-Salem Monthly. 


"A Surprise in the Woods" first appeared in The Story Hatchery Anthology last year. Our next anthology will come out this summer!