comp camp summer 2010 anthology - secondary

8/9/2019 Comp Camp Summer 2010 Anthology - Secondary

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Writing is an exploration. You start from

nothing and learn as you go.

~E.L. Doctorow



EmmaSoccer’s a passion, writing’s my life.



Seasons

By Emma

Fall

Chill, Crisp

Blowing, Changing, Falling

Leaf, Pile, mower, grass

Growing, Budding, Mating

Green, Fresh

Spring

Summer

Burnt, red

Swimming, Playing, Roasting

Fireworks, Vacation, Snowmen, Scarves

Snowing, Hailing, Storming

Barren, Cold

Winter



An Annoying Pest

Bugs really bug me.

Do they bug you?

I find them everywhere--

Even in my shoe!

They buzz in my ear,

They fly in my eye.

They bite me and sting me

I want them to die!



Haiku Poetry By Emma

A SnowflakeGently swirling down

Resting on the barren groundTo lie until spring

Sleeping Child

Lay the girl to restUntil comes the morning sun

The stars shining bright

My Meadow

Looking up at cloudsWild flowers sway softly

This is my heaven

A Stormy Morning

A zap of lightningThe rain pounds down on the glass

Will it ever stop?

An Artist

Portraits being madeBrushing to an unheard song

Sculptures out of clay

FireHot and devilish

Burning brightly as the sunSeeking its revenge



Under My BedA Poem

By A Girl with a Cluttered Room

Under my bed you’ll find many things Books

ClothesToys

and Springs

Under my bed you’ll find many books--Books about

FairiesPiratesAnd crooks

Under my bed you’ll find many clothes SweatersMittensT-shirts

and Robes

Under my bed you’ll find many toys Yo-yos

Barbies— Girls

and boys

Under my bed is a cluttered space;

but you should see my sister’s room, now that’s a messy place!



Niagara FallsA Poem

By Emma H.

The roar of water rushing to plummet the depths of the Niagara Falls fills my ears.

Mist rising up to form artificial rain.

Marvelous.

Sparkling.

HUGE.

I wonder, how many gallons of water go over per second?

A grey blue sky--Cloudy with soaring mist.

Larger than Life.

Incomprehensible.

Magnificent.

I look over the edge.

Don’t Fall

Fall

Fall.

Too fast to be afraid, I plummet into the depths of the Niagara.

Water flying up from the impact.

Fear.

Intense.Pain.

I wonder, how long do I have to live?

All I see is blue blue water.

Rock.

Instant.

Blackout.

I wake up.

Warmth and comfort surrounds me.Where am I?

A nurse comes in.

A hospital.

I am safe, relieved…tired.

Z

Z

Z…



KaitlanBeing positive is my main event



My Grandparent’s House By Kaitlan Lynn

I am looking around and remembering all the goods times in this house

I rode my bike for the first time over thereI can hear my brother and I fighting over thereI can see all the things that happened that make me who I am.

I’m thinking how did I get so lucky to be a part of something sospecial?My entire family having a fun in this wonderful placeThis big place where people can come to relax and get away

That’s what I use it for.

I can hear laughter and jokingI can hear my cousins squabbling over who hit who firstI’m listening to stories told about times gone by I hope nothing changes and things are always this way

I feel happiness and pride when I think about this houseI keep repeating to myself so lucky, so lucky, so luckyThis is my special placeMy safe havenMy home



My Family

The thing I care most about is family

We care about each other; the most important thing is love

They are my safe zone, a place where I feel the most comfort

We are goofy and silly, together we are comfortable

We make up this kooky, crazy family

In times of need or stress, binding us together is love

It fills the spaces we consume, this undeniable love

Whenever I feel down or sad and feel like being comforted

I go to see the ones that know me best, my family

I love my family; they comfort me in times of need.



Dreams

By Kaitlan Lynn

I miss you so much

I can see you so clearlyBut it’s just a dream

This dream is the best

Dreams connect my world to yours

Talking and laughing

This dream is fading

Waking is the hardest part

Laying there; thinking

It is still so hard

Imagining that outcome

Thinking the what ifs?

Dreams do that to you

They give you hope when there’s none

They get your hopes up

But hope keeps me strong

I will see you again soon

We will meet once more



W illingness to go with the flow.

H aving the ability to be

Anxious about anything and everything. Trying to be

T ough when I really want to cry.

M entally, I know what I

Am saying but sometimes it doesn’t sound right out loud.

K eeping quiet around people I don’t know. Caring about

E veryone’s feelings,

Sometimes it gets me into trouble.

M oody and funny. Grossing

E veryone out, every chance I get. Feeling

W hole around my family.

H ates my

OCD problems. I am organized all the time.

I stand up for everyone but myself. I

Am comfortable staying in

M y safe little world.



OliviaWill burst into song spontaneously



Barn Rising A Six-Room Image Poem

How many more times will I see this?The sun rising over the old barn, bent by

years,

across the fields, beside the woods.

In the distance I can hear the gentle hum

of a skier taking advantage of the glassy water.

A bird chirps, and the leaves rustle softly.

The early morning air is chilly, hinting no sign of the hot day ahead

I feel content, watching the beautiful sunrise that God gave me

at the place I love.

The dew drops on the leaves

make the air damp and foggy,

the puddles a reminder of the midnight rain.

The sun breaks over the roof of the barn.

Purple, pink, blue, and yellow

pour onto the freshly awoken earth.

I pull my sweatshirt closer

and sigh, anticipating the day ahead.

A beautiful day already starting.

How many more times will I see this?

Standing on a narrow dirt road, amidst naturewatching the sunrise at the place I love.



Evolving Nature

a Haiku

Softly falling snow

Kids building snowmen outside

Winter’s silent nights

Sunshine visits

It has been hiding since fall

Spring ready to bloom

Summer days are long

Spent outside by the water

School should never come

Leaves explode orange

The trees look like bright fireworks

Fall is beautiful

Seasons come and go

Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall

Nature has evolved



Monday WritingTypically, Mondays just aren’t my days. It always seems like it shouldn’t be Monday and

therefore Monday seems like a Saturday. So, since today is Monday, my Monday writing wasn’t what itwas on Friday. I have been staring at this computer screen for at least ten minutes, pretending that I

have actually been accomplishing something (I haven’t). I know that I could be writing something

brilliant, or I could just sit here and go into a computer-screen induced coma. I choose to write. But

what? I’ve always believed that anything and everything is worth writing about, but at this moment my

brain isn’t being fair to me by not telling me what anything and everything worth writing about is.

So, I’m going to do what any self- respecting writer in this situation would do; I am turning to

Google. Another thing I believe is, if used right, Google can solve anything. Google has proved me right

yet again as it brings up a website in response to my search entry; Writing Prompts. This website has

three hundred and thirty six writing prompts and all of them are fairly entertaining.

Take this one for example; “List 10 things you would buy with your last $20”. My answer to that

would be easy; 1. Chocolate, 2. Chocolate, 3. Chocolate, 4. Chocolate (you get the point). How about

“List 5 things that bothered you this week”. My list would include 1. Weather (we do live in Indiana), 2.

The fact that my family has lost both of our cars this weekend, (one to an accident and one died in the

middle of the highway), 3. My best friend has her face permanently attached to her Facebook page (you

think I’m kidding), 4. My dog is too stupid to figure out that when we walk into our house, we’re not

intruders, and, last but not least, number five; I think the fact that I have been more negative than

positive is bothering me this week. I’m usually very optimistic, but optimism only goes so far.

I think I’ll cheer myself up and get my optimism going by responding to prompt two hundred

and thirty-one; “List the seven worst things to say to a person who just got dumped”. Okay, this should

be fun. For starters, I’d say, “You wanted her to be happy, right? Now she’s got you off her back and has

someone new on her arm, so she’s happy. Good job, man!” Or what about, “Since she was as about as

low as you can get and she dumped you, you’ve hit rock bottom. There’s nowhere to go but up from

here!” Or, as my fifth-grade softball team would say, “It’s all right. It’s okay. She’ll be pumping your gas

someday!” This one is for that stinky guy you stand fifteen feet away from; “Dude, you were barely

squeaking by on the hygiene thing for her, so this time, let’s kick it up a notch. Or ten.” You could

respond by bringing up past wrongs she’s done; “She cheated on you again? What is that, like, five

times? At least this time she had the courtesy to dump you after cheating on you. She’s so thoughtful.”

What do you say to the kid who doesn’t talk unless it’s about video games, lives in his basement, and as

soon as a blind is drawn he yells, “It burns!”? I would suggest maybe that you mildly comment that

sunshine and socializing with things other than game controls aren’t bad. Since I’m at the end of my list I

think I’ll throw in the tried and true, “Better luck next time.” Wow….I was right. That was fun.

Although I am very impressed with this writing prompt website and the ideas I’ve gotten from it

(let’s just say I now know what to tell my brother when his first girlfriend dumps him), I’m wondering if



this is how they really spend their time. Take this prompt for example; “Write a fictional news column

with this as the headline; Elvis Clones Take Over the World.” I think this staff gets really bored. Prompt

two hundred and thirty nine states, “Write about a bucket of distaste.” What does that even mean!? I

think they have already figured out number three hundred and thirty nine. “Write about 5 things you

would do to entertain yourself if you did not see a soul for 7 days.” Number one on my list would be

writing prompts for these people. And go crazy. Most of these are goofy and weird, but while clicking

around, there are these really depressing ones. “Write about a father searching for a son who died in a

plane crash earlier that day.” What good could come out of that story? Sad beginning, disappointing

middle, and depressing ending. This one would be awful too; “write a story with this plot; Cancer comes

back after 3 years of remission.” Now my happy attitude from the earlier dumpee list has faded and I am

going to answer one more ridiculous prompt.

Number three hundred and twenty four; “Make a list of: 7 Signs It’s Time to Take a Bath.”

Numero uno; If you find paint in your hair from when you were painting last week, it’s time to take a

bath. Number two; If you’re the first person in class and everyone else’s eyes start watering as they walk

in, it’s time to take a bath.” Or, if people can smell you through the phone, then you don’t need a bath;you need to shower, rinse and repeat, repeat, and then repeat again. For number four, you need a bath

if you smell worse than the hobo who’s been sitting outside the back of a butcher shop for the last

twenty years. Number five; if you look tan, but you haven’t been outside, it’s time to take a bath. This

one is for the eco green people who say that wearing the same shirt seven days in a row is recycling;

even hippies wash themselves. Eventually. Finally, number seven; if your hair turns green, but you didn’t

dye it, it’s time to take a bath.

I want to thank those crazy writers at www.creativewritingprompts.com, for their great ideas.

My Monday writing ended up a lot better than my Friday writing. I can’t wait for Tuesday.

http://www.creativewritingprompts.com/






The Silent Pleas of Haitian Restaveks

Haiti has been in the media a lot in the past couple of months. After the earthquake hit Port Au

Prince in January 2010, the world reached out and tried to help the hurting overseas. Heat and disease

added to the already high death toll caused by the earthquake, and our hearts

went out to the suffering. Fundraising programs and telethons and countless

other efforts were started to pull Haiti back up on its feet. Through the news

and television, we have all seen the turmoil that Haiti has been in for quite

some time. Their corrupt government, limited resources, poor economics, and

countless other problems have been reasons for their decline. Although all

those things are all major issues, there is an even bigger one lurking behind the

surface of the chaos; child slavery. Right now there are over three hundred

thousand restavek children all over Haiti. “Restavek” is the Creole word

meaning “one who stays with.” These are children being sold into staying with

a family they do not know, who abuse them, and deny them the basic childhood necessities such as

food, water, and good clothing. These children are prohibited to go to school and are forced to work

much longer and harder than any child should. These children are crying out with a silent plea and the

world needs to hear them.

*This is the introductory paragraph of an essay I plan to finish later on this summer



Summer in a Stanza

a Tritina Poem

My face burns from the bright sunshine.It cools as water rushes over it in waves

of the lake. The rest of my life could be lived out in days

like this. So short are the free summer days

of relaxing on the beach, enjoying the sunshine.

Watching the boats and their waves

roll in, white caps engulfing the beach and the waves

themselves. The water beckons me to spend days

floating and swimming, soaking in sweet sunshine.

Dreams of rocking waves and warm sunshine linger long

after the short days of summer are gone.



Ode to My Flip Flops

These are the flip flops

that only coast one dollar

yet carried me through two summers’ worth of adventures


my little cousins stuck their chubby fingers in

pretending to walk like ducks.


that carried me through countless trips

back and forth to my best friend’s house.


that took me through my first year of campand brought me home safely again.

At the beach, these are the flip flops

that wait patiently for me

to stick my wet toes in their rubber soles.


that were thrown into the lake and floated

on the same waves I floated on.

These are the flip flopsthat walked me through my uncle’s farm

stopping to say hello to the animals.


that took me down to a pool in Germany

and carried me back up again.


that have flipped through Paris

and flopped through Venice.


that I will slip on

when I want to be reminded of home

Little pieces of home in these flip flops

shared stories and shared memories

with every step I take.



ShelbyForever longing, inadvertently belonging, ebullience prolonging



A Continuous Cacophony

Action and reaction, ebb and flow, trial and error, change - this is the rhythm of living. Out of our over-confidence,

fear; out of our fear, clearer vision, fresh hope. And out of hope, progress.

Bruce Barton

What is the elusive “Change”?

To the wise, it is unmeasurable;

To the stand-outs, it is inimitable;

To the young, it is morphing;

To the unassured, it is unknown;

But to all, Change is constant.

Change occurs even when no one is looking; its constant

Presence invites wonders. Yet Change

Also incurs many fears of the ominous unknown.

Although many have tried, most have failed in measuring the unmeasurable;

For this thing, this enigma, this vacillating concept is forever morphing

Into something unique; into something quite inimitable.

My concept of Change, though inimitable,

Has remained fairly secure- fairly constant-

Throughout my life, never morphing

Into something that may willingly Change.

Although it may appear strange and unmeasurable,

I define Change as simply an acknowledgment and open welcoming of all the unknown.

Although one may wonder, “The unknown?

What is this?” My heart recognizes that this definition is inimitable,



And will irrefutably be unique in every person’s heart; for Change is unmeasurable,

But is always constant,

And, at least to some degree, Change

Is constantly and beautifully and fervently occuring, no matter the attempts to deter it, in the minds andin the hearts of the great and of the small, constantly and forever morphing,

Like the passion that arises during victories large and small. It is morphing

Into those emotions that arise when conquering the unknown.

And if Change is not known, then Change must be the Change

That occurs with every passing second; it is the inimitable

Wisdom that arises with age; it is the wonder of youth; it is the discovery of the teenage years; and it isthe scarcely perceivable, yet constant,

Tingling that instigates acceptance within oneself. It is also the ticking of the clock; it is the

unmeasurable

Wealth of one’s soul. Change is omniprescent; Change affects everyone, with no discrimination, an

unmeasurable

Concept that has plagued the greatest minds for centuries, a morphing

Idea that presents itself readily, then flutters away on the wisps of a cloud. It is the constant

And simultaneously elusive unknown.

Change has been called “Eternal, Perpetual, and Immortal,” by Confuscius; but it is always inimitable.

Change has been called “Progressive, Kind, and Inspirational,” by Ghandi; but it is always Change.

Although this is my concept of Change, there coexists a belief that is constant:

Change, no matter how it is experienced, is unmeasurable and inimitable and slightly (if not overly)

frightening.

Ultimately, Change is centered on morphing; Change is inherently the unknown.



The Boxes of True

by Shelby G.

“ Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live.”

-- Norman Cousins

2-2-2222 Lake Jordann

Tomorrow’s the first attempt for my regiment... We’ve really bonded so far, and we’ve been

drilled into the ground… Captain Luke arduously repeated, “It’s alright, soldiers, it’s

alright. We’ll kick these Pakistanis out of here...” Somehow, though, I’m not alright… Is it

OK that I’m still scared?

- True

One Month Later 8217 Ocean Avenue

“Ma’am, we’re sorry to inform you that your daughter, True Holiday, was lost during the course

of battle at Lake Jordann. Her current status is Missing in Action, although we have received reports…”

No. No. No.

One day later

I was not arranging a funeral; I would never acknowledge the fact that my only daughter was

gone. Hope would burn perpetually inside, like a candle at my niece’s birthday party that could never be

smothered. After all, my True had not joined the Navy to be quenched like a defenseless flame; her

candle must still be alight.

Regardless, I am her mother; I would be able to sense if she had passed, right? Wouldn’t I

discern something – the ripping of my heart, perhaps – wouldn’t I hear something – maybe a whispered

“I love you” or a stammered “Bye, mom” – as she departed? Yes, I would. I would. And, since I haven’t, I

can reasonably consummate that she must be alive. (Nodding her head, the mother continued): Hence,

my sole commission is to painstakingly sift through the mangled, disheveled remnants of what she left

behind.

http://thinkexist.com/quotation/death_is_not_the_greatest_loss_in_life-the/217097.html


http://thinkexist.com/quotes/norman_cousins/






Three minutes later

I feel like the hollow, superfluous shells on the beach outside my window, haphazardly tossed

aside by the crashing waves onto the dilapidated shore. I can sense the despondency and tumult and

fear enveloping me; indeed, I can nearly touch the anguished emotions leaking from my cracking heart…

And somehow, one twinkle of hope resides and pushes me forward, guiding me through the perpetualeddies of the mystifying river True renounced.

I am inexorably thrown between courses in my futile attempt to discover the mysteries of her

whereabouts, and every second, the boxes – the few that I even received (took) from her camp – are

gathering dust. Yet, I still sense that they are begging me to ascertain their puzzling enigmas; perhaps

True left a message for me, and for me alone, to decipher? Perhaps that’s the rationale as to why the

Navy officials didn’t unearth anything when they scrutinized the boxes during True’s inchoate

disappearance? Yes, today I must appraise those boxes. Today, I must discover what else, apart from

me, she abandoned.

Emily Holiday, mother of True Holiday, 49 years of age, had a stumpy figure and a crippled back

from years of hauling corpulent books to and from her flourishing teaching career. However, do not

assume that these distinctive endowments were defects; indeed, quite the contrary was true. These

tokens were her pride and joy, for they were verification of the labor she gave to her adoring students.

Ultimately, however, they acted as reminders of pleasant, peaceful remembrance. Indeed,

Emily loved them because she could rely on her mangled back, her pudgy figure, her deep-set wrinkles,

and her prematurely arthritic hands to serve as reminders of how unadulterated life was before her

beloved daughter decided to serve in the war.

Emily Holiday reflected on these atypical features as she delved into the first box that presented

itself. This box was a relatively normal-looking box without any labels or markings, only a rather odd

caricature of a swan flying from (or escaping from, it seemed) a turbulent pond. Smiling in spite of

herself – True could make her smile even when she was presumed dead, how peculiar! – she continued

with her voyage.

This humdrum box held nothing predominantly noteworthy to the unaided eye; it merely

contained a wrinkly pad of paper, two chewed pencils, and a metal heart fashioned from a rusty paper

clip. However, Emily Holiday’s eye was not unaided: she could start to sense her daughter’s

encompassing spirit. In fact, Emily could nearly feel the brush of True’s lithe hand, see the twinkle of her

bright blonde hair, and witness the startling stare from True’s penetrative gray eyes because of that



crinkled paper, those annihilated pencils, and the tiny rusted heart. To Emily, you see, these items

symbolized the very quintessence of True. True was just like the miniscule metal heart she had

laboriously preserved in her pocket since she was three: she was, above all else, courageous. Like that

metal heart, True’s heart would never break; it would be tenacious, like the pencils that she had

laboriously maintained since second grade, and like the paper that she had crafted herself.

The second box Emily opened was perhaps more conspicuous to the observer, for it

accommodated bright flashes of paper with stunning script; a minuscule, glittering gold-inlaid cross; and

a silver-framed photograph of the sea that True nearly neglected to pack on her way to training camp.

Indeed, the mother could inherently feel True’s spirit become more buoyant with the aperture of this

box, for all three items were substantiations of hope: indeed, the first item denoted True’s hope of

getting married, for the script, printed in True’s finest writing, contained the outline of her imagined

wedding day.

The second item in the second box was the diminutive cross, emblematically given to True by

her treasured Grandma Lilly right before she passed. True purportedly learned something from her

Grandma, and from that cross, that made her tremendously sanguine, for she would never leave the

cross anywhere for fear of bad luck.

Finally, the third and final object in the second box was the photo, a dazzling photo that little

True had almost forgotten. The magnitude of that photo, you ask? Its sole purpose, like that with any

soldier who had served, was to remind True of the aspiration of returning home.

At this point, Emily Holiday felt like she was being continually uplifted and encircled by the

exuberant, youthful spirit of her daughter. She could finally sense True’s warm gaze upon her face, smellTrue’s infamous self -made perfume (a delightful infusion of raspberry juice, vanilla, and ocean water),

and hear her whispered goodbyes. Emily Holiday was finally weeping the tears that everyone

erroneously thinks they recognize: she was weeping the inimitable, distinctively personal, wonderfully

exhilarating cacophony of happy tears.

The third and last box contained the only items that an observer might anticipate from a 22-

year-old-woman who was serving in the Navy: it was composed of letters from home, pictures of the

friends she had forsaken, an ancient laptop brimming with stickers from her forgotten room, and, placed

securely on top, a torn picture of herself and her mother, Emily Holiday, a woman of 49. Emily, after

pausing for a moment, raised her eyebrows: she did not know True was still afraid.

Finally, Emily Holiday, 49 years of age, with a stumpy figure and a crippled back, could be like

the swan in True’s delineation: she could fly far, far away to an effervescent niche. Now, Emily Holiday,

mother of True Holiday – mother of a valiant soldier, an auspicious daughter, and a frightened woman –

could return to her serene home by the sea.



Stirrings of Hope

by Shelby G.

Based on the work “ Native Son” by Richard Wright

He’d just as soon go to jail than

Try to defeat or gratify the powerful impulse in a world he feared.

That was the way he lived.

He had a natural wall from behind which he could look -

It added to him a certain confidence

which his gun and knife did not.

They were incapable

Of thinking he had done

Such a thing

And he had done something which even he

Had not thought possible.Not once did he feel the need to tell himself

That it had been an accident.

That was what everyone would

Say, anyhow, no matter what he said.

He had a strange hankering for

It.

He wanted to test and taste each new

Thing

Like

A man

Risen up well from a long illness.

There was a sort of great natural force

Welling

Up

Inside

Like a stormy sky looming up overhead,

Or

Like

A deep swirling riverStretching

Suddenly

At one’s feet

In the dark.

He felt he had destiny

In his grasp.



He was more

Alive

Than he could ever remember having been: his attention and mind were

Pointed,

Focused toward the goal.

Once more, he was poised on the verge of

Action

And

Commitment.

And he would choose

Action.

He would choose

Hope.



Invisible Lines

“ A Picture of many colors proclaims images of many Thoughts.”

-- Donna A. Favors

Although there are few, few, few types of humans in this world, there are many, many, many

colors.

These colors move and twist and bend with each other, fashioning something out of nothing;

blending

To create a united picture; an amalgamated form; only one.

And this object, though always unaccompanied and only one,

Can influence everyone in a multitude of ways; the colors

Can be convoluted or lucid; they can be perceived as separating or blending;

But always, they are twisting and turning and breathing together, blending

To form an idea of a being, inimitable, that will serve as the one

And only reminder of that precise moment in time. Colors

Are blending; colors are forming, twisting, jumping, skipping, and flying; but they are always

united as one.

http://thinkexist.com/quotation/a_picture_of_many_colors_proclaims_images_of_many/153536.html





Shakespearean Diamontes

by Shelby G.

Diamonte Poem Number One

Perceiving

Omnipresent, Unique

Caring, Wondering, Observing

Open-minded, Open eyes, Close-minded, Closed eyes

Narrowing, Slamming, Stopping

Minute, Alone

Ignoring

Diamonte Poem Number Two

Sisterhood

Unanimous, Magnanimous

Debating, Declaring, Adoring

Hugs, Laughter, Handshakes, Frowns

Despairing, Crying, Shrugging

Isolated, Independent

Only Child



Diamonte Poem Number Three

Shopping

Meticulous, Charismatic

Loving, Hating, Grinning

Playful, Easygoing, Subdued, Conscientious

Painstaking, Grimacing, Sighing

Joyless, Regret

Returning



Betsy

Water bug tries to be professional

Jenny

Staying in school until my retirement

comp camp summer 2010 anthology - secondary

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