The Quarries

They used to mine granite up in Concord, but it’s been decades since these quarries were used. The walls are covered with years of little rebellions:

FUCK BRADY

JT + AH

CUNT

Funny, because to graffiti the quarry walls, you’ve gotta dive in and spray paint while you swim around, usually in your underwear. No other way to reach the rock. Dumb kids. I mean, I did it too—we all did.

They say there’s a Volkswagen Beetle at the bottom. It’s probably not the only thing. If I ever killed a man, I’d sure throw him down there too.

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Dusk Approaches

In the evenings, the hour of the abalone,
my eyes remember their loneliness.
Amidst whispers of darkness,
when birds flap west across the horizon,
when the surmising riplets of the sea
are the only noise left,
I drift into thought.

All day I drive vehicles,
have fickle interactions
under bright sunlight.
My body light, an errand in town,
talk of mayors and trees to be downed.

But let the sunlight spin away,
and my thoughts begin to stray
to nostalgias strewn by fear
like queer seaweeds stranded on the beach.

Sun, stay in reach.
My thinking starts
when you leave.

Jetlag

“You awake?”

“Yeah.”

“What time is it?”

“About four o’clock.”

“Well, might as well get up.”

“Yeah.”

“Wanna watch the sunrise?”

“Sure. I’ll get my camera.”

“Wait. It’s 4am. The sun doesn’t rise til like…6.”

“Oh.”

“Well. I guess we could watch a movie.”

“Yeah. Do you have that movie about that guy that does that thing?”

“Yeah. I downloaded it yesterday. Wanna watch that?”

“Sure. I’m also really hungry.”

“Hm. We have some cheetos I think.”

“Oh let’s get those and watch that movie.”

“Okay. Oh wait. The outlets are different here.”

“Crap.”

“Well.”

“Wanna just lie here, then?”

Before We Fall Asleep

“G’night, Derek.”

“G’night, Jamie.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Derek?”

“Mm?”

“Will you love me when I’m old and fat and I have saggy skin flaps all over?”

“Naturally. I’ll tie your saggy skin flaps into bows and you’ll be beautiful.”

“Ugh Derek, that’s fucking disgusting.”

“You said it first.”

“Derek?”

“Mm?”

“What if I were a wombat?”

“What?”

“Would you love me if I were a wombat?”

“Am I a wombat too?”

“Sure.”

“Are you a hot wombat?”

“Sexiest damn wombat in the Southern Hemisphere.”

“Well, in that case, of course.”

“Derek?”

“Go to sleep, you goof.”

Christmas Dessert Rules by David Rurik and Emily Russell

1- Rule concerning the proper size of your slice of pie-
-the overall volume of pie should not outweigh the volume of icecream.
2- Rule concerning mixing pie and other “add-ons”-
-the pairings MUST be approved by resident dessert experts (e.g. grandparents, Eric…)
3- Rule concerning dessert placement and organization on your plate-
-icecream must overlap (rather – completely cover) any and all pie, cookies are limited to the outskirts of the plate.
4- Rule concerning proper appreciating of the dessert-
-Dessert must be completely consumed or still in the consumer’s mouth when complimenting the texture, taste, and/or the chef.
ALL RULES FINAL

Overlord Barnstormer, Enemy of I Will Survive

It was billed as the greatest ten nights of disco ever to visit the solar system. But when armadas of stegosaurs in blimps attacked the party at the bidding of Overlord Barnstormer, chaos reigned. Thousands of disco balls shattered into millions of pieces, and the orange light of explosions reflected off the trillions of spinning mirrors.

UltraTron Man quietly slipped out of his bellbottoms and into his three-piece suit with the designer grenade launcher built into the left sleeve. He quietly wrested a blimp from the enemy’s control and began to restore order with fusillades of carefully timed disco grenades.

The Gravy Boat by David Rurik and Emily Russell

This little tale of this gigantic gravy boat is one the buttery potato-y sea would not like you to hear, because the role the sea plays is that of the villain. Over the hills and through the woods was the seashore, where the gravy boat was moored until that fateful day. It was a dark, dreary day. The buttery potato-y sea was slowly churning, and the gravy boat was tossed around like a toothpick in the midst of a savory tempest of jalapeño olives. The thick gravy sloshed around and much of it fell overboard. Even gravy boats have limits.

I Read

I read and grow restless.
My poems do not follow anthologies,
they march out of potatoes that have been
hoed up and gathered in baskets,
dirt clinging to their tendrils,
chalky cores waiting for my olive oil.

I read and my ass loses feeling.
When I return to myself from out of a book,
the lack of color fills me again
for my body has not moved.

I love reading, but afterwards I cannot write.
I can only long for the plodding blooms of potato plants
and my confusion at aching fingers
when dirt encrusts the laces of my shoes.

Hard to Describe

I’m teaching similes to my seventh graders. Correcting papers on the couch, I read one aloud to my husband:
The ocean was like a velvet curtain, and the iceberg was like an iceberg.

“These kids,” I sigh. “The iceberg was like an iceberg? Really?”

I wonder, though. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe somewhere in that navy blue velvet curtain of sea, there really is an iceberg that’s like an iceberg. The icebergiest goddamn iceberg you can imagine. So much an iceberg that any comparison to something else wouldn’t be fair. Words are just words, after all. Words are not icebergs.

I can’t find my passport…

I always stumble upon my passport when I’m searching for something else, and when I’m holding it in my hand thinking about my future self, about to leave for the airport, searching, swearing, and sweating (partly from exertion, mostly from panic), I will think about storing the stupid thing in a memorable location.

But inevitably I will find it again and relocate it to another more “memorable” location, making the memorable location forgetable. And then I will shamefully call my mother and as if I gave it to her for safekeeping because I’m still this incompetent at the age of 21.

Computers Make Us So Lazy… by David Rurik and Emily Russell

Computers make us so lazy… What if we decided to go back to typewriters for one day? Would the whole world slow down? Impload? Reverse? Who only knows? What else makes us lazy? Grocery stores and cell phones and convieniently located icecream stores. Let’s go back to gardens, telegraphs, cows (churning butter, or whatever that’s called) developing film (that shiny plastic stuff with pictures on it) in chemicals… PRINT! Oh wait. The printer is broken. WHAT DO I DOOOOO??!! Write a real handwritten letter? That’s weird, that’s why I’m still using this old typewriter. Wait!! Computers are great!! I think…

Once Upon A Walrus… by David Rurik and Emily Russell

Once upon a walrus (whose name means underwood typewriter in Finnish) there was a predicament. It so looked like an alien battle that had scoured the milkyway; but in fact was hyperactive yetis who like to eat fish tacos and yams. When one writes a story on a walrus, the connection to yetis seems improbable, but in this case it makes sense. When your walrus has one too many, he begins to lecture on the probabilities of the spoken of hungry yetis. Hyperactive yetis are a new breed, and must be clearly distinguished from other folkloric creatures. Yams are scrumptious!!

Midas

He was Midas for music. Every song he told me about became a small fascination of mine. Thumb through my albums and you’ll find one that’s got a jacket worn from overuse. He probably told me about that band. Hell, he probably told me about the whole sub-genre.

His taste was fresh. Sometimes I’d hear a song and think, “I bet he’ll like this.” But no matter how well I’d figured out his taste, he’d already be on to something new, and he’d show it with the patient non-expression on his face when I’d play my new discovery for him.

 

When I stopped feeling the magic…

The tree is up and decorated so elegantly with every delicate glass ball in place, and the toddlers are still sound asleep as the parents tip toe to place last minute presents under it.
As everyone gathers, all previous bickering and arguments have dissipated in honor of the holiday spirit.
Father makes coffee for the bleary-eyed, but still excited grown-ups, hot cocoa for the youngsters.
Everyone’s eyes are wide as they gather to open long-awaited presents.

The commercial is over and regular scheduled programming returns as I sit next to my dog sipping hot tea in the empty living room.

Get the Job Done

They both knew what was expected, but she’d never done it before and it scared her. Still, when his hand guided her head down, she didn’t say no. Heartbeat too loud in her ears. She tried, but shit, how do other girls do this, where do they learn?? Panic choking her, gagging, what was- was Brian laughing!? I think you’re doing it wrong, he said.

She sat up so quickly, she banged her head on the steering wheel. S-Sorry, she stammered. Threw open the car door and fled, her face burning. She thought the night air might sizzle on it.

Feels Like, Pt. 2

It feels like burning lungs and flying legs, moving toward the sunburned horizons of the Southwest, and the clarity of standing above the clouds halfway up Everest. I blink as the cold of California glints off of leafless trees, bland highways, unfamiliar and disturbing overbuilding, and San Jose comes closer.   It feels like the restfulness of rising and setting alongside the sun, of perfect wellness and staying up all night to catch up.  It feels like the profound cool of swimming beneath waterfalls.  It simply feels like this, like life, like flawless movement and perfect flexibility.  Feels like feeling One.

Feels Like, Pt. 1 [Dec 23]

You’re the only person I trust to double the speed limit down winding mountain roads, and you took your eyes off the road to ask what it feels like.  For a moment, I am quiet, slowly moving to conjure words on a pristine mind.  It feels quiet at 5:30am, watching the sunrise before classes.  It feels like the tingle of spiced Moroccan coffee watching the silhouettes of minarets.  It feels like lying in sunlight of Place des Vosges with French tinkling into my ears.  It feels like the beach in New Jersey, and returning to familiarity and our chosen families.

The Christmas Spirit

Delilah gossiped with Aunt Meghan in the living room over glasses of white zin.

“I heard some…news about your husband.”

“OK. Let me tell you. Sometime in October he got out the Christmas lights and put them up. Said he got in the mood and went ahead and did it. That was fine, but of course now that it’s almost Christmas, he can’t be bothered to put up wreaths, buy gifts, or anything.”

“Why?”

“Said he’s not got the spirit just now.”

“Like he controls all of Christmas or something?”

“He said there’s no point if he’s not feeling it.”

My Imagination Wants to Pick Me Up and Throw Me into a Poster

Sitting here in my room, I once would have instantly transported myself into the jungle, where snakes hang on the shoulders of green cellists.

But now I gaze at the photocopied poster taped to my closet door and can’t fall past the curling paper. Festival Casals de Puerto Rico. Green jungle, green cellist, orange sky. Just a piece of paper, a piece of color on the stained closet door. I put it up years ago.

Why must my cool eye filter what wants to set itself free in my imagination? I’d rather be in the jungle than this old bedroom.

When You Rearrange The Headlines, The News Gets Better (NYT 12/23/10)

Tug of War, A Holiday Spent Battling Double Deamons. Secrets Could Surface, But Are They Qualified?

Spider-man Will Resume Performances, Adds to Heathrowe’s Woes. Tall Guy With A Smile Melts A Town’s Cold Heart.

Parcel Bomb Attacks Yule Log, Now Blazes In 3-D.

Man Trapped In Lime Pit- Yankees and Damon May Not Fit.

Going Out on a Limb, MTV Looks To Smoosh Paulie D. Casual But Tight.

Obama Set to Shuffle, Emanuel Off and Running! Face the Music Where the Beers and Jeers Flow Freely.

Behold, the African Elephant. But Which One? Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.

Fisherman Always Welcome.

I am the Solution / Dissolution by Dick Hampton

In my recurring dream I floated through a Petri dish of gray. Indistinguishable objects sped toward and past me on zip lines from everywhere. Things, people, flitted out of my peripheral vision before I could focus, leaving the impression that I should know what they were.

Once, when I was sick, I saw the end.

In my dream, everything fell into place like squares on a Rubik’s Cube. I had the solution to everything. I marveled at me. Then adjacent ideas began to activate each other; a chain of reaction grew, as everything, everyone in the world disintegrated into chaos.

A Paned Decision by Kimber London

Music. Pounding through the caverns of my ears. Beats. Throbbing through my body which pulses to the rhythm. Stoplight. I glance out the window and notice my moment of solitude is not so solitary as I thought. A man is waving to me from the car over. I place a finger on the button which will lower the glass barrier between us.I hear two voices in my head and see two images. What if he needs directions? A map. What if he is a murderer? A gun. He looks in my eyes. I roll down the window.

Itchy

If I was a gorilla in a zoo I could touch my crotch all I wanted. People would probably laugh. It’d make their day to see a gorilla do that.

But no, I have to be a freshly minted teacher, ironed along with my sweater vest, ready to inspire young minds. They can’t even remember how to pronounce my name. I’m frustrated, but it’s OK.

There’s definitely no crotch touching here. Let’s pretend I liked doing it – well, OK, maybe I do in fact feel the urge. Not around the kids though, won’t do it. Never up by the blackboard.

Paradoxical by Jory Vaucher

He explained to me that I wasn’t allowed to talk/touch women as he carelessly walked to the side of the road and urinated on the growing foundation of trash. Less than 10 feet away, two women laboring their asses off so their husbands could intoxicate and the kids get basic nutrition for tonight. He zipped up and we were on our way again. Weaving through the chaos, encountering the enslaved beggars, the deities of cow and dog on the hunt for scraps of edibility all the while we were pestered by salesmen ravaging the human sprawl for the coveted rupee.

Someone’s First Kiss

They kissed.

It was his first kiss, her second. Perfect, almost.

They were young. He felt brave and she felt vulnerable.

She called him, said come over. She lived half a block away.

Walking that half block, he was excited, trying to commit to memory exactly what he had done to make tonight happen.

She let him in. They weren’t sure what to do, but they did it anyway.

In the biblical sense they didn’t go far. He didn’t know he could ask for more, yet.

Afterwards, he said, “thank you.” She thought that was a weird thing to say.

The Interview

“Who are some of your major musical influences?”

“Fuck, that’s not a real question. This is horrible.”

“Sorry, What?”

“My brother, he’s more famous than you. What’s he done? Nothing. Jack shit nothing. But since he’s my brother, press all around the world have his phone ringing like a goddamn fire alarm. And look at you. You sit here, plodding through this interview, and, to give you credit, you’ve clearly prepared your questions. But it doesn’t matter. If I don’t like your questions, which I don’t, there goes the whole interview, there goes your whole day, maybe your whole career.”

Lyrics

Hey there, you’re looking tranquil
Hair rippling like the ocean
Can’t you see that I’m thankful
You’ve stolen all my emotion

Hey there, where did we begin?
Somewhere in the hotel lobby
Take the elevator up to sin
Take it up if you’re snobby

But we’re not like that, we’re not like that
We’re not like that, we’re not like that
We’ve come too far as revolving stars
We’re not too close and not too far

Hey there, I blink too often
Cuz I don’t think when you’re around
Seagulls, wings press air to soften
My vessel’s almost homeward bound

Before We Were ‘Us’

I found a picture of us today. A real picture, the 4×6 hold-in-your-hand kind, from back when they printed the date in orange on the bottom right-hand corner. ’98 5 16. It’s from when we were Science Fair partners, remember? Your arm’s around my shoulders, and I’m holding our stupid spider plant. Grinning our crooked teeth fifth grade smiles. A picture of ‘us’ before there was an ‘us’. Like a photo of the Titanic before its maiden voyage or something. Ha. I want to call you and tell you about it, but there isn’t an ‘us’ anymore, so I won’t.

Never Change

“Never change,” wrote Rachel in Abbie’s yearbook, in the spot Abbie saved for her.

“I can’t believe we’re graduating this week! You’ve been more than a friend and more than I could ask for. I love you. Never change.”

Throughout college and the years after, Abby found chances to try new things, things that would change the person she was. Whenever she took these kinds of chances, she felt herself growing away from her past and her friendship with Rachel.

Every time she cracks open her high school yearbook and reads the words “never change,” she feels a deep ache.

I Am No Fool

“Something, anything. Please ma’am.”

The kid knows all the tricks, I think. Eyes unafraid of contact, face dirty but hands clean. No way a kid panhandler can learn it all that fast, someone must be teaching him. Probably the same gross, flea-covered man who’s hooking them on drugs.

“Nothing,” I say, and get on by. But the red palm stops me at the crosswalk.

He ambles up. “Really, I just want to eat.”

“Get away, you prick.”

Who knows what he mumbles, but he gets away. I’m satisfied when no one else on the crosswalk is fooled by his ploys.

 

After the Swerving by Sadie Zapata

Front bumper bent and banged up on this side. Looks like a snarl from left profile, smirk from the right. License JK30E8, to kill. Har-har, almost convincingly. The wood they knock on is an official clipboard. Tongues loll along the parameter like caution tape. Yup, molten headrest, tie-dye dashboard. Another day, another two ways they can look at blood. Meanwhile, there’s a white tiger yawning somewhere, imploding a marsupial with his paw. Somewhere else, some kid in Benton, Illinois pauses at a traffic light and gets a nose bleed. It is sticky and, he thinks, saltier than split pea soup.

 

Christmas Gone Up In Flames

When the Christmas tree caught on fire, ornaments exploded like miniature supernovas. Smoke smelling like pine tar billowed away, filling the house with the gases of Creation. Christmas engulfed in the Big Bang, flaming shards curling out through the living room. A brazen, pulsating orange brightness unknown to the melting strings of Christmas lights.

The whole house soon caught the fire of Creation, a beacon of tempestuous life in the snow-covered suburban streets. Plumes of cinders flew upwards like the ecstatic lifting of hands.

The frenzy of life did not die down until in the morning light it finally succumbed.

 

The Homeless Man’s Sign Said TELL ME SOMETHING TRUE

Not everyone stopped. But many people did.

“Two plus two is four,” said a man.

“Eight times seven is fifty-eight. I think?” said a boy.

“Pluto isn’t a planet anymore,” said a teacher. (It made her sad to say it out loud.)

“My girlfriend cheated on me,” said a priest.

“I don’t like apples,” said a doctor.

“I’d kill him with my bare hands,” said an elderly woman.

“You should get a job,” said another homeless man.

“I’m dying,” said a little girl with huge brown eyes. She skipped away giggling, her patent leather party shoes tip-tapping on the sidewalk.

The Missing Halo

One day in heaven, an old angel looked up and realized that his halo was missing. This astonished him, for he couldn’t think of where he might have left it.

First, he went down to earth, where lately he had been helping out a farmer who was down on his luck. Fog hung over the fields, but he couldn’t see any glint or glimmer of his missing halo.

Suddenly, the farmer’s pet bear came running out of a strip of trees! A bit of yellow glow came spilling out of its mouth, so the angel knew his halo was inside.

 

The pack mules came in one color – I forget which – but the packs, the packs came in thirty-five. by Sadie Zapata

Some men died, others didn’t survive, waiting in line for the next man to make up his mind. Didn’t matter what they stuffed in their packs or whether they were heading anywhere.

Fathers stammered the story: Don’t you understand? There’re 35 different dreams of man, go get in line- find the best one you can!

Which one?! 2.9% chance at the best one!

Yellow, the man on his back, next in line, whispered into a lizard tail- or was it the antenna of a snail? This is the one I always wanted, as the pack zipped shut around his body.

Three Letters

Janelle wrote three letters to her father, sealed them up, addressed the envelopes, shuffled them, threw two in the shredder and mailed the unknown third.

 

“Dear Dad, Me and Roy are getting married we decided. Come on out to the wedding if you want. J.”

 

“Dear Dad, I’m a lesbian, going to go find work out in Oakland. You can just disown me via mail. J.”

 

“Dear Dad, Got a chance to make some money. Can’t tell you. Won’t be back around home for a while. J.”

 

He’d answer soon enough, and then her roulette life would orient itself again.

 

Eyes Open

It’s been like being six years old again, lying in bed awake in the many hopes enveloped by anticipation on Christmas Eve or the night before our birthdays. But we’re no longer small children, and these days are not known to our world as different than yesterdays or tomorrows, excepting their uniquely quantified names: twelve-eighteen-twenty-ten. But they are. These nights we stay up with the anticipation of simply being alive, laying in bed wide awake simply because we exist, knowing that what we are living no longer differs from the things that we can dream.  Eyes open, not falling asleep.

Stinging Wind

A blizzard scours you down to your bedrock. Up on the ridges, unrelenting streams of stinging snow whip around boulders, little of which clings into drifts. Trudging across the icy cap of a ridge, head turned down and away from the needle-like wind, your field of vision narrows to a white patch rhythmically entered by the corner of your boot. The white storm throws conversation off of cliffs. Hurtling ice turns to bone-seeping cold. There in the fulcrum of the storm you walk balanced between your battered body and empty mind, never slowing your steps or turning for your companions.

 

Label – One Size Fits All

Trevor returned earlier than Shara expected. The Christchurch mist had not even begun to fill the night when he came in, tore his tie out of the collar, and threw himself pathetically onto a couch.

Shara brought him a glass of water and sat next to him.

After sipping down half the glass, he said, “They’re all communists. Every last one of them.”

“They’re not, honey. What happened tonight?”

“I was explaining about how my education bill is inspired by Zenith Applied Philosophy, and that idiot Locke laughed in my face. Honey, you’re telling me he’s not a goddamn communist?”

 

Unanswered Questions by Sydney Emard

Why is the world round?
Why are we able to see?
Why do People eat people?
Why, why, why?

Why Dont we know who we love when we see them???
Why cant we all live in peace without wars?
Why Do we die?
Why, Why, Why?

Why cant we stay immune to anything?
Why dont we Live in the forest?
Why do I ask you all these questions?
Why, why, why?

Why do you stare at me like that?
Why dont you talk to me like you do other girls?
Why cant you be nicer?
Why why why?

Why cant you?

An Odd Turn of Events

One morning, Katherine Carpenter awoke to find that all of her hair had fallen out. On her red cotton pillowcase were piles and piles of hair—so much hair! She stroked it with one finger, marveling.

At school, Katherine sat down calmly in her seat. The muttering and pointing did not faze her; although curious about the disappearance of her hair, Katherine was not afraid. She was sure that things happened for a reason.

In the back of the room, Trevor Mahoney, who did not even know Katherine’s name, stared at her glowing blueish-white scalp. His heart beat inexplicably fast.

Don’t Go to Mexico

Be careful when you go,
people don’t just tell these stories
to tell them.
It really is dangerous
down in Mexico
for someone as white as you.
If you get kidnapped
I’ll pay the ransom,
but only because
I love you
and I would forgive you.
Just listen to me now.
If it only happened to one random girl
a few months ago
in the New York Times,
we’d all have forgotten by now.
But it happens again and again,
and it’s not impossible
that it’ll happen to you too.
I don’t want that
and, I think, neither do you.

 

Nightmares, Six Years Old

In the dark, I’d dream of terrible things that had no name. Many nights I’d yell out in my sleep and wake Mama in the next room. Opening my eyes to the orange glow of my Mickey Mouse nightlight and her smell, whimpering, I’d curl into her, and she’d smooth back my sweaty bangs. Sshhhh don’t worry, Mama’s here. I’ll stay and rub your back, how’s that, baby? I’ll stay here until you fall asleep and rub your back and I’ll stay here until morning if I have to, whispers, until the black turned to brown, and finally sleep again.

Runaway

I ran away fast as I could. Running through the city streets til I reached the fringes. The cop lights like a migraine plaguing the back of my mind. Sirens. I hopped the fence and thought I got away, but they came after me like a pack of dogs. The night was silent but my breathing filled the air too full. They caught me, I dropped my gun, and followed the hand on my shoulder all the way back to the back of the car. Handcuffs not enough to hold my mind but enough to chain my wrists trapped together.

Blue Eyes by Heather Dobbins

Her eyes stared at me, her big round eyes. I crossed her territory. Her babies lay shivering in the frigid snow with only a blanket to keep them warm. Warm enough that is. Her home was only a circle drawn out in the snow. She started to cry, her tears freezing on their way down to earth. I could see the anger in her eyes. She turned to her babies. They were now turning blue to match the color of their mother’s eyes. She quickly snatched them up. Their eyes were closed…no more heart beat. She buried herself…she gave up.

Snowy by CJ Herzberger

Today there was no school along with next day because it was snowy. I think that snow will last. It did. But then it rained very hard and the snow melted. I was sad. But snow is only snowy for so long. But it will come back . Someday it will be snowy. It will be so snowy that it will last for weeks. Even if it rains the snow will still be there. Even if it gets to 70 it will not melt. It will be so strong that people barely see anything. It will snow!

 

It will snow!

 

Party by Sydney Wilson

My little brother had a birthday party he just turned 4. He had our neighbors over and friends and family. Our neighbors have little kids one is 3 and the other is 4. We ate a Spiderman cake and it had a little toy and you pressed a button it would say
“Happy birthday from your friendly neighborhood Spiderman”

 
And he had a SpongeBob balloon, if you hit it will start to sing and the little kids kept on hitting it so it got REALLY annoying. We opened presents and he got GatorGolf, Hungry Hungry Hippos and so much more.

Fight by Tony Schmidt

Well it started as a normal day, George and I were walking home from school (did I mention that snow covered everything?) when we decided to attack Joe with snowballs. We started as soon as we got to my house, George started stalking up ammo, while I made the fort. My house is on a hill so we had the advantage. I went inside my house and got some binoculars while George put the ammo in the fort. I came out and went in the fort where George was ready to attack at any moment. He’s here! The fights on.

Pirates by Ethan Peeler

As our captain steered our ship to some unknown island that we could claim for Spain, another ship with raised black sails with crossbones on them shot a cannon ball into our ships flank. Then came right next to us. Soon musket and cannon balls were flying every where. We prepared to board. I landed unharmed on the pirate ship. I drew out my rapier sword and joined the battle. Our ship rammed into theirs. I sheathed my rapier and drew out my two flintlock pistols and began shooting them randomly. Then something hit me. I could remember no more.

Decorations by Sydney

My family and I got all of the Christmas decorations and we tried to put all of them up in one day but that failed because we have so much stuff. We have some classy ornaments and toy ones except my little brother broke two of them because he was on the time out chair. The ornaments were right by the time out chair and as soon as I picked up the all the pieces and then he picked up another one and threw it and one of them was mine and the other one was my moms.
WOW!!!!