merlyn sample issue

7/23/2019 Merlyn Sample Issue

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Stories of Freedom and Escape

Cricket Song by Catherine Pickut

Dove Tales by Rochelle Shoretz

Humor Celebrity Poetry

Fiction, Essays, and Poemsby Americas Teens

Monthly Edition

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byVickyJenkins

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2/16

ear Reader,

Dont we ordinarily think of ourselves as being free? Most of us be-lieve we have the freedom to do and say what we want, when we

want. But do we? Since 9/11, tighter security in airports and along ourborders, the introduction of the Patriot Act, and new immigration laws havecaused many people to feel that their freedoms are being threatened. Othersare thankful for these measures, and believe that they are safer. If theres onething weve learned, though, its that the meaning of freedom differs from per-son to person, culture to culture.

In this edition of Merlyns Pen Monthly, youll find stories that explorethe concept of freedom and why it is essential to the human spirit. Eachstory grapples in a unique way with freedom, in all its glittering facets. InCricket Song, Catherine Pickut writes about racial injustice, somethingwe still struggle to free ourselves from today. Willy Solomon takes on siblingrivalry in Free at Last, as two brothers learn to deal with being left homealone. Rochelle Shoretzs protagonist in Dove Tales uses her imagination tosoar away from her troubles, and she succeeds. And finally, Joanne Adam-kewiczs Freedom is a short, dreamlike narrative with a sad but hopefulsurprise ending.

ough indefinable, freedom may be seen as the very essence of life. Itsthe sweet breath of springtime, the crash of thunder, the closeness anddistance in our dearest relationships. Above all, Merlyns writers see it as aprecious gift. As you read the stories in this edition, may you feel it and knowit in the utter freedom of your heart.

Enjoy!

D

Notes fromthe Cave

M E R L Y N S P E N M O N T H L Y2 S A M P L E I S S U E


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Depts.

Library

Features

CONTENTS

Supported by contributions from generous companies, foundations, and families, The MerlynsPen Foundation promotes teen literacy. Its programs serve the developmental needs of preco-cious teen writers, all teen readers, and the educators who assist them. By identifying, men-toring, and publishing original teen writers, who often leave the arts before their potential isrecognized, the Foundation expands the store of talent that will feed American literature andcreative arts this century.

www.merlynspen.orgMerlyns Pen Monthlyis published ten times annually by The MerlynsPen Foundation, Inc., P.O. Box 2550, Providence, RI 02906. Copyright2004 by The Merlyns Pen Foundation, Inc. All rights reserved. Exceptfor classroom use, reproduction of this publication in whole or inpart is prohibited without the written consent of the publisher.

Managing EditorKaryn-Lynn Fisette

Project DirectorStephen Hammond

Publishing & DesignPaperCut Publishing

Senior EditorJo-Ann Langseth

Contributing EditorsBrian BindschadlerMatthew Cheney

Audrey FriedmanBeth HowardLaura HudsonKara LaughlinEmily Lonardo (apprentice)Deb PenneyShannon PenneyPaula PrebleLee TeverowTom TortorichPriscilla Welsh

Cover Art

Vicky JenkinsIllustrations

Jane OConorCindy SatagajKathy SzarkoKen Vaudrain

Development DirectorJan Dane

Grants/Projects CoordinatorKristin DiQuollo

Foundation Board ofDirectors & AdvisorsMichael AaronsonElliot Alchek

Joan AyotteMichael GuttKeith HefnerGregory HudsonPeter Jenkins

Jeff LaikindKate LeachBarbara MorseDiane PostoianLaureen RowlandMary Jane Sorrentino

Jack StahlLesley StahlR. James StahlBill Zabel

Editor in ChiefR. James Stahl

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Cricket Song(fiction)by Catherine PickutDavid, a young slave, asks his mother and his friends why the cricketssing.

Dove Tales(fiction)by Rochelle ShoretzTaras imagination lets her soar away from her troubles.

Free at Last (fiction)by Willy Soloman

When Mom and Dad go out, two brothers put on the boxing gloves.

Freedom (short)by Joanne Adamkewicz

Song of Me (For Whitman and W.C. Williams)(poem)by Colin Patrick

Explorer (short)byAshley Muddiman

Taking My Wife to My Childhood Village(poem)byBenjamin Cleaves

Moonlight(poem)byLuisa Colon

Party Games(fiction)by Matt Phillips

1968(fiction)by Tara Brantley

A Hard Road Home(fiction)by Nathan Costa

Notes from the Cave

Interview

Etymology

Merlyns Resource Directory

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M E R LY NS P E N M ON TH LY 3

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M E R L Y N S P E N M O N T H L Y4

n ivory moon hovered unsteadily in the infant twilight as the stars creptnearer to view. Summer bloomed even at nights coming, and the melodyof a million crickets filled the air. In a small wooden shanty, a dark-eyedchild listened calmly to the falling night.

Mama? He only whispered, but she drew close to hear him.Yes, child. Her voice carried the warm tones of honey and gentleness that

all mothers possess within their souls.Why do the crickets sing?She looked at her child, brown skin shining softly in the semi-dark. His

eyes glistened with the innocent wonder of one who has never tasted pain.He spoke again, his mouth forming words quickly and carefully. e

birds, they sing cause its they way of bringing joy, and the frogs, they bellowcause they happy they frogs instead of polliwogs, but the crickets . . . Hisvoice faded away.

Go on, David, she urged him gently.e crickets, they dont have any reason. ey always been crickets. ey

not joyful, not glad, they just . . . He paused, thoughtfully, for a long moment.ey just are.

He rested his head on the sill and watched the sun glimmer away on thehills. e crickets chirped on into the evening mist.

I dont know, David, I just dont know. But I know that its nighttimenow. And you need your sleep.

e little boy fell into a wondering slumber to the rhapsody of the cricketssong.

David awoke in the hazy dawn, finished his morning chores as quickly as

he possibly could, and determined to discover the secret of the crickets medleyonce and for all. It was a glorious morning, dew-kissed and sparkling in therays of a fiery sun. Mr. Laquettes fields of new vegetables reached higher totaste summertimes new warmth and life. And the men toiled there, plantingand weeding.

e men were singing quietly into the growing heat.Nobody knows the trouble I seen . . .David listened to their deep voices carrying the tune. e words were sort

of sad, he decided. But the way the strong men sang was almost happy. Some-thin wrong. It seemed broken in its clarity, subdued in its low tones.

A

By Catherine Pickut

Catherine Pickut wrote and submitted CricketSong while attending Wellsville Middle Schoolin Wellsville, New York. She tells us that the cel-lo, piano, and debating are among her interests,in addition to writing.

S A M P L E I S S U E


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David walked up slowly to Jeremiah, a tall bronzeman with warm eyes and a muscular build. He tugged athis sleeve gently.

Well, howre you, Master David? Whatve you beenoccupyin yourself with? Is somethin on your mind, littleman?

David looked up at the towering man beside him.Why do you sing when you work? he asked.

Jeremiah looked at the boy but didnt speak.So David continued, e bird sings cause hes joy-

ful, and the bullfrog sings cause hes happy bein a frog,but why do you sing?

Jeremiah got a kind of pondering look on his face.I guess we sing because it makes things go faster thework, I mean. Why you wonder?

David shrugged. Jeremiah went back to his work.David squinted at the sun. e temperature increased

quickly in the fields of summer. To make the work go fast-er? No, that was not why the crickets sang. e cricketssounded different from the men in the field, but David

wasnt sure why. e crickets song was perfect and pure,and so different. Something not there in the mens darkvoices.

He went to find his mother. She worked in the bighouse, in the kitchen. It smelled of prosperity in the bighouse, of silk and cotton. But the air also smelled of bakedbeans, his mothers baked beans.

e big house stood, white and clean, at the front ofthe plantation. David didnt go in very often, and alwaysthrough the back door. But he could hear his motherssilken voice humming a soft tune as he stood at the door.

Mama?David, did you finish your work? Did you remember

to take care of the goats?

Yes, David had done all of that earlier, during thecooler hours.

Yes, Mama.So whats troublin you?David thought for a moment. Mama, why you hum-

min when you work?Mama looked at her child. I dont know. I like the

tune, I suppose. No reason, really. She turned back to the

breakfast dishes. Run along now. Master wont like youhangin on his back door all day. She smiled.

David walked away, kicking a round stone. Mamasang just for singin. Jeremiah sang cause it made his workgo faster. But their songs were different from the crickets.He liked the crickets song. It made him feel a dull pulseof peace way down deep inside of him. Mamas song wasjust a song, and Jeremiahs was kind of sad. But not likethe cricket. Somethin missin in Mamas song, somethinmore missin in Jeremiahs. But what?

David scurried to do his afternoon work. By evening,his eleven-year-old body tingled from effort. He sat in si-

lence by the window and felt the crickets song grow in in-tensity. It was more wonderful now, and he could tell thedifference had become clearer and more distinct, thoughhe couldnt feel quite what. But it was still there.

Looks like good weather tomorrow, doesnt it, child?Mama knew that the blood-red sky meant a glorious daytomorrow. e shades of crimson and fire exploded on thehorizon as the sun sank quickly into the earth. ey satin silence, letting the song of the tawny gold meadow fallinto syncopation with the crickets cries of life.

Finally, it was lavender darkness enfolding mother andson. e crickets chorus grew deafening in the moons

CONTEST-WINNING RESPONSE TO CRICKET SONG

tudents are often asked to reflect on famous lit-erary works by crafting original responses to theideas and themes that move them.Merlyns Pens

first contest of 2004 drew from this idea.We asked students to read and write a response

to a piece of their choosing from the more than

1,000 works in our New Library of Young AdultWriting. Lauren Janness of Baker Middle School inTroy, Michigan, submitted a response to CricketSong entitled Free. Of the many thoughtful andcreative submissions, her piece was selected as thewinning response. We encourage you to read Freeat www.merlynspen.org.

continued on page 14

e now make it easy for you to respond to a storyyou read in Merlyns Pen Monthly. After a story

you will see a box containing the image below.ere will be a story ID number within the box and alink called take me there. Clickingon the link will bring you to

a page where youcan enterthe storyID numberand writeyour response.

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http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/33793


6/16


here is a rusty chain saw buzzing inside my head. I reach out in anattempt to stop the noise, ready to mangle, crush, and destroy the an-noying hunk of iron with my bare hands. Instead, I hit the snoozebutton on my alarm clock. Good enough. e noise stops. I think of

my dove.Slowly, and with great difficulty, my feet find their way to the floor. Its that

time of morning when the scent of hot waffles and fresh orange juice is sup-posed to envelop your nostrils, the way it works on television. But this is reallife, so Im not really surprised when the only things enveloping my nostrils,literally, are my dirty socks, which have been hiding under the pillow since lastursday. I flip through the pages of my calendar. Its Sunday, Dads day.

Shimmering through my window, a ray of sunshine bounces off somethingresting on my bureau, leaving a spot of light hanging on the wall. I follow theray back to the bureau and find my brooch sitting among a stack of papers,some of them already crumpled into balls. e brooch is shaped like a dove,with a body carved from mother-of-pearl, a wing made of mirror, and a singlepearl in place of an eye. Oh, none of its actually genuine, but its mine just thesame, looking as delicate and fragile as a real dove must. Of course, Ive neverreally seen one up close.

e dove was a gift from my sister Jenny before she left for college. I musthave been eight or nine at the time, a pout plastered on my face, upset at theworld over my parents divorce four years before that, and angrier still at Jennyfor leaving me to deal with the situation alone.

Lighten up, she told me, and if things really do get too hard to handle,maybe you and this bird here can fly to some far-off land and deal with them,OK?

I smiled and nodded my head enthusiastically. Jenny laughed. I havent

gone anywhere without that dove since.Showered and dressed, Im running out the door an hour later to meet mydad. I wave goodbye to my mom, who has her hair up in curlers and is eatingmocha fudge ice cream straight from the container over her morning paper.

Hi, Dad. Hi, Suzie. Susan is my stepmother.Hi, Tara. And Tara is their baby daughter.My dad has a bushy beard, and I pick out remnants of his breakfast while

he drives. Somehow, this makes Susan hungry. We decide to go for lunch.How about that deli place we ate at last week? my father suggests.e food there is tasteless, Susan says with a grimace. How about the

T

By Rochelle Shoretz

Rochelle Shoretz wrote Dove Tales whileattending Shulamith High School in Brooklyn,New York. She keeps a daily journal, writes fic-tion, and likes to visit local libraries. Acting andcomputers also interest her.

Dove

Tales



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restaurant a few blocks away?I hate that place, I say. Cant we just get a burger

or something?Ideas are tossed back and forth. e tension is mount-

ing and Im awaiting the final blowup. My fathers left eyebegins to twitch. My dad is notorious for that twitch.

I feel the dove in my pocket, my finger sliding overits smooth belly, back and forth, back and forth, in deter-

mined rhythm. And the rhythm begins to grow, strongerand faster, until Im far away from the little blue Chevy,away from the noise, away from the world. Drums arepounding to the beat of the night, and the sound omi-nously echoes through my head. A dark girl, her hairtwisted in small black braids, her stomach empty, is run-ning through a barren field. e drums are pounding fasterand faster: Pum-pum-pum, Pum-pum-pum. Her feet arepumping, her heart beating wildly, and all the while thedrums are pounding: Pum-pum-pum, Pum-pum-pum.She stops, standing on tiptoe to pull the last berry from abush. But she squeezes too hard and the juice drips downthe side. Poison. e drums stop suddenly.

Lets skip lunch, I suggest casually.e twitching stops.Jenny and I have talked a lot about the problems we

all share as a Sunday family. We all try to make up for aweeks time in one day, and so everything we decide to doon Sunday seems trivial compared to all that we could dotogether during the rest of the week. Admitting this nowdoesnt make the situation any better, but its a start.

How about a trip to the museum? suggests my fa-ther.But, Marc, Susan interrupts, we made a list of all

the . . .I dont even hear the rest of what shes saying. Im

thinking of that list. Susan is notorious for her lists, andsuddenly I have a very strong feeling I know exactly howwere going to spend the day.

OK, my father says. Lets go to Toys Us.Tara gurgles in her car seat. I was right.

Im walking up and down the aisles of one of the big-gest toy stores in the world, and it should feel great, butmy heart doesnt agree. Im comparing Luvs with Pam-pers, Playskool with Fisher-Price, and by the time I finishmemorizing the differences between the Johnny Jumperand the Betsy Bopper, were ready to leave. Im disap-pointed.

We arrive at the cash register with a doll for Tara and

a yo-yo for my dad. e cashier is shooting the proofs ofpurchase with a laser gun, too lazy to push a few buttonsand avoid any problems, and, of course, there are prob-lems.

Sorry, she says. e laser wont shoot the doll, andI cant ring it up on the register. Actually, the way she saysit sounds more like, Tzory. De laaazer won shoot de doll,an I caaant ring it up on de regista. My fathers left eyebegins to twitch.

I dig deep into my pocket and finger the dove. I starttapping on it, making clicking sounds with my nail. eclicking becomes more deliberate, echoing in my ears un-

til all I hear are castanets, clacking and clicking, clackingand clicking. And then, through the din, I spot a littlegirl crying in the street. Shes bending over something, herhair falling into her swollen eyes. I take a closer look. Its adoll, ripped and torn, its dress soiled and creased.

Leave the doll, I say.We leave the doll. We leave the store. Were on the way home now, catching up on the

week, talking about Jenny. I kiss everyone goodbye andjump out of the car. I trip, though, and the dove falls outof my pocket. My dad starts driving away, but I pick it upjust in time.

I turn the key to the door. My mom is yelling on thephone, and suddenly my dove and I are in Greece. Wetravel a lot.

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WRITE A RESPONSE

You can write a response to this story by clicking

on the take me therelink located below.Be sure to use story ID # 30143when responding.Its fun, its easy,and you could bepublished in theLibrary!

A dark girl,her stomach empty,

is runningthrough a barren field.

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8/16


n 1993, Robert K. Elder was a junior in high school, working asexecutive editor of his school paper.He decided to take a chance andcall up legendary author Ken Kesey

to ask for an interview. Kesey, author ofOne Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest,

was willing. He was very nice to me,Rob says. He decided to send the pieceto Merlyns Pen, where excerpts were published in the October/November1994 Senior Edition.

Today, Rob continues to writeabout film, the arts, music and travel for theChicago Tribune. His workhas appeared in numerous publicationssince his debut in Merlyns Pen, includ-ing e New York Times, Premiere

magazine, the Los Angeles Times,e Boston Globe, Gear magazine,ande Oregonian.

When Ken Kesey was in Mon-tana promoting his novel e Last GoRound, in 1993, Rob took a gambleand called Keseys publisher to ar-range an interview.

I just did it, Rob says. It wasthe easiest thing in the world, actual-ly. Kesey, author of the 1960s clas-

sic One Flew Over the Cuckoos Nest,readily agreed to talk, even thoughRob was still in high school and justbeginning what would become hiscareer. e two writers met at theRadisson Northern Hotel in Billings,then walked around the corner to anearby bar to talk. Like master to ap-prentice, Kesey gave 17-year-old Roba valuable piece of advice: If this is

what you want to do, he told Rob,if you want to be a journalist, youhave to start now.

When his school newspaper de-cided not to print the Kesey inter-

view for lack of space, Rob submittedit toMerlyns Pen.

I forget how I learned about Merlyns Pen, but somebody saidI should submit it, and I did, on a whim, even though there was no

physical section in the magazine forit.

Merlyns Pen editors were so im-pressed with Robs questions andKeseys answers that they created anew department, Reviews and Retro-spects, for pieces like Robs. He laterinterviewed Tom Robbins, author ofEven Cowgirls Get the Blues,JitterbugPerfume, and Skinny Legs and All.

I

Interview

When Kesey was in high school,he aspired to become an Olympicwrestler. He shared with Rob someof what he had learned on his highschool team: If you stay after school,work out, dedicate yourself to it. Youmay not be doing what you thoughtyoud be doing 20 years from now,

but youll be so far ahead of every-body else that it wont matter any-way.

Grateful for that meeting, Robsays Keseys advice has paid off won-derfully well.

A decade later Rob is a filmreviewer and cultural reporter atthe Chicago Tribune, where he hasworked for the last four years. He re-fers humbly to himself as a juniorcritic, which he describes as my own

title out of respect for the two gentle-men who are senior to me. His jobrequires that he watch as many as 400movies a year. Often they are formu-laic and mundane; many he hardlyrecalls reviewing, never mind seeing.But the thing that I love about mystation in life is that Im able to dis-cover new directors, and thats a realtreat because you are still in a posi-tion to be surprised, Rob says.

e beautiful thing about filmcriticism is that you get to find andthen champion these things.

Im in journalism because offilm, not the other way around. Robnever had the desire to write the typeof stories that appear in the educa-tion or crime-related pages of theTribune, but still, he says, I have thegreatest job in the world because Iam paid to be curious.

Robs curiosity has led him to

write about far more than film. Apersonal obsession fueled his recent journey through the streets of Chi-cago in search of photo booths andtheir little-known history. In Feb-ruary, he documented the financialruin of Shelby, Montana, followinga 1923 heavyweight boxing champi-

Robert K. Elder, once a Merlyns Pen writer, isnow a film critic for theChicago Tribune.

continued on page 14



9/16


ell be home in a little bit. My mothersvoice faded away. Rick, my brother, and Ilooked at each other with devilish grins.

Even though my mother and father werealready out the door, my brother and I just

had to say it Byeee! Saying goodbye to Mom and Dadwas more than a polite gesture; to my brother and me, itmeant a few hours of absolute freedom. If we wanted, wecould jump on the couch, run through the house, andeat five bowls of ice cream. Nothing and no one couldcontrol us.

So what do you want to do? Rick asked.I felt as strong as ever and began to bounce, foot to

foot. Lets box, I said as I threw two left jabs and a rightuppercut into the air.

Get the gloves.My bouncing came to a stop. But itsyourturn to get

the gloves, Rick. Why do I always have to do it?Because Im the undefeated champ of the world and

the challenger has to get the gloves.I ran down the hallway to my room and dug through

my toy box. ree of the gloves sat on top of the pile oftoys. e fourth glove was nowhere to be seen. I began totoss one toy at a time, then armfuls, to the floor behindme, searching for the bottom of the box.

Whats taking so long? Rick bellowed down the

hall.I stood silently in front of the mountain of toys thatstood in the middle of my bedroom. Hmmm, I hummedas I wondered where my glove could be. I turned back tolook at my closet, and there I found the glove, wedgedinto the far right corner behind my basketball. I grabbedthe glove, picked up the other three gloves, and dartedback to the living room.

What took so long? I was startin to think you werescared. He always knew what buttons to push to get me

irritated.Im not afraid of you, I shot back.My brother and I pulled on our gloves and took

our usual corners in the living room. I was overflowingwith anticipation and already red in the face. I couldnthelp wondering if this was the night I would be crownedchampion.

My brother stood across the room next to the televi-

sion. His chin was cocked slightly in the air. He stared atme and grinned, Ready?

Yeah. I attempted a menacing tone, but the squeakin my voice erased any fear he might have been feeling.

Rick chuckled at me, Ladies and gentlemen, in thiscorner, next to the lamp, weighing . . . He paused andlooked at me. How much do you weigh?

Rick did this to me every time. You know how muchI weigh.

No, I dont. How much do you weigh?Forty-two pounds, I said as I flexed all forty-two of

them.

Starting where he left off, Rick boomed, . . . weigh-ing forty-two fearsome pounds, Willy e Wimpy Solo-mon!

Now that I was a victim of first-degree humiliation,I could only hope to do the same to my brother. And inthis corner, next to the TV set, weighing one hundred andnine pounds . . .

Dont forget the undefeated champ of the world,Rick put in with an ear-to-ear grin.

Are you going to let me finish? I snapped, glaringat him.

Sure, go ahead; I just didnt want you to forget any-

thing important.Well, you never let us start the fight unless I say it.Just wanted to remind you. Go ahead, he snick-

ered.I began once again. Weighing one hundred and nine

pounds, the undefeated champ of the world, Ricky DeanyWeenie! I could no longer keep ahold of myself. I col-lapsed to the floor, snorting with laughter. Once I calmedmyself, my brother and I had a stare-down.

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Weighing forty-twofearsome pounds, WillyThe Wimpy Solomon!

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11/16

M E R LY NS P E N M ON T H LY 11

ord origins are complexand elusive, but the study

of those origins, etymol-ogy, can help us better

understand where a wordcomes from and how its meaning hasevolved over time. Our words are de-

rived from many different languages,from imitations of sound, and fromcombinations of other words. Wordhistories are practically limitless, andtheir meanings diverse. Below are afew words that appear in this editionofMerlyns Pen Monthly. Perhaps bytracing the origins of these words,you will come to a better apprecia-tion of how they are used here, andhow they can function in your own

writing.

Dove: e Old English worddufeis one possible origin of the worddove. Old English was written andspoken between the fifth and twelfthcenturies. Dufemeans to dive, as adove does in flight. e dove is alsoa symbol of gentleness from earlyChristianity. However, it wasnt un-til 1962, during the Cuban MissileCrisis, that this word was used as a

political symbol for a peaceful per-son.

Dandelion: e name of thispesky but nutritious weed dates backto the 1400s from the Middle Frenchexpression dent de lion, meaning li-ons tooth, a reference to the dande-lions toothed leaves. Middle French was used four to six hundred years

e e ty mol o gy

Wago. Another name for dandelion,tell-time, refers to the custom of tell-ing the time by blowing on its fluffywhite parachute seeds. is whimsi-cal method of telling time called forcounting the number of puffs re-quired to blow off all the seeds. If it

took two puffs, that meant it was twoo clock.

Champion: Champion is an OldFrench word dating back to 1225,and stemming from Late Latin, alanguage used between approximate-ly 300 and 700. e Late Latin wordcampio means gladiator or combat-ant in the field. Another relatedLatin word is campus, which means

field of combat. e verb cham-pion means to fight for, defend orprotect, and was first used in 1820.Championship debuted in print fiveyears later.

Sources:Dictionary of Word Origins, Arcade Publish-ing, Inc., 1993.

Oxford English Dictionary, Oxford UniversityPress, 2000.

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Explorer

My toes are ice cubes. Except for the whipping wind,there is silence on my gray, bare tundra. e flat, icy plainoffers no shelter from the driving snow. I turn my head inall directionsnothing for miles.

My blonde curls are blown into my face; I am insnow up to my knees. My down coat, woolen mittens,

and cotton hat keep my head, hands, and body as warmas a summers day.e snow flutters down, down, down. My lips are

chapped and my cheeks stiff, but I force myself to smile.e beautiful bareness of the land is all that I need tosurvive.

I, the Great Amy Smitz, am going to travel the Alas-kan tundra until I dieor at least until supper.

My seclusion makes me feel completely free. Free ofall my worries. Adventure replaces every fear. Not know-ing what lies beyond the horizon draws me, tramping on.Maybe Ill see a polar bear or an Eskimo. Maybe a team of

Alaskan huskies.I take a deep breath of the chill air. It stings my lungs,

but afterward feels good. I sniff the frosty wind. It smellslike the first winter snow. I want to stay . . .

Amy! Time for dinner!I drift back to reality. My cozy, red-bricked house, ac-

tually in Montana, stands in front of me. And Mother isjust outside the back door.

Im having fun! I call back. l dont want to comein!

Its dinnertime, Mom repeats.Ill be there in a minute, I give in.

I slowly turn my back to my house and kneel in thesnow. Its cool touch makes me want to skip supper andjust stay here all night.

ats all for today, I decide. But the great explorerAmy Smitz will be back again tomorrow!

I turn around and stride inside to a cup of hot choco-late and steamy chicken soup. Being inside might makeme warm and comfy, but adventure is so much more fun.e Great Unknown calls me. I will always be a great ex-plorer.

Ashley Muddiman,

Sixth grade, John Foster Dulles Elementary,Cincinnati, Ohio

Song of Me(For Whitman and W.C. Williams)

Yesterday I noticed that at sunsetyellow-green grass is orange

and dandelionleaves and moss look fuzzy and gray.My postered room

smelled like grass andpine bark

(the window was open all day) and for some reasonthe bookshelf my mother painted blue

when she was my age seemedto lean

more precariously.She entered the room of honeysuckle

and pine bark and told me towash up

you look scummy do you wantAunt Mary and Aunt Betty to see you like that

I had trouble being polite intelling her

that Id really rather sit up here and breathethe dry air of evening.

Colin Patrick,Eleventh grade, Cherry Hill High School West,Cherry Hill, New Jersey

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ENTERTHE LIBRARY

sighed. Tis wasnt going to be as easy as I hadhoped.

You see, tonights homework assignmentis to write a one-hundred-fifty-word essay onHow have the freedoms guaranteed in the First Amendment to the Constitution played a rolein my life? I know what the freedoms are, but Icant seem to tie them in to my life. Any sugges-tions? I looked around hopefully.

Dad regarded me thoughtfully. Mom raised

her eyebrows in curiosity. Chris scrutinized mefor a moment before she lost all interest. After all,she was out to change the world. Little brothershomework was inconsequential to her. After aneternity or two, Dad replied, Why dont youwrite about . . .

From 1968, by Tara Brantley, grade 10,seen in the New Libraryat merlynspen.org.

I

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http://www.merlynspen.org/contentmgr/showdetails.php/id/29261


14/16


Robert K. Eldercontinued from page 8

glow.Mama?Yes, child.e bird sings cause hes joyful, the bullfrog croaks

cause hes happy hes a frog, Jeremiah sings cause it makes

his work easier, and you sing cause you want to . . .His dark eyes surveyed the meadow one more time

before he continued. And I know why the cricket sings,Mama. And why it sounds so sweet.

e woman closed her eyes for a moment. Whysthat, David?

Some time passed, one of those times that seems aneternity but is only an eyes blink in truth. A breeze tickledthe tops of the meadow wheat. David stood and took along, deep breath of sweet summer air. A dying star torea seam in the sky as he opened his mouth to speak. Helooked at his mother.

e cricket sings . . .He glanced up at the pearly moon again. It sparkled

like a shiny nickel at the bottom of a wishing well. ecrickets kept chirruping, their song rising to charm thestars into twinkling. David sighed and looked out over thefield before he finished.

e cricket sings . . . cause hes free. Just cause hesfree.

His mother rose and stood by him as the suns lastwarm glow faded away. Together, they watched night cov-er heavens face and listened to the song washing across themeadow. ey listened, in wonder, to the song which theycould never sing.

Cricket Songcontinued from page 5

onship between Jack Dempsey and Tommy Gibbons.Rob was raised in Billings, Montana, about 10 driv-

ing hours from Shelby. He attended college at the Univer-sity of Oregon, a school suggested to him by Kesey, wholived in Oregon until he passed away in 2001. Robs final

year of college turned into three when he decided to fol-low his dreama dream that landed him in the offices oftheMilwaukee Journal Sentinel, e Oregonian, e Dal-las Morning News, Premieremagazine, and e New YorkTimes. By the time I graduated, I had roughly five intern-shipsbut a lot of experienceplus many more freelanceand job connections, Rob says. I spent three years mov-ing every three months to different parts of the country,working for different publicationsa very esoteric route.I was gaining momentum, writing like mad, and trying toland a full-time job before the Tribune recruited me.

Rob hasnt looked back at his interviews with Kesey

and Robbins. ey are products of an earlier self, a young-er writer, he says. But he is willing to point out, If youlook at something you did a few years ago and arent a bithorrified, then youre not growing as a writer.

What young writers often dont realize, Rob says, al-most sternly, is that you can do whatever the hell youwant to do. ere is no one to stop a writernovice orveteranfrom making the call, arranging the interview,or submitting an editorial. I think theres this kind ofpsychology that exists that you have to wait for someonespermission to write the kind of stories you want to write,or interview the type of people you want to interview.

You dont.

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WRITE A RESPONSE

You can write a response to this story by clicking

on the take me therelink located below.Be sure to use story ID # 29263when responding.Its fun, its easy,and you could bepublished in theLibrary!

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15/16

Merlyn s Resource Directory

M E R LY NS P E N M ON T H LY 15

Fir Acres Workshop in Writing and Thinking Lewis & Clark College

OR 503-768-7200

Lake Forest College Summer Workshop

Lake Forest CollegeIL 847-735-5234

Monte Sol Writers Workshop St. Johns College

NM 518-658-9850

Sewanee Young Writers ConferenceUniversity of the South

TN 931-598-1541

Young Writers Workshop

Simons Rock College of BardMA 413-528-7231

Boarding Schools

Summer Camps

Universities and Colleges

Writing Programs

The Hill School PA 610-326-1000

Perkiomen SchoolPA 215-679-9511

Phillips Exeter Academy

NH 603-772-4311

The Putney School

VT 802-387-6219

Salisbury SchoolCT 860-435-5700

Vermont Academy

VT 800-560-1876

Interlochen Arts Camp MI 231-276-7472

Kent School Summer Writers Camp

Kent School CT 860-927-6114

The Summer Institute for the Gifted NJ 973-334-6991

Duke Youth Programs

NC 919-684-6259

Harvard Secondary School Program

MA 617-495-3192

The University of the Arts PA 800-616-2787

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Call Today: 919-684-6259

DUKE2004 SUMMER PROGRAMSDRAMAgrades 9 -11

CREATIVE WRITINGgrades 10-11

CONSTRUCTING YOUR

COLLEGE EXPERIENCEgrades 10-11

Visit our web site:

www.learnmore.duke.edu/youth/

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16/16

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Reach TeensWho are

EnthusiasticWriters and

Readers.To showcase your school, camp,or summer writing program,e-mail [email protected].

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