SENTENTIAE

By Aden Littlewood (Grade 11)

One day, there was a tomato named Mateo. Mateo was a bright red cherry tomato, and grew on a small vine in a little farm. He was surrounded by many other cherry tomatoes, all of them bright red like Mateo, and as he grew up, everyone told him how lucky he was to be a handsome red cherry tomato.

But the problem was, Mateo never felt like a tomato. You see, opposite where the cherry tomatoes grew, on the same little farm, there were many grape vines as well, an on the vines grew many crimson grapes. And even though Mateo looked like a cherry tomato, and everyone told him he was a cherry tomato and had to act like a cherry tomato, inside, Mateo always felt like a grape.

Eventually, Mateo mustered up the courage to tell the tomatoes living on his vine that he felt like he needed to become a grape. He needed to leave his cherry tomato community behind, and go and live with the grapes.

"Why?" questioned Romano the Tomato, his neighbor, "You're a cherry tomato. You can't be a grape!"

"I have to," Mateo responded, "I feel like a grape and I always have. From my head to my toes."  

So Mateo set off, coming out from the cherry tomato vines and rolling towards the grapes. However, because Mateo had no legs, and he had no arms, he didn't get very far. Luckily, just at that moment, the local farm dog ran by and saw Mateo on the ground. He stopped, confused.

By Anna Theil (Grade 11)

On the coldest day of the year, he opens his door to find her, standing before him with that familiar, crooked smile and a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

"I'm home," she says, and he steps aside wordlessly to let her in.

They don't talk about the fact that she is a pianist with beautiful hands that don't work quite right anymore.

By Aden Littlewood (Grade 11)

Dear reader, I have a story to tell. A story forged in fires of youth, refined by the travails of modern creativity. It is a story of promises, of expectations, but ultimately, one of confusion and disappointment. But above all, dear reader, it is a story of a young boy named Timmy.

You see, little Timmy was very excited this Christmas, and so, on Christmas Eve, he could barely fall asleep. He had already seen the presents at the bottom of the tree, and he knew exactly which ones he would open first. The very next morning, Timmy jumped out of bed and headed straight down towards the Christmas tree at the bottom of the stairs. Poor Timmy didn't know whether or not he should wait for his parents before opening his presents, but he decided that he didn't need to. After all, what could go wrong? What, indeed?

Suddenly, Timmy saw a present there that he hadn't seen before. It was a box wrapped in red paper, with a gold ribbon around it. Timmy was confused. Where had the present come from? At that moment, he realized something: that must be the present from Santa! Little did Timmy know of the truth.

Little Timmy hurriedly ran over to the present, struggling to take off the gold ribbon. He squeezed it off, and ripped off the red paper. Inside was a brown box, and, dear reader, Timmy lifted open the box, and suddenly -

By Iris Yip (Grade 11)

I was a blossom, I was to bloom. Oh, my smile could light up the entire room.

You were a camellia, (no doubt in a prosperous shade of blue)

Yet, how is it possible that, your cheeks tint in such a lovely red hue?

I was a carnation, So saccharine sweet- No, it certainly didn't take much for me to sweep you off your feet.

We were perfect together, Or so it seemed. Every moment with you, made my heart sing.

Yet the beautiful flower, Came not without scorn. Who knew that if I were to wilt, You'd be the thorn?

(Yes, it really does sting.)

The moment you made me fall, I had whole-heartedly given you my all. Yet you only turned up your nose, for 'Oh, but I wanted a rose.'

So in the soil I stayed, Knowing full well my heart has been played- -for you left me bare, Struggling to find air.

By Anita Ding (Grade 11)

The cabinet door creaked open slowly, and a small breath of dust drifted out. The brittle wooden box sat in the corner, below a few clothes hangers. On the top of the box lay a shiny, stiff A4 envelope with an official-looking logo stamped in the corner. Underneath was even more piles of paper with neat and precise lines of numbers and bullet points and highlighted lines stapled together, some in labeled plastic sleeves and some in binders. A calculator with a few keys that had begun to wear out. A plastic ruler. A pad of half-finished sticky notes.

Digging deep down, there was a dried-out Sharpie and a notebook emblazoned with rainbow stickers and margins full of doodles and cursive. A box of puzzles. A cotton-candy scented perfume. A slim chapter book.

Underneath a faded baseball cap from the summer of 2004, there was a tangled-up slinky and a scatter of tokens from a long-lost board game. Off to the side was a doll. Its hair and clothes were still plastic-perfect, aside from a few wrinkles in the polka-dot skirt and a scuff across the shiny pink grin. A set of color pencils with the Brick Red missing and the remaining ones sharpened down to nubs. Crumpled up yellowed scraps of lined paper with ragged edges littered the mess of everything.