The Arrow 2024 – Post #5

Welcome to the 2024 Arrow Online. So excited to share some incredible art & writing by Hackley’s middle schoolers!

This is our fifth post of the season. This post highlights a variety of writing and visual art  from across the middle school.

Stay tuned as over the last couple weeks of this 2023-24 school year, we will continue to share all kinds of visual arts and writing.

Enjoy!

Elmo Isn’t Sure

by Jack F. ’30

 

Hi, I’m Elmo.

Elmo talks in the third person.

Elmo doesn’t like it.

Actually, Elmo isn’t really sure.

It doesn’t seem to keep my person interested anymore.

He tucks me out of sight into dark and dusty corners

And truth be told,

my red’s a little threadbare.

My big hard eyes are worn,

but Elmo hopes – maybe not worn out?

 

Now,

if someone sees me

I’m Gracie’s,

with all her sticky icky drool

and always whimpering

For something else

But Elmo isn’t really sure

Maybe those are coos

Maybe those were kisses

Did she just sigh against my big hard eyes

 

A baby, first steps and first teeth just around the corner.

Me Elmo

Me red

Now that she can see

Or was that

My Elmo

My red

Elmo isn’t sure

But Elmo thinks maybe yes!

 

How I Made It To the Clouds

          My family and I were in San Francisco, biking along the ocean with a fresh breeze tickling our noses. We had picked up our bikes from the roughed-up store on the side of the street. We were stuck with janky, rusty bikes with brakes that didn’t work. We slowly peddled to the Golden Gate Bridge. It boomed above us with its vibrant red and gushing white caps below us. While biking, the wind would swirl like a hurricane and take control of my bike. To make it even worse, bikers coming the opposite direction were passing me in the cramped lane of the bridge. I could hold my ground enough to let the bikers pass while willing my legs to keep pushing against the harsh wind. As I was passing another pillar on the path, the relentless wind striked again. Perfect timing as even more serious bikers with tight shorts and sports glasses tried to pass me. My bike halted and tilted against the wind, right in front of the biker.

          “Move! You’re holding us up!”

          Little me, with a laughable amount of strength, attempted to push against the relentless wind. Nope, can’t do this anymore. I succumbed to wind. I let go of my bike and willed the wind to take me to the clouds. Slowly, I was lifted off my bike, into the crisp, whistling wind, the only thing keeping me flying. How do I move? I made the motions of a bird, flapping my arms, much less majestic compared to a bird. I made it to the clouds, where I found many whimsical, soft houses to choose from. They were creamy white, with soft bubbles. Now, I live happily ever after in the soft clouds looking over the victims of the wind from the Golden Gate Bridge.

Pi-kus

 

untitled by Sophia F. ’29

 

Get to class

quick!

I can’t be late.

 

untitled by Willow D. ’29 and Eamon O. ’29

 

Go with the

flow

throughout the day.

\

 

Reeled

by Aaron K. ’28

 

“Alright guys, let’s start working on our microfiction challenge” says Mr. Ogden.

“Uhh” I think, I despise fiction… the countless concepts which we have been told to use, whether it be vivid verbs, similes, or other academic lingo. I begin to work on my similies, attacking the matter with the bravery of a lion and the tenacity of a kitten chasing its tail. I am the Plato to Mr. Ogden’s Socrates, I’m the Lisa to Mr. Ogden’s Ms. Krabappel – I just take it all in. Next, I move onto vivid verbs. Strolling, creeping, admiring – I use them all.

Although the work is tedious, by the power of perseverance, I survive the class period. I confirm that I have used a sufficient amount of “fancy words” such as kakistocracy, troglodyte and equivocacy. I yet again keep the story fresh, and not repetitive.

At last, I finish the story, print out a copy, and hand it to Mr. Ogden. He looks at it for a second and then looks up. His face is red and full of contempt. He yells, “Where is the imagery? We have been talking about it for countless lessons!” Devoid of words, I flail like a fish on a hook. He continues, marching towards me, waving his hands. I dash down the stairs like a subway rat. With his cat-like reflexes, Mr. Ogden chases me. I run and make my way into the Johnson Center. I jump into the pool, figuring he won’t be willing to follow me. But Mr. Ogen has a better idea. He pulls out his semi-professional titanium fishing rod, and casts it into the pool. Before I know it, I’m hooked. He begins to reel me in. As I’m being dragged out of the water, all I can hear is “imagery, imagery, imagery…”

 

Beware the Beast 

by Raine L. ’29

          A hole rips through the sky with a sound like thunder. The sky turns red, an impossibility to say the least, as the clouds become bloodstained and lightning strikes implode to a single point.

She watches, horrified.

The waterfall rises, red as blood, ascending to the clouds, while its cliff shrieks with a terrifying cave full of razor-sharp teeth. All the clocks stop, and the birds, once carefree in their soaring, freeze in midair, neither falling nor rising.

She tries to scream, but the sound is lost to the terrified people.

The rip in the sky expands, opening into nothingness, fringed with yellow against the sickeningly red sky. Sinkholes open in the ground, falling to sky-blue nothingness.

She is struck by some invisible force, drawing and repelling her from the hole in the sky. All her instincts say to flee, but she cannot.

The rip flashes in indescribable color.

The world flashes, blinks, and fades.

She sees nothing.

A flash of yellow.

It fades.

It leaves behind an eye.

An indescribable eye.

And a horrific voice screams-

          Welcome, one and all, to WEIRDMAGEDDON!

––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

She startles awake, terrified. She looks out the window to console her shocked mind.

Outside, the sky is lightening as the moons fade and the sun glows faintly in the cloudless blue.

She sighs in relief, thankful her imagination had simply been playing tricks on her.

What she didn’t notice was the red tinge spreading through the sky.

 

My Potato

by Tristan S. ’30

 

I have a fascinating potato.

Any normal potato is quite round,

but mine isn’t normal.

My potato changes shape.

Any normal potato is quite small,

but mine isn’t normal.

My potato is massive.

Any normal potato will live in the Earth,

but mine isn’t normal.

My potato moves around.

Any normal potato will live for a year,

but mine isn’t normal.

My potato can live for a long time.

Any normal potato is a vegetable,

but mine isn’t normal.

My potato is my dog.

 

Frozen Windows

by Sarah S. ’28

 

Through the glass I look

at a time long past

glazed with the cold memories

of icy dreams.

Arms reach for me,

their history in their jagged edges,

trying to pull me beneath the surface.

I lean forward and shatter the glass,

the mirror showing things I do not want to remember.

Cracks distort my face as I fall

and join the collection of lives

trapped beneath layers of ice.