I wrote a piece in 2nd grade entitled “The Furnace.” I don’t think I have a copy still around. Here’s a summary of the story:
The kids are in the cafeteria eating. The teacher doing lunchroom duty turns into a furnace. One of the kids runs to get the school nurse and the school nurse turns the teacher back to normal again.
(I got an “A” on it and it was published in the local newspaper. It was one of my proudest moments.)
As for writings at a slightly older age, I remember writing about more morbid themes. The one I remember most clearly was written when I was in 7th grade. It was about dying by being hit in the head by an errant fly ball at Wrigley Field.
I once wrote a poem about a Lamia (I had just learned the word the day before) that lived in room 213 of my school. As it happens, my math teacher also resided in room 213. This wouldn’t have been such an issue except at the end of the poem, the Lamia is killed. Thankfully, this was in the days before kids took guns to school, so it’s not like I was suspended or anything. I just had to deal with one very uncomfortable parent-teacher conference. I really had no intention of doing any harm, just expressing my feelings for a piss-poor teacher who frustrated me.
When I was in, I think, fourth grade, we had an English assignment where we had to finish a story that was started in the textbook.
The story concerned a bear named Old Grizzle. Old Grizzle had been harmless for some time, but had recently threatened some campers. No one was hurt or killed, but he was considered dangerous, so Ranger Dan goes out with a rifle to take Old Grizzly down. He goes out, makes his camp, and goes off looking for firewood. When he returns, there’s Old Grizzly, between Dan and his rifle. That’s where the text ended.
Every single person in my class except one had Old Grizzly have a thorn in his paw or something like that. Dan removes the thorn and Old Grizzly licks his hand and walks away, happy and harmless.
Not me, though. I had Dan find a 50-cent piece in his pocket and flick it at an agle away from him. Old Grizzly, distracted by the shiny thing, goes to investigate it, at which point Dan runs for his rifle and empties it into Old Grizzly’s belly, ending the problem.
My teacher had a fit! She was MAD at me for some reason, for killing Old Grizzly! I heard her bitching about it to other teachers. Keep in mind, this was back in 1978 or so, so we’re not talking any Columbine violence fear here or anything.
I also wrote a “book” about the amazing world of undersea exploration based solely on a Jacques Cousteau book I browsed and “Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea” episodes.
In fourth grade we had a writing unit, of course. Our first assignment was to write our own “books” (using construction paper stapled together with slips of paper written in cursive on the bottom and the illustration on the top half). We then would present them in the back of the room and read them during certain times every day. My story was Sam and Scottie Save Vegetable Land about a St. Bernard named Sam and his young Scottish Terrier pal named Scottie. They went to Vegetable Land and saved the citizens from being eaten by humans. One day I went to the teacher and complained, “Everybody is messing up my book. It’s all torn!” She came up with a good reason, which probably changed my life, “It’s probably because yours is so popular.” It was so popular that my best friend and I were allowed to write a story and have it “published” through the elementary school’s publishing center and have it featured in the library. That story, which I still have, is called Teddy’s First Day of School which stars little Teddy the Tiger. I wish I still had Sam and Scottie. I loved that story.
I wrote this for a state writing contest when I was in the seventh grade. The theme was “flights of fancy.” My story won at the county level.
“Marge and the Overgrown Asparagus Plants”
Marge loved to visit her grandmother for lunch. Her grandmother was an excellent cook, but she never cooked with anything but asparagus. Marge had always wondered about this, so she asked her grandmother about it after lunch. “Come with me, Marge,” her grandmother replied. “I will show you why I only cook with asparagus.” She led Marge into the backyard, and then through the woods. After about three minutes of walking, they came to a large clearing filled with huge asparagus plants. The only other thing in the clearing was an old toolshed. “I would like to give you something, Marge,” her grandmother said. She went into the old toolshed, then returned a few minutes later with a small red pouch in her hand. “It takes a long time for these seeds to grow, Marge. However, if you are patient, these seeds will sprout when you are old to provide you with food for the rest of your life. Plant them in a secluded spot as soon as you get home.” “I will, Grandmother,” Marge responded.
Forty-eight years later, Marge had a grandchild named Elizabeth. Elizabeth loved to eat lunch at her grandmother’s house, but she could not figure out why her grandmother only cooked with asparagus. One day after lunch, Elizabeth asked her grandmother about it. “Come with me, Elizabeth,” her grandmother responded. “I will show you why I only cook with asparagus.”
Went to my step-daughter’s open house tonight. Her reading class (third grade) had to write haikus for thier parents to see. Saw this gem from one of the boys in her class:
a wrestler,
cool and sweaty,
fights and bleeds -
skillfully.
Ahh…another childhood classic written by…me
Third or fourth grade
Disclaimer: I have previewed this, and any spelling or other errors in the story, were OBVIOUSLY not corrected.
I have no excuse for spelling and punctuation errors in my comments. Mr. Frosty & I
Mr. Frosty stored on and on. It seemed as if he would never get up. I was getting mighty impatient with him and decided to give him a little nudge. I thought of several plans? Witch one would be the best? Finally I decided!
I would I would give him a nudge, then we’d move on. But before I tell you any more, I’ll tell you that Frosty and I have to go (something) the enemy. (We are spys in World War III). We went to their camp to find out if there was going to be an attack.
All of a sudden we heard, “Hands up!” We were taken to the General’s tent. “You die!” he said. We told the Gerneral we were only protecting our country and fighting was dumb. The war stopped and we were heroes.
The End
Now that I typed it out, it seems kind of timely.
What I want to know is, do they teacher take a class on how not to crack up at the stuff kids write?
Remember when sexually transmitted diseases were collectively known as VD? (You’re cringing already, aren’t you?)
My first-grade creative writing essay, which my teacher, for God-only-knows-what-reason, allowed me to read in front of the class withoutpreviewing it first:
VD IS VERY BAD.
VD MAKES YOU VERY SIK.
I HATE VD.
Oh yes. And I got to take it home and read it to my mommy too! And wasn’t she proud of her little writer!
:eek:
My parents came up to visit me today, and on the way here they stopped at my grandma’s, who gave them a copy of a poem I wrote when I was nine. And, my god, is it beautiful.
I have no memory of writing this, and, man, that “none are named Joe” line cracks me up everytime…
When I was about 9, I wrote a sequel to the Wizard of Oz (the movie). When Dorothy returned to Oz, the yellow brick road had been paved (“Progress,” sniffed the Good Witch.). I don’t remember much else about it. I hope I still have it somewhere.
My oldest daughter wrote a story when she was in Pre-K nine years ago. She had put a black cat sticker on a picture of a roadway. Underneath she wrote:
“The black cat wasn’t allowed to cross the street, but he did anyway. He was hit by a car and he died.”
!