December 2010
Theme: What Moves Me
ART
"NOSTALGIA"
By Taylor, age 14
Aliso Viejo Library
Aliso Viejo Library
Artist's statement:
Anything Vintage inspires me. I love to photograph it because there can be so much story behind it, and it has a lot of meaning to others. When I went to a car show here in Orange County , I loved seeing everyone gather with their old cars and share nostalgia. It really moved me and made me want to know more about the past. So now I photograph vintage to make it apart of my memory. I hope to inspire other kids to ask their older family and friends about what it was like , so we can know and carry on the memories.
Anything Vintage inspires me. I love to photograph it because there can be so much story behind it, and it has a lot of meaning to others. When I went to a car show here in Orange County , I loved seeing everyone gather with their old cars and share nostalgia. It really moved me and made me want to know more about the past. So now I photograph vintage to make it apart of my memory. I hope to inspire other kids to ask their older family and friends about what it was like , so we can know and carry on the memories.
POETRY
"WHAT MOVES ME"By Kelsey, age 15
Villa Park Library
A pair of doves at the end of a rainbow
The mountain view
Life as far as the eye can see
That moves me.
Holding hands for the very first time
Kissing in the moonlight
Love songs that end happily
That moves me.
My sister whispers in my ear
My brother sings for all to hear
Laughing with my family
That moves me.
Smiles all around
Happiness is found
Dancing joyfully
That moves me.
PROSE
By Akshay, age 15
Brea Library
It has been a mere thirty-seven years since Mrs. Patty ruined my childhood, crashed my hopes and dreams, and made me think twice about my very existence. Now that I have truly begun to dwell upon it, I have realized that it was not the grandest of issues. Yet, back when I was a twelve year old girl, it meant my whole life; or must I say, it destroyed my whole life.
“Her words came as a sharp pain in my bosom. I could hardly breathe when she told me that, shattering my true dreams.
I suppose I must enlighten you on what was going on at the time. My only true passion in life was writing. Literature was like air for me, I could not live without it. After my parents passed away when I was nine, I was moved into an orphanage. My parents’ passing heighted my reliance on literature. I felt as if novels were the only good thing left in the world, the only thing that could ever move me through the pain. Well, I suppose the only thing besides Miss Rose.
When I turned twelve, Miss Rose, who worked for my orphanage, gave me five shillings for my birthday to enroll me into a writing course. I remember thanking her every day of my life up until the very first day of the course, which fell two months after my birthday.
As I entered the class, I was surrounded by ladies of all ages, which truly astounded me. Before my father’s demise, I had let him in on my secret; I told him of my prospective career as an author, and he had merely passed it up as a joke and laughed at me. I tried this again on my mother and fellow companions, and they all responded alike. This led me to believe that I must keep this to myself, and from then on, the only person that knew of this was Miss Rose.
But in any case, I was surrounded by women—girls my age and even older. There were a few boys too, but they seemed fairly uninterested. The one thing I did particularly notice was that every other person besides me came from a rich family. I saw Lady Medlock’s daughters and even Lady Baltrock’s son and many daughters.
Mrs. Patty was in charge of this schooling, and she claimed to train us and lead us through various activities in order to “make us ready to be world-renowned authors.” Mrs. Patty was indeed a writer herself, and she wrote monthly stories that were famous throughout my village and the rest of
That day at the course, I wrote what I had considered to be my best piece; and most clearly, Mrs. Patty had claimed it was “garbage” and told me to take up the job of a maid. It was peculiar, however, how she seemed to love the writings of Anna, Lady Medlock’s daughter, and gave her hope that she would be forever famous. Anna had let me read her work before she ran it through Mrs. Patty, and, no offense to my dear Anna, it was quite atrocious.
After Mrs. Patty had informed me of my writing, I ripped up the paper, threw away my ink, and ran away as fast as I could. I cried the entire way back to the orphanage, straight into the arms of Miss Rose.
“My dear, what has happened?” Miss Rose asked me, concerned, as I buried my face deep into her arms, unable to hold back my tears.
I informed her of what had happened with Mrs. Patty. “I suppose I must indeed take up the job of a maid soon, shouldn’t I? I am twelve now, I must make some worth of my life. I admit, the entire case of writing seems a dream too far for me to ever reach,” I said to her on that day.
Miss Rose hugged me tighter. “
I hugged her tight, smiling and thanking her over and over again. She took my hand and squeezed it with compassion.
“Come with me, I have to take you somewhere,” she smiled as she got up and led me out the room, out the door, and onto the cold street. “Follow me!”
I followed her lead, and she quietly led me out the street and onto the sides of a hill. We climbed that hill, laughing all the way, up until we were away from the quiet village, the people, and Mrs. Patty.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” Miss Rose asked me, and I nodded in amazement.
We sat down there, and for what seemed like hours, talked. We talked of my parents, her parents, my stories, her stories, and laughed and smiled. We stayed through most of the night, gazing at the stars.
Miss Rose had moved me through the pain, through the tears, and into the arms of confidence. Although I decided then to work as a maid, I wrote each night for hours on end under the moonlight. As I finished each piece, Miss Rose looked over it for me and commented on how beautiful it was.
If it were not for Miss Rose, no one would be reading this. I would not have moved on from the shattering words of Mrs. Patty, I would not have continued writing, and I would not have shared my world with thousands of readers. It is quite surprising, truly, as to how far I have come from my twelfth birthday. As I ran out the room, I never expected to move on from that harsh reality that I was stuck part of. Yet I did, all due to the help of my dearest friend, Kimerlia Annie Rose.
As I write this, I mourn the death of my dearest friend, and find it necessary to attribute all credits for my success to her. And as for all my readers, I thank you for making me feel worthy of something. I thank the many that have gone out and purchased my novels (and made me one of the most successful female authors of our generation) and fell in love with my characters. I want my readers to take this from my work—do not dwell on the Mrs. Patty around you, and instead truly do what you believe in and find love in those such as Miss Rose.
It is the compassion and love of my readers that has driven me through all these years. As I say goodbye to this world, I wish of Mrs. Patty to come to the truth that I had, indeed, some worth left in me. I thank each and every one of you for being part of my journey and moving me along life with something to look forward to with each sunrise. I will truly miss writing for you; I will miss each of the reassuring smiles that I received from my readers.
Yours truly,
November 2010
Theme: The Environment
ART
"RECYCLED WEDDING DRESS"
By Tiffany, age 15
Brea Library
Brea Library
(So sorry, the picture just won't turn the right way!)
Artist's statement:
This is a dress my team made for a teen program at the Brea Library where we made fancy outfits completely out of recycled materials and found items and then had a fashion show. This dress won the contest because it made the best use of recycled materials. It was so much fun, but it also made us think about how we can reuse things we already have to make new things. If everyone does a little, we can help the environment.
POETRY
"AS TO ADAPTING"
By Kamin, age 16
Heritage Park Library
Heritage Park Library
There lives a boy across my street,
He cannot be past the age of 10,
He worries about useless things
prematurely; he has not yet entered the world of men.
This precocious shell of youth,
his everything consists of home, friends, school.
He has no thirst to quest for truth,
He bends willingly, as is the rule.
The child has no knowledge of seas of green.
All he knows of Serengeti and Tundra,
is what he has heard and seen
in public access media.
He believes in jungles, but only just.
He puts his stock in cement and tar.
He does homework and schoolwork; he is told he must.
But that will not take him very far.
Trees dotting the sides of streets,
and patches of grass for playing ball,
are the only nature he ever meets.
Those are nothing to Forests in Fall.
This is a new breed of man.
In a world where natural and free
are strangers to youth whose
apples fall not far from the tree.
PROSE
"WHAT MADE ME WHO I AM" By Tina, age 17
Garden Grove Library
Through my eyes, my world consists of constant movement and emotions. I can see that the people in my life change constantly. I can see that there are things I cannot change such as into what family dynamic I am born. That is one the things in my world I can see, but what I want to see in my world is an opportunity to change other people’s life; changing people’s lives by changing my own through my own attitude.
Coming from a home with a single mom, I know what it’s like to see someone struggle just to make it to the next day. I try as best I can to put on a happy face for my mom because I know she tries her best to do the same. We rely on each other when there is no one else, and even there are times I cannot express how I feel, she can see it on my face. And when challenges do come, such as the language barrier for my mom, I try to the best of my ability to help as much as I can, in the case of translating English into Vietnamese for my mom. Though my mom is a single mom and raised me on her own for most of my life, I don’t think I’m at a disadvantage. I find that I can see most things that others cannot; my outlook on life is contrived by the way I was brought up. This just happens to be to overlook the little difficulties because it could be much worse. Staying strong against all odds no matter how bleak the future may be is how my mom raised me to be.
I take the city bus everywhere I go as it is my only means of transportation and a person in my world who has changed my life was one of the bus drivers I met last summer. She wasn’t like the other bus drivers who simply ignored you; she was nice and always cheerful. She always asked me how my day was and I never had to ring the bell to stop the bus because she always knew where I wanted to stop. I was inspired by her because she reminded me of my mom. Day in and day out she drove the bus with a smile on her face though some of the passengers would not replicate the same feelings. My mom does the same, no matter how bad her day may be she’d put a smile on her face because she knew that a bad day is not forever. I try my best to do the same and always look forward to the future no matter how dark the present may be.
The movement of buses, the movement of people, the movement of life itself, it all leads up to where I want to be in life. I want to strike the same emotions in people just like these women have struck an emotion in me. I want to change people’s lives just like they have changed me. Life has influenced me to become a nurse, from caring for my mom and helping translate for her to putting a positive spin on someone’s life just like the bus driver did for me. My dream is to put a smile on people’s faces and inspire them just like how I have been and still am inspired.
October 2010
Theme: The Future
ART
"THE PATH"
By Jennifer, age 15
Brea Library
Brea Library
"A DAY IN THE OFFICE"
By Ida, age 17
Brea Library
Brea Library
POETRY
"THE STORM"
By Akshay, age 15
Brea Library
By Akshay, age 15
Brea Library
The hollows of one’s eyelids
Slowly flash the images of yesterday
So far away and impossible to attain
So beyond the reach of tomorrow
Oh, the pain, the woe, the tears
The funerals and the parties
The joy and the hopelessness
The disjointed past, so whole and complete
Awaiting and yearning for the dreamer, the torn, the hopeful
Entwisted is the future, the present, the past
All but a mere blur
And the thread linking the three
Is that of hope, of pleasure, and of tomorrow
The cold fire, the happy tears,
The painful smiles, the heartbreaking tenderness
All constituting and adjoining
The elation for tomorrow
The sunshine is nothing but an illusion
Ephemeral and fake
But the storm, so real and vivid
Is awaiting tomorrow, letting go of yesterday
The washed up pavement,
Faultless and immaculate,
Appears only after the storm clears
The storm that forced away yesterday
And brought about tomorrow
