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This week, we present responses to the following challenges:
70 degrees. Imagine if 70-degree Fahrenheit weather — that pleasant, almost perfect temperature — were a person. How would the characteristics of that climate be represented in a person? What would an interaction with 70-degree Fahrenheit be like?
And General Writing.
Prompt: 70 degrees
Sev
By Kaitlyn MacPhee
Age 14, Thetford
Have you ever met Sev?
He’s the perfect amount of sass and kindness.
He knows when not to push it,
and when to ask for more.
He’s everybody’s friend,
but everybody knows not to mess with him.
He’s the definition of perfection —
and he knows it.
When you talk to him
it’s like talking to a best friend and a teacher
at the same time.
Nobody knows how he became the way he is,
because his parents are total messes.
The only logical explanation for him
is that he’s an angel sent from heaven
(but even angels have a hellish side).
Everybody loves him, usually,
but when it comes to Sev
there is a thin line between love and hate —
and nobody knows which feelings
they really have toward him.
70 Degrees Fahrenheit
By Jenseny Lauer
Age 14, Bradford
If 70 degrees Fahrenheit were a person, they would be a pleasant person to hang around with. They would probably wear nice, bright (but not neon) colors that would be pleasant to the eyes, and they would never speak in a tone of voice that would make someone mad or sad. Instead, they would make everyone happy. 70 degrees would say kind things to everyone — even if the person they were complimenting was mean to them. That’s the thing though! Nobody could stay mad at 70 degrees for very long. 70 degrees would always be nice.
If 70 messed up, it’d almost always be a perfect mistake. Some people might get mad at that, but 70 would help that person do the same thing almost as perfectly as perfect could be. If you ever asked 70 degrees for a favor, they would do it, unless it were unreasonable. Yes, 70 would accept things for return of the favor, but they wouldn’t care if you didn’t give them anything. They’d always talk sweetly of people and never say anything bad. They would pay attention and do the best they could to solve any problem that ever crossed paths with them.
70 degrees Fahrenheit would be a pleasant, almost-perfect person and fun to hang around. They’d never disappoint you.
Prompt: General
Paper Airplanes
By Emma Marsh
Age 13, Piermont
All of it folds together like a paper airplane.
You live your life unfolding new pieces of paper,
except the paper is a new light
guiding you through life.
You have to take the bad things
and fold them into place.
You have to accept
the intolerable things that you have done,
and then you must fold them away
and say farewell.
You have to fold every year that passes
and unfold a new year,
saying goodbye to the past
and hello to the present.
Every fold you make is a part of your life forever,
except the fold is a decision or memory.
You will remember every fold you made,
thinking about how it made an impact on your life.
You will teach others how to fold their paper airplanes,
having them learn from your mistakes.
And when we start to live our final days,
we’ll make the last few folds
and we’ll fly away,
like paper airplanes.
Beautiful
By Jack Hastings
Age 15, Thetford
She was beautiful,
but in a different sort of way.
She was like a musical,
or a melody that never goes away.
That picture in your head
you could never replace,
nor the words you never said
that made her go away.
She was like a match that spread,
a luminous light
that went out in the end.
Still, the future’s bright.
One day you will transcend,
and move on from the night.
Then you will see —
when you find your light.
A Voice in the Night
By Lauren Wright
Age 17, Bradford
I lie, half asleep on the chocolate-brown couch,
hearing nothing but the small breaths escaping
from the pink crib across the room.
I let my eyes fall heavy and drift off into sleep.
Shortly after, I find my body jerk upright on the couch,
with my ears searching for a sound, like a dog.
I peek through the windows, scanning the property.
I hear faint cries between the rings
and dart toward the crib —
to find nothing but a folded pink blanket.
I search for my phone
but can’t seem to remember where I placed it.
I follow the faint cries, leading upstairs.
When I turn the corner I see her face,
with her eyes squeezed tight and her mouth wide.
Within a second, she’s gone.
The walls are gone, the stairs are gone,
the noise is gone… everything is gone.
I wake in the crisp of the morning sun,
on the chocolate-brown couch.
I look across the room and see a small face
between chubby hands,
peeking over the walls of a pink crib.