BY ERNEST HEMINGWAY, AGE 8
I went to my grandma's house. Her house smells fragrant. I feel for a candy on her counter, but I cannot reach it. We go fishing.
My Best Friend, Collin
By Jane Austen, Age 10
My best friend, dubbed more formally in social circles as my closest companion, is a young gentlemen whose parents found fit to dub Collin. Collin is my age, and yet he seems taller than any other man (or boy) in our class; my mother blames this, in an almost accusatory manner, on the benefits of good breeding although I personally find it a much greater testament to the ability of country-folk to raise superior men intended for superior tasks. Collin is handsome in a baroque sort of way; his eyes are dark and calm, like a glass of chocolate milk, and his smile is wide and white, like a white crayon with the paper taken off of the outside of it. He gaits fancily across the playground in a free and yet come-hither manner that I know, in his own way, indicates his love towards me as well. Even though we have never spoken before, and he does not know my name, I feel an intimate connection to him despite the very obvious class differences inherent in our family. I feel that should I grow to be 100, I will never get over Collin. There is something romantic about this. Boys are adorable when they're broody.
School Code of Conduct by Sun Tzu
When in line for the swings, stand to the side of both.
If the swing is in use, dare the enemy to jump.
If you find yourself on the swing, make sure to look for another place to play when you jump.
So much for swings.
When the milk and nap are required, sleep away from the one who smells. Milk will make him worse.
If one will knock down your blocks, you are to throw mud at him.
If one will throw mud at you, you will kick him in the shins.
If you are kicked in the shins you will kick back.
The kicking shall continue until one cries.
When the class is tired, you have occasion to secure the red crayon.
i brought sauce
My Birthday (or the Darkling Tummyache)
A Poem by Thomas Hardy, Age 8
The tabernacle groaned
Like a hollow cry
My tummy moaned
And I asked, "Why?"
Idling in a dull apprehension
For the truth rose
And came to my fetid attention.
My brother knows!
He laughs with his youthful glee.
For he is only three
He laughs at how my youth has left me
For I am eight
And on this date
Another year passes--and I
Ravished with sickly age
Must turn the page
For what I am I must accept
And sigh on how time has crept
It left an old man bereft, unfound
And buried somewhere underground
With a tummyache profound!
Someone told TIME magazine about trolling and now we all just have to deal with it.
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