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Friday, May 16, 2014

LOCKET By Anvivi, age 9












Heart shaped, sparkling and beautiful.
My mom gave it to me for my birthday when I turned 5 
in Vietnam. 
A year later, I zipped it into my backpack along with 
the other things
coming with me
to America.
On the bus to the airport I took out my charm 
and opened it.
I looked at the picture,
as small as my finger nail.
In the little photo, my eyes glance at the window, 
Lipstick colors my mom’s sad mouth peachy.
I looked out the bus window.
Saigon moved passed me.
Goodbye, Vietnam. I’ll miss you forever.
Tears slipped out of my eyes.
On the plane, I asked my mom,“Where is my backpack?” 
“I don’t have it,” she said.
I left it on the bus.
Maybe now it’s on someone else’s 
back.

Friday, May 2, 2014

NO MORE by Sharlene, age 10

















The fragrant smell of french fries
hovers in the air.
I dash through chairs
and claw the the greasy sticks
into my mouth.
Crumbs of garlic tickle my tongue.
It’s my turn.
I pick up a bowling ball the size of my head,
stab my fingers through its skull
I lift my arm, swing,
and let go.
The ball echos down the lane.
Strike!
Pins clatter.
The reseter sweeps them down its throat.
I come back to the table.
Specks of garlic stare at me
from the greasy basket
No
more
fries.

Art by Jessica