Twelfth grade honors creative writing class

By Naama E. ‘22

The wind nipped at my hair
Cold winter air on my face as I soared down the snowy hill
Coming to a stop and trudging up
A mountain through an eight-year old’s eyes
There he is at the top
Waiting for me
Watching the bright blue sled
Huge in comparison to the little girl
Trekking her way
As he smiled
Calling out to me
In a voice rough as sandpaper
I looked forward to that moment
Every year
Every snowfall
He would be there
Warming up my gloves
Making hot chocolate
Keeping me safe
Until he wasn’t
Suddenly it was as if he flew away in the breeze
His unique snowflake blending in with all the others
High above us
Eventually melting away
Into only a memory

When the Pencils went on Strike
By Sarah B. ‘22
It was 2/25,
When they all went on strike,
And at three,
The red pencil said into the mic:
“Mr. Dali,
By us it’s suggested,
That you meet the terms,
Which we have requested.
We’re all very tired,
With hours too long,
And we want better insurance,
In case things go wrong.
Forest green has two kids,
At ages one, and three,
And they miss him oh so dearly,
When will he be free?
He’s always working,
For his family it’s tough,
His poor wife gets no sleep,
At least not enough.
Teal’s always working,
But with pay that’s no good,
His back’s always hurting,
Yet he can’t afford food.
You can’t pay more money?
Like you don’t have enough?
It all goes to your pocket,
While our lives are tough.
If you listen to us,
Then this strike will be done,
But we won’t come to work,
Till it’s our side that’s won.”
But Mr. Dali,
With a slam of his fist,
Said “then don’t come to work,
You for sure won't be missed.”
And so, the next day,
When no one came in,
Dali furrowed his brow,
And then scratched his chin.
“Why aren’t they here?
Why won't they come by?
Why aren't they working?”
He asked with a sigh.
After a long week alone,
Mr. Dali,
Got a call on the phone.
It was the red pencil,
And he called to see,
If they had convinced,
The old Mr. Dali.
He thought for a second,
Then said on the spot,
That he might change his mind,
That he’ll give it a thought.
Dali was so frazzled,
He huffed and he sighed,
And he pulled on his hair,
Shook his head side to side.
“I can’t do this without them,
My workers are right,
It’s not fair to be harsh,
Make them draw through the night.”
So, he picked up a pen,
Read the letter once more,
Signed his name on the line,
And the date: 3/04.
The following Monday,
The pencils came back,
And soon Dali’s business,
Was more than on track.
The colors worked better,
Not like ever before,
Because they were happy,
And rested. Cared for.
So this is a lesson,
To any old boss,
That helping your workers,
Is not at your loss.
It’s what they deserve,
And it is what they need,
And we greatly hope,
This advice you will heed.
And for all the other workers,
Wherever you may be,
Please always remember,
To call the NWUP.
Brought to you by the nation workers union for pencils. To make a report, call or text PEN-RIGHTS-1. That’s 736-744-4871.
Message and data rates may apply.

Beth Tfiloh Dahan Community School

Learning together. For life.
Baltimore’s only Jewish independent preparatory school serving PreSchool through Grade 12.