By Maur Laur
“We feel hunted,” is what Hettie said shortly after visiting the miles-long barbed-wire wall that stretches along the Mexican-American border. “We feel hunted.” Hunted as in deer, running at the sound of rifle shots, echoing through the forest. Hunted as in geese flapping their wings in terrified confusion as they fly through the sky to escape the fire. Hunted like the indigenous people whose scalps were traded for dollars. Hunted as in immigrants ducking the bullets that border patrol shoots through the fence?
People are not meant to be hunted.
People are meant to be loved, cared for, protected. Is this what our country has come to? That we are forever in a wild goose-chase for people who simply want a better life? Will immigrants forever remain the runners? How many times must they flee? So now, while they chase their freedom, border patrol is chasing them? And for what? So America's militia can steal the American dream from immigrant hands before they’ve even grapsed it?
“My husband feels hunted,” she says with fear in her eyes that mirrored his. She looked over at him. He is here legally. But, he’s a dreamer. That means he gets searched on a regular basis. That means paranoia stalks him through every street corner, supermarket, and stoplight. That means his wife, Heddy, a U.S citizen follows him everywhere to ward off racist comments and deportation officials.
The hunted never sleep.
I stare at the barbed wire fence that cuts across the red-brown landscape and leaves a gash in the skin of the Earth. In one eye I see Mexico, in the other eye, the U.S. And in between is just space. If I were to close my eyes, I wouldn’t know where this country ends and the next one begins. “It’s just land.” I whisper. But, America has turned that land into a hunting ground. And the Earth’s heart hurts from its wounds on the surface. Images flit through my mind:
In a detention center outside of Tucson, Arizona, border patrol agents take away a baby’s formula and replace it with an unfamiliar mixture. She can’t stomach it, so she doesn't eat for four days. In a jail cell off the highway, police officers throw frozen burritos at a Dreamer whom they’ve arrested. In a courtroom in Phoenix, a 3-year old boy defends himself in his own deportation hearing, because he doesn’t have the right to a lawyer. On the Mexican side of the border, a 16-year-old boy throws a rock at a border patrol agent. What they throw back is not rocks, but bullets. Actually, they fire them from the American side. In moments the boy is dead and another agent becomes a killer.
In the English Channel, smugglers hands out defective life jackets filled with straw to refugees who are left with no choice but to flee ‘illegally,” because the U.S has capped the number of refugees admitted into the states at 45,000. If the boat sinks, their jackets will act as weights, pushing them below the surface of the water and they will all drown. In a refugee camp outside of Greece, a Somalian refugee walks two hours to an interview in which U.S officials will determine whether or not she can seek refuge in our country. She is minutes late to the interview because she had to stop and rest during the long trek in the heat and before she can apologize or explain, they immediately turn her away. Back in the Sonoran desert, a border patrol agent destroys a water jug that volunteers have set out for those immigrants braving the sand and sun.
I used to think that there was injustice along the borders and oceans that surround this country. But, now I realize it’s more than injustice. It’s evil. It’s a cold, hard absence of humanity. It leaves me enraged, hurt, and confused. How can we look into the eyes of our fellow human beings and tell them “you don’t deserve a chance at the American dream?” When we meet a refugee, an immigrant, an asylee, a person who has given up their culture, sacrificed their language, abandoned their homeland, left their family just to be here, how can we say, “that dream doesn’t belong to you?” That it’s reserved for those on our side of the fence, those with white skin and a couple generations between them and their own immigrant stories. How can we turn away our brothers and sisters of other nations? How can we rob them of their children, their means of survival, their dignity? How can we stomach the fact that people are dying, just because they’re not dying on American soil? How can we stomach the words “we feel hunted?”
Is our humanity so broken that we cannot see theirs?
In the desert beyond the southern border, a young woman lies dead underneath the shade of a single, forgiving prosopis tree in the desert. Mouth open wide in shock. Hands unclasped and limp on the ground. Some dreams swept away with the wind, others left to rot in the sand. When you’re dead, do you see the borders that we have created? Or is it just land? Do you know we have put up walls between each other, in an attempt to hide behind them? Or is it just land?
The sand piles on top of her body as the Earth begins to bury her, because no one else will. The desert doesn’t discriminate.
If someone were to find her, would they cry the tears she never did, when there was no more water left in her sockets? Would they long for the hope that has fled from her eyes? Or would he turn away, look at the wall between the U.S and Mexico, lean back contently, smile, and think to himself, ah yes, this is America, and we’ve truly made it great.
Maya Laur is from Wendell, Massachusettsa and is a senior at Deerfield Academy. She is a graduate of the Woven Word Young Writers program where she first discovered her passion as a writer and learned the power of imagery in elevating a piece.
By Adam Kelly
On the first try she loved you but they didn’t want you to be so lucky
So in the second draft it didn’t last
Maybe in the third draft you’ll forget about her
But now you can’t get her memory out of your head
Her sweet voice narrating half your thoughts
Maybe on the fourth try she’ll love you but you’ll just keep pushing her away
The writer thought it would work, he won’t give up now
Naive or hopeful, it’s hard to tell which
In the fifth draft of the story that was once interesting and bright
It all revolves around her
Love turned to obsession
The writer sees it in his head
He shoves the characters together
Super-glueing plastic hands together
But they always bounce back apart
He finally tears the sheet
Lined paper smudged with pencil falls to the floor
The history is there
But no one wants to put it together.
Adam Kelly is a 12 year old living in Northampton who loves the supportive and creative space Lynn creates in writing workshop.
by Lucy Brennan
She came to the palace in a dress made of flowing blue fabric, that shone in the sunlight like water. It clung to her, falling past her feet and trailing behind her, gathering dust as she walked down the cobblestone road. From a distance, the guards at the palace gates saw only a slim girl in a very nice dress, and wondered why someone wearing something that looked so expensive was walking unaccompanied. As she got closer, the men froze in fear, some screamed in terror. They drew their swords and brandished them at her with shaking hands. The captain of the guards was the first to speak.
“Leave this place beast!” he yelled. His training served him well, his voice did not betray his fear. The beast’s lips curled in what might have been a smile. She raised her hands in what looked like surrender, but as she did so the guards dropped like flies. Only the commander who had spoken was left standing, shaking in terror and surrounded by his fallen comrades.
“I’d like to request an audience with the prince.” she said, her smile widening into a truly horrific grin that spread across most of her face and revealed rows of sharp teeth. The terrified commander looked down at the fallen men and realized they were not dead but sleeping. Still he chose his words carefully.
“I don’t have the authority to give you what you want. I ask only for mercy for me and my men, and I warn you that the royal family would sooner kill you then let you near their first born.”
She laughed at his words.
“Kill me? And how do you think they’d manage that?”
Deciding this monster girl was too much for him to handle, the captain retreated slowly, eyes trained on her face, and she watched in amusement as he rang the alarm bell.
Soldiers streamed through the gates, and were quickly put to sleep with a flick of the girl’s hands. She turned again to the commander.
“The gates are open, take me to the prince, bind my wrists if they’ll let you in faster.”
He did as she asked, tying her up carefully, and escorting her though the gates.
It did not take long for him to convince the soldiers left in the palace that her demands were to be met, it had been years since the people of the kingdom has seen magic like hers and they had been taught to fear it above all else. Her wrists were freed, she was given a comfortable chair to sit in the grand hall, and was supplied with tea and jelly tarts. They assured her that she would get her meeting with the prince if she exercised just a bit of patience.
An important general, renowned for his bravery was sent into the throne room to negotiate, and found her sitting cross legged, licking jelly from, her fingers. He realized that her face, despite being so hideous it was hard to decipher any sort of indication of age, had a certain softness that resembled that of a teenage girl. He cleared his throat.
“Pleasure to meet you, may I inquire as to your reasoning for wanting to see our prince?” She laughed at his manners, she has been showed nothing but fear since her arrival.
“I want to marry him!” Of all the possible answers she could have given him, the general was prepared for this the least.
“You want -- you want to marry him?”
“It is my fondest wish.”
“Is what you seek the rule of our kingdom?” She looked confused.
“Oh I guess I would be queen, that would be fun I suppose, but no. I just want to marry him. I snuck into this little village once in my cloak that covers my face because I heard they were having a parade. I just wanted to hear the music, but then I saw him, he was riding on a float and smiling down on his subjects like long lost friends. I knew right then that he was made to be mine.”
The general reported what he had been told to the king and queen and the council they had gathered. They’re was much debate on what to do, was she telling the truth? What if her real intentions were to kill the prince? And if she was being truthful, what would she do when her proposal was inevitably rejected? The prince could not marry a monster. Eventually it was decided that no matter her intentions, it seemed that she could probably kill them all if she desired, and hopefully if they met her demands their compliance would be rewarded.
The 15 year old prince was summoned and the situation was explained. He seemed willing, almost excited to see her. He had never met a monster before. His mother insisted on coming with him. She clutched his hand and he felt her trembling. They walked together into the grand hall and the monsters face split into a grin at the sight of him. He was just how she remembered, tall and scrawny, with brown hair sticking up in all directions, and the kindest brown eyes she had ever seen.
He took her in all at once. Her skin was porcelain white and clung to her sunken, almost skeletal frame. She had six beady black eyes, like an insect’s. Fangs protruded from both her bottom and top lip, her white hair was styled into a braided crown and the hem of her dress had become tattered and torn.
The queen gasped in horror, and clutched her son’s hand tighter.
“Mother,” He said looking up at her with bright eyes, “isn’t she just the most beautiful girl you’ve ever seen?”
Lucy Brennan in 15 years old. She lives in Hadley and goes to Northampton High School. Her favorite thing about Woven Word Young Writers is the community it creates.
By Maddie Clarkewright
I wonder if we could live a life together in black and white,
a life locked in the 3-walled rooms of a sitcom from the 1950s,
or maybe, together, we’d be more like the Twilight Zone.
For the time being you’re on the other side of town,
but I wonder how small we could be
if we held each other close,
how lost we could feel if we only had one another.
I think the answer is in the fog
beneath the hills in between us.
If you tell me the darkest minute in the night,
I’ll meet you then.
By Maddie Clarkewright
I looked down across the table
and you were holding a pen,
drawing a small black cross on your knuckle.
I looked up at your face and you were a new statue
silent and still, paint and glaze
still looking down, supernaturally focused.
I become a new kind of stupid when I try to think of a good way to describe your eyes and just how dark they are.
Like ink, or the night sky,
or charcoal pencil,
the lowest black key on a piano.
When the rest of you is glowing like you’re about to dissolve into the sunlight,
Your eyes are steady and unyielding and so metaphysically dark.
Your hair is just like how it’s described in every overly dramatic romance novel.
A cascade of waves down your back,
Ripples of shining locks falling loosely around your body.
But it’s just so dark.
like charcoal and ink and the very center of the universe,
all mixed together with a soup spoon
or a ladle.
I’ve never been much of a believer, but I imagine if you placed your foot onto water,
you could step on it
and maybe begin to walk
And having looked into your eyes a few times,
I’m sure that you could still the storm with a moment’s glance.
Maddie Clarkewright is 16 years old, lives in Amherst, and is a junior at ARHS. She loves Woven Word because it gives every writer the freedom and inspiration to try new things and explore their creativity.
By Eliyah Villalobos-Sharone
Jax: Day two
Jax was willing to kill to get the stardust. His village needed it so much, too much for Jax to care about the other competitors. His family. Luke. Everyone that he cared about would die if he didn’t get that stardust. They were all depending on him. Screw Nina Collins and Loren Davis. They only needed to save one person. Jax needed to save two-hundred-thirteen.
Jax chose the third path only because only Arana Lancing was going on it with him. Jax quickly and confidently jogged ahead. He didn’t need an ally. He was ripped. He had knives that he could fight with or make tools with. He didn’t care what anyone thought of him here. Most desperately, Jax didn’t want to get attached to anyone. If he started to--it would be all over. Jax spent an hour jogging on his own until the trail became so ivy infested that there was no clear way to go. He pulled out his map and compass. It didn’t help Jax as much as he would have liked but he could tell the general direction of where he was supposed to go. He doubted he’d run into anybody. There were only the six of them in the forest. The strongest Magis had cast a spell that strictly let six in every six months to prevent people from stealing the stardust.
It was harder to move forward with the bramble thickening around him, but Jax managed to do so hardly breaking a sweat. It scratched his skin but he didn’t stop. As far as he knew, it was bramble all the way across. As he trudged, Jax let his mind wander. He remembered his siblings, sick, in bed. It was overwhelming. He had left his family when they needed him most, when they were sick from the plague. But he needed to make it here, if any of them were going to survive. His friends, everyone he cared about were there, in the wrath of the plague.
Jax moved faster through the bramble. He couldn’t block out the image of Sorrel, weakly calling out his name. Nobody would be there to comfort her. And Harvard, his playful 12 year old brother that would stop at nothing to tease Jax but then when he found Jax sick, he would do all of Jax’s chores and prepare softer meals for him. Jax cared for Sorrel and Harvard the most out of all of his siblings.
Jax remembered when he had introduced his friend, (though they had barely known each other at the time) Luke to his family, the Wagners. Luke. The reminder of him made Jax crash through the bramble even faster. Luke had been surprised by how large the house was as his parents were both working class.
“We needed a house that big to fit everyone.” Jax had reminded him. Luke had grinned and helped himself to a butterscotch candy that Flora had set out for guests in the mudroom. He popped it into his mouth.
“Tastes great. You should really eat them.” Luke signaled to the butterscotches. “Oh, and I’ll finally meet the, I’ve already heard about a million times, Harvard?” Luke asked grinning. Luke definitely heard a lot from Jax about Harvard.
“Yeah, and my parents, Flora and Jike. Brace yourself. The baby cries a lot.” Candy did cry much more than most babies. If Candy wasn’t mostly Flora and Jike’s responsibility he didn’t know what he would do. But since both of them had full time jobs each of his siblings did share in the responsibility for her.
Jax twisted the key to enter the house. “Oh my god! You’re finally here!” Sorrel came bursting through her room. “Hi Luke!” Predictably excitement gushed through Sorrel’s voice. “It’s nice to see you’ve recovered,” she smiled sweetly.
Just then Candy burst into tears. “I’m sorry, I have to go help Candy.” Sorrel hurried back up to Candy’s cradle. Jax and Luke listened to Sorrel’s “Shhh, it’s okay” for a while before Luke asked to meet Harvard.
“It gets pretty chaotic here. Come on, let’s go to the haunted room,” Jax said, gesturing towards
Harvard’s room. Luke laughed. Jax paused a moment and noticed he might actually have a
friend. It felt good.
Eliyah Villalobos-Sharone is thirteen and lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. She loves Woven Word, where she can write and let her mind wander in a community environment. Eliyah loves writing and hearing other's peoples writing.
By Serena Gross
All the blood rushed to my head. My black curly hair fell in my face. I reached to brush it out of the way, but that was a mistake. I wasn’t balanced. I fell out of my handstand. Dang it! I had been so close that time.
“You were so close that time,” said my best friend Sadie S.
“I know,” I said.
“You know it.”
I was trying to beat my personal record of 22.9 seconds. “You know what?”
“What?” Sadie asked.
“I’ve had enough of my long hair getting in my way. I want you to cut it.”
“I’ve only practiced on dolls before. And the first time I nearly chopped Jasmine’s head off.”
“That’s okay,” I said, “We all make mistakes. And if you screw up, my Mom will always let me get it styled by a professional hair dresser.”
We went back to my bedroom. I took out the scissors. With a swift motion, my 32-inch hair became a 12-inch bird’s nest.
“I’m so sorry,” cried Sadie.
“My mom’s going to kill me.”
By Serena Gross
Cameron sat on the table in the doctor’s office, anxiously waiting. The doctor was going to come in and tell him if he had pneumonia. Cameron had always been the healthiest boy in his year; that is, until he had woken up feeling very ill. He could feel the crinkly paper underneath his sweaty legs. He tugged at his hospital dress – he had always hated the gowns because they made him look like a girl and he couldn’t have that, especially as he was starting the first day of middle school tomorrow. He was excited, scared, nervous, and impatient all at the same time. Maybe if he had pneumonia, he could miss the first day of school. No – then he would be known as the kid who missed the first day of school until college. And if someone he knew went to the same college as him, he would be known as the kid that was late on the first day of middle school for life! The mere thought of this embarrassingly terribly tragedy was enough to make him forget about possibly having pneumonia. Finally, after what felt like hours of waiting, the doctor came in.
“You’re fine,” she said. These two words had saved his reputation.
“Phew!” said Cameron. He was off the hook. But he would not hear those two words again for a long time.
Cameron woke up abruptly when his alarm went off. He automatically got out of his bed and put on his Spiderman shirt and his best jeans. He grabbed a Niagara Falls hoodie just in case Spiderman shirts weren’t cool anymore and he just hadn’t gotten the memo.
It was Monday, the first day of middle school. Cameron brushed his teeth, making sure not to drip any toothpaste on his jeans. He had woken up an hour early – 5:30 – just to make sure he wouldn’t be late. Once he was ready, he fed the family cat, Susie. “There you go, old girl,” he said as he fed her Rusty’s Buffet Catfood (Senior Edition). They had medicine in them and it worked. She was eighteen years old, older than him and his two sisters combined! Although, he supposed Lucy didn’t count, because she wasn’t yet one and Riley was only three. Him and his sisters were all accidents. The all had different fathers, so now they just lived with their mom. He had never met his father other than just after his birth and he couldn’t be expected to remember birth. It felt bad to be an accident.
“The bus comes at 7:12 every morning,” my mother told me. “And according to the school’s website, you only have one chance to catch the bus.” She pushed up her glasses. “Oh,” she added as a side note, “don’t feed the cat at six in the morning from now on. Now her feeding schedule is all messed up and I’ll have to give her dinner early.”
There was a cry from upstairs. “Oh, that’ll be Lucy,” she said, and began to rush upstairs. Before she was all the way up the second stairwell, she said, “Well, you better hurry along. It’s 7:10.” Cameron ran to the bottom of the driveway.
The bus comes to the end of the road. “About a one-minute trip,” I thought out loud. I checked my watch again – 7:11. I ran as fast as I could to the end of the road. Fifteen seconds left until the bus is due. I could not possibly be late, not after all this effort. It was 7:12. I was almost there! I could see the end of the road.
I saw the yellow school bus zoom by. One chance, I thought – only one chance. How was I going to get to school now? I couldn’t get my mom to drive me – she would be too busy with my sisters. And besides, how could I possibly show up to middle school in a mini-van, especially one covered in scratches, like Mom’s was.
Serena Gross is a creative writer who loves writing fantasy and realistic fiction. She is ten years old and in fourth grade at Chestnut Hill Community School in Belchertown. She enjoys writing and finds Woven Words a peaceful and enjoyable place to write her short stories.
By Maddie Raymond
Part One: Dry Leaves
This is an exercise
In holding your head up high
Walk down a dirt road
Any will do
But they’re best up north
Ignore your white shoes
They don’t get dirty, darling
If they do, you won’t care
That’s the whole point of the exercise
You know you want to
You’re doing this in the middle of the day
Let the sun touch you
Sing along to your music
No one’s around
Smell the leaves
You’re a part of that
Let the crown of your head align with the sky
You’re a part of that too
You’re born from this earth
You live here
So, my darling
Use this exercise
Practice holding your head up high
You deserve to be here
Part Two: Lavender Soap
This is an exercise
In remembering who you are
Take a shower
Make sure the water is hot
Darling, you deserve comfort
Tip your head back
Close your eyes
Pretend you’re standing in the rain
While the water pounds on your scalp
Who were you
Before all of this
Watch the drops dribble off your fingertips
Until they start to prune
You’re a clean slate now, darling
Take that memory of the real you
Lather it on like lavender soap
It’ll hang around you for days, now
Step out the way you really want to
But be careful not to slip
You’ll probably need a bathmat for the first few tries
If it doesn’t work the first time
Darling, don’t despair
Sometimes it takes a few showers
To be born anew
Part Three: Scented Candles (preferably red)
This is an exercise
In being here
Stay up late
Everything is softer at night
And existence has so many jagged edges
Remind yourself you’re real
It’s nice and easy, darling
In the velvety dark
Light a candle
And smelling of something warm
You have nothing to prove here
Breathe in the scent
Let the warmth reach your palms
No matter what you’ve done, darling
You’re still allowed to have this
Wrap yourself in blankets
Hug your pillows tight enough to remember them
When the light of day makes you start to fade
Have faith, darling
That you are solid
Part Four: Two Glasses of Water
This is an exercise
In picking up the pieces
Don’t be ashamed, darling
We all fall apart sometimes
This is a partner exercise, darling
I know you’re ready
Pour two glasses of water
It’ll help, with the rawness of your throat
And your heart
Tell them something about yourself
Something they don’t know
Let the stillness of the room
And the water
Keep you focused
Like baby chicks lose their down
And the trees shed their leaves
We all have to expel parts of ourselves sometimes
Now, I know this part is scary, darling
But let that person take those parts
And put them somewhere safe
Sometimes it takes more than just us alone
To be made whole again
Part Five: Imperfect Camera (it just has to take pictures)
This is an exercise
In being the center of attention
Pick your head up, darling
I know what you’re capable of
Stand in front of a mirror
The bigger, the better
If there’s natural light, use it
You’re allowed to smile during the day, you know
Take out a camera
It doesn’t have to be a good one
It just has to take pictures
Snap a photo
Keep them all
Even when your leg looks off
Or your hair flies in your face
Notice the sparkle in your eyes
It’s working, darling
Pose in the way
You’ve always wanted to
But never let yourself
Even if in this moment
The only person who is aware of that
Maddie Raymond is 16 years old and lives in Goshen. Through writing, she has gotten to explore new perspectives, discovering things about herself along the way. What she loves most about writing is getting to experience something other than the day-to-day. Her favorite part about Woven Word has been the friends she’s made within the local writing community.
by Nina Young
It's hard being the oldest. Every year, I have to wake up my siblings from their winter sleep. Tell them to start preparing. After all, I'm only in charge for one month, then it's off to February, March, April, and before you know it it's May 1st and there's still snow everywhere.
July is always the worst about it. All she ever wants to do is chill on the beach in some tropical part of the world. Meanwhile, the spring months are scurrying to get the snow melted and the flowers blooming so these lazy summers can just bump up the temperature and chill until their month is up. And don’t even get me started on December. He’s the youngest, but everyone says he should be in charge. Just because he gets all the cool holidays, snow days, the second-longest break, and New Year’s Eve, doesn’t mean he’s even remotely qualified to lead. He’s inexperienced, lazy, cold, and he never gets ANYthing done. If I’m like, “Ok, December, November is brewing up a bunch of rainstorms for the end of her month. I want a cold snap and icicles on the roves for your grand opening.”, then on the 1st it’ll be 60 degrees and sunny.
Seriously, I think he’d be better as summer. Most days he doesn’t even snow.
All right all right all RIGHT! Enough! Who said January could go first? I’ll bet it was September. He’s the worst. All obsessed with order and stuff. Well, Sept, I’ve got a word for you. Just cuz Jan is the first and the oldest, doesn’t mean he has to be first at EVERYTHING. In fact, I think he gives a rotten first impression of us months. Like, July isn’t lazy. She just doesn’t have a huge need for structured days. And December? He may not always adhere to January’s strict rules, but he makes a mean cup of hot cocoa.
Having ranted already, I can now proceed to tell you about myself (like you’ve probably guessed, I am WAY unorganized). I’m August. The coolest month. Except September always cuts into my time slot. He has this thing he calls school, which basically means that no matter how much we snow, rain, or crank up the heat, no one’s gonna care cause they’re locked in a building learning about, I dunno, the 57th president of Lithuania, or whatever.
That probably makes me sound like I don’t care about anything, which is NOT true. I care about lots of stuff. Such as swimming and not caring about things. Well that’s all for now. Since September is the month right after me, he’ll probably insist on going next. Brace yourselves. There will be pop quizzes.
POP QUIZ! What is the capital of Scandinavia?
WRONG! Scandinavia is not a country. You obviously didn’t study.
I am September. S-E-P-T-E-M-B-E-R. And you’d better remember that, because it will be on next week’s test. While I’m here, I thought I would give you a little background knowledge on where we months originated. Open your history books, everyone, we’re going to page 79.
So Humans came up with the months and their names, right? WRONG! You puny little shrimps just happened to come up with the same names and lengths for the months as our parents did. In truth, it started long before you disgusting land snails ever crawled our beautiful earth. It started with the embodiment of winter. Her name was Winter, because back then everyone was a lot less creative with names.
Well, on the first day of the first year EVER, Winter had a child, somehow all by herself. If you are confused at this point, feel free to reference your Anatomy of the Months and Seasons textbook.
Anyways, Winter named her son January and immediately proclaimed him the King of all Months. He would rule not only the calendar, but a roughly thirty day period, stretching from his birthday, until the expected due date of her next sons, whom she would name February.
You can see where this is going. When each month was born, they were given a short time to rule over lasting from their birthday until when the next month was born. But Winter was not the only season to create the months.
March was the daughter of Winter and Spring. June was the daughter of Spring and Summer. September(a.k.a. me) was the son of Summer and fall, and little December was born to Fall and Winter.
For whatever reason, the months with two parents are now the minority.
Well that will about wrap it up. For homework I expect you to answer questions 4-18 on the creation of the months.
Now get to your next class!
Nina Young, 14 is an aspiring young author from Florence, Massachusetts. She enjoys the abstract expressions of her deepest darkest thoughts and secrets that is her writing. She also loves sloths and cheesecake, although it rarely shows up in her writing.