Learn more about WritingFix's policies for publishing student work by visiting our Publishing Student Writers Information Page.

WritingFix is currently seeking additional student samples from this writing assignment that can be featured in this space. Submitted student work must show evidence of revision, editing, and the final draft must be typed and sent through e-mail. Teachers: if you can help us obtain up to three student samples, along with a digital photo of the student(s) and a signed permission slips, we will send you either a complimentary copy of one of the Northern Nevada Writing Project's print publications.

To have us consider your students' writing for inclusion on this page, you must post the writing to our Ning page dedicated to this lesson. Click here to access that page. You must first be a member of the Writing Lesson of the Month Network in order to post.

The Bike in the Park
by Austin, third grade writer

Round and round the pedals go, faster and faster by the park. Around the bike, the grass is blowing by in a blur and it’s morphed with the white of the dandelion. The slide has a gleam which shines in my eyes. The wood chips and the rough concrete look uncomfortable, and I hope they don’t pop my tires. The clouds look like old chips of paint off a car. The blue of the sky is painted with stroked water color. This park look like an old painting with details chipped off.

---

Tram Square
by Austin, fourth grade writer

This afternoon, I am boarding the 2:45 tram to Fenway Park. I get on the empty and lifeless train within the underground-like fortress, which is North Station.

We are now in the dark tunnel, and you cannot see anything outside it. Then a few minutes later…. THE LIGHT!!!!!! I finally see cars: metallic black, environmental green, and mangled as if in a demolition derby. I see people with short flat hair, long wavy hair, and even blue and red hair! Everyone is just storming into the narrow doors. Oh, the chaos! People of all cultures--Italian, English, French, Dominican, and American--were all coming to the BIG Red Sox vs. Yankees game!

As I get off the train, I become part of the crowd, frantically looking for a place to mesh in. When I look back toward the train, I see a square drifting off into the streets of Boston. As I am full of joy and excitement, the train is empty and lifeless once again.

(Click here to view and print Austin and one of his classmate'' descriptions.)

---

The Trolley
by Betsy, sixth grade writer

It is a dark rainy day. I am waiting for the trolley to go by. The dreary raindrops pitter-patter on my umbrella, and slide off it like tears. Finally, the moment I've been waiting for. I see a small object down the street. As it grows, it expands like someone's lung when they are inhaling. As it passes me, there is a blur of vivid colors, and my imagination explodes. A burst of colors and shapes flood into my mind, washing away all my thoughts, even those I was just thinking a moment before. My mind is blank but fuller than anyone else's mind.

My vision zooms in closer, to see what is within the spectacular walls of the trolley. I see a boy wearing a coat as black as a panther, ready to pounce. A creamy shawl whispers quietly in the corner trying not to be noticed, but unsuccessful, for its beauty is hard to miss. The rain splashes up from puddles, making the image look like a water color with too much water, dripping down the canvas. Then, as quickly as it had come, the trolley was fading, shrinking smaller and smaller as it got father away, just as a lung shrinks when it is exhaling.

Then, I am left in the quiet stillness of the street. The only sound that I can hear now is the trees, whispering like old ladies, telling secrets too old for man today to understand. I become dizzy from all the sharp colors piercing at my mind. I lay down in the wet grass as the moon arises, looking like a perfect button stitched in the sky to keep the world from falling apart. As I close my eyes, the crickets start to join in to the chorus of birds, and I am lost in my imagination. I see the image of the trolley going by and fly in to the colors. As I look around me at the beauty of art, a startling thought occurred to me, but a wonderful thought too. I had just glimpsed the beauty of the world for what it really is.

The world is the most beauteous thing, and we must cherish that, before it has gone. The world is our most valuable possession. The world is of great importance to us. The most vivid beauty of all. A beauty that so many people had failed to notice and that so many others had forgotten.

The Eagle
by Nicole, seventh grade writer

Speed was the objective here, flying through the mountains, wind hitting a feathery face. The eagle sped around her several times, gazing with waxed eyes, going so fast she looked at the bird’s black feathers, almost lace-like. Pointed beak opened and closed, opened and closed, breathing out screams. The forest blurred, the greens, browns, and almost-white yellows mix together, making a rainbow of colors and shapes, like a painting gone wrong, the brush strokes running into each other. And soon the eagle flew off, never to be seen again, but frozen in her mind that moment when royalty crossed her path.

(Click here to view and print Nicole and three of her classmates' descriptions.)