The following two selections are short pieces by Noah Christen and Aaron Chan fifth-grade students at Woodstock Elementary in SE Portland. Both are examples of starter pieces that came from a free-write, the prompt being “The Universe of….”. Both pieces are published here with each writer’s permission.

Universe of Computers
by Noah Christen

Here comes an electric twister along the ground. I have always wanted to go out and give my show to the world. The electric twister could give me the power to force my way onto the screen. But it’s impossible. I’m a virus lost in the great open space of microchips.

I calmly step aside to let it pass. Looking down, I see a bustling metropolis under the see-through ground. I wish I was there. But no, this is my life – condemned to forever wander the plains.

Yet I feel my ways have changed now. I’d like to protect the weak, save new viruses from the older, wiser and stronger ones in this dog-eat-dog world. Actually, I’m not really sure what a dog is, but I know what a horse is because I ride one. I also know what guns and whiskey are because I drink them and shoot them.

I guess you could call this a tech-western.

Universe of Mayans
by Aaron Chan

My legs are hull ribs.
My body is hard as steel.
But my bladder is as red as blood.

I’m sweating like a pig without mud.
I run, I jump, I act warlike
but I still don’t get it.

It was the metal sword
I’ve always wanted. I get
why they didn’t give it to me.

I was exiled,
became a rebel. No choice
of winning the war.

Hush…someone’s coming.
Fast and quick, I run
until I see them.

Rebels like me, exiled
from the world. I join them,
follow to the Mayans

to show them the ways of war.
We attack one-by-one,
struck down.

We didn’t know the power
they had by now.

Every week I’m going to post a couple of selections from some of my writing students as part of an ongoing “Young Writers Series”. Keep an your eyes and mind open as you peer into their imaginations and stories.

I want a world
where cows roam
the sun field free,
the day filled
with the breaths they take
between graze
and sleep,
their meals
in the ease
of shadow and grass,
afternoon lasts
clear through night
when the moon lulls
full of milk
and their eyes
are stars
of the sky’s great ghost.

Like poor Celia,
who fell off her bike
from a stone or glass
in front of my house,
hard to tell
how she wailed
like she’d been shot,
and her words between tears
in a slanted English
for the neighbors
to wonder
what happened
to the girl
splayed on my walk,
where was her mother
when this was going on,
why was that gringo
putting ice on her arm,
telling her
in a made-up language-
It’s OK,
the world’s OK,
there’s nothing to fear,
just a small scrape,
some blood,
you’ll be fine
for school tomorrow.
Run home now, but slow -
there are more falls
to come. I know.

The fires never last long.
I sit in the window all day,
on the thirty-third floor
where the jets buzz by, trees
with white beard clouds.

The alarms fast and loud,
stations make quick work,
nothing lasts long enough
for the thrill.

Still it impresses guests
who like me
for my view, swear
they can’t see fires
from their rooms.

“Don’t you care?”
And I don’t.

“There’s been four today,”
I say.
When they’re gone
I pull the shades,
stare at the wall
no one likes,
the one painted red
that glows all night.

Elliott’s finished his conversation with Marcus, headed outside into the early afternoon and doubled back toward the bar beneath the restaurant he cleans.

I walked outside and watched streetlights change for a minute. Everyone had somewhere to go and the ones that didn’t seemed content to walk around for the sake of moving. I wanted to head to my place and write but I told Anthony I’d meet him at Skratte’s. It was a good dark place in the daytime, always full of smoke and laughter and music. I took the main stairs down from the street, stood at the bar while my eyes adjusted to its underworld feel and ordered three shots of whiskey.

Anthony was alone in the middle of a mess of tables and chairs, lost in one of those moments Skratte’s could induce in mid-afternoon before people came down from campus. He had a paper folded in his hand, a cigarette burning in an ashtray and two half-empty pints in front of him. There’d be no chance for this once evening arrived, when your only choice would be to navigate through pockets or wade amongst the nooks until you found a spot to fall into a wall.

I set the shots down beside the pints. He nodded, picked up his ale and drank. I knew the other belonged to Blane. I didn’t want to see him and had been good at avoiding him for the last week, but Centre was too small to keep that up and besides you couldn’t get away from your oldest friends.

Anthony set his paper down and looked up in a soiled sort of way. He was well into a good drunk.

“Where’s Blane? I asked.

“Using the phone. What are we having?”

“Irish whiskey for the chill.”

“I haven’t noticed a chill. We’ve been at it since noon.” He looked at his watch. “Sit.”

“It’s always cold down here. The brick holds onto winter until August.”

“And you?”

“The same.” (more…)

do you even exist?
I feel like
you’re in a whole other realm.
I don’t see you,
you don’t call,
then you call
and I’m not here.
so what about tomorrow?
Sunday’s no good.
you’ll be asleep – then what?
after lunch? you’ll be
in bed. I’ll call
in the morning.
you’re an organized mess.
goodbye then.
call when you can.

the city
built a river walk
atop the dike
in spots
where floods come
every few years
and when they don’t
the river goes
pregnant
then barren
and back
thru spring
and summer,
freezes in time
for snow,
never hard enough
to walk across
as my mother said
all those years
I didn’t try
but even
for those who did
and got across
they enjoy the view
with their kids,
explain how it’s not much
to pass,
but better
on a bench
in those moments
when the swell
is high,
nice to look at,
ramp access
for wheelchair guys
like Stan
who fell thru
on a dare
but doesn’t hold
a grudge.

What rests at the core of good storytelling? From classic tales to the yarns spun around the campfire, the answer we continue to find is myth. I’ll be facilitating “The Role of Myth” at Ink & Paper Group, a Portland-area publishing house, on Saturday, September 20th. Writers and workshop participants will explore how archetypal elements—from the Innocent’s call to adventure to the Hero’s return—continue to illumine our stories as well as our personal journeys. The event will also mark the official release of Bowler Hat Comic’s Kid Beowulf and the Blood-Bound Oath.

The event will feature a two-hour writing workshop on the use of archetypal themes in storytelling. Dan and Stacy Chariton, a married screen writing team, will be partnering with me on the workshop. Afterwards, there will be a 90-minute panel discussion on the place myth has in our daily lives. We’ll be joined on the panel by Rick Watson, practicing integral coach; Eleanore Hunter, a doctor in depth psychology; and Alexis Fajardo, author and illustrator of Kid Beowulf.

Visit Ink & Paper Group online to learn more about the event, and to register for the workshop.

This is an example of a title that won’t go away. I’ve been trying to write a poem to attach to it for six years. Here’s the latest stab

Roberta liked to say
she was my black granny,
sixty-eight
with two bum knees
no better than her sons,
one in prison,
one on his way.

we cleaned a place
called the Pier
where she’d eaten
once in fifteen years.
surf and turf,
hundred dollar wines,
desserts they flame
at your table.

Roberta said
the steak was dry,
didn’t drink
and sweets
would kill her

without a hint
of blue collar pride
so many
check-to-check janitors,
people like us,
liked to share
over smokes.

her joys were simple,
like how on a good month
when bills went out
on time
she’d go to the sausage house
next door
and buy ends meat,

the stuff at the end
of cured tubes
they didn’t otherwise sell,
the same batch
the rich folk ate,
just stuck at the ends
and nothing wrong
with it.

a few pounds
in her bag,
she’d bring sandwiches
for a week
that we’d eat on break,
talk about
how good life was.