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| International
Journal for Teachers of English Writing Skills August 2006 Special Literary Edition |
| by Several Authors |
Author: Several
Publisher: Robbie
Dean Press
ISSN: 1081-6364
No. of Pages: 187
Index: No
Table of Contents: Yes
Binding: Perfect-bound
Last Update: 2005
Volume Discounts: Yes, call to inquire
Shipping Time: 2-5 Days
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Preview This Book |
The INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL FOR TEACHERS OF ENGLISH WRITING SKILLS welcomes articles in which teachers detail lessons which other educators can immediately implement in a classroom. Likewise, this journal is open to short stories which teachers can use as a teaching tool that can generate a writing exercise. The January issue contains lessons and literature as teaching tools. In addition to these kinds of manuscripts, IJTEWS publishes a "Special Literary Edition" once a year (August) which features short stories, poetry, essays, and short plays which illustrate literary talent. IJTEWS is a journal for people interested in teaching writing or participating in the unique art form of writing.
In addition to the journal, there is also IJTEWS Newsletter. This newsletter comes out twice a year (March and November). This information piece is an additional support to the purpose of the journal. It provides brief information pertinent for those educators who wish to be current in their knowledge as to what is out in the field. Book reviews are welcomed from its readers.
The August Special Literary Edition rewards the top Yong People's Winner (ages 10-17) and Seniors' Winner (ages 18+) with a small monetary honorarium. More importantly, the cover is dedicated to the top winner/s as chosen by the associate editors.
Excerpts from some of the books featured on the MANA site are included in the journal. This can prove to be a valuable educational resource, especially for those adolescent readers who do not want to read the "whole book."
This August issue serves well as a supplementary classroom resource or text of
contemporary work by writers throughout the world.
THE INTERNATIONAL JOURNAL FOR TEACHERS OF ENGLISH WRITING
SKILLS celebrates its 11th year publishing articles by educators and literature
by writers throughout the world. During its fifth year, for the Special
Literary editions, IJTEWS began honoring its authors with the Editors'
Choice Awards.
The list of winners have been:
August 2000
Senior Writers' Winner Daniel Bradley, Flint, MI "The Last Stitch"
August 2001
Young People's WinnerSonia Ochoa, Saginaw, MI "Grandma's House"
Senior Writers' Winner Cynthia Bowen, Austin, TX "Hollow Ground"
August 2002
Young People's Winner Evan Heiter, Ann Arbor, MI "Would It Have Mattered?"
Senior Writers' Winner Irving Berkowitz, Bronx, NY "Just a Memento"
August 2003
Senior Writers' Winner Wes Clarkson, El Paso, TX "A Khaki-Colored Poet"
August 2004
Young People's Winner Joshua Maiche, Havana, Cuba "Tear It"
Senior Writers' Winner Ronald P. Waters, Philadelphia, PA, "I Thought About You Dad"
This year two winners were chosen from the Seniors category since there were not sufficient number of young people to submit. The August 2005 winners are:
Eric Gichira, Nairobi, Kenya
María Eugenia Marzioni de Della Torre, Rafaela, Argentina
We encourage submissions for the August 2006 Special Literary Edition. All submissions are due by February 15, 2006. For educators, what better incentive for students than to know that their work may be showcased on two web sites for a year as well as on the cover the periodical? What better text to use with budding writers? For more information, visit the Robbie
Dean Press web site for submission guidelines.
WORKS BY OUR 2006 SPECIAL LITERARY EDITION WINNERS:
Almost Perfect
2006 Young People's Award Winner
The house was quiet. The thick, red drapes that obscured half of one of
the room's white, smooth walls shut out the outside world, muffling any
sound that managed to penetrate the hushed, enclosed silence. A tiny room
bathed in a harsh. A vague, jumbled stack of books occupied most of the
space on one of the two small, cluttered tables.
A girl sat silently reading beside the only light in the room. Her face
was calm and composed, rigid almost, but her expressive, tell-tale eyes were
red, and grimy, slat-streaked tear trails covered her face like a mask.
Tangled black hair scruffily tied up into a pony-tail, a velvety cushion
for her throbbing head. She read on, her warm, brown, overlarge eyes gazing
out from behind thick, half moon glasses, immersed in a quiet world of her
own, a world where nothing could go wrong, where there was no anger or pain
or tears or parents.
A lump came to her throat, and she silently put down her book and rose to
her feet. As she turned around, she could see, though her vision was
blurred, the old, dusty sturdily built wooden bookshelf, half thrown into
shadow. In the dim light she could faintly make out her collection. Books
all shapes and sizes shined like stars in the half-gloom. She knew that they
each contained a separate world, a web of feelings and intertwining
emotions, an outlet from the harsh, real world, a glimpse of a new cosmos of
her own. She could even stop time itself.
But suddenly, something had really happened, and her comfortable, happy life
had come crashing down, suddenly revealed to be a ruined, ugly mix of
depression, frustration and fear.
They despised her. They had told her so themselves, not even bothering to
disguise their contempt at her feeble efforts to please them. They had
driven her, pushed her to do far more than she could. They had forced her to
carry on, day after day, until her life had become an unruly tangle of
hopelessness, disappointment, anxiety and despair. Life had lost its
meaning. It had just become a static, repetitive system, as every day she
sought a reason to keep going. So she had blindly turned to reading,
compulsively clutching at her precious literary treasures it like a lost
child, groping in the dark. It was, she now realized, the only thing that
had stopped her from going mad.
But they were taking it away. She remembered the flood of wretchedness
that had swept over her when they had finally revealed to her their true
thoughts, the ugly expression on their faces: icy coldness of their voices.
She'd cried. Of course, she'd cried. They'd never once shown, in thirteen
years, that they hated her so much.
"You deserve what you get." She could remember every excruciating detail,
every rise and fall of their voices, even though she had tried to hide
behind the protective shield of her old, imaginary world, clinging
desperately to it even though she could feel it slowly trickling away, like
water through her grasping fingers.
Suddenly, one of them had suddenly snatched it away from her, snatched away
her imaginary world, and flung it, in frightening display of malignant
hatred to the opposite end of the room where it hit the hard, cold wall,
scattering its pages like a handful yellow, withered autumn leaves. They did
not understand that, to her, they had just destroyed another world, another
reality, another universe.
Something had snapped. Wave after wave of cold, fierce anger had washed
over her. She now gently rubbed her arm, surveying the scratched, bleeding
skin and the massive sore bruises, black, aching blots on a smooth sea of
brown. She winced at the sharp pain that hit her as she moved her fingers
over the wounds. All that would remain would be a line of scars that she
could easily explain away. I tripped while I was running and fell on the
gravel. Plausible. Her ugly, grey, military style school shirt, with its
tight-fitting, long button-up sleeves would also do to hide them, even if
the rough, starchy fabric was uncomfortably close-fitting, clinging to her
like a stiff, strangling, adhering shell.
Her eyes strayed to the empty suitcase, a gaping, open mouth, lying
half-open on the floor. She still hadn't packed, even though she knew that
there was only a short while before she would leave to her new school.
Boarding school. A place where she would be away from her home, her family,
her friends for the first time. Maybe that was a good thing. She aimlessly
sifted through the untidy mountain of clothes that cluttered the bed and her
fingers, blindly feeling through the coarse, rigid fabric suddenly
encountered a cool, strangely smooth surface.
The photograph was perfect. She could clearly see the young girl, hardly
eight years old, who stared back out at her. Her hair was short, trimmed and
neatly brushed, and her smooth, unblemished skin seemed to shine. Her large,
brown eyes sparkled with confidence and, as all her family clustered around
her, you could almost see her basking in their warm affection, her tiny lips
curled into a smug smile.
There was now something subtly wrong with the young pre-teen's face; an
uncharacteristically contorted look of angerS or sorrow? The thin, chapped
lip quivered.. Just a small movement, less obvious than the faint rustle of
a dead, yellowed leaf as it gently snaps from its stem and drifts to the
ground. When she looked up again, there a cold, hard glitter in her eye, and
her face had again regained her abnormal, mask-like composure.
She forced herself to laugh, noticing for the first time how unnaturally
strained her voice seemed. Then she crumpled the photo and lobbed it in the
bin, where it landed with a faint metallic clang that seemed to reverberate
again and againS She waited until the last echoes had finally died away
before she finally gave in to emotion and threw herself down on the bed and
cried.
- Reshmina William
- Student, American British Academy
- Muscat, Oman
The Senior Writer's Winner:
Second Chance
Senior Writers' Winner for 2006
When is going too far
too far gone,
That I can't back track
to right my wrongs,
Only hoping in the end
to have her in my life again,
See....
I never should have let her go
cause all that mattered,
Was balanced evenly
over her morning smile,
When reality reflected her leaving,
It came tumbling down in my mind
feeling like empty despair
weighted on my once strong shoulders,
The burden too much
for my now lonely heart to carry,
Forcing it to shatter
into many hurt pieces,
Pride falsely
tried to keep me together,
While my ego
attempted to hold it all in check,
True Love is an emotion
if you ever felt once
for only a brief second,
That the moment it was gone
it's a void that takes time
maybe never to be filled,
So if it's possible,
I wish for a Second Chance
at something
I never was worth the first chance to get,
Realizing now Pride & Ego are my enemy,
It's only Honesty from the heart
that adds up significantly to count,
Could have been more understanding
now that I see
how cruel life is like without you,
Would have listened better
not simple just heard you,
Intent on showing growth
with the thoughts you communicated,
Should have fought harder
to keep you,
To sustain US,
To let you know
rather than guess
what you meant to me,
I wish we had spent more time building,
Rather than me dwelling on the differences
that existed between us,
If I had it to do all over again,
We would converse less,
Communicate more,
Dedicate moments in Love
to making Love
while sharing Love,
Expressions to one another
of our Sincere Intimate Love,
Leaving it to those outside us
to try to decipher and define our Love,
Cause thru Hindsight's Explanation
having a Truthful Passion
for your Righteous Love
is all that in the end matters,
And now that it's over
with you no longer here in my world,
I wish....
I dream....
I want you back
more than ever
believing in this,
A Second Chance.
- André Shuford
- Philadelphia, PA |
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