The Saga of Sir Marcdalf the Valiant Part I: The Math Menace

Once upon a time, in a land that is not as far away as it seems, there was the Kingdom of Cramalot. Cramalot was ruled by King Sinderon the Strong. In the city of Monolinth, the capital of Cramalot, there lived a young squire named Marcdalf. Marcdalf was the squire of Sir Renald Shiningsword, who was a knight of the Octagon Table: a group of seven of King Sinderon’s most trusted knights. “One day,” said Sir Renald as Marcdalf helped him into his armor. “You will become a knight and replace me when I step down from my place at the Octagon Table.” This was an encouraging thought to Marcdalf, but he needed to train in order to become a knight.

One day, as Marcdalf and the other squires were sword training in the castle courtyard, the King himself walked in! With him was a cloaked figure. The squires knelt when they saw the King was present. “You may rise,” said King Sinderon. “I would like to introduce the Math Queen to you. She is a traveler from distant lands, and is here to help further our Kingdom’s technology and knowledge. I was just showing her around. Carry on.”

That evening as Marcdalf was walking home, a strange light glowed from the windows of the tallest tower of the King’s keep.

Over the next month, Marcdalf noticed strange things happening in the city. Some people were getting sick. But this sickness caused numbers and symbols to appear on people’s skin. Marcdalf suspected the Math Queen had something to do with it, but no one believed him. So he took matters into his own hands. He climbed the steps to the tower.

When he reached the top he knocked on the door. No response. “Hello?” Marcdalf called. No answer. He tried the doorknob. It was unlocked. No going back now, thought Marcdalf. He opened the door. It opened with a slight “C-R-E-E-E-A-K…” Before him was a dark room. He drew his sword. In the dim light he could make out bookshelves lining the walls. In the center of the room there was a small table with a book on it. The book was opened, and numbers and symbols seemed to be floating out of it! The source of the sickness! thought Marcdalf.

“Well, well, well, it looks like you have seen too much,” a voice echoed throughout the tower. “We can’t have you telling anyone now, can we?” The Math Queen stepped out of the shadows, sword raised. There was a strange light in her eyes. Marcdalf leapt forward and shut the book! There was a blast that knocked them both to the ground!

As the smoke cleared, two guards walked into the room. “What happened? One of them asked Marcdalf.

“I came to investigate the sickness,” Marcdalf explained. “I think that book may have been the source. I closed it, and there was some sort of explosion.”

“Well, whatever you did worked,” said the other guard. “The sickness has disappeared!” The Math Queen rose to her feet. The strange glow was gone from her eyes. “Now what’s your story?” the guard asked her.

“I opened that book,” she said. “I don’t remember much after that.”

Marcdalf and the Math Queen were summoned by King Sinderon. He held the book before him. It was now bound in chains to ensure it was not opened. “This can only have come from one place,” he said. “The dark land of Math-dor.” He looked up, his face grave. “We are being attacked. We must fight back.”

“One does not simply walk into Math-dor,” said Sir Morgan Freeman, the King’s advisor and knight of the Octagon Table. “That land is filled with fouler things than just equations. They say the very air you breathe is toxic there. The math there does not sleep.”

Suddenly, a cry of: “To arms! The city is being attacked!” was heard. It was a terrible battle. Monsters, whose skin was covered with numbers and symbols, ruthlessly attacked the city. But in the end, the attackers took the city. The survivors had barricaded themselves inside the keep. It seemed all hope was lost. But there was a secret exit that only the King and the Knights of the Octagon Table knew of. King Sinderon approached his throne, pushed a hidden button on its side, and the throne slid away, revealing a staircase into the depths of the city!

Marcdalf walked beside Sir Morgan Freeman down a tunnel lit by torches. “This,” Sir Morgan Freeman said, “is the Chunnel. It was built long ago as an escape route for times of crisis such as this.” Soon, the tunnel ended at a cave in the Foresty Forest. It was here that the survivors set up camp. “There is a way to stop the attacks and reclaim Cramalot,” said Sir Morgan Freeman as they sat by the fire, eating a stew that they had made with ingredients from the forest. Everyone eagerly looked up at him. A gloom seemed to have lifted from the camp. “In this forest,” Sir Morgan Freeman explained, “is an ancient ruin that houses the Sword of Alevan-Fiften, which means “math’s end” in an ancient language. It is said that only the Hero of Cramalot can draw the sword from the stone it is set in. The hero, with this sword, can then defeat the Dark Lord Saxon, who commands the math monsters from the land of Math-dor.”

“Well then,” said King Sinderon, “tomorrow, we will go to this ruin.”

The next day, they trekked to the ruin. And there was the Sword of Alevan-Fiften! One by one the survivors of the attack on Cramalot tried to pull the sword out of the stone, but to no avail. All hope seemed to be lost. Every single person there had tried to pull the sword out, except for one: Marcdalf. He stepped up to the sword. He gripped the handle. His hands were sweating. And then he pulled.

With a sudden “SHWING” it came out! The sunlight glinted off of the gleaming sword. Everyone was amazed. And they were relieved, for the Hero had ended up being one of them! Hope was not lost!

So it was decided that Marcdalf would then set out to Math-dor. With him would go Sir Morgan Freeman, for he was very wise, a great warrior, and knew much about Math-dor. They traveled through plains, into woods, over mountains, and across rivers. Finally they made it to the dark land of Math-dor. It was barren and desolate. But there was a tower in the middle of Math-dor. “That is where the Dark Lord Saxon is,” said Sir Morgan Freeman to Marcdalf. They set off across the land to the tower.

They reached it and climbed to the top. There, was the Dark Lord Saxon himself! He stood, looking over the land, in armor and a dark cloak. In the center of the top of the tower there was a table with a book on it, just like the one in back in Cramalot. “I knew you were coming,” said the Dark Lord Saxon, not turning at first, but he knew they were there. He turned to look at them. “I see the book I planted in Cramalot was useful.” Indeed, when the Math Queen opened the book, Saxon got a hold on her. She really was a nice person after all. The Dark Lord Saxon used confusing math, not basic math.

“You will not defeat us!” shouted Marcdalf, drawing the Sword of Alevan-Fiften. Sir Morgan Freeman drew his sword. Saxon drew his sword as well. They engaged in an epic sword fight on the top of the tower. When Saxon turned his attention to Morgan Freeman, Marcdalf saw his chance. Saxon furiously attacked Morgan Freeman, but the knight blocked each blow. Marcdalf then grabbed the book and cut it in half with the sword! A blast of light shot from the tower. Saxon fell to his knees. He laughed.

“You may have defeated confusing math, but you have not won that easily!” Saxon said. Suddenly, the earth around them began to shake. There was a roar of thunder. Lighting shot down from the sky.

“Oh no!” Marcdalf shouted. “We haven’t only destroyed confusing math, but math itself!” You see, the world needs math.

“There must be some way to restore math!” Sir Morgan Freeman said. Then, Marcdalf saw it: a slot in the table where the book had been. He took the Sword of Alevan-Fiften and slid it into the table!

Somehow, the power of the sword restored math. The world went back to normal.

Later, there was a great ceremony in the King’s keep of the now reclaimed city of Cramalot. Marcdalf knelt before King Sinderon. “Today,” King Sinderon said. “We honor this hero who has saved our kingdom. He traveled far and fought bravely to save the land.” He drew his sword, and as he knighted Marcdalf, he said, “Today, I proclaim him: Sir Marcdalf the Valiant!”

End of Part I


M. G. Sherman is in the seventh grade at Tall Oaks Classical School in Delaware and likes creative writing, drawing and writing song lyrics. He also likes playing piano, running cross-country, and playing video games. He lives with his parents, older brother and rescue dog, Nydia, in Newark, Delaware. Some of his favorite books include The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings trilogy, and The Hunger Game series. He is currently writing three novels and hopes to be a famous author before high school graduation. His disdain for math inspired this creative short story.

Us Overload

We’re comin’ through ur speaker

Runnin’ through ur town

We’re pourin’ through ur headphones

And ur eyes are turnin’ brown.

We’re pumping up the volume

And we can’t be stopped!

Ur brain is leakin’ out ur ears

Ur head’s about to pop.

This is on Us!

An Us Overload.

And u better run for cover

‘Cuz we’re about to explode

Said it’s on Us!

An Us Overload.

And ur mother’s gonna shudder

When us writers hit the road.

The pressure’s buildin’ up now

And we’re about to burst out!

Rockin’ stadiums, gymnasiums,

If ur feelin’ us, shout!

Yes, it’s an Us!

An Us Overload.

And u ain’t been this

covered since the last time it snowed.

Spongmay Khan is in the sixth grade and loves to write raps. He really wants to be a rapper when he grows up (or even right now)!

Hands Up, Don’t Shoot

      Hands up, don’t shoot

Stop the unnecessary violence

Plain innocent people getting shot

By the cops,

And I thought they were supposed to protect us.

Hands up, don’t shoot

May 16th, 2010

A little girl is lying in her house

The cops come in looking for someone else

They see her and pow!

Hands up, don’t shoot

I’m walking down the street with my all-

black hoodie, just got back from the store

I turn around and pow!

I get shot and killed, and he gets away free.

Hands up, don’t shoot

It’s sad to say we live in a generation

Where a cop can go out and shoot an innocent person

And get away like nothing happened

Hands up, dont shoot

Oh wait, it’s too late…

Azariah Collins attends Girard Academic Music Academy in South Philadelphia. She is in the fifth grade and is a dancer, actress, and published poet. She has been with Mighty Writers for four years.

Time

Time, time is the key

Time is something you can stop

Time is a part of our life

Time is what we waste or spend

Time is order

Time is like a force in a jar that can’t be held

Time is you

Time is something that your mind won’t understand

So what is time itself?

Time is the answer…

 

 

Caleb Bryant is a fifth grade student at Universal Institute Charter School in South Philly. This is his first year with Mighty Writers and he is a budding philosopher, poet and painter. He expects to play for the NBA after finishing college.

Winter Explored

As white as sugar

as cold as ice

slippery and sparkly

oh, isn’t it nice

Soft, small, silent flakes

falling like tiny feathers

woosh, wash big winds

causing outrageous weather

Drinking hot chocolate

in a warm nice house,

slurping sugary marshmallows,

listening for a mouse

Smelling the smoky

firewood burn

as winter arrives

there will be no more ferns

Bundled up

cozy and tight

there’s no way

you will get frostbite

Winter is fun,

it’s cold all day

it’s nice to stay

outside and play,

No more staying

inside all bored

winter is waiting

to be explored.

 

 

Juwaireyah is 10 years old and is in the fifth grade at Universal Institute Charter School. Her favorite color is blue and her favorite subject is science. She wants to be either a doctor or a cosmetologist when she grows up. 

Golden

We shine like LED lights

Glimmering like sparkle dusted stars

Our smiles like pearls

But nothing is more golden than our hearts

 

 

Suaad is a young writer who mainly enjoys poetry and deep novels with lots of mystery, which are her inspiration for her stories and poems. She also loves to help others improve their writing by using her pieces as inspiration, hoping that one day they, too, will love writing.

My Rain

I’m your cloud and you’re my rain

I keep you floating and you drive me insane

We’re totally different, yet we’re the same

I’m your cloud and you’re my rain

You shower me with your input

I assure that you’re on your feet

You make sure I’m never in pain and I do the same

I’m your cloud and you’re my rain

One day we will share glory and fame

And I will give you credit even though sometimes you can be a pain

I don’t know what would have happened if we didn’t meet

Sisters we resemble, you and I

Watching you trickle beside me makes me smile

I am your cloud and you are my rain

 

 

Suaad is a young writer who mainly enjoys poetry and deep novels with lots of mystery, which are her inspiration for her stories and poems. She also loves to help others improve their writing by using her pieces as inspiration, hoping that one day they, too, will love writing.

Savior

She’s in front of you on the swings at the carnival

And you’re behind her

she’s having the time of her life

(and you guess you are, too—

She’s gorgeous when she laughs like that)

she reaches back a hand to take yours

you stretch out a hand, too                                          (you think she’s going to save you)

But she’s just a little too far                                                                                        (she can’t) away to reach you

So she pulls her hand back                                                                              (she won’t even try) and turns around

Giving up

And you return to watching her

Not so enthusiastically as before

Emma Paolini is in 10th grade and lives in Medford, New Jersey with her three siblings and dog. She enjoys reading and writing as well as competing on her school’s mock trial team. Emma also loves seeing Broadway musicals and going to concerts.

Voices

The whispers seep through the heat vents from the metro station and flutter into my ear

In commanding voices they talk to me

Angry, mean, sad, comforting, scary

Racing through my mind, exploring every nook and cranny

As I yell and fight the voices,

the few stragglers left, mainly partiers and low-lifes, like myself,

scurry along the dirty sidewalks

Like cockroaches

They walk right on past me with the occasional fearful glance

Thinking that my outbursts of swinging fists and trembling screams are my fault

That I’m the culprit

Not knowing that I was once like them, before my mind was alienated from me by the voices

Their ignorance seeps inside my soul further degrading me

As I try to recollect the few fragments of sanity

I feel the rough concrete and rusted metal under my thumb

rubbing away at it as if it will help

when I truly know that only home will help

but those memories of warm chicken soup and the smell of the gas stove being lit and the feel of adjusting the thermostat have all seeped away through the years

their sweetness being steeped into the harsh outside

like tea in lukewarm water

I try to fall back asleep

but each voice is its own alarm clock

Jolting my awake with another hurtful word

I tell them to shut up for once, but they are not good listeners

Forcefully I burrow myself into my slightly damp blankets and try to snuggle up closer to the side of the train station

Like always, that does not help

After hours of fighting

The sun approaches and I realize sleep has left me out like everything else

not even its warm embrace dares to touch me

only the voices are their for me, for better or for worse

 

 

Pryce Davies is in the ninth grade at Haverford High School. He enjoys playing soccer, competing in the competition band, reading, and spending time with his family.

The Art of Growing Up Without Realizing It

“Our bodies are made of stars” she read.

“Our bodies are littered in scars” she said.

There’s seven billion on one planet

and eight planets orbiting the sun.

So how can one thing so small

mean such a something to someone?

Day by day nothing is different but,

looking back it all has changed.

Like how roller turned to razor when talking about blades,

and smoke that once puffed from the chimney

is now dancing off cigarettes,

and sorry but ‘sorry’ doesn’t stick

when your glue is made from regrets.

So put your lipstick on right, pretty girl

or he won’t want you the right way,

and oh don’t put on too much, silly girl

or you’ll be asking for it, no matter how little you say.

Play pretending was much simpler, when the dragon was a cardboard box

now Romeo is not at your window, but he sure as hell is throwing rocks.

That scary monster never left she just crawled out from under the bed,

and she’s so much harder to find now that she’s swimming in your head.

She lingers on tongues and leaps from lips

and soon enough she’s screaming ‘sl*t’

because of the way you sway your hips.

“Our bodies are littered with scars” she said

but keep acting like you don’t care how you’ve grown.

There’s seven billion surrounding us

and we’re pretending to not feel alone.