Leapin' lizards

A few years ago I started doing creative writing workshops for 4th- and 5th-graders. I take them off the teachers' hands for an afternoon or, most recently, an hour each Monday. We write stories, we draw pictures, and I field 30,000 questions about how old I am (usually tailed by squeals of "You're older than MY MOM!"). This weekend I flipped through a pile of stories from various kidlets and stumbled upon my favorite souvenir.

My very first time out, I was doing an afternoon workshop for my friend Nancy's 4th graders. The big finish? I posted a picture of a lizard riding a bike and asked them to write a story about the picture. In return, we got the usual stuff: kids stood to read stories about shopaholic lizards hitting the mall, newts racing older brothers, robbers wearing lizard costumes, canyon-jumping chameleons (I almost made a Fonzie joke to them, but realized I was, oh, 2 decades late), etc. Good stuff. Then this lanky blond kid stood, shot me a grin, explained that he was *this close* to being finished, and cleared his throat to read: "The Race for Grandmother's Soul."

*needle on the record*

His was a tale of a scrappy little lizard who, upon watching this grandma get mowed down by a Schwinn-mounted gang, became consumed by his quest for revenge. I kid you not. I wanted to look at Nancy, perched in the back of the room biting through her lip, but I knew I'd lose my grip. While the students clapped in that stuttered way people do when they're not sure the play's over, he handed me his booklet. Would you believe me if I told you that the illustrations for "The Race for Grandmother's Soul" were a series of frames of the lizard smiling and waving at the reader and then, finally, standing in a pool of red? The way I see it, that young man is going to be famous or infamous. When that happens, remember that you heard it here first.