A slow morning takes an ominous turn for a widow The moment her foot touched the pavement, she stopped. She turned around, uncertain about what she was doing, the action having completely vanished from her mind. Nothing jumped out at her or returned the memory. She sighed. It had happened yet again. Shaking her head, she walked, defeated, back to her house, which squatted on the top of the street, firm and resolute despite its size. The early morning sky of pale yolk hung behind it, creating an imposing silhouette. The last owner told her it had stood there for a century, and she reckoned it would stand there for many more centuries to come. The door swung open with its usual welcome creak, ushering her into the kitchen. She half expected Mell to be there, sitting in his usual spot as he sipped coffee and calmly read the paper, which lay open on his crisply creased pants. It was one of his many constants, a sort of reassuring activity he always completed even if a hurricane raged outside. Of course, nothing of the sort happened. It had been months, and there were many more stretching out before her before she joined him. She had stopped the daily newspaper delivery a few weeks ago when her pain had become unbearable, but now a new pain ached every time she glanced at the empty place the newspaper had once held on the kitchen table. Wondering whether she should start up the newspaper delivery again, she heated up the frying pan and gloomily cracked the eggs into the pan, moving through the movements she knew by heart. They sizzled for a moment then settled down, and she turned back to the table, frowning as if there were something she had been thinking about moments before. Unsurprisingly, she couldn’t remember for the life of her. Shrugging, she returned to her eggs, certain that what she had been thinking wasn’t important. Once they were done, she shook the eggs out of the pan and onto her plate, setting it down in her usual spot and slumping into the chair. As she ate, her eyes traveled over the cracked ceiling, the cabinets whose paint was fading, the rotting floorboards dotted with holes, and the windows long ago sealed over by thick layers of dust. Eventually, she knew she would either have to sell the house and move on or spend thousands of dollars helplessly trying to save it from plunging even deeper into the thick moat of disrepair. It broke her heart. She could still remember the shrill, laughing voices scampering between rooms, the feisty anger of a denied child, and the blustering tears over a scraped knee; later, the quiet hours spent poring over one page of a textbook, the anxious look as they awaited their exam results, and the pure excitement and joy reminiscent of childhood flitting gleefully across their faces before vanishing within moments as they quickly regained the teenage mask of gloom and doom. The halls had been empty for a long time now, the rooms shells of their former selves and hidden behind doors that had been closed for so long she’d forgotten if they were locked or not. Another thing lost, another thing forgotten. It was becoming the mantra of her life. Her eyes turned back to her plate. Subconsciously, her hand traveled around its rim, rubbing the well-worn porcelain with her fingers, finding the nooks and crannies of long-ago cracks created by years of disregard, carelessness, and neglect that had turned into an ocean of tiny fractures. The plate wasn’t how it was meant to be—it was supposed to be perfect, uncracked, in mint condition despite its old age—yet somehow, it gave her a sense of belonging. She was supposed to be in good health too; she was still in her sixties, a good few decades away from death, despite her husband’s passing. But her memory was failing her, and it was no fault of her age but rather of a specific kind of disease that had the misfortune of choosing her to fall upon. The name . . . it was on the tip of her tongue. She knew it. She knew it. She knew it, she knew it, she knew it. But it wasn’t there. It felt just out of reach, like a dream you know you remember when you wake up and swear that you do, and yet you can’t recall any details. She dumped the remains of her eggs into the trash and was walking towards the dishwasher when she stopped, staring at the plate in front of her and squinting at the cracks, unsure if she had ever been thinking about them. Shrugging, she slipped it into the dishwasher, the thought already fleeing out the window. Once again, she slid into her seat, this time with a mug of coffee in her right hand, the pale white of the milk mixing into the richer colors of chocolate brown and velvet black. Inhaling, she sat back with the coffee-cinnamon aroma melting around her. She’d taken to adding a dash of cinnamon to her coffee each morning. It was something Mell had done she had always scorned him for, and now it was too late to admit to him how amazing it was. A few cars creaked and groaned by, but other than that, the road was peaceful, another lazy day with many more to come. Of course, she still had so much to do. But, to no surprise, she was putting that off. Yet to what end? It was a question she couldn’t, or perhaps wouldn’t, answer. A dog and his owner jogged by, the dog wagging his tail happily in the sunlight, the man’s labored breathing causing her to flinch and look away from the window, studying her mug instead. The milk had faded into the jaws of the dark colors, and she leaned forward to take a sip— Glass Half Full
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The Flight of the Fatal Arrow
The author, also known as “the Misfortunate One,” learns an important lesson from the Vile Tree The story you are about to read is a story of idiocy, disaster; it includes attempts and confession, and a lesson. It is a story of a Fatal Arrow, a Vile Tree, the Use, the Mode, and the Means, and it is a story of a Misfortunate One. The story you are about to read is the story of the Flight of the Fatal Arrow, but more importantly, it is a story of how a little boy learned to think first. It is my wish that you will also learn wisdom from this tale. It was a nice summer day when the event occurred. It was hot, it was sunny; it was like any other summer day. It would have been impossible to guess that such a disaster was in wait. I, my brother, and two of my friends had all signed up for a hands-on activity making bows. We went to the Museum of Traditional Bows and sat down in front of a table. The instructor gave everyone a long wooden bow. Under the instructor’s guidance, and with our moms’ help, we tied the elastic bowstring to the bow and wound colored strings around the wood as decoration and support. When we were all finished, we were each given an arrow with a blunt, Styrofoam head. We were eager to shoot it outside in the park near the museum, so after we finished our bows, we ran outside to play. The arrows flew very well, and it was so fun watching them fly off far away. We launched the arrows at a low angle, and the moment we let go, the arrows whizzed away, flying parallel to the ground, and after a few seconds, they either hit something or dropped to the Earth. Then we would run to the arrow and shoot it back. But watching us play, Mom warned us to be careful, because the arrows could hit not something, but someone. It was then that the Accursed Idea came to mind. “Hey, since we can’t shoot arrows forward, let’s shoot them upward!” “Great idea!” the others all agreed. And so we, the stupid children who did not know the consequences of the decision we’d made, began shooting arrows up at the clear blue sky. At first, it seemed as if my suggestion was a brilliant one. Shooting into the sky couldn’t harm anyone, and we didn’t have to waste energy in running back and forth to get the arrows. Also, the arrows could soar very high up into the air. We were having great fun watching how far they could go, pulling the long bowstring as far back as our short arms would allow and letting the string go, listening to the soft elastic twang. No one observed the ominous shadows of the trees surrounding us. It was then that the Misfortunate One picked up the Fatal Arrow. He fitted the Fatal Arrow to his bow and pulled the bowstring back. The wooden bow formed a perfect arch, ready to send the missile up into the clear blue sky. Then the string was set loose. The Fatal Arrow was now in flight, soaring up toward the shining sun. It pushed back all the air molecules that hindered its advance; there were none to block its path. The unsuspecting Misfortunate One looked up at the Arrow, admiring its flight. Up, up, and up the Shaft flew, but then it met the turning point. The Arrow stopped for a split moment, and then the weight of the head pulled it down, and, since the force of gravity was relentless and inescapable, the Arrow began its course of descent. The Fatal Arrow was plunging down to the Earth, but the Vile Tree had no wish for that to occur, and so it stuck out its Vile Branch and stopped the Arrow midair. The Arrow halted; the Tree’s normal force collided with the Earth’s gravitational force; the Arrow’s velocity was zero. In other words, the Fatal Arrow got stuck in a tree. Oh, reader—do try to imagine the horror of the Misfortunate One who had shot the Fatal Arrow! His only, brand-new arrow had gone to a place he could not reach. Was this to be their parting forever? Would he have to go home with a bow without an arrow? How much would he get scolded for his action? And alas, who was the Misfortunate One? It was me. It was me who had shot the Fatal Arrow, watched it reach its maximum height, observed its descent, and with terrible horror, saw it get stopped by the Vile Tree. It was me who had proposed the Accursed Idea, and it was me who was suffering the consequences. And what did I, the Misfortunate One, say? “Oops.” My brother Jay looked up the Vile Tree. “Hmm, I think we can get it out somehow . . .” Thus began our attempts to retrieve the Fatal Arrow from the Vile Tree. Chaos Our First Attempt was the Use of the Stick. The Stick is a very special instrument, and it is useful in many ways. It is used to play with, pretend with, hit with, fight with, attack with, defend with, swish with, swoosh with, poke with, jab with, push with, pull with, dig with, attempt to pole-vault with, and to reach things unreachable with. The Stick can be found almost anywhere, and, as we were standing near trees, Stick was of abundance. My brother picked up a long stick. He held it up and tried to poke at the Fatal Arrow. He couldn’t reach it, and since he was the tallest of us, it was evident that the omnipotent Stick would not be giving us any aid in our endeavors to retrieve the Fatal Arrow. Yet my brother’s creative mind had another plan forming, which was the Mode of Climbing. The Mode of Climbing
Balancing My Nerves and a Bike
My mom used to like telling people about how she was in labor with me for over 36 hours. She would laugh and say that I was so comfortably curled up inside that I didn’t feel like coming out, and when I was finally forced to come out (two weeks late), I stretched out my arms and legs like a starfish all the way down. Physical activity was just not my thing. It never was, not since I was born. According to the family photo albums, it took me two-and-a-half years to learn how to walk. That led me to hate the playground. I was probably one of the few kids who did. Running around, climbing rope ladders, getting sand thrown in my face and my shovel stolen. Just the thought of having to climb the ladder to the top of the slide with a whole bunch of pushy kids behind me, I would get butterflies in my stomach, my legs would feel like cooked noodles, and sweat would start trickling down my forehead to the tip of my chin. Even now, it brings me back to that Shel Silverstein poem “Whatif,” where he talks about all the doubts and fears that dance around inside of him. When my sister was born, it all got worse. Apparently she was in such a rush to get out of my mom’s stomach that she almost fell onto the floor. My sister came out screaming so loud that she busted a hole in her lungs, and had to stay in the intensive care unit for a week. Those family albums show her walking, then running, and then riding a skateboard, when she was three years old. When I was five, my parents started pushing me to join all sorts of activities, which unfortunately were all physically demanding. Gymnastics, swimming, soccer, tae kwon do, and even golf. ae kwon do was the worst. It was a big room filled with kids kicking and punching stuff. Why would I ever do that? I cried, wet, salty tears pouring down my face, fists balled up, feet stuck to the ground, as my mom tried to gently nudge—and then finally shoved—me in. It was like those scary movies where people get forced into a torture chamber. I remember thinking, Why are they making me do this? I obviously don’t want to do it! When we left, I was so relieved that I didn’t even care that the other kids were staring at my blotchy, red face. When I got older, around seven or eight, it was gymnastics for both me and my sister. We were in different classes, but I could see her across the gym, having the time of her life, swinging across the bars and jumping on balance beams. I, on the other hand, couldn’t even figure out how to do a simple cartwheel. I could see myself in the mirror doing this crabby, bent-over thing. My sister, who was two years younger than me, was doing stuff I never expected to learn. As much as I longed to be able to do anything that looked good, I knew I would never be able to. The feeling of hopelessness and disappointment was so thick and heavy that sometimes I couldn’t breathe. And jealousy too. There was a horrible piece of me that wanted her to mess up. Not totally fail, but just enough so that I might feel better about myself. A couple years ago, when my mom brought up the idea of learning how to ride a bike and how cool it was, I instantly thought of the disasters that had happened when I was younger. I looked down at the beige rug covered in ornate designs so that I wouldn’t have to look at her. Then maybe she would forget I was there. My sister was exuberant, jumping up and down, squealing with anticipation, begging to go now. My hands were clammy and had found a binder clip to play with clumsily. That was when my dad marched triumphantly into the room with a brand-new, shiny, purple bike. He told us that it was the best bike to learn on, and if we got good, we could get a second one so we could ride together. He said it like we were all super happy to do this, like we had planned this together a long time ago. But we hadn’t, at least not me. I sat there at the mahogany dining table, my heart beating faster, my head hurting because of all the blood rushing to it. I was numb, not sure what to say, trying to think what I should do. My mom told me to go to the park with my dad so I could learn first. But I was frozen. So, she decided that my sister could go first. I was relieved but still troubled, knowing that I would still have to learn later. Grow up, I told myself. Grow up, grow up. They left, my sister squealing with delight. I continued to sit, glued to my seat. My hands now fiddling with a rubber band, the rubber weaving in and out, forming an intricate design. My mother came over and plopped down next to me in the cushioned beige chair, her laptop in hand, its rose-gold border gleaming in the bright ceiling light. “You know, I understand how you might not like these things,” she said as she scrolled down the page on her screen, not looking at me. “It’s not that I don’t like sports; it’s that I don’t like trying new sports,” I said defensively, instantly regretting the words that had just come out of my mouth. My dad always talked about how sporty he’d been as a kid, my mom was always willing to try anything and never seemed to feel embarrassed, and my sister was perfect. In this family, saying stuff like what I just said was basically admitting that I was a
Gratitude
Third place in the Fall 2019 Personal Narrative Contest with the Society of Young Inklings. A summer in rural China teaches the narrator not to take her life for granted This summer, I was in the Liangshan mountains in rural Sichuan, China, for camp. At first, it seemed like an ordinary place, but those ten days taught me what gratitude is. Liangshan is a historically poor county. Isolated by mountains, it was the last place in China to banish slavery. High illiteracy rates and AIDS have plagued it for years, keeping its inhabitants in a long cycle of poverty. Most of its population are of Yi descent, a minority ethnic group in China. They earn meager wages as farmers, maids, or janitors. My camp, BLOOM, consisted of more than 100 kids. It was founded by a charity organization in an effort to offer more educational opportunities to kids in the mountains. Half of the campers are from big cities like New York, Toronto, and Shanghai. The other half are from Liangshan. We were paired up, and the kids from cities tutor the local kids in English for two hours a day. As city kids, we learned about Yi culture, took guitar classes, arts and crafts, softball lessons, and more. Most of the money we paid for the camp went to nearby schools, and the teachers and counselors were all volunteers. When I first arrived at the high school where the camp was located, I was instantly aware of the cracked tile floors, the dirty windows, and the creaky, flimsy doors. My roommates quickly helped me with my heavy suitcase, set up my sleeping linens, and showed me how to use a mosquito net. The dorms were bright, but the floors were always muddy, no matter how many times we tried mopping them. We were to sleep on wooden planks and shower with ice-cold water in the public bathhouse. Each small room housed seven or eight people. It was uncomfortable, but I was resolved not to complain about any of it. If the Liangshan kids had to live like this all year, I had no excuse for whining. Over the next few days, my roommates and I quickly developed a collegial closeness that I’ve seldom experienced before. We shared inside jokes, told ghost stories, and talked late into the night every day. I felt like I belonged, even though they sometimes said things that I didn’t understand. Sometimes I couldn’t express myself in Chinese, and they’d all listen as I grasped for the right words, guessing at what I meant. They never seemed annoyed and explained everything with infinite patience. I was shocked to learn that none of my Liangshan friends had seen the ocean or been on a boat or plane. But we complained about homework and getting up early in the morning just like I did with my friends in New York. The kids there were just like me. It was so easy to connect with each other, despite our differences. On the second night, we had a discussion activity. A few campers, chosen at random, sat in the front of the lecture hall and answered a simple question: “What would you do with 100 yuan (about $15)?” Most kids wished for new clothes, books, or food. When it came to Gujin, a girl from Liangshan, she spoke with confidence and pride. “My father works as a janitor. It doesn’t pay very well. He comes home very late at night, always exhausted. I know that every cent is the result of his hard work, and I am lucky to have parents who care for me.” She paused. “If I had 100 yuan, I would give it to my dad to take some pressure off his shoulders and to help pay the bills. Thank you.” Applause erupted from the lecture hall. I knew plenty of people at home who took their parents for granted. To some extent, I realized that I, too, was not fully grateful for all that my parents had done for me. I had never once worried about how I would afford food or lost sleep over the bills. That was all taken care of for me. Many of the kids around me knew what it felt like to go hungry at night, but they didn’t pity themselves. Instead, they seemed even more steadfastly determined and thankful for everything they had. It was rare to find such personalities. A few days later, I asked my friend Anai about her family. She was a quiet girl who had a habit of speaking softly with a warm accent. “I have four siblings. My mom has to tend to the farm all day. If she has extra time, she finds work doing other people’s laundry,” she said. “What about your dad?” I asked. “He passed away two years ago,” she said, suddenly seeming distant. I felt immediate regret for the question, and I bit my lip, not knowing what to say. She just shrugged. “I never really had a connection with him. He didn’t talk to us. When my mom made a little money, she would have to hide it because otherwise my dad would just go out and buy liquor and drink until the money ran out again. I didn’t like him because he never cared about us. But he was still my father.” “I’m so sorry,” I murmured. She shrugged again, and we sat in silence. On the sixth day, all the big-city kids went on a trip to a Yi village in the heart of the mountains. It was home to a boy named Geizuo. He went to our camp and was a tall, calm volunteer from the high school we were living in. BLOOM had raised enough money to send Geizuo to a private school in Changshu, a city near Shanghai, and was trying to do the same for many other kids in Liangshan. We boarded the bus around noon, expecting a two-hour drive. Four
The Secret Agent Baker
My name is Jeff and I am like every other normal kid in the world going into the seventh grade. Actually, maybe I’m not normal because my family is rich. My family has a mom, dad, older brother, and younger sister. I am totally different from everyone in my family. For instance, I have never liked summer. On the other hand, everybody else in my family does. I wish my family would let us have more fun. If I ask my parents to get a pool, they say no. If I try to think of something else we could get for fun, like a beach house or something, the answer is always no. My parents just say, “Your brother and sister don’t need a pool or beach house. Why do you?’’ Well, moving on, I know my family better than anyone else. I don’t think my older brother knows I am alive. He is always in the basement. My brother is either on his phone, computer, or x-box. I think basements are gloomy and dark. Don’t forget creepy like my sister’s dolls. My sister is always upstairs somewhere. I think she’s either drawing on her whiteboard or teaching her invisible class. She likes to play school with her dolls and teach them useless stuff! I’m a boy so I don’t like to play with creepy dolls. When I ask my brother and sister if they want a pool, my brother just says no, he’s happy in the basement, and my sister says, “No, I don’t want to drown!” Besides my parents’ favorite word being no, here’s more information about them: Every single morning I wake up to the sound of my dad exercising. I hear the jump rope noises. “Whoooo, whoooo, whoooo,” goes the rope. It makes me giggle a little. I laugh into my pillow because it’s so annoying. So just like my brother and sister, my dad likes his summers. My smart mom is always busy shopping and taking care of everyone in the house. She has no complaints about summer either. So then there is me, Jeff. As I said, I’m totally different from everyone in my family. I like checkers, chess, drawing, reading, and painting. Wait; I feel like I am forgetting something important. Oh yeah! I love to bake. So every summer I sign up for a baking class. My family thinks baking is messy and not a good way to spend my time. I am always the best student in the baking class. The baking teacher always says to my parents, “Your son is the #1 baker in my class! I have never seen anyone bake as wells as him!” When the teacher told them this, my parents would say, “We love to hear that good news! We love that he is the best in the class and hope he does such a good job every single time!” When I heard them say this the first time, I thought to myself, “Really? That isn’t true.” You see, I didn’t think they really cared much that I am so good at baking. I thought what they were really thinking was, “Jeff! Stop wasting your time with this baking nonsense! Be like the other kids!” When we drove home from baking class no one said a word during the ride. When we got home, I ran to my room full speed. When I got to my room, a million thoughts were in my head: “Why are they mad at me? I’m trying to be myself. What’s wrong with that?” I wanted to stay in my room forever, just like my brother stays in the basement. But one night I had a sudden thought. I felt like a koala wondering why he was awake! I thought about how baking is a great activity, that I liked it as much as koalas like to sleep, and that I had to prove this to my family. I went downstairs with my flashlight. I didn’t want to wake anybody up. I looked at the table to make sure I had baking class in the morning so I would be able to carry out my plan. I always leave myself reminder notes if I do. I was right! I did have baking class in the morning! I thought about the one time I missed baking class because my parents had thrown out my reminder note, hoping that I would forget that I had class. I went back to bed feeling happy about going to class in the morning. I slept like a baby. Wait—not like a baby, because babies always scream! I slept like a koala because koalas sleep almost all day. As usual, just like every morning, I woke up to the sounds of my dad doing his exercises. “Whooooo, whooooo, whoooo,” said the rope. I went downstairs for breakfast. I thought about my plan and felt as happy as peanut butter smashed together with jelly. Oh, no! The reminder note about baking class was gone! Well, this time I was not going to forget about my class! I waited until it was time to leave for class. Instead of asking my parents to drive me there, I took myself there on my bike! I knew that if I asked my parents to take me they would say, “Jeff, you don’t have class today.” I outsmarted them! I rushed to class on my bike. At baking class the teacher said, “We are going to make brownies today.” I was surprised! I thought the teacher had read my mind for a moment there, because making brownies was my plan late last night when I woke up. But then I remembered that she had told us that last week. I added a special ingredient to my batter—cocoa powder! When the teacher tried my brownies she said, “This is the best brownie ever! It is super soft and chocolaty!” It was now time to put my plan to work. After class, I
Welcome Aboard
I had heard that boarding a train was like entering a whole new world Gusts of wind whipped around the platform, a welcome appearance for the impatient passengers dripping with sweat on this sweltering Beijing summer afternoon. Off in the distance, two whistles blew, piercing the air with their tremulous shrill, ushering in a series of booming clang clang clangs. Eagerly, I gripped my blue suitcase ever so tightly. Sweat in my palms practically melted into the silver luggage handle. Just a few moments before we would board the train… a couple of seconds now… a mere split-second… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Puffs of smoke from the train funnel rose and drifted in the breeze, and the locomotive stopped still on the tracks, its red hue dimming in its countless journeys. The crimson gleam remained though. A train attendant clad in a dark navy-blue suit and beaming pearly whites unlocked the train entrance. A cluster of voices suddenly bubbled up as everyone clamored to board the train, yearning to escape the burning heat. Only one young woman stayed behind to wave tearfully at her family, yelling a last minute I promise to write! and I’ll miss you! Her parents nodded, ready to let her go as the young woman vanished within the clamoring crowd. I had heard that boarding a train was like entering a whole new world. That it would be an exciting, thrilling adventure. That sometimes you met all kinds of people who could change your life, or become a lifelong friend. It seemed that the world inside this train was bursting with people to be met, things to be seen… People also said that riding trains was the best way to immerse yourself in Chinese culture, as Chinese people routinely traveled by train, and that was just my goal as my family and I boarded the train that would take us on a cross-country route, leading from northern Beijing to the southern China harbors. We were bound for the final stop on the train route: Shenzhen, a mega-metropolis in China famed for being the Silicon Valley of China, for its contemporary architecture and modern, youthful culture. We’d come to visit my uncle who lived there. I had heard amazing tales of Shenzhen from my parents, and I dreamed of the urban adventures I would get to experience. Inside the train, I leaped across the passenger corridors, bursting with curiosity at the unfamiliar newness of it all. I paused to stop and inspect the cogs of an enticing gadget. Or how the window curtains were royal blue and fringed with golden yellow, with phoenix figures imprinted on the fabric… I was so thrilled to be on a real-life train, on a world away from home! Suddenly, my mom called me over. Instantly, I rushed—no, skipped—over to our compartment. This would be our home for the next twenty-two hours. Triple bunk beds were built on either side. Mom and I snagged the bottom bunks—rejoice!—while my cousin got the middle bunk above. Bottom bunk was almost always the best spot, because beside it was an oval-shaped window that gave a view of outside. Underneath was a sterile white table ideal for eating. And the best part was that I could freely amble in and out of the compartment. No having to climb down and fret about accidentally squashing someone’s toes! As we furnished our surroundings, I took out my travel satchel and a pink-and-purple dog-shaped pillow. Our bunkmates soon came in and settled down. They promptly began to doze off. The train would start off shortly. Suddenly, a flurry of voices began to rise. Poking my head out to see the commotion, I heard some people having a heated debate. A woman with high heels sharp enough to stab someone chatted in animated Chinese with her friend, a carefree spirit in her smile. A frail, elderly man with a head full of gray hair, dashed with specks of white, persevered to keep his balance as he walked and took out a pocket-sized leather-bound photo album and lovingly stared at a tiny, grainy, sepia photograph before placing it back. A pair of parents warned their child QUIT climbing on the suitcases or else… A teenager crunched on some chips as she listened to the blasting music in her earphones. She swayed to a rhythm I couldn’t make out, completely immune to the activity rushing around her. An auburn-haired man glued to his cellphone muttered to himself in a foreign tongue, urgently tapping the screen for a response, a ghostly halo framing his features. A young mother with a tied-up bun nestled in her arms a whining and wailing infant. Trailing behind her was her daughter, pulling her mom’s orange blouse, craving attention. Not far behind was the children’s dad, huffing and puffing as he heaved the massive luggage. They settled in the compartment next to us, the baby screaming louder. I wondered about the tales of these people, what sort of lives they had to tell. TWEEEEEEEET! The shrill whistle abruptly sounded, and off the train lurched, giving a violent jolt and leading me to hop into the safe covers of my bed. Grabbing a book, I began to read. Suddenly, nearly three chapters in, I felt someone staring at me. Intently. And for a long time. Maybe it was my sixth sense creeping in. I could hear a pitter patter of footsteps. Then a pause. Who could it be? Looking up, I found a pair of deep black eyes staring at me! Oh! Those eyes belonged to that little girl with the wailing infant sibling! They were thoughtful, glassy eyes, like marbles, rolling around the small room and studying the compartment, my dozing bunkmates, and, most importantly, me. Then she hid behind the wall separating the train compartments. She peeked again. And again! This game of peek-a-boo went on for several minutes, with each stolen glance becoming increasingly longer and more confident. Black bangs framing her chubby face, radiating total
Leaving Emma
Leaving Emma by Nancy Steele Brokaw; Clarion Books: New York, 1999; $15 Having a best friend can make a kid feel like she’s on top of the world. I know, because I have had the same best friend since I was less than two years old. But if something should happen with that best friend, and especially if she were your only friend, it could be terrifying. In Nancy Steele Brokaw’s book, Leaving Emma, terrified is just how Emma feels when her best friend Tem announces that she has to move at the end of the school year. To make matters worse, Emma’s father tells her that he has to go far away for five months and Emma’s mom is so absorbed in her own problems that she can’t even help. Emma feels as though her life is wrecked. Tumbling even further down from her perfect perch, Emma has to deal with dreaded Great-Aunt Grace who played music that “sounded exactly like those old monster movies when the lights in the castle go out, and the thunder crashes all around, and someone is about to be killed.” Emma can’t even tolerate when Aunt Grace comes to dinner! In order to deal with the fear and anger of everyone leaving her, Emma manages to patch together a few talents she barely knew she had. By making some new friends who share her love of art and by confronting other problems, Emma makes it through some difficult times and comes out more than OK. Emma even figures out a way to replace one after-school activity which she had been doing merely to please her father with another activity which she loved, was good at and received much praise for. The characters in Leaving Emma could be typical people in your own neighborhood. Emma describes one nasty girl, Meagan VanHook, as “the most beautiful, talented, intelligent girl in Northpoint Middle School, and if you weren’t sure about that, you could just ask her.” Throughout the story, Brokaw’s vivid descriptions of feelings and situations seem very realistic. Writing “whatever color concrete was, that was the color of my thoughts” made me really understand Emma’s melancholy. Leaving Emma is studded with laughs and thoughts which come together to make this a good book. I would never have chosen this book myself, yet I am glad that I read it and hope you will enjoy it, too. This book is for anyone who enjoys reading about kid problems and has a good sense of humor. Amanda Claire Gutterman, 8Washington, D.C.
A Long Way Down
My legs were shaking, my heart pounding. As we neared the edge of the cliff, I double-checked all my rappelling equipment to make sure it was secure. Quickly, I went through all the safety precautions in my mind. I felt anxious, but not eager for my turn as I waited in line with the members of my group. Fear rose from the pit of my stomach as I realized there was no one else to let in front of me. Slowly, I lowered myself to the edge of the nearly 200-foot cliff. My skin shook like a dozen earthquakes when I reached the belay man, the person who hooks me to the belaying ropes, which keep me from falling. He was tied to a tree probably tighter than his true love would have held on to him. He hooked me up, and I slowly lowered myself over the edge of the cliff, inhaled deeply, and went into a sitting position with both feet in front of me. I closed my eyes, gulped, and began to rappel. I had traveled no more than five feet when a man I didn’t recognize appeared over the edge. With camera in hand he smiled and said, “Cheese,” then snapped a picture of me. “Funny,” I replied. In my head I heard the words, Listen, wise guy, I’ve more important things to do . . . like, say . . . surviving. With camera in hand he smiled and said,”Cheese” My anger was soon forgotten as I reached a point where my feet could no longer touch the rocky wall. Panic took over. The wall was right there, mocking me. I can’t stand to be mocked. Thump, my foot made contact with the wall, causing me to rotate. As I slowly began to spin around an interesting thing happened; my panic vanished. The panoramic view of the surrounding area overwhelmed me. All the different-sized trees were evergreens, which seemed to blanket the hillside. The forest was teeming with life as different types of animals raced across my field of vision. As I looked upward the sky seemed to open up into a blue vastness. A sense of excitement overtook me. I’d been waiting for this moment, night and day, for one long month, and finally my dream had become reality. I began to feel more calm and more relaxed. Impulsively, I blurted out, “My name is Bond, James Bond.” Someone climbing back up the cliff overheard me and started laughing. His laughter made me realize that my sense of humor had returned. As I finally neared the bottom of the cliff, there seemed to be less animal activity. Looking up, the cliff did not seem as intimidating as it did going down. My feet were shaky when they finally touched the soft and muddy ground. Mixed emotions were in the back of my mind. I was happy that the rappel was done, yet longed to do it again. Pride swelled up within me. Traveling the muddy road, I began the long climb upward. Jason Lee, 13Prospect, Kentucky Bonny Reynolds, 13Wannaska, Minnesota
A Test of Honor
Retsina flipped her long, black hair behind her. She looked around at the empty, quiet bunker she lived in. Once it was filled with the joyous shouts of girls, but now only deafening silence reigned, echoing off the stone walls. Girls here on Matia 3 were expected to raise large families, but ten years ago, one woman had changed all that. Sloran, Retsina’s role model, had entered StarCor and trained as a Space Cadet, shocking the entire world. Today was Retsina’s last chance to become a Space Cadet. Trainees were allowed four tries at the test, and she had failed the last three, coming in the top three places all three times. But that wasn’t good enough. Only one could pass the test at a time, and it had been a boy every year. But today, oh, today she was going to show them all. She had trained an hour longer than any of them every day, and started an hour earlier. A grin sprouted on her too-narrow face. One of the reasons she had chosen to go into StarCor was because she wasn’t pretty enough to be married off and improve her family’s landhold. To do that, you had to be exceptionally beautiful, and she was only middling, a short, small girl with coarse, somewhat shaggy black hair and black eyes. Footsteps rang off the walls, and Retsina knew that Sloran was back from patrolling in her hovercar. The older girl entered the bunker with an air of fatigue. “It’s Testing Day, isn’t it?” she asked Retsina. Only one could pass the test at a time, and it had been a boy every year The young girl nodded. “The last one of the year.” Sloran smiled in that distant, icy way she had. The years were taking their toll on the young woman. She was, what, twenty-three Matia standard years old? Most died by forty-five. “I know I haven’t been the best of roommates, but I just wanted to wish you good luck.” With that, she drew Retsina into an embrace. Retsina pulled away, backing slowly out the door with her head bowed; the proper status for a woman of Matia. “Hey!” Sloran’s voice rang out. “If you truly want to be a Space Cadet, walk like one!” Retsina straightened her shoulders, smiled into Sloran’s eyes, and ran out the door. * * * “Mark three . . . two . . . one!” The trainees ran around the course set for them. Grisnom, the head trainer, watched their progress with a smile. He had produced a fine crop of Cadets this year, even with that “pesky” girl thrown in. To be honest, he liked her, and considered her a hard-working, intelligent young lady. It was a pity only one from the Elite class was allowed to graduate a year. The finishing tone sounded, and he looked up to see who had won. The girl! The weakling Retsina had won the race. This was her worst area, discounting wrestling. This put her in the lead, with Alsen, a boy her age, right behind her. He walked over to congratulate her. “Well done, Retshine al Tuesel,” he said, using her respectful full name. “Thank you, sir,” she managed in between sharp intakes of air. She looked around her. Alsen was glaring at her for beating him, for there was only one more activity, and only those two would be competing. She paled, and seemed to withdraw for a second. Then she stood up. “I am ready whenever my worthy opponent deems fit,” she said respectfully, with a bit of challenge thrown in. Grisnom nodded and led the way. * * * Retsina paled as she saw the last test. This was the one that had caused her to remain in training for two years. A long, wide, rocky cavern that held a pool of water was the setting. The challenge was to swim the entire length of the cavern, about two kilometers, and scale the cliff face with no safety equipment, fresh out of the pool. The first one to the top graduated, the other went home in shame, or re-applied to the council to allow another two-year training period. Retsina dropped to her knees to allow her long hair to be twisted into a hairstyle that would not fall out. Alsen was doing the same, for none of the trainees cut their hair until they graduated. Retsina could almost taste the nervousness in the air as she stood at the side of the water. “Mark three . . . two . . . one!” The starting tone sounded as she dove into the water, to start swimming automatically. The stroke required was extremely difficult, but it was the fastest. It involved twisting every four stokes to grab the knee, where a propulsion button would be, swim under the water, breathe, mid-dive under, and repeat the process. They were not given propulsion systems, but had to swim the entire length by themselves. Alsen finished up first, starting to pull himself up the rock face, when Retsina pulled the move she had been planning for three months now. She lined her small feet up on a ledge under the water, and pushed, making herself shoot out of the water. She grabbed an overhanging rock, and pulled herself upwards, her feet seeking dry purchase. Alsen looked up the few feet that were between them, blond head thrown back. She spared him one glance as she continued upwards. When the simulated earthshake vibrated the cliff face, she was already at a ledge that other students had proved “safe,” and waited it out. In the course of two minutes, it was over, and Alsen had been thrown into the water. He did not give up, however, but started climbing again, hand over hand, even faster than before. Retsina, however, was almost at the top. With a mighty heave, she threw herself on the ground, having reached the top two yards ahead of Alsen.
Miraculous Mike
When I think back to when I was little, I always remember my dad trying to keep me and my sisters happy. When I was bored, he’d bring me into the backyard and play catch with me, or do some sort of activity along those lines. I remember when he took me to my first baseball game, and got me this cool mini baseball bat that I really wanted. Whenever I told jokes or tried to be funny, he always laughed, even though half the time it wasn’t really funny at all. As I got older, my mother always said that I had the same sense of humor that my father did, so that made me feel pretty good, because I wanted to be just like him. My father always used to make sure I understood what I was doing in school, especially in math since he was a math teacher a while ago. I still remember the time that my second-grade teacher got mad because my dad taught me multiplication. When all the kids were practicing addition and subtraction, I was practicing multiplication and trying to understand division. Whenever I was nervous when I was younger, my father always tried to cheer me up. When I was scared about going to school on my first day of first grade, he gave me a nickel that he told me was his lucky nickel, and would cheer me up if I got sad. I still have that nickel, along with another lucky charm that my dad gave me. The other charm was a pendant that can be hung from a necklace. It was a small baseball glove with a baseball inside of it, and it’s a little smaller than a mouse ball from the mouse of a computer. One morning at the end of a bad week, he was right there when I woke up. He said, “I have something for you,” and he reached his hand on top of the armoire. He pulled something down and said that one of his relatives gave it to him when he was a little kid. Then he handed me the small pendant and said it would bring me good luck. Joshua and his father When I found out that my dad was diagnosed with Lou Gehrig’s disease, which is really called A.L.S., I was really shocked. I felt that he no longer was going to be able to take care of me, and that I was going to have to take care of him. All I knew about his disease was that it caused the muscles in his body to stop working, muscle by muscle. We could start to tell that the disease was affecting him gradually month by month, the way the doctors said it would. What I remember happening to him first was the loss of his ability to straighten his fingers . Then he started having trouble walking and lifting things, and then as things got worse, he ended up in a wheelchair, almost completely helpless. Even though he was handicapped, he never stopped working. He even got an award from the government for being handicapped, only capable of moving his neck and legs, and still doing just as much work as any other person who had been working for them. People at his work even put a sign up on the door to his office saying “Miraculous Mike.” Over time he kept getting worse; however, he still kept trying to keep the family happy. It seemed to me that he started getting better when he stopped smoking, but I guess I was wrong. When I was at a Thanksgiving party for my mother’s work, my mom got a call. She started crying and I just knew something was wrong with my dad. That night my mom’s best friend Kate drove me and my sisters to the hospital where my dad was. I saw a bunch of people I knew there, and they said my dad was OK. But deep down inside me I knew they would be saying that even if he was on his deathbed, which I had a feeling he was. The next day was the last full day I had with my father, and he died the next night on November 16, 1996. I knew this would cause a total change in my life from the moment I had the feeling it was going to happen. Now I realize how lucky I was to have him for the time that I did, and how I never should have taken him for granted. Now, I can’t believe my ears when I hear someone say they hate their parents. I guess they won’t realize how lucky they are to have them until they actually don’t. joshua Maclean, 13Braintree, Massachusetts
