He sat there for what seemed like an eternity The wind whistled against his head as the leaves blew in a cyclone and rain threatened with a distant rumble of thunder. The man turned, his black overcoat flapping. Walking slowly away, he hoped his memories would not be blown away as the dry brittle grass. His hand felt empty and cold without her small hand gripping his. The streets were empty as he boarded the bus. Staring out of the window the man could almost hear her voice pointing out anything that her little eyes could see. The voice faded as the bus abruptly came to a halt, and the cracked and broken voice of a driver said, “End of the line.” He got slowly up, his back bringing pains that did not hurt around her. Climbing down the stairs he saw with his hazy eyes a candy shop where they always used to get her favorite candy, licorice. As he moved closer he realized all the windows were cobwebbed with boards and tape showing that he was not welcome here. Moving a little farther he came to a park where she used to immediately pull his arm to the garden and jump into the flowers until a smiling park ranger told her to get out. But now all that remained as the old man hobbled up was the cold hard dirt, an old torn-up magazine, and one withered flower. He bent down to pick the last beautiful memory, when a sharp wind flew through the trees and snatched the flower in its fearsome jaws. It continued to howl until the man shuffled away, taking shelter in a gazebo that looked to be a thousand years old. There in front of him was a merry-go-round. The wind pushed it around and around and every time it turned a white horse, now faded gray, brought the laughter of a small girl with it. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity until the laughter faded from his mind. He got up and walked against the wind, his face seeming like an old grape. Leaving the park he entered a subway and bought a ticket for the next train, not caring where it went. Sitting down, he imagined picking her up so she could grab with her small fingers the holding bars and squeak in her delighted voice, “I’m Tarzan.” Then everyone would look up from his or her newspaper and laugh. But no one was on the train today and a single tear full of emotions fell from his eye. He emerged from the subway and he walked on, in front of him a ray of light broke through the clouds. Erik Dinardo, 13Carlisle, Massachusetts Susannah Benjamin, 13Greenwich, Connecticut
“Dad,” I whined, stomping the sole of my new black riding boots into the hard pavement of the driveway, feeling my heel grinding into the small pebbles. “Can we go to the stable yet?” I tugged on the handle of my dad’s old pickup truck, yearning to open the door, hop in, and drive off. “Ashlyn, honey, I’m just trying to snap the buckle on Amber’s riding helmet. You’re going to have to be patient.” I looked over at my dad who was wrestling with my ten-year-old sister, Amber, trying to wiggle the glossy blue helmet over her tight blond curls. Amber laughed and squirmed as my dad tried to buckle the little childproof snap on the helmet. Finally, Amber pulled away from both the helmet and my dad’s grasp. She ran away screaming and giggling around the back of the house, her curls flying, her blue eyes sparkling, trying to find a place to hide. My dad stood there with the helmet and sighed. He looked over at me, shrugged helplessly as if to say, What can I do? and then ran after her, yelling, “I’m coming to get you!” And now, I was going to be late for my riding class, all because of Amber I sighed, leaning back against the cool window of the truck. I checked my watch. I had put on my own helmet exactly an hour ago. And now, I was going to be late for my riding class, all because of Amber. And wait a second—didn’t this same thing happen last week? And the week before that? Oh, and yesterday Amber scooped up the last spoon of mocha almond fudge ice cream that I had already called dibs on and Dad and Meredith didn’t get mad at her. And this morning, it wasn’t an accident that she used up all the maple syrup on her pancakes, leaving none for me. I turned around and looked at my reflection in the glass window of the car. My straight chestnut-colored brown hair, my hazel brown eyes, and tanned skin seemed so blah next to Amber’s little blond curls, glittering blue eyes, and pale complexion. Amber and I were on different ends of the spectrum. While I’m serious, Amber was exciting and funny. I’m smart, but Amber acts like a ditzy, cute ten-year-old. When Amber’s in the room, all the adults kiss her and pinch her cheeks and coo over her. When I’m in the room, the adults ignore me, or they start including me in their horribly boring adult conversations about global warming or what muffins are on sale at the market. When Amber grows up, she’s probably going to be an old, happy woman, her big house filled with friends and family who adore her and look up to her. I’m probably going to be the little maid who sits in the corner of the room, whom nobody is paying attention to. I’m always overshadowed by Amber. I turned my back to the car and to my relief, I saw my dad streaking out around the side of the house, carrying a laughing Amber in his arms. He buckled her up in the back seat of the pickup and said, “Come on, Ashlyn. Hop in.” Finally. I pulled open the passenger door and sat in the leather seat. I leaned back and relaxed. I was on my way to my favorite place. The stable. When my mom died five years ago, I wanted to do something or have something that would make me feel connected to her. Out of his grief, my dad had hidden all of my mom’s possessions so he wouldn’t have to look at them. I didn’t dare ask my dad about Mom. So, I asked my grandmother, who told me that Mom was a champion horsewoman. So, I asked my dad for horse-riding lessons and a pass to the local stable. My dad had been a bit hesitant at first. He didn’t want to go back to the stable, or see horses. They brought back memories of him and Mom that he didn’t want to see anymore. But Meredith, my stepmom, had coaxed him into letting me start lessons. Meredith is so sweet and nice. I can’t see how that little devil sitting behind me is related to her. Then, I realized that the little devil was talking to me. “Hey, Ashlyn? Ashlyn? Hello? Anyone home? Ashlyn?” I reluctantly turned around to face her. “Oh there you are,” she giggled her innocent little laugh. “Were you daydreaming? I don’t know how to daydream. Billy Morrison at school daydreams. It’s so funny. The teacher calls on him and he’s always daydreaming so he’s not paying attention so he’s always like ‘what?’ Do you think Billy Morrison is cute, Ashlyn? I do, he’s so funny. And he likes strawberries. Daddy? Daddy? Can we get strawberries on the way home? The juicy red kind? Billy Morrison likes strawberries and I wanna be just like him and I wanna learn how to daydream like Billy and Ashlyn. Oooh —we’re going to horseback riding! Yay! I hope Victoria lets me ride Dreamer today. I love Dreamer. Her mane is all smooth and shiny and Victoria lets me brush it. Do you think I’ll be able to ride the advanced trail today? Do you? Do you? I hope so ’cause Victoria said I will be able to soon. What’s soon? Is soon in five years? Or in ten? Or is it in one month? Or one week? Is soon right now? Daddy, I…” I groaned, slipping back in my seat, slouching way down. I could still hear her voice from way down here, my ear to the leather seat, her voice rushing through the air all around us, sounding like an annoying little bird chirping. “Dad, make her stop,” I moaned. Oh yeah, that’s one thing I forgot to mention. My stepsister is a chatterbox times one billion. Talking is one of her necessities like
Click here to link to a reading of the story by its author, Emmy J. X. Wong. Nan stared directly into the gray fog, letting the present day obliterate into the cold ethereal wetness. Standing defiantly on the pitching deck of the fast ferry, the Flying Cloud, which had left Hyannis only one hour earlier, she stared blankly at the emerging and unwelcoming, rocky shoreline in front of her and the cream-colored moorings that dotted the horizon fast approaching. How could her mom do this to her? she questioned. She was referring to her mom sending her here, or was it… nowhere? How could her mom send her to the place the Native Americans called “that faraway place, Nantucket”? she asked herself. It just wasn’t fair. “She knew what summer vacation meant to me,” Nan declared stubbornly. Nan relived the worn-out argument she had had with her mom at the ferry terminal just before her departure. She didn’t want to understand why she had to take care of Grammy Armstrong in ‘Sconset for the whole summer while her mom stayed behind to work as a nurse at Cape Cod Hospital. She and her mom had moved to Cape Cod, Massachusetts, less than a year ago, just after the divorce. Her mom had said she wanted them to be closer to her family. Little did she know then she’d be sent to take care of an aging grandmother she hadn’t seen since she was five years old! “It’s not fair,” she heard her pleading words now echo aloud to an unsympathetic, weathered seagull who had come to perch on the cold, steely railing next to her. “I won’t see any of my friends this summer.” But no one was listening. She thought about the stolen sleepovers she and her new best friends, Molly and Claire, had carefully planned, the lost trips to sandy white beaches under azure skies that the Cape was famous for, and the lazy days she had planned to bank reading beneath the generous awning of a shady maple in the backyard before starting seventh grade. How could her mom do this to her? Just then a single blast of a horn sounded to interrupt her reverie. “Prepare for landing,” she heard the captain’s voice bellow across the crackling loudspeaker. The auburn-haired girl pulled her nubby, evergreen sweater tighter around her waist and wiped away a tear before finding her bag and departing down the gangplank with a crowd of tourists. When she reached solid ground, Nan dutifully pulled out her cell phone, dialed her mom first to tell her of a safe arrival, then the cab company owned by her uncle. In no time at all, a cheerful man of few words, simply dressed in a khaki pressed shirt and a sea captain’s hat, Uncle Tommy of Tommy’s Taxi, had scooped her up and headed for the eastern part of the island where she would spend her entire summer totally bored to death, no doubt. When Nan arrived at the natural shingled two-story clapboard Cape on the leeward side of the island, she was immediately taken by the ruffled carmine-pink roses that grew in sprays from bushes hugging the bleached-shell driveway and the lacy blue hydrangeas in the front garden. The sunlight was peaking out from behind the clouds, now casting a cheerful wash of sunshine over everything in her path. She stole a quick glance upward at the black iron weather vane forged into the shape of a whale, which sat atop the roof, and wondered if it held any special significance. Upon entering the house through the side entry, Nan was enveloped by warmth that felt as comforting as her mother’s old calico patchwork quilt she used to drag from the hallway closet whenever she was sick. There was a familiar feeling to the place. Nan headed up the uncarpeted narrow steps to the breezy second-story bedrooms where Uncle Tommy had promised she would find her gram, before he had to hurry off to pick up a paying customer. Immediately upon eyeing the frail woman with the dancing pale-blue eyes and mop of snowy hair, Nan knew she was home. “I’m so happy to see you, my Nanette,” exclaimed the older woman, with enthusiasm. “I hope I won’t be a burden to you,” she added meekly, her voice withering. “Ever since I caught pneumonia last winter, my Yankee stamina just hasn’t been the same.” Nan hugged the elderly woman firmly and returned a wide grin. She was genuinely happy to see her gram and hoped she would be on the mend soon. She now wanted to be of some help to the sprightly woman she felt close to but barely knew. The next day, Grammy Armstrong was sitting up among the patchwork covers and working her hands to create what looked like a neatly woven basket. “It’s a lightship basket,” she informed Nan. My great-granddad was a lightship keeper in the early days, as were many in my family.” “What’s a lightship, Gram?” asked Nan with keen interest. “A lightship is like a lighthouse, only it’s a ship that floats offshore to keep sailors from crashing on the shoals,” she began to explain. “These waters south of Nantucket are some of the most dangerous seas you’ll ever come across. Hundreds of ships have wrecked in these parts, so the lightship was the answer to warn sailors in the south shoals.” It seemed Nan now had more questions, not fewer, after her gram’s studied reply. “What’s a shoal? But how is the basket related to the lightship? Do lightships still exist? Can I go see one?” Nan anxiously fired back a flurry of questions. “Come with me,” Gram beckoned, taking Nan by the hand and leading her downstairs to take up a comfortable corner in the warm, sunlit kitchen. Over steaming mugs of peppery Earl Grey tea and sweet raisin scones lavished with heaps of tangy rose-hip jelly, Grammy Armstrong told her tales of lightships
