It was spring in the mountains of Washington—a time of beauty and change. The heaviness of the snow was melting away, flooding the brooks and allowing the pines to stretch their branches once again after a long winter. Leaves were budding on the trees, no longer icy and dead. The whole world, it seemed, was slowly turning colors. Anne was sitting in the majesty of it all, lying back upon a rock and watching the geese disappearing into the clouds over the distant horizon. There was warmth from the sun and splendor all around. A woodpecker’s tapping, a firm rhythm, was the only sound in the silent mountains. The creek below slid easily by beneath her over the shining rocks lining its bed. The wetness of spring hung in the air, soft to breathe and alive with the scents of nature; there was wood and soil and moss. Tall grass waved in sprigs, jutting out of cracks in the rocks that tumbled over a steep slope. It was the place Anne called her Thinking Place, where all was peaceful. It was Anne’s last spring in the mountains There was much thinking to be done that spring. It was Anne’s last spring in the mountains. That very day she would be leaving the years behind, shedding them, and departing her aunt’s house to rejoin her family in California. She had been staying to finish the sixth grade while her parents readied their new home, but the signs of approaching summer—the fresh greens and budding flowers—signaled that it was time for her to go. Anne drew a wrinkled and fading photograph from her pocket, where it had been since she arrived at her aunt’s house. It showed her and her parents, with their home and the mountains in the background. She was eager to return to them, but they were like the flowers of summer—seeing them meant new beginnings, and new beginnings can only follow an end. Anne willed through the stillness of the forest that her aunt would not call her back too soon. There was a presence beside her. Anne glanced to her left. It was another girl, with black hair and soft blue eyes that were quietly staring at her. The girl met her gaze gently and turned back to the sketchbook on her lap to continue a drawing she was working on. The stillness continued, and neither said a word. They sat on the rock together and let the magic of the place engulf them. It was a long while before the time was right to speak. The first words came from Anne. Her question seemed not to cut through the silence but to blend with it. “Is this your Thinking Place too?” The other girl nodded and smiled, just a little. There was a piece of sadness, Anne realized, in the blue eyes. There was more silence. Then the girl’s question came, almost a whisper. “What are you thinking about?” The eyes drifted to the tear still clinging to Anne’s jaw. “I love this place,” Anne said simply. This was the truth, and it was all that the other needed to hear. A comforting arm reached around Anne’s shoulders. “Me too.” “What are you thinking about?” asked Anne, remembering the sadness in the blue eyes. “My parents split up… we’re finding a new place somewhere.” Anne understood. It was her turn to extend a comforting arm. So the two girls sat, each with a shoulder to lean on and one to hold. All was peaceful in their Thinking Place. The rocks stood firm on the slope, the grass waved about them, and the stream kept sliding by while the woodpecker tapped at its tree. And slowly, the world was spinning… time was slipping by. The sun began to disappear beyond the curve of the horizon. It glowed pure and red, leaking its color into the sky. There was soft golden light enveloping the mountains of Washington, bathing the Thinking Place and the girls in its pleasant warmth. The very dome above them shone with the glory of the setting sun. The whole world, it seemed, was turning colors. The girls leaned against each other and the orb sank lower, its color dappled by faint clouds. Then that sliver of scarlet disappeared, and there was a flash of brilliance. The girls couldn’t see it, but they felt it in their hearts… the assurance that the sun would return to glow over the Thinking Place—that the end of that day would make way for a new sunrise. * * * The voice of Anne’s Aunt finally cut through the silence. It was time for Anne to leave the mountains of Washington. The girls stood together and gazed out over the rocks and the brook and the forest. A bright sun dappled the entire page in a hopeful gold “Here.” The girl removed her drawing from the notebook and handed it to Anne. “Remember this moment.” “I will,” said Anne. She placed the photograph of her family in her friend’s hand. “Me too,” said the girl, and closed her fingers around it. Then Anne turned away from their Thinking Place, towards a future in California. She glanced back at her friend, standing on the rocks in the mountains, then examined the drawing. It showed the magic of their friendship and the Thinking Place in swirls of brilliant color. A bright sun dappled the entire page in a hopeful gold. Walking through the forest toward her aunt’s house, Anne turned the sheet over. There was a telephone number written on the back. Katie Mercer-Taylor, 13St. Paul, Minnesota Abigail Schott-Rosenfield, 13San Francisco, California
Friendship
The Eight Snow Globes
“Ms. Pushkin, it’s me, Jessie, from next door” Jessie walked up the stairs of the old Victorian house, carrying the sticky chocolate cake her mother had made. Jessie had met Ms. Pushkin quite a few times, but always accompanied by her mother. Now that she was twelve, her mother had decided that it would be better if she went alone. She was only there, Jessie reminded herself, to deliver a Christmas cake for their elderly neighbor. Still, what if she wasn’t home or something went wrong? Reaching the door at last, Jessie gripped the brass doorknocker that was shaped in a lion’s head and knocked three times. She waited, no answer. She knocked again, still no answer. Jessie was about to consider leaving the cake on the steps when the door creaked open. There in the doorway stood a frail old lady in a silken nightgown and a pair of yellow slippers. “Hello, Ms. Pushkin,” Jessie said tentatively. “Who’s there?” she asked, rather confused. “Ms. Pushkin, it’s me, Jessie, from next door.” The old woman was silent for a minute, and then, as though she had just remembered who Jessie was, she said, “Oh, Jessie, come in, come in.” Jessie entered the house, remembering her mother telling her it was the polite thing to do. Ms. Pushkin led her into a cozy sitting room with a roaring fire. “Come, sit down,” Ms. Pushkin pointed at the empty armchair. Jessie sat down and then, remembering why she was there, she said, “Merry Christmas, Ms. Pushkin, I have a cake for you.” Jessie held out the cake, which was in a pink cardboard box. “Oh thank you, dear, do me a favor, just put it in the kitchen,” she waved a hand toward a small doorway. Jessie got up and, doing as the old woman had said, she entered the small kitchen and set the cake down on the green tiled counter. Returning to the sitting room, Jessie sat back down in the armchair. It was then that she noticed them. Sitting on the large mantle over the fireplace were seven or eight intricately designed snow globes. They were all different sizes and looked as though they would have been rather expensive. Ms. Pushkin sipped a cup of tea that had been sitting on a large glass coffee table. The two were silent, just taking in each other’s presence. “You like my snow globe collection?” Ms. Pushkin asked Jessie, who was still gazing at them. “Yes ma’am, they’re very beautiful,” Jessie answered as she finally tore her gaze from them. “That first one on the right, yes that one, that was given to me on my seventh birthday,” Ms. Pushkin said. “And to think that I still have it.” The old woman gave a snicker. “Now that second one I was given as a present for joining the circus.” “You were in the circus?” Jessie blurted out before she could stop herself. “Oh yes, I lived in Russia my entire childhood, you see,” Ms. Pushkin went on. “Moscow to be more exact. I had it all, the big tents and the face make-up that takes forever to get off. I was a juggler for my group. On stage I would juggle anything from potatoes to flaming torches of fire. It was the time of my life!” As Jessie listened to the woman’s story, she could see a gleam in her eye. “But,” she said solemnly, “all good times must come to an end. It was the fifth show of the night for the Fire Catchers, that’s what we called ourselves. I was doing my act, juggling the fire and all, when I spotted a small girl wandering onto the stage. She kept coming towards me and, when she was only inches away from my whirling balls of fire, I had to stop. But you see, I couldn’t. It was Charlie’s job to come out and extinguish the fire torches one at a time, while I was still juggling, but since it wasn’t the end of the act, he didn’t come out. Charlie was one of the people in my performing group. I stopped the fire just as it was about to hit the little girl, but in the process I was burned quite badly.” Jessie looked in amazement from Ms. Pushkin to the snow globe. “Well, that ended my circus days and, to tell you the truth, I still miss them.” Ms. Pushkin sipped her tea again and leaned back in her chair. “Well now, dear, I have kept you much too long.” She suddenly looked rather sad and apologetic. Jessie stood up. It was hard to draw herself away from the warm fire and the wonderful stories. “Thank you for the visit, my dear, and a merry Christmas to you,” Ms. Pushkin said. “Feel free to come back anytime you wish, although I expect that you have much more important and enjoyable things to do than sit and listen to me rattle on and on.” “Ms. Pushkin,” Jessie said slowly, “would it be all right with you if I came back tomorrow to hear another story? I do enjoy them a lot,” she asked hopefully. “Oh, it would be my pleasure,” Ms. Pushkin said delightedly. “I tell you what, you come over at around four and we’ll have tea.” And that’s what Jessie did. Over the next few days, Jessie learned about Ms. Pushkin’s adventures meeting the Indian prince and her exciting trip to Spain. She heard about the woman’s trip to the Galapagos Islands and her expedition on an African safari. Jessie’s mother was delighted that she was spending so much time with Ms. Pushkin, and Jessie was always eager to come again and again and to hear the wonderful stories of the old woman. “Now that one I got when I went to the ballet with my friend in Australia.” Jessie and Ms. Pushkin were seated in the two armchairs in the sitting room, a roaring fire in
Golden Eyes
The house was at least a hundred times better than how her mother and father had described it Alyn Walker took in a shaky, excited breath. She had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Her mother and father had described the “perfect house” and living in it would be like “walking around in a storybook.” Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Walker had brought their daughter along with them to see their new home. The realtor, dressed in a tight gray suit, unlatched the wooden gate embedded between two towering stone walls. Alyn clasped her hands together, calloused from hours upon hours of writing over the years. Her excitement was manifested as the prim realtor opened the passageway. Alyn’s mouth fell open. The house was at least a hundred times better than how her mother and father had described it. The cottage, fashioned with hand-cut stone, was quaint, charming, and very charismatic. Surrounding it was a magnificent garden, abundant with foliage and greenery of every kind. Every bush had been planted with loving care, every flower placed with such tenderness, that the garden had amounted to a gorgeous, glorious whole. A brick path wove its way around the garden like a little snake slithering along the soil. “It’s beautiful,” Alyn breathed. She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the fact that she was going to live in this exquisite house. “Did I mention that we will be sharing this property with a neighbor? She lives in that little shack there,” Mrs. Walker said brightly, always in a positive mood. Alyn hadn’t noticed the small stone abode before, for it was concealed behind the tall nectarine tree and abundant shrubs. Now she saw the rundown home, with the door falling off its hinges and a single, dirty window. Alyn felt a tiny poke of disappointment in her happy heart. She wasn’t a greedy person, in fact, far from it, but she really didn’t feel exhilarated about sharing her new estate with someone who didn’t have the decency to keep up their own house. She gave a slightly injured sigh. Mr. Walker took notice of his daughter’s crestfallen reaction and quickly comforted, “Don’t worry; the realtor said this neighbor is extremely introverted. She won’t be any bother to us.” Alyn nodded and shook it off. This moment was too special to be spoiled with a minor inconvenience. “If you like it, honey, we can move in next week,” Mr. Walker said. Alyn grinned. There was no house that ever was, nor ever could be, more perfect than this one. How her friends back in New York would envy the little Californian beachside cottage with a yard full of plants as green as her eyes, all tucked behind real stone walls like gold buried in a treasure chest! As the four exited the property, Alyn felt a stony gaze upon her back. She glanced up at the window on the hidden shack, and was frightened to observe two glaring eyes, golden as a ferocious tiger’s, staring at her. * * * A young woman peered out of the solitary window in her rundown house, watching the realtor and the family of three stroll through the garden and inspect the cottage on the property. This woman had decidedly lived in an isolated state for five years and hoped that these newcomers would not be a nuisance. She glanced over at a picture frame on the dirty windowsill that held a photograph of her husband and son. She had loved them dearly, for her husband had a kind and understanding spirit, and her red-haired son was a huggable teddy bear with a charming smile. Pain pricked her heart like a sewing needle would prick one’s finger, and she reached for a piece of paper and a pen. * * * It had been a week since she had first been at the cottage, and Alyn was unpacking and attempting to air out the musty smell that had settled upon the old house. The two shining, yellowish eyes had been brushed to the farthest corner of Alyn’s brain, for there was so much to do! She stood up from her bent-over position on the wooden floor and wiped sweat from her brow. She didn’t remember having quite so much stuff, but here it all was, waiting for her to unpack it and place it in the cheery sunroom that had been converted by the Walkers into Alyn’s bedroom. Alyn pinned her swooping bangs behind her ear and surveyed the area. Boxes were piled in every corner, and she could barely find what little furniture she had set up amongst the monstrous tower of moving supplies. Deciding it was time for a short interlude, she opened the door, its glass panes reflecting the sunlight, and entered her outdoor haven. The scene painted before Alyn was a sight to behold. The salty ocean air breezed past her nose, and it was so delightfully overwhelming that she felt like she could taste it. The seagulls cawed overhead, dancing in wild, unrehearsed formations in the clear blue sky. The heavenly scent of flowers tickled Alyn’s senses, for the blossoms were plentiful, scattered amongst the bushes. Blue jays and robins twittered in the shrubs, gossiping about who knows what. Walking along the pathway, she approached the nectarine tree, standing firmly like a soldier amidst the other plants. The sweet smell was so tempting that Alyn plucked a fruit and took a large bite. The juice dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t wipe it away. She didn’t care. There wasn’t anyone here to criticize her, or anyone to give her a reproachful glance… in fact, there wasn’t anyone here even to see her! Then Alyn remembered the introverted neighbor who lived in the tiny house behind the nectarine tree and bushes. Her hand quivered slightly and her heart began beating faster. Had the strange person with the awful eyes seen her? She didn’t want to find out. As Alyn
