My shoes trudge up the path, caked with gooey mud. My shirt sticks to my body, and my hair clings to my flushed face. The winding path steeply curves on and on, taunting my burning muscles. My eyelids droop, as my legs become more and more mechanical, moving up and down with no real motivation. I snag a strawberry guava off a tree and stuff it in my mouth to suppress the gnawing in my stomach. Ginger, our dog, runs off ahead through the wilderness. My dad climbs next to me, panting heavily. “If the path doesn’t start curving down to the left soon, we’re going to have to turn back,” he says, exhaustion creeping at the edge of his voice. I knew he was right. If we didn’t see the pools of this hike soon, we were either lost or on the wrong path. I couldn’t believe that we had hiked all this way for nothing. Ginger runs toward us, sweat dripping off her tongue and creating miniature pools below her. I grab a drink of water from my dad’s pack and we continue on. “Let’s turn back in five minutes,” he sighs. “Sure,” I say, disappointed that even my dad has pretty much given up. One… Two… Three… Four… The minutes tick by, until I reluctantly decide that five minutes has come and gone. Even so, I wait for my dad to voice his affirmation that we will have to turn back. As we round another bend in the trail, the path goes out of sight. “Did the trail end?” I wonder aloud “Did the trail end?” I wonder aloud. I tentatively take another step, gazing ahead. I break into a grin as I see—finally— that we are on the right path. The trail descends steeply into the valley, plunging into a forest of strawberry guava trees, mossy rocks, and ferns. I stumble down the rocky path in a delirious anticipation of the thirty-two miles of pools we came all this way to see. “Whooooohoooo!” I scream when I reach a pool and jump into the water. The achingly cold water chills my bones. I laugh as my dad comes in and Ginger does a belly flop. I gaze up at the sky as a fleck of rain hits my head. When I feel more drops come down, I can’t help but wonder how close we came to turning back. I thank my lucky stars, because I know I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. Risa Askerooth, 12Mililani, Hawaii Amy Yu, 12San Diego, California
Nature
Tranquility Reservoir
I gaze at the distant sun reflecting on the lake. I see the loon dipping in and out of the reservoir. Then I see a small ripple in the remote waters. That strikes a vague memory of the days when my brother and I caught frogs in a nearby pond. There are frogs in my memory, jumping, creating small splashes in the water. Now, I dip my foot into the frigid water. When my whole foot submerges, the lake feels warm. It is like there is a blanket on the top of the water to protect it from the bitterness of the outside air. The sereneness of the lake calms me. When I am tired or need a break, this cozy spot on the water’s edge, where the limb of the tree above curls, unwinds me. I settle myself on the decayed moss where mushrooms grow alongside me. Then a crow perches on the bough above me and makes rain sprinkle on my shivering body. The sudden rain drenches me. I can smell the mildew and wet grass when I go to this setting. I can hear the echo of the crow calling to his fellow feathered friends. I can envision the dam across the lake. It strikes the rocks like powerful hail thrashing the ground. I know I will cherish this place my whole life My body shivers in the cold. The shallow water grass blows in the gust of wind, causing the waves to collide into the rocks and on the shore. I can see a sailboat in the distance. The sailor seems as if he is having trouble controlling both the tiller and mainsheet. Gradually, he gains power of the boat as the gust of wind starts to diminish. Now, as I stand up from this home of mine and look around, I get a feeling that there is a vacant spot overlooking the elegant lake. It is independent from all other regions that are in my eyesight. That is why it makes me feel at home. It stands out of the blue and that is how I know it is my place where I can be passive and ponder my thoughts. Now when I am stressed or overwhelmed and need to find a way to relax, I put myself back at that place, my spot on the water’s edge. I know I will cherish this place my whole life. Billy Liptrot, 13Boxford, Massachusetts Victoria D’Ascenzo, 11Lincoln University, Pennsylvania
In My Own Backyard
We threw back our heads and sang like the bluebirds The first day of summer vacation, I made a beeline for the library. I checked out as many books as I could and trudged home with a bulging book bag. Swinging open the front door, I dove for the couch. I slung my book bag off my aching shoulder and rummaged inside it, retrieving the first book I touched. With barely a glance at the cover, I curled up on the couch and launched into the story. My eyes scanned the pages, reading a mile a minute. Occasionally, I would note a new word, jot it down in my memory, or measure the length of each chapter. My goal for the summer was to read 200 books. It wasn’t some library competition, or a summer reading list my English teacher gave me. It might sound weird, but I came up with it myself. Yep, while all the other kids were playing their summer away, I would be doing something productive for a change. It wasn’t just because I had had to read so many boring history books during the school year that I didn’t have time to read for fun. I did have free time. But I had used it writing stories of my own. You see, I also had a longtime goal: to be a famous novelist. And I figured that starting as a kid was as good a time as any. Actually, I had a secret goal: to be one of the youngest famous novelists: Nina Rupert, world-renowned novelist at age ten. I had decided a long time ago not to tell anybody about it just in case it didn’t work out and I ended up not writing novels until I was older. And from the looks of things, it sure seemed that way. All the stories I had written did not have endings. No plots. Just characters and settings. Anyway, I had heard somewhere that one of the keys to good writing is to read a lot. So that’s what I decided to do. I put away all my notebooks with beginnings of fabulous stories about people stuck at the top of a highly active volcano, or dolphins swimming happily in coral reefs, or people merrily tilling the land in a medieval kingdom. The description parts were spectacular, and everything was utterly elegant. It drew the reader in to see what happened next, but the unfortunate thing was that I had no idea what was going to happen. So, as I already said, I stashed all the notebooks up on my closet shelf with the resolution to read 200 books during the summer. I had a firm belief that reading all those books would help me develop satisfactory stories. So there I was, getting a head start. The first week flew by fairly well, and I read about one book a day. My list of new vocabulary words grew minute by minute. Then Hilary came. She came one bright, breezy day, all breathless with the joy of being alive. Of course, I didn’t really notice, because I was deep in the land of giants and dragons, and a mysterious wizard with a hidden secret. Wind-blown strawberry-blond hair in a messy ponytail, dancing hazel eyes behind purple-rimmed glasses, and a spattering of freckles. That was Hilary. She was my cousin, two-and-a-half years younger than I. She came to stay for the summer. Her mother had just had twins, and her parents had decided that it would be better for both her and them if she stayed with us, the nearest relatives, for a while. I didn’t mind her being with us, as long as she did not interrupt my strict reading schedule, which was basically from waking up until breakfast, then from breakfast to lunch, and from lunch to dinner. If I had time, I squeezed in a few extra minutes before bed. In short, I read all the time. Hilary never complained, about being homesick, or being lonely, or even not liking the squash casserole my mother made. Not once. Instead, every day, she would disappear outside. I didn’t know what she was doing, but every time she skipped back in, her face was all aglow and she smelled like the grass. She had an odd, peculiar way of looking at things. I guess the best word for her would be “queer.” “The cat who lives across the street climbed into my lap today!” she would say. “His fur felt like silk and was as smooth and cool as a slice of honeydew, only not so wet.” “Did you see the clouds, Nina? They’re so fluffy, like whipped cream.” “Come see the dewdrops, Nina! The whole neighborhood is sparkling like my sequined shirt, only better!” “The crepe myrtles are blooming, so pink and wrinkled like tissue paper!” “Look, the sky’s lit up like rose petals in honey! Come on!” And she would slip back outside, laughing. I just sat on the couch, reading. Every time I finished a book, I would write the title down on a piece of paper. Hilary was no more than a fly to me. Pretty soon, I learned to ignore her completely. But Hilary wouldn’t give up. She kept coming inside every day, bearing news of the outside world blooming around me. To tell you the truth, I was completely oblivious to everything else, and I didn’t really care. I ate my meals in a dazed silence, still stuck in the times of the Great Depression, wild Australia, or the savage jungle tribes of South America, solving a mystery or escaping danger. I spent my nights awake in bed, pondering how the authors wrote so intriguingly, so convincingly, so—so wonderfully. I couldn’t even think of the right word. As time went on, I became more and more reluctant to pick up a book. The couch became familiar and boring. My list of titles, which once had grown rapidly, now advanced so
