Two girls were walking along, in sweatshirts, jeans and flip-flops, discussing the meaning of life. “. . . now, lip gloss needs to be applied liberally, every few hours or so. Do you think this eye shadow is too bright? Omigosh, I saw the cutest pair of jeans in that shop. Are those new earrings?” I didn’t answer my friend, just basked in her flow of words and the sea breeze blowing in from the west, glad that it wasn’t freezing, raining, or both. Having both finished a giant essay, we were ready to enjoy what remained of the Sunday afternoon, walking down to the beach for some ice cream from the Creamery. A seagull flew overhead, a splash of white against the gray sky. “What d’you think, Kate?” asked Meg. “Mm. What? Oh, right. You should go with the pink,” I answered. Thunk-skip, swish, thunk-skip swish, two pairs of flip-flops flopping against the pavement. We walked down the waterfront and to the pier, planning to visit the aquarium and our favorite shark, Rosie, who was approximately three centuries old and counting. The bell over the door tinkled softly as we went in. Meg headed straight toward the touch tank. She scooped up Pickle, the sea cucumber, and planted a large kiss on him. I stared. “You know, if you wanted to kiss something that badly, I’m sure Willy would be happy to oblige.” Meg sighed. “It’s not for that, stupid. Sea cucumbers are for good luck. I need all the help I can get. That final on the Renaissance is next week!” “Oh. OK then.” I hesitantly brushed my lips against Piclde’s slimy back, smelling salt water. I gently put him back in the water. Pickle, being rather intelligent for a sea cucumber, started squirming away, as fast as any sea cucumber could, from the edge of the tank. Next, we went to the shark tank, amused at the little five-year-old who was putting his hand against the tank until a shark swam under it, and running away, shrieking with delight, then coining back to do it again. “Hello, Rosie,” said Meg, addressing a rather stately-looking shark in the back, who was looking, I could’ve sworn, irritably at the five-year-old. We drifted from tank to tank, observing the stately sharks, elegant anemones, and courageous crabs battling with their large claws. Things were mostly quiet except for the hum of the water pumps. The air smelled like old seaweed and a fish market. Over to my right a large fish surged forward to nab that last chunk of fish food before it settled at the bottom, to be eaten by the little mollusks that were employed for just that purpose; their role in life to simply clean up after these giant, messy eaters who left their scraps lying around to be picked up by smaller beings on the food chain. Sure enough, the gluttonous fish had dropped some of its snack, and, sure enough, a competent-looking snail wandered to the spot to clean up. Keep going, little snail. It’s your turn for dinner, I thought. The snail’s pearly white shell moved forward, ambling along at its own place, having no need to rush. Outside, the breeze picked up. A gust of cold air swept through the roundhouse, startling me. I stepped back, stepping on Meg’s foot. “Hey! Watch it!” She poked me. “Let’s get out of here; there might be dolphins out. Besides,” she wrinkled her nose, “it smells like cat food in here.” So we left the aquarium, leaving our Piscean acquaintances, to walk on the pier. A wave hit the stone pillar, making the whole jetty sway. Sea spray hit my face, salty and sweet at the same time. Meg was scanning the horizon, looking for the gray shadow and splash of white that signaled a dolphin pod. She grinned and nudged me. Where? Oh, right, over there. The dolphins leapt over the waves, too far out to swim, but close enough to view from the pier. A foolhardy surfer was getting ready to try and ride a huge wave. I shivered; that wave was huge, and it was not exactly warm on land, so it must have been freezing in the Pacific Ocean. Red? What was red doing among the grays and tans, greens and blues, of the beach? The surfer was successful, turning his board skillfully, yet compared with the dolphins he looked rather stupid, depending on a piece of fiberglass, while the dolphins managed well enough with what they already had. Still, it was an admirable effort, and the surfer was almost to land before he fell off spectacularly, right into the sand. Meg and I started laughing. I looked out to the west, and saw a flash of red. Red? What was red doing among the grays and tans, greens and blues, of the beach? I leaned out over the railing, and saw that the red was actually a bundle of roses, drifting along on the current. Meg had noticed it too. We stood, looking for a long time, as it floated away And that day, though what was actually required for an education had been completed, I learned something: Even among an ancient shark, two girls, the ocean, and a surfer, there is something that breaks the pattern, some slight inconsistency. Red roses from someone’s beautiful garden, maybe from some greenhouse in Indiana, can end up floating on the Pacific Ocean. And that makes me wonder, sometimes, if writing new words, changing the tune, or breaking the pattern can be a good thing after all. Katie Sinclair, 13Manhattan Beach, California Thea Green, 13Marshall, Virginia
Nature
Fairy Ship
Gently, I lower the little boat into the water, then watch as it drifts slowly out of sight I let my hand trail in the cool, clear water of the New Mexican mountain stream. It trickles like liquid crystal through my fingers, sending shivers up my back. Despite the pulsing warmth of the glowing July sun, the water has a sharp nip. I shift my position on the bank of the stream, letting my toes dip in the water. Lightly, I press one toe against a rock, rubbing the thick, moist moss. The soft, dark green is penetrated in places by tiny yellow stars, blooming from the damp velvet. Beside the mossy stone lies a piece of bark, soggy and worn by its time in the water. I bend over, careful to keep my balance, and touch it, surprised at its soft, porous feel. Struck with an idea, I glance around, noticing the long, waving grasses, the smooth, shiny river stones, rid by time of any past flaws. A lone magpie shatters the peace with her harsh “Queg queg! Queg queg!” as she streaks through the cool mountain air, flashing white and black. Across the creek a slick brown frog paddles upstream, searching for an unwary bug. Little minnows, curious at the strange pink presence in their water, nibble and nudge at my foot. With a whir of tiny wings, a shimmering hummingbird flits across my vision like a whispered hint of a dream. A bee drones sleepily as it inspects a sprig of pale pink wildflowers nestled in a halo of luscious green leaves. Quietly, I reach over, careful not to disturb the bee, and pluck several pink blossoms. Using a length of grass, I fasten them to the bark, along with a handful of the bright leaves. Gently, I lower the little boat into the water, then watch as it drifts slowly out of sight. The fairy craft spins and twirls, gathering speed, then with one final surge dances away and around a curve in the stream, forever out of view, racing into the mist like a ship into the dawn, flower sails at full tilt. I smile sadly and struggle to my feet, then, invigorated by the crisp mountain air and sweet scent of flowers, I run, letting my long, loose hair whip behind me. My bare feet pound over the grassy field, sinking into the earth still moist after yesterday’s storm. The skies are clear now, though. As I slow and come to a halt I can see Hermit’s Peak towering behind the pines, craggy features distorted by only a thin wisp of cloud, blank eyes forever gazing into the heavens. Emma Kilgore Hine, 13Austin, Texas Bryan Merte, 11Wappingers Falls, New York
The Hunt
It was a cool fall day and the opening day for archery. My brother and I woke up early and hiked three miles from base camp to find a tall tree that overlooked the meadow. My brother and I had been sitting there for three hours on the edge of a line of trees, sitting on a tree stand almost fifteen feet up a pine tree. There was a meadow with a lot of tall grasses that the deer liked to munch on. Then, finally, it was there, the perfect deer walking across the meadow. It was a four-by-four deer that looked pretty big. It was “the shot” I had to take. The deer turned its head, looking at the arrow so close to his body You could hear the grass that crumpled when its feet landed on the ground. The distant gurgling of the stream on the other side of the meadow. I raised the bow into shooting stance. I nocked the arrow into the nock. I aimed at the deer, getting the green dot on the sight to line up with the deer’s big chest. The air was cool as the breeze tickled the hairs on my neck. My breathing was in slow deep breaths, trying to be as still as I could be. You could smell the pine wood. My finger twitched the trigger. The trigger release popped back into its open position. You could see and feel the bowstring moving towards the body of the bow and hear its whir. The arrow was moving towards the deer. The deer turned its head, looking at the arrow so close to his body. He could hear the hum of the arrow zipping through the air. His reaction was just too slow. The shot went straight at his heart. As the body collapsed to the ground, the blood oozed drop by drop. He was breathing his last little bit of air. You could see the chest rising and falling with each gasp and then there was a long sigh and it was over. Christopher Thien, 13Weiser, Idaho Bedford Stevens, 12Springfield, Oregon
