In the summer of 1996, I was lounging in the moss of my grassy backyard. The perimeter of the yard was bordered by a leafy hedge, which led to a huge pine forest. Our pine forest covered about fifty square acres, and housed giant evergreens. In the corner of the yard was a log pile, with half-rotted logs jumbled in a heap. Next to the decaying mass of wood was a green garden, which belonged to my mother. She had planted many bright yellow marigolds, light green cucumbers, and ripe, red tomatoes. This was a perfect feast for a mouse, which we had an abundance of. Even though I was only seven, I knew there were some snakes living in either the pine forest or the log pile. I loved reptiles, and I often scoured the woodlands for them. That day I had decided to search near the rotting logs, which were home to a family of mice. Snakes love to devour mice, by first biting, strangling, or poisoning them, then swallowing them whole. I crawled on my hands and knees, peering through the tall, yellow grass. I was as quiet as an owl, looking for any sign of movement. Very suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a fast-moving ripple in the dead grass. As I turned to face it, I could then see the brown, slithering snake. I should have gotten up and left, for my father had told me never to approach a wild animal. But I stayed, held there by curiosity. Little did I realize that the agitated snake would think I was threatening it by my action I studied the snake for a while, staring at it in awe. I watched the snake intently, wondering what type of snake it was. The thought that it was a rattlesnake crossed my mind. I shook the thought off, saying to myself, “There are no rattlesnakes here.” But I was wrong. The sun reflected off the snake’s brown scales, which were shimmering like diamonds. The small, beady eyes of the snake stared up at me. Its tongue was as red as blood and it flicked in and out, smelling the air, sensing my presence. The snake backed up, I leaned over to get a closer look, and . . . I heard the sound of an angered timber rattlesnake. The shaking noise of the snake’s rattlelike tail bore into my head. My heart froze. The rattlesnake rose up into its curved striking position, and again, the crimson red tongue shot in and out of sight. “Nice snake,” I mumbled to the venomous terror. The snake hissed and I felt a shiver run down my spine. I sat there, transfixed at the sight of the beautiful, but dangerous, creature. I then realized I had to leave the yard, and run into my house. I was sitting on my knees, so when I rose to get up I put my hand on the ground for support. Little did I realize that the agitated snake would think I was threatening it by my action. That was a costly mistake. FOOP! The snake shot out of its poised stance and sunk its fangs into the muscles of my hand. The strike was as fast as lightning. The rattlesnake’s mouth was wide open, and for a few seconds I could see its fangs glisten in the sunlight. At first, I felt excruciating pain in my hand. Then the world started to dance around my head. I felt like I was on an out-of-control roller-coaster. “Help!” I screamed feebly. Even though it was a pitiful attempt to attract attention, I saw my mother coming to the window. Flashing lights illuminated the sky, and then the earth went black. Two days later I awoke, with a doctor standing over me. I was in the hospital, but I had recovered, all except for the puncture wound the snake had inflicted on my hand. The doctor had explained to me that normally people do not become unconscious when bitten. I had had a severe allergic reaction to the venom. Later that day, my brother told me that the flashing lights I had seen were on the ambulance that my father had called, which had come screaming to my house. In the afternoon I returned home. I have never seen another rattlesnake in our woods, and hopefully, I won’t encounter any more of them. Ben Guarino, 11Colchester, Connecticut Garrett Landon, 12Santa Cruz, California
Animals
Tiger Prey
The thick, tall grass sways as the tired wind barely strokes it. Its soft movement quietly brushes against the face of the sleeping antelope. She breathes softly in and out, farther away from the herd than any of the others and one of the smallest members, too. In the middle of a large clearing, she lies there. Passing predators would take advantage of a weak sleeping animal like her. The wind blows northward, in the face of the poor sleeping creature. No one and nothing except for the wind and the darkness of night see him, the dark, ghostly, almost invisible figure that is moving silently through the tall grass. Slinking steadily and stealthily closer and closer, the nocturnal hunter is north of the small antelope. From the scent she gives him, the experienced predator attains a better position to attack. He is only a few yards north of the sleeper, when suddenly, the wind shifts directly south, carrying his scent with it! In the dark, he despairs, flattening himself down in the thick grass. Awakening, she smells him and stands cautiously, ready to flee at a moment’s notice. Terrified for her life, she flexibly spies in every direction, but he has ducked out of sight. No one and nothing except for the wind and the darkness of night see him Immediately, she darts away to wake and warn the herd! Waiting long for this moment, he leaps from the tall grass in a flash of lightning followed by a roar of thunder as he pounces upon the now sprinting, panting antelope! The roar wakes the herd, and they instantly scatter in fear while the predator pulls its prey to the ground with his huge paws and claws. With the rupture of her jugular, the antelope dies instantly and the whole night is silent again, except for the diminishing whisper of a hundred antelope hooves in the distance. With Tiger’s first kill in days he rests and eats. * * * Tiger continues his meal of antelope, after a short swim in his favorite pool to clean himself from the bloody kill. Sitting there under his tree in the thick grass, tearing slowly and getting his fill for quite a while, he basks in the afternoon sun. After hiding the rest of his kill in the dirt and grass for a later meal, Tiger then sleeps in his lazy way, proud of his unbeatable strength. He is a cautious and vigilant tiger, not about to allow anything to get his hard-fought-for food. After his small nap, the wanderer goes on a walk, marking the trail behind (as always) so he can get back very easily and finish the antelope later on. Tiger walks up to a short, lonely tree about a mile through his regular stroll. About to scratch a personal mark in its side, he is reaching out his claws when BANG! BANG! Startled, Tiger jumps from the tree trunk and dives into the grass for cover. He has no idea what the loud sound is or what it is coming from. Tiger only knows that whatever made those sounds is far away, and he thinks that it would take a long time to reach him, especially if he heads back to his kill. Then the strange barking beast would go away rather than do battle with Tiger. He is a strong and experienced tiger. Being a predator, he is not afraid, for tigers are incapable of complete fear. He is merely concerned as he warily heads back toward his food. When he arrives at his domicile, Tiger discovers that his food is exposed and has been tampered with, half of it gone! He smells it and then jumps away. There is a different, new and strange smell. Almost a mixture of smells though. Tiger is more confused now than he ever has been in his life. Sparked by a newly found curiosity, Tiger searches, examines, observes, and finds only a few yards away, a puddle. Though not like the puddle of an occasional heavy rain. A crude, black, nauseating substance, the liquid is also somehow clear and shiny. Tiger nudges the puddle with his paw quickly and the black covers his paw. He then licks his paw once nervously and “GRR!” He begins growling and shaking because of the revolting taste. Immediately, he jogs to his watering hole to wash his mouth and paws vigorously. When Tiger returns to the cloudy puddle, he finds that its scent marks over a long distance in a line. Captivated, he follows the scent, at first ignoring its disgusting smell. Using his curiosity more than his experience, Tiger is growing in bewilderment. The sun slowly begins to set behind him as he walks, trudges and lumbers along. Along the trail, he sees more of the liquid and tries to stay away from it. But nothing will stop him, and he continues his journey. About to rest and nap until night for the first time on his trek, Tiger sees over a mile away, a large thing a little less than the size of an adult elephant. With round, black feet the shape of the full moon, it looks like an oddly shaped boulder. Getting closer, Tiger sees that on the top of the bizarre structure sit creatures, silhouetted in the setting sun. Animals like nothing he has seen before. They have heads, four legs each, and some other physical features like his. Except that they stand on their hind legs and hold long pointed objects that look like small branches. Tiger does not know what to make of all these new sights, sounds, and scents. What he may never know is that these strange things threaten his very existence. He does not know it, but he is becoming more the hunted than the hunter. Pace Ellsworth, 13Burke, Virginia Ayla Reynolds, 12Juneau, Alaska
My Friend the Bull
Our power was gone again. The house was at least sixty years old, I say sesenta, but we moved in a few weeks ago. The rain was slamming into the earth like a fist. Trees outside bent their heads in awe of the storm. I thought, this was the kind of weather when my abuela, or grandmother, once sang songs and drank hot black coffee. But in the family room my parents and two older brothers sat around the newspaper like mosquitoes to a light with no words shared between them. I stepped out into the rain. The water met my skin in a burst of coldness, past the jacket and pants to the tender skin. Rain always makes me feel alive and I hear my heartbeat through the pattern of drops. But then I go back inside to the air-conditioning and rock ‘n’ roll music, and I am not so sure. My father calls himself a man of the times. He works in a city job and must watch the politics and the local events on the television or read of them in the papers. My abuela said that it is a changing world, but we must not forget those before us who were born and lived their lives in Cuba. Also she said that of the many things that will make me a man, one is conscience. One day I broke a mug while washing and, remembering this thing, I went to tell my father, but instead of thanking me for my words as I had hoped, he paddled me. Telling does not matter much anymore. Now my brothers always uncover what I have done wrong and tell for me. “Recuerdas, remember what I have taught you, my nieto. Adios” My brothers, they are the strong and handsome names of Juan and Padre, just as my father is Miguel. But me, the last child, I am only little Gabriel. But I remember my abuela always calling me her little nieto, which is grandson, but from the ways she spoke it with her heart in her lips and eyes I always imagined myself as loved one. Whenever I was with my abuela I was the loved one but now I am only Gabriel. I look back and see the yellow evening when she died. I sat on a chair beside her cheek but my parents and the doctor stood frowning far away at the foot. In the window above her head the sun settled like an old bird into its nest with a halo of red clouds, the sign of clear skies tomorrow. I heard her say in a voice as thin as a fallen leaf, “El sol sets on me today, my little nieto. But en la matiana, you will rise and see him, my darling. Many more of him you will see. Recuerdas, remember what I have taught you, my nieto. Adios.” “Adios, mi abuela,” I whispered. Her lids fell lightly across her cheeks and I knew the end. I sat for many hours memorizing each wrinkle of her face until my father called for me, “Gabriel!” Then I kissed her cheek and left her forever. * * * I went in for la comida, but I thought it did not deserve the Spanish name because it was pizza. The taste of grease rose in my throat with the taste of bile and I thought of my abuela’s fish and yellow rice. We are in her house which was given to us when she died, a few miles from Miami. My parents much prefer city life, but this house was all paid off and with much furniture, and they came for the cheapness. But they tore down all her paintings and memories and put up wallpaper with seashells. Think of it, I tell myself, trading a lifetime for seashells! “So,” my father told us, “the bull will be delivered tomorrow.” A sign was up for a bull for sale and my brother Juan saw it. “I want to be a matador,” he told my father. Juan has the temperament of a fighter. He is mean and cunning and has no mercy, and he played the games of fighting when a child. “Very well,” said my father, “but besides strength you must get education too.” Now the bull is coming. Probably Juan will try to ride its horns into me. * * * The bull was young and medium-size. His nostrils flared and he pranced near the walls of our pen. His name was Diablo, which is devil; however, as soon as I saw his hide I called him Rojo. His skin was red as blood or pepper. I liked to think of him as my own age and circumstance, only another prisoner in this great big world. That morning Juan stepped into the pen with his bullfighting cap and a red cloth and all his proud anger. Maybe it is angry pride; I do not know which. “Bull!” he shouted in an ugly voice. “Come and fight!” The bull in response charged across the dirt to him and he stepped aside just in time from the pointed horns. Then he ran and vaulted the fence. Now he is inside telling tales of how he conquered the mighty bull, on his first attempt. Only I saw him. Then I opened the gate and approached the bull. A sugar cube rested on my open hand, which showed my good intention. The bull, or Rojo as I thought in my private mind, pawed the ground anxiously. I thought, you are just scared and lonely like a lost kitten. Soon his curiosity overcame fear. Rojo approached me and consumed the sugar into his great mouth. I reached out one hand to pat his great horn. He was not afraid and he leapt away and did a bull dance all around the pen. The dirt was packed by his prancing hooves. When he returned he begged for more and I fed
