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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

Historical


By

Masked

“I- I- I’m going to the Masked Ball?” she stuttered Gemma was shielding herself from a sandstorm of dandelion seeds. Her tutor, Dominick Vickson, and herself were right at the core of a lush field. “As you can see,” Dominick called above the strong summer wind, as they made their way through the long, fine, green stalks, “wind is another form of seed dispersal. So that makes…” He choked on a mouthful of seeds, and coughed them out. Gemma giggled behind her hand and finished the sentence for him. “…that makes three different ways of seed dispersal we’ve learnt today!” Dominick nodded approvingly. They had almost reached the village smothered by the thick forest pines on the other side of the field. “And can you remember what they are?” he tested her. Gemma thought for a moment, recalling their trek through the woods, then snapped her fingers. “The first one we learnt was how the seeds sometimes get stuck in a passing animal’s fur, then fall off later,” she replied carefully. “The second one was how they eat the seeds and— well—excrete them,” she blushed but shook it off. “And we just learnt the third,” she said with a grin, as Dominick managed to get another mouthful of dandelion seeds, “…seed dispersal by wind!” *          *          * Soon they were back in the village. The ripe, orange sun was low in the sky, staining the horizon a horrifying yet fascinating red. Gemma was bathing in the river that trickled be-hind the small log cabin that she and her parents lived in. The water was cool and refreshing, gurgling and bubbling happily as it streamed along like an endless cord of blue ribbon. As she washed, a twittering bird caught her attention. Its wings were a deep, eye-catching turquoise; its chest was a soft, plush orange and it had a white underbelly. The bird’s beady black eyes darted back and forth, as it hopped along the bank. It must be a bluebird, Gemma thought, look at that magnificent sheen! Suddenly, her mother walked out of the back door of the cabin, startling the bluebird. “Gemma, your tutor is here to see you.” Her mother smiled. “And he’s brought the loveliest clothes with him! You’d better dry yourself off, then greet him.” She handed Gemma a clean linen towel that had been left outside to be baked by the sun. “I’ll be right there!” Gemma exclaimed, hopping out of the river and gladly taking the warm sheet to towel herself off with, from her mother. *          *          * Gemma walked in, her curling raven-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her red cotton dress creased as she sat down on the chair opposite Dominick. “Hello!” she said cheerfully. “Haven’t today’s lessons ended?” He beamed. “Well, this isn’t really a lesson,” he said. Unable to contain himself, he blurted it out, “Have you heard of the Masked Ball?” “No.” Instantly, a flashing yellow question mark appeared in Gemma’s head. It was her weakness—a thirst for knowledge. “Well,” Dominick explained excitedly, “it’s a marvellous ball that happens every year, and the theme is masquerade. All the famous scientists, writers, mathematicians and artists meet there every year and exchange information. The fun part isn’t the elaborate dresses, delicious food or bittersweet drinks; it’s the fact that you have absolutely no clue as to the identity of the person you’re getting information from, because all of these great, talented people are masked. And so you will be too, Gemma.” He stopped for breath, panting. Dominick pulled out a beautiful black mask from his satchel, along with a dark blue gown of silk and pair of pearly white shoes. Gemma’s eyes widened as she realized what he meant. “I- I- I’m going to the Masked Ball?” she stuttered. Her heart was pounding wildly, she felt the blood pulsing ecstatically inside her. She would get to meet all of those wonderful people! She, Gemma Burberry, would become a masked guest at this extravagant event! “I’m not even on the guest list though!” she cried, more with excitement than doubt. “How can I get in?” Dominick grinned. “That’s the sneaky bit,” he said. “My Aunt Jennifer is the cousin of the man who runs the catering at the ball. She was invited to come along and mingle with the guests, but sadly she caught pneumonia and can’t go. Instead, we’ve agreed that you, a young scholar with plenty of potential, should go instead. Your name from then on will be Jennifer Vickson.” “But what if the catering man mistakes me for your aunt?” Gemma gasped. “He’ll certainly be there!” “No he won’t,” Dominick replied calmly. “He’s gone down with pneumonia too—who do you think my aunt caught it from?” Gemma sat down, not even realizing she had stood up in the first place. There was nothing stopping her. Nothing blocking her way from becoming a guest at the Masked Ball… what should she do? A smile slowly began to spread on her face, as sweetly and willingly as hot butter on toast. “Of course I’ll go,” she said. “I’d be crazy not to!” *          *          * Meanwhile, the ball was taking place. Lords and ladies, scientists and amateurs, all gathered under the brilliant, golden light that leaked through the crystals of the grand chandelier, which hung suspended over their heads. The floor was a cool marble, the tables all of the smoothest oak, even the curtain cords were tied in fancy silver bows! But the highlight of the evening was the masks. Oh, what a variety! There were red masks of velvet lined with gold tissue; menacing black masks adorned with long, dark feathers; pleasant, solid blue masks with shining silver pearls. Suddenly, the chatter subsided as the doorman led another person into the room. It was a young woman, wearing a soft, navy-blue dress and an intriguing, mysterious dark mask almost as black as her hair. Eventually, the noise grew back to its usual level. The girl


By

The Bright Star

“Where were you all that time, Sereto, hmm?” This story takes place in 1976, in South Africa. At this time in its history, the country was in the middle of apartheid, a governmental policy that discriminated against non-whites and gave authorities nearly unlimited power to arrest and kill civilians. By 1976, students in the Soweto township were staging protests and uprisings, and a secret guerilla army called the MKs had formed. Rebellion was in the air… I walked home alone in the reddish dirt, kicking a rock along in front of me. “Sereto! Get over here, boy!” Mama’s shout rang out across the rows and rows of tin-topped shacks that were the Soweto township. “Ja, Mama!” I called over the distance, running all the way back to our little hut, where Mama was sweeping the cracked-dirt stoep. “What’re you doing, hmm? There’s work to be done, water to be fetched. Are the buckets full from the pump? And where’s Ledi?” I scuffed my toe in the dirt. “Ledi’s inside, minding the pots, remember, Mama? And keeping an eye on Tustin. I’m gonna go do the buckets now.” “Where were you all that time, Sereto, hmm?” Mama set the broom aside and looked down at me with a furrowed brow. “I know it’s difficult, and I’m sorry about you not having enough time to play, but with your Pa gone there’s only so much I can do alone.” Her voice was all business, but I knew the sorrow behind it—Pa had died only four months ago, in a riot where the police had open-fired. With Pa gone, everything was floaty and unsettled. It was a struggle just to remember the things that needed doing, like filling the water buckets and fixing meals. I looked into Mama’s quiet gray eyes and sighed. “I’m sorry, Mama. I was playing with Billy.” It wasn’t true, of course, but how could I say that her oldest child was giving himself up to the same cause that killed her husband? She couldn’t know that I was secretly taking part in the student uprisings. She couldn’t. To my surprise, Mama didn’t even seem angry that I had snuck off. She just shook her head sadly. “Ah, Sereto,” she murmured, “I am sorry things have to be this way.” “They’ll be better someday, won’t they, Mama? Things are already changing.” I almost bit back the hint at rebellion, but I couldn’t help myself. I wanted her to feel the hope I felt at the rebellion. “Ja, Sereto,” she said sadly, “but not before many more innocent people are destroyed.” Then she picked up the broom and hustled off, leaving me standing on the stoep as the sun set behind me. I heard little kids playing and mothers shouting, and I smelled suppers being prepared. The fiery sun sank and sank, lower and lower, and I wondered if I should feel something. Everything was being taken away from me. Pa was gone, and Ledi and Ma and me were overworked. There wasn’t any time to talk anymore, no time to process what had happened. Tori, who was my closest friend except for Billy, had been arrested in the middle of the night, along with her father, and many other students had been arrested, injured, and killed. The riots were no laughing matter, whether they were led by children or adults, and this apartheid was taking everyone I loved away from me. I stood there, watching the sun sink, so detached that it was as if I looked down at myself from several feet up in the sky. I couldn’t decide how I should react, what I should feel. Then, like a faint tickling that grew steadily in my stomach, a feeling crawled up my throat. Anger. They had taken everything from me. Everything, and yet they could still take more. They could always control me because they could always take more: they could hurt Ledi or Tustin or Mama or Billy, they could arrest me, they could kill me. I remembered something Pa used to say: “That government, those whites—they can do anything they damn please.” I laughed, a bitter, harsh sound in the dusking air, and spat on the dirt, trying to rid my mouth of the sour taste. I spun on my heel to grab the water buckets. And as the last traces of light faded from the sky and I walked towards the water pump, I started to whistle a little tune. It was only when a bird tweeted the last note with me that I realized it was the song we had sung that day at the uprising. I stopped, dead cold. A breeze passed straight through me and a night bird hit one last solemn note. The stars were bright, almost too bright—like a warning. Something was unnatural in the night. I ran the rest of the way, to shake the eerie feeling, and filled the buckets quickly. On the way back, I talked aloud to calm myself. “You’re just being jittery for the sake of it because you’re scared, Sereto, and anyone would be. But don’t you go getting all worked up over nothing. Just now, everything’s fine, hmm?” I went on like that in a whisper, not even realizing I was imitating Mama. My footsteps pressing the earth, I strode back onto our street in Soweto. I stopped, shifting my weight. Every night, even after sunset, the township’s darkness was filled with the clanking of cooking pots and the quiet babble of family conversation. But now there was only silence. The bright stars, the pinprick stars, froze above me. The shacks reminded me of those stars in some odd, disjointed way—too still, too unmoving. Something was wrong, as if the wheels of heaven had stopped turning. I left the buckets behind a few scraggly bushes and crept around the back of our hut. I heard voices from inside—but they were different. Harsh voices. Male voices. I stiffened. “We have reasons to


By

Curtis Freedom

“My name’s not Boy! It’s Curtis!” The hot July sun beat its fiery rays down on the heads of the slaves working in the shelterless Carolina cotton field. Tall, twelve-year-old Curtis, dragging his cotton bag behind him, paused to steal a moment to soothe his aching back. Straightening up, he winced as his back stretched. His hands, rough and scarred from picking cotton day after day, twitched at his decrepit straw hat. Glancing over the field, he spotted the Big House, standing out starkly against the darker forest behind it. “You! Boy! Keep working!” The order was shouted out in a harsh, thick voice from behind Curtis. Resisting the urge to shout back, “My name’s not Boy! It’s Curtis!” he bent over his work once more. Curtis what? he wondered, disgusted, to himself. It didn’t really matter, of course, but still, the lack of a last name galled him. Stop worrying about it, he told himself. No one even calls you by your first name, let alone an appendage like a last name. Curtis couldn’t forget it though. He sometimes wondered where his parents were. All he knew was that he had been born in the hold of a slave ship somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean. He had no memory of his mother or father, let alone a last name. Oh well. Who needs a last name? he tried to satiate himself. It didn’t work. “Sing!” the overseer ordered roughly. “Sing and be cheerful!” If slaves were quiet, overseers took it for a sign that they were plotting escape. Singing was a popular way to keep them “happy.” One of the slaves struck up: Gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale o’ cotton, Gonna jump down, turn around, pick a bale a day. Oh, lawdy, pick a bale o’ cotton, oh, lawdy, pick a bale a day. Gonna picka, picka, picka, picka, picka bale o’ cotton… The overseer smiled at the swingy tune. Curtis scowled again. That night, in the hut he shared with several other slaves, Curtis listened to the talk of Harriet Tubman. Most slaves called her Moses, after the way she freed slaves, like Moses had freed the Israelites. She had been to Canada already, but she came back to bring other slaves out of “Egypt.” “They say she’s headed this way. If she comes to us, I mean to go. I’m sick of slavery.” A young black man tossed a stick into the fire. “I’m ready to ride the railroad to freedom.” Me too, thought Curtis, sitting in his dark corner, listening, but unwilling to join the gossip. But will “Moses” ever come? *          *          * One week later, as the slaves sweated in the fields, Curtis caught the sound of someone singing. The song almost seemed to be coming from the woods beside the field. He knew the words. They were part of a popular slave hymn: I looked over Jordan, and what did I see, Comin’ for to carry me home? A band of angels coming after me Comin’ for to carry me home. Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for to carry me home… That’s odd, Curtis thought. Why would someone be singing that song on a weekday? Then a faint memory flashed across his mind. Hadn’t he heard that slave rescuers sang that song to let other slaves know that it was time to escape? It had to be Harriet. Curtis began to sing the words too. Soon other voices joined in. The others knew; tonight was their escape. Curtis thought about escape for the rest of the day. Could he make it? Was slavery really worse than the unknown? Doubts assailed him. A moment later, hearing the crack of the overseer’s whip, Curtis glanced up. He glimpsed the unfortunate slave’s face twist in pain. In that moment, Curtis knew he had to go. Anything was better than slavery. That night, five of the slaves, three men, a woman, and Curtis, packed their few belongings. Stealing as softly from the little quarter as possible, the five walked towards the woods. They would have to pass the Big House, where lights still blazed, to reach temporary safety. Curtis was almost having second thoughts again. If they were caught, they would be flogged and probably sold down south. The thought chilled his blood. There were such stories about the South… Curtis, clenching his teeth, forced himself to keep walking. I can’t endure anymore. I don’t care what they do to me, he told himself. Still, he glanced back fearfully as he slunk along behind the others. There. It was past. Once in the woods, they were able to breathe more freely. Uncertain what to do, they halted. After a few moments, an owl called softly, and a figure glided out to them. Even in the dim light, Curtis was able to recognize Harriet Tubman from the posters he had seen of her. With her were six other slaves from a neighboring plantation. “By dawn, they’ll have discovered our absence. We must put as much distance between ourselves and them as possible,” Harriet said, as she counted noses. They started the long hike. The whole journey seemed odd and dreamlike to Curtis. The only noises were noises they themselves made. Harriet led her Israelites to a creek. “We’ve got to throw the dogs off the scent, so we’ll walk in the stream,” she explained, stepping into the chill water. The slaves followed her lead. Curtis shuddered as the water closed around his ankles. When they could finally climb out of the stream, Curtis could hardly feel his feet. Still they kept on. At last they came to a road. Here they could travel more quickly. The numb feeling had moved on up Curtis’s legs by the time when, at dawn, Harriet led them into a barn at a little distance from the road. The slaves collapsed, exhausted, on the warm hay, too tired even to worry about whether it was safe. All the next