“You have two unheard messages. First unheard message.” The fake, calm voice of the answering machine seems to ring through my ears. I can feel my excited heart pumping blood to every single part of my body. “Hi, this is Kerry from the Golden Mountain Theater Company with a message for Molly.” Anticipation radiates through me like the sun on the Sahara Desert. “I just wanted to let her know that, unfortunately, we do not have a part for her in our production.” I am vaguely aware of my mother’s quick gasp as the rest of the message slips away from my consciousness. The air in the room begins to feel hot and stuffy. I have to get out. Numbly, I pull open the door and escape into the cool October day. Frantically, I start to run down the narrow path, fleeing to the safety of nature. It leads to a small creek that flows beyond our field. The land I know so well feels cold beneath my bare feet and the steady rhythm of their steps clashes with my uneven breathing. The tall, golden grass that comes in the fall lashes at my bare legs and creates small, red scratches on them. If I wasn’t so confused, so mentally lost and numb, I might have felt it and cared. I notice the utter calm and stillness the creek, animals, and the trees create I notice the rhythm of my steps gets slower as I approach the trickling stream. The smell is different down here, like fresh rain and autumn leaves that have begun to fall. I sit down on an old stump, green with moss and lichen, and look down at the calm water of the brook I visit so often. It looks different today, everything does. I stare numbly at the cold, clear water and try to summon the energy to think. The phone message, the Golden Mountain Theater Company; I didn’t get the part I wanted in their production. It was mine! How could this be? Right now, it seems as if that part is my whole life, and it got taken away by one quick phone call. It is drizzling slightly and the cold, delicate tears from the sky mix with my salty ones and make small, perfect ripples in the glass-like water. I am suddenly aware of every sound: a songbird’s soft call in the aspen tree above me, the cold, October wind slyly wrapping itself around the young, slender trees. The chilly breeze reaches me and sends a shiver down my spine despite the hot, boiling feeling inside of me. I notice the utter calm and stillness the creek, animals, and the trees create. It soaks into my skin, seeping deeper and deeper inside of me and finally brings my agitated soul to a stop, letting the calm trickle in, and the pain leak out. A patch of sunlight filters through the leafy, multicolored canopy above me and brings glowing sunshine to me, warming my heart, body, and soul. I stand up and take a last look at the sanctuary that cured me. Turning around, I make my way up to the warm, friendly house that I call home. Pulling open the slider door, the sweet, cozy scent of hot cocoa fills my nose, and I know I’ll be all right. Iona Swift, 12Cedar Ridge, California Hero Klimek-Brooks, 13Tacoma, Washington
Nature
Plant a Thimble
Today’s the day we’re going to the doctor, and I’m hiding in my tree. I beat my way through the little abandoned plot, the tall dry grass and thickets of clover flowers tickling my bare, dusty legs. Late summer, and the air’s thick with palpable, golden heat, the deep blue sky curving away above my head. I push through the long grass to the small spot I’ve cleared away around my oak tree, decorated with chips of colored china, chains of metal bottle caps, and little sculptures of smooth gray rocks the size of my palm, balanced precariously one on top of the other. I hike one bare foot up in the crook between the two main branches of the tree and pull myself up to my favorite branch, the tallest one that’s thick enough to bear my weight. I pat the tree. I’m high, too high, but I know I can’t fall. A light breeze lifts my dark braid from my neck for a moment, and I smile. The tree won’t let me fall. “Hi, tree,” I tell it, stroking its mossy bark. “We’re going to the doctor today.” The tree rustles its leaves softly in response. “Personally, I’m dreading it,” I say, a great sighing poof of a sentence. The street is heavy with silent heat. I feel like my tree and I, we’re the only ones alive. I spot a small daisy, blown into the tree’s ensnaring branches by an afternoon wind. I pluck it out of the tree’s grasp and tuck it behind my ear. I feel like my tree and I, we’re the only ones alive I sigh and hug the tree. I don’t want to let go, don’t want to go to the doctor. I stroke the tree a moment, and calm myself, and feel, for a moment, serene. I turn my gaze towards the harsh and knowing sky and whisper a few lines out into the world. Plant a thimble a lock of hair moldy gloves of lace; Grow a dimple with great care right there on your face. The tree nods in approval. I grin and say, “You liked that? No one else did. Not even my writing teacher.” And then I hug the branch and whisper to my tree, in thoughts. I tell it, half reassuring myself, that somewhere far across the world, someone heard my poem. Emma T. Capps, 12San Carlos, California
Simple Treasures
Mara was entranced. The shop blurred before her in a tribute of glory to the necklace. Draped carelessly over a slender black velour cone, its gold, glassy pendant gem glittered as if with dew. It hung on a short golden chain. Mara could tell, without even trying it on, that it would nestle snugly in the hollow of her throat with a cool, fluid ease. The shop vendor, an old man, smiled at Mara kindly. “Try it on if you like it, dear. Don’t be shy.” But Mara was hesitant even to touch the exquisite thing. Just as she reached out trembling fingers to grasp its chain, she felt a tug on her shirt. She turned to see Tommy, her little brother, clutching her tightly. “What?” she said sharply. The old man tutted and turned away. “What?” she repeated angrily, pulling her fingers regretfully away from the necklace in order to pry him off of her. “Mommy says to come, Mawa.” “Now?” “Yeah. Mommy says to come now.” Mara fairly flew across the store to her mother, who was waiting impatiently in the cosmetics section. Tommy jogged after her. “Mom… look… I found this gorgeous necklace—come see,” she gushed. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, Mara,” her mom warned sternly. “We can’t stay any longer.” “But Mom.” Mara thought she looked rather like a goddess, or perhaps some sort of sprite or tree nymph “Nope. Come on.” Taking Tommy’s hand, her mother exited the store. Fuming, Mara followed. The moment they got home Mara jumped out of the car and ran into the backyard. Sinking down onto a stone bench covered with lichen, she scowled at the ground. She wasn’t spoiled. She knew that she hardly ever asked for anything, but she really, really, really, really wanted that necklace. Her mother didn’t listen to her. Her brother was annoying. She probably had the worst life in the whole world. Mara sighed. What really irritated her was that she knew that wasn’t true. Mara raised her head and looked around the peaceful backyard where she sat. Dusk was falling, and the plants were shrouded in blue-gray shadow. Mara spotted a big white flower lying on the ground near the ivy-smothered wall. As she knelt to pick it up Mara corrected herself. “White” hardly seemed to do it justice. The flower was silver, and in the center where the petals met and twined into a cup for the chalky pink pollen, the hues deepened into a warm sapphire blue. There were others like it, spread-eagled on the wet grass, but they were limp and the colors neither so beautiful nor so vibrant. Presumably, they came from the tree above, reaching over the wall from the neighbor’s garden. The sky darkened as Mara turned the flower over and over in her hands. “Mara—dinner!” called her mother from the kitchen window. Mara stood and, as though following whispered directions, tucked the flower behind her ear. As she ascended the creaking steps of her porch, she glimpsed her reflection in the dark window—and caught her breath. The silvery flower glowed brightly in subtle contrast to her wavy brown hair. With the fireflies coming out, flickering on and off around her, and her pale leaf-green eyes, Mara thought she looked rather like a goddess, or perhaps some sort of sprite or tree nymph. She thought again of her golden necklace, only now it didn’t seem very important. Struggling to find the cause of this new apathy, Mara’s eyes left those of the nymph staring back at her and alighted on the silver flower fixed stunningly in her hair. The nymph’s coral lips curved into a knowing smile. The necklace, for all its gaudy gold, could never have given her pleasure or beauty like this. “Mara!” called her mother again. “Your dinner is getting stone cold.” Mara gave her reflection one more angelic smile, before dashing into the house. Emma Watson, 13Los Angeles, California Mary Campbell, 13Fort Worth, Texas
