A vast land Small enough to comfort me Not an ocean, too big Not a pond, too small A meadow of green A field of waves So loud, so soft So big, so small Green Lake is a blanket * * * I am standing on a cliff made of sandstone that crumbles into the lake. I watch branches that sway on the trees; their visible roots are a baby’s arms, clinging to its mother. I gaze at a skyline where a bright ball of fire is suspended, as if by a string, from the heavens. I am standing on a cliff made of sandstone that crumbles into the lake I walk down rickety steps, plants reaching out to brush against me, not grab me, not scratch me, embrace me. I laugh as a breeze plays with my hair, as a puppy would. I run down a creaking dock and jump into an ice-cold, refreshing lake. Bubbles fly around me as I sink to the sandy bottom. This is a heaven, under the dock, over rocks of many sizes, each I know as if they were my friends. The water is clear, showing me sand, seaweed and so many stones. Bobbing up, I see again that skyline, trees, so green, like a line scribbled by a two-year-old. But I remember when I was zipping around on a small little boat, a motor with a seat. I remember gripping onto my strong brother, a security in front of me. And that line was not so fuzzy anymore. Large hotels, fancy restaurants, mansions, so rich but beautiful, all placed like a collage on a background of thick, lush, green trees. Our little cabin is small and humble compared to these huge houses, but it is more of a home. Leaving the lake, wrapping a towel around my cold body, I watch the sun leave the horizon; I watch the sky grow dark. I see the last purple clouds disappearing like smoke; I see a few brave stars beginning to peep out. I walk up those steps and on past the cliff, feeling grass on my ankles. Darkness is here; voices and light protrude from our small, humble cabin. Anna J. Mickle, 12Madison, Wisconsin Ida Otisse McMillan-Zapf, 12Roanoke, Virginia
Crunch. Crack. The pavement gurgles under our car. My excitement turns the corners of my mouth up. We are going miniature golfing for the first time. I push the button to open the window. The crisp fall air lifts the pieces of hair that rest on my forehead. The light is like liquid, shimmering down from the sky. Everything is palpable. The royal, jade trees, the soft, quiet pale blue of the sky and the warmth of my rose-pink fleece sweatshirt on my skin. We follow the wrong road and we don’t see the right signs. Finally, after searching, we find our path. When we get to the park, there is a sign that reads, “Closed. Under Construction.” I sigh as my breath circles around me. We get back into the car. My mom announces that we are going to find Jones Beach. I wonder how we will swim in weather that bites at your face. We can’t find Jones Beach but we find our way to Oyster Bay Beach. We go to an ice cream parlor near the sand. As we walk towards the boardwalk, I slip the blue plastic spoon into my mouth as the Oreo ice cream slides down my throat. I begin to skip but bend down to tie my blue-and-white sneakers perched on the ground like a blue jay’s vibrant wing. We walk as our feet tap on the wooden boards. The ocean wrinkles to my left and my sister walks next to me on my right. The wind blows through our ink-black hair and we all smile. We do not talk. The wind whispers secrets that we do not have to speak. The setting sun melts like sweet butter into the ocean. This day that we had not planned was perfect My thoughts wander and the boardwalk stretches far as if being pulled by a giant. I think about my birthday that just passed, and how I spent months planning it out to be perfect. In the end, it did not live up to the times and activities I had carefully laid out on paper. Now that I look back, how could a game end at a perfect hour and not interfere with the next activity? I had tried my hardest to anticipate the exactness of the special day but I had not succeeded. We finally reach a bench next to a broad and aged tree a few feet off the boardwalk. The knotted roots tightly embrace the splintery edges of the bench. I sit down as the lowest branch gently grazes the top of my head. I squeeze my mom’s hand tightly, look far out across the golden water and smile. This day that we had not planned was perfect. Serena Alagappan, 12New York, New York Emma Collington, 13Waterloo, Ontario, Canada
Something about the shell makes me feel good I’m awakened by my dad, who is gently shaking me. I’m tired, so I just turn over in my warm bed. My dad whispers, “Kat, wake up. We’re going to the beach.” I grumble in response, and my dad tries harder to get me to wake up. “Kitty cat, you love the beach. Remember? You can build sand castles and play in the water and, um… look for crabs… uh, eat hot dogs…” his voice faded off. I know he’s trying, but really? Eat hot dogs? First of all, I don’t love the beach. Maybe I loved it when I was seven, but that was five years ago. It’s always foggy and cold there, even if it’s the middle of summer. And the water is freezing. Besides, sand crabs freak me out. But that’s how I end up in our Honda minivan, strapped in next to my talkative six-year-old sister, Anna. As if that’s not bad enough, Anna’s about to lose her breakfast. No matter how hard I press my iPod’s headphones into my ears, I can still hear whimpers of “my tummy’s rumbly” every so often. The three-hour drive on twisty cliff-edge roads is starting to make my stomach feel like a washing machine, too, so I’m relieved when I see the beach. * * * My dad pulls into a sandy parking space and stops the car. Anna clicks off her seat belt and jumps out of her seat. She gallops down the dunes, kicking up piles of grayish sand. Finally, she stops, waves her arms, and shouts, “Mommy! Hey Mommy! C’mere!” My parents and I unpack the car and stroll down toward the water, where Anna is waiting impatiently. My parents unpack our bag, and I sit on a beach towel to read my book. Even though I’m wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, I can’t stop shivering. Then, I hear Anna’s voice. She calls out to me, “Hey, Kat!” “What, Anna?” “Come here!” I look and see that Anna is standing knee-deep in the water and waving at me. She is completely soaked. “Aren’t you freezing?” Anna shakes her head vigorously, making her blond pigtails fly back and forth. “Nope. It’s… um… warm.” I don’t believe her, not for a second. Anna turns around again and starts dripping some wet sand through her fingers, and I go back to my book. * * * A few minutes later, I close my dog-eared book and stand up; I’m stiff and pretty much frozen. I walk over to where my mom is sitting and reading. I say, “Hey, Mom? I’m going for a walk, ’K?” My mom gives me her consent, and I leave. Before I walk three steps, Anna rushes out of the water. “Kat! Kat! Where’re you gonna go?” I sigh. “Nowhere.” “Can I come? Pleeeeease?” Anna is jumping up and down with elation. I look down at her. “All right. But I’m not going in the water.” “Yay! Thanks, Kat!” Anna gives me a big (and very wet) hug. I meander down the beach, Anna skipping in front of me. She talks nonstop. “Kat, wanna build a sand castle? We can play fairy princesses! What color will your 1princess dress be? What’s your favorite color, Kat? I like pink. My swimsuit is pink. Ya see my swimsuit, Kat? I’m hungry. I want ice cream. I like strawberry ice cream. What kind do you like, Kat?” And so she continues, never stopping for anything. Anna has the thinking process of a butterfly. * * * Finally, I stop walking and look around. My parents are two tiny dots far away. All around me there’s just water, big mounds of sand, and gray sky. And Anna, who is currently trying to dig a hole to Australia. She looks up from her freshly dug ditch. “Kat, dig with me. Please?” “Fine.” I step into her hole and kick into the side. But the sand doesn’t give like I thought it would; instead, my foot hits something sharp and spiky. Ow. I reach down to pull the sharp thing out, expecting it to be a broken plastic toy or a rock. But instead, I yank out a big, sand-covered seashell. I look at the shell more closely. It looks like a conch shell, the kind you see in magazine pictures. It’s dirty white, and dotted with tiny barnacles. But under all that, I can see how perfectly shaped it is, smoothed down by the ocean. I turn the shell over and see the inside, which is a light, glassy pink. The pink shines brightly, even though there’s not much sunlight. I turn to Anna, who’s busy digging the hole. “Hey, Anna, look what I found!” “Huh? What is it?” I hold the shell up to her. She strokes it carefully. “Pretty. Now do you want to play princesses?” “Um, maybe later. Hey, I think I’m going to head back to where Mom and Dad are.” I jump out of Anna’s hole and start walking. Anna trails behind me, talking on and on, but I only half-listen. I’m too busy looking at the seashell. It’s beautiful, with its inside and its symmetrical shape. The pink is the color of a sunset. It’s smooth as glass and almost looks wet, but when I run my finger across it I can feel how dry it is. Something about the shell makes me feel good. Maybe it’s the light pink inside, the perfect shape, or the fact that such a beautiful thing could come out of such a… not-so-beautiful beach. But the shell evokes warm beach memories, happy ones, like when I was eight and went boogie boarding, and the time when I was five and tried to empty out the whole ocean with a plastic shovel. Those were some of the times when the sun shone over the beach, and when Anna was only a toddler. The brightness of the shell makes me remember
