Will you ever have a relationship as special as that? Every day, you wake up, eat breakfast, and walk down the five flights of steep, stone-cold stairs. As a cheery neighbor greets you, you put on a fake smile and fast walk out the door. You’ve never been a big “people person,” or a dog person, or even a cat person for that matter. Should you be someone? As you step out into the traffic, you realize your morning is already buzzing by and you haven’t even gotten your coffee. 7:57. A small boy and his dad walk up to the bus stop. The boy can barely reach his father’s hand. They sit and talk, play patty-cake. Will you ever have kids? Or even just a relationship as special as that? A warm feeling fills your stomach. The wind blows. You shiver and watch as the small boy and his father hail a cab. 8:06. The strange old woman comes. She’s the one who feeds the pigeons, who searches through trash for cans and bottles. You wonder if she ever had someone. 8:13. You kick a rock. No buses. 8:28 ticks by, the latest time you can get on the bus and be at work by 9:00. Finally. The M31 creeps down the traffic-covered hill and you step up the black-and-yellow stairs. You choose your favorite seat, near the back, sit down, and watch. You can see the whole bus, everything that goes on. A million little stories, and a million different feelings flood the open space. The York Avenue bus. From 63rd to 91st. You spend about 45 minutes a day on average on that bus. The part that makes it all worthwhile are the people. French kids. Doctors and nurses. Crying babies. You see and hear little bits and pieces of people’s days and sometimes, for the slightest moment, you take off your veil of aloneness and intertwine. Giving someone your seat, loaning someone change, or even just exchanging a glance when the cranky old lady yells at a little kid. You need the confusion, the distraction from the loneliness. When you’re on the bus, you’re an observer. A listener. A looker. You’re not there. A fly on the wall. Bits of conversations fly through your thoughts, you take in. With each breath you inhale the moods of others. You get on the bus and get off, leaving behind the stories for the next day. One day, you stepped up the yellow-and-black steps, ready to absorb. As you sat down, a cute little baby and his mother caught your eye. Buttoned up in his shiny white jacket, he was happy, and observing just like you. Suddenly, BUMP, spit-up on the seats. On the floor. On that little white jacket. “It’s all right,” the mother whispered, “it’s OK.” An old man, lifting his silent vow of isolation, offered the baby’s mother a napkin. You watched. Two friends made that would never see each other again. Ever. Bus stops. Baby and mother get off. And the old man’s eyes were glued to that little baby. You looked out the window and saw a mirror image. Smiling, waving, gleaming blue eyes lit up. But off the bus, continuing with the push and pull of daily life, the man and the baby disappear into oblivion. Forgotten. In the world of borrowed bus stories. Charlotte Merrick, 12New York, New York Athena Gerasoulis, 12Edison, New Jersey
Sense-of-Place
Peace
Amy made her way through the house. It was nice being able to live out here in the country. Not having to wake up to tooting trains or honking cars as she did when she lived in Seattle. True, they now lived by the highway, but at least the cars and trucks that drove by didn’t make such a racket as they would in the nearby town of Coeur d’Alene where there was traffic and stoplights. She went to the kitchen and made herself a thermos of steaming hot cocoa with marshmallows before putting on a fuzzy hat, her coat, and boots. Finally, Amy grabbed a bag which contained a notebook and her best drawing pencil. She was anxious to get outside and quickly made a beeline for her newest favorite spot to enjoy nature. When she came to the dry patch under the big tree, Amy ducked under the bent boughs and nestled up against the rough fir bark. She then carefully arranged her notebook, pencil, and thermos. Before she put pencil to paper she took a sip of her sticky, sweet drink and settled in to watch the cars drive by. They resembled little ants going about their own business, not giving any thought to the dragonfly that was watching them from above. Amy imagined that once in a while a little child would look up out of her car window and wonder what lucky kid could live on that hill and have all of nature’s benefits so nearby. It was nice being able to live out here in the country Amy’s thoughts began to focus into a clear picture and she started drawing the calm creek, the marshy fields, the dense forests, and the rocky bluffs. When she was finished with the landscape she added in the details: the ice patches on the creek edges, the A-frame house on the far mountain, and the little cars on the highway. After she was finished with her sketch and back inside the cozy house, pulling out her colored pencils, Amy realized that not many kids have the opportunity to live outside the city where they can climb the tall dark green trees, go swimming any day of the summer in a bright blue creek, and explore the soft grass-covered hill, looking for interesting animals. When Amy had finished adding the final colored touches to her drawing, she thought of asking her mom if she could invite some friends over to make Christmas wreaths and introduce them to the wonderful peace that the country has to offer. Alahna Harrison, 13Coeur d’Alene, Idaho Sarah Pi, 13San Jose, California
Subway Adventure
It is super hot, humid. Sweat is running down my back like a brook. I am waiting. The A train is mine. I am on the east side of the Forty-Second Street platform for the southbound A train. People are running, late people walk slowly, lost people are walking purposefully. A woman pushes a rattling, clanking cart. She is dirty, a wrinkled old woman. She bumps to a stop next to me. She jingles a cup at me. She wants money. I have none. She and her cart continue on. I feel sadness. She is poor. How did she become poor? How did she get the cart on the platform? Where does she live? Why do I not have change for her? Where is she going? I don’t ask. A train stops, it is not mine. There is a band playing, a one-man, four-piece band. His face is small and thin, his clothes are clean. He is joyful, he is playing joyful songs. The music man is tempting us to dance with joyful music. I agree to dance. How come he is happy? His bucket has my money. Why did I give him my change? I feel a breeze, a train is coming, but alas it’s not mine. Some people are standing, waiting. Some are short, some are poor, some people are smiling. They are rich with happiness. Some are talking to one another. Some are talking to themselves. Some turn their heads and they are no longer talking to themselves, using Bluetooth. I see lights; a train comes soaring around the curve. It is still not my mine. I board. I find a seat by the window, I sit . By now where is this train? I look down the track. No train. I look across the platform, I see no train. I look at the platform sign, I am on the wrong side. Oooooooooooppppppppppppsssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I have to cross over, the rumbles sound in my ear. I look down the track. It is my train after all. I was on the wrong side. I board. I find a seat by the window, I sit. Some people are old. More people are young adults. Some are parents. Some stare off into space. Others read books, Kindles, magazines, newspapers. I thought the Kindle was winning. Some are sleeping. Earbuds’ music, blaring, reaches my ears. I wonder if their ears are going deaf. There sits a father with his son, squabbling. A mother rests tiredly, a howling baby. Her arms bounce the baby. It does not work. The doors open at the Penn Station stop. A group of well-muscled men enter. They ask people to step back. The train moves forward, the boom box starts blasting beats in a danceable rhythm. Hip-hop dance moves fire up. Stiff as a board the first fellow spins on his hands. The next man does five back flips, touching no one. A dancer spins on a pole, missing people by inches, stunning. Acrobat number three, hanging onto a pole, does a summersault in midair. The men do a finale. People clap and whoop in approval. They pack up their boom box. With hats extended, they ask for donations. I wish I had money, sadly, my money is at Forty-Second Street. I let them pass. Twenty-Third Street arrives. The man and his son debark, squabbling stopped. The baby stops howling. More people press on to the train. There is a man on the platform hawking God. Screaming, he tells me, “You are a grave sinner. Your soul is going to hell.” Bible quotes fly out from his mouth, like an expert. I feel sad. I see his hat upside down by his feet, I see his hat, filled with dollars. Since I am going to hell I am glad I am penniless. The doors close, the train starts with a clank. Fourteenth Street arrives. A man gets off, shopping bag in tow. A few people enter. A group of boys carry a box of candy. “One dollar each!” hollers a boy. “Help support our soccer team!” I am still broke. They need money not for soccer. Their clothes are tattered, their faces tired. I don’t think they have a soccer team. I wonder where they got the candy. Where are their parents? I just nod at them. The connecting stop is Fourth Street. The baby sleeps in its mothers arms. Crowds switch, the baby still sleeps. Someone sits next to me. We look away. The train leaves. The train gently rocks around curves. My seat mate and I bump gently, in silence. This crowd is mostly workers headed home, silent. At the window I stare. My reflection stares back. My face says tired. Sniffles, sneezes, and coughs break the silence. I wish the baby would cry. The train slows for Spring Street Station. The lady and child depart. I will miss them. The crowd thins. From the station, the train eases. A woman has no bags, staggering, she makes her way forward, talking, she is making no sense. Closer, she moves. “Here’s one,” she says. Stepping closer, “You’re a fine boy.” Closer still, “You have been adopted, by a woman.” She is right. How does she know? Eerie? “You are not going to look at me,” she challenges, sticking a finger in my face. I study it. The fingernail is manicured into a fine point. Bizarre. Her fingernails are clean. “Look up,” she demands. I don’t. My eyes she cannot see. My soul, she wants to read. I refuse. Her challenge I win. With relief, I sigh. The train arrives at Canal Street, this is my stop. The soul-steeling woman gets off. I stay on, letting her go. I choose to go one stop more, to get away. I will come back on the next train. Getting home late is safer. I like my neighborhood. Is she in my building? I shiver. I hope not. The train leaves the station, I can’t see her. I breathe
