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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

Writers-and-Artists


By

Sunrise

My eyes opened. Sitting up, I glanced at my clock on my nightstand, and read the green, fluorescent letters: 4:42 AM, three minutes before my alarm was due to go off. I stretched out my arm and turned off my alarm. Scrambling out of bed, I changed from my pajamas into a tank top and shorts. I yanked a brush through my frizzy brown hair, and stuffed it up into a ponytail. I left my room and tiptoed down the hallway, trying hard not to make any noise. Creeping down the stairs, I forgot about the step that always creaked, and as it did, I winced. I hated how small sounds were always magnified in the quiet. I stayed where I was for a moment, and, holding my breath and crossing my fingers, I listened for stirrings from my family. When they didn’t come, I let my breath go, and uncrossed my fingers, relieved. I wanted to be alone. I didn’t bother with breakfast, as I wasn’t really hungry yet. I pulled my sandals on, and walked out the screen door into our backyard, and then began trudging up the back pasture to the top of the hill. The date was June 21, the summer solstice, the day with the longest sunlight hours of the year. I had gotten up early to watch the sunrise. I know it sounds a little weird, but it’s a tradition of mine. I’ve always done it, as long as I can remember. The sunrise has always been special to me, put in the same category as the unicorns the six-year-old me believed in. My older brother Ian used to come watch them with me, but now, at sixteen, he thinks it’s dumb, and immature. Last night when I made the mistake of asking him if he wanted to accompany me, he just came up with an excuse in his wannabe manly way. “Can’t, Beth, I gotta sleep well. I have a big all-star baseball game this weekend, and Coach will be really mad if I’m tired.” I felt as if there was nothing in the world but the sunrise and me “Now Beth, dear,” added my mother, who had been listening, “don’t you think you are getting a tad old for that? I mean, you are thirteen years old.” Folding his Wall Street Journal, my father agreed. “Yes, Beth, you should call up one of your friends. Maybe they could pry your nose from that notebook of yours.” In response, I nodded to show I had understood. My parents seemed satisfied, and went on to more interesting conversation. So often I feel like an alien in my own family, traded with their real daughter at birth. I mean, with the exception of me, my family is the typical American family. My father is a lawyer in a successful firm, my mother is a homemaker, and my brother the star of every sports team he plays on. The only reason we live in Vermont instead of New York City is that Mother needs to take care of her failing parents, who were prescribed “good, healthy air” along with many pills by the doctor. I am the misfit of the family. I am quiet, studious, prefer the company of the characters in my books and stories to the flighty ditzy girls at my school, and am nearly always writing. My parents don’t understand my writing. They think it is a little, silly hobby of mine, and hope I will outgrow it and become what they think of as “a normal girl.” But I am far more serious about writing than they know. I want to be an author, and win the Pulitzer Prize. I know this is a big dream, but I also know it is what I desperately want to do. If only my writing came out on paper as it was in my mind. I reached the top of the hill, and pulled myself out of my thoughts. In the west, the sky was still dark with night, a deep navy blue. Overhead that blue was blending with almost purple shades, which in turn were mixing with reds and pinks. In the east, I could see the glimmering pinks and yellows of the sun beginning to rise. My watch said 5:19. According to Internet data, the sunrise had begun. Sitting down, not minding the dew on the grass, I just watched. The blue and purple, once overhead, were slowly moving backward, opening up the sky to a whole palette of new colors. Oranges, coral-like pinks, reds, and yellows were streaked and blended in the whole sky in front of me. They were colors so amazing that I was sure there had never been a sunrise as beautiful as this. There was an upward shaft of sunlight, so intense at the bottom it dazzled my eyes. Surrounding it was a sea of pinks and reds and yellows, which seemed to ripple as a real ocean does. I had never known there to be so many different colors! I felt as if there was nothing in the world but the sunrise and me. It was then, as the sun burst from the horizon, so magnificent and regal, a ball of yellow fire, that I heard the voice. “Your dream,” it said, “follow your dream. You can make it. Keep on trying. Don’t give up hope!” I was dazed. Who is this voice? Who, or what, was speaking to me? “Don’t give up hope!” the voice said again. And then I knew who was speaking. It was the birds, and the crickets, the trees, and the grass, the wind, the clouds, the sun, and the colors of the sunrise. But mostly me. It was I who wanted my dream to come true and I who would have to work for it. “I’ll get there,” I replied. “I’ll do the work; I’ll make my dream come true.” Emily Blackmer, 12Hopkinton, New Hampshire Anjali Thakkar, 12San Jose, California


By

Bliss

“Grace!!! Wake up!” I awoke that morning to the sound of my mother’s prickly voice in my ear. I grunted and put the pillow over my head. “Grace!” “All right!” I cried, “I’m up!!!” My mother tutted and looked me in the eye. “I wish you wouldn’t sleep so late, there’s chores to be done.” She sat down on my creaky old bed and took hold of my shoulders. “Listen to me,” she said. I sat up and wriggled free of her grasp. “I’m listening,” I said with a sigh. I knew what was coming. My list of chores. She did this to me every morning. It was the year 185o, and I was sixteen years old, with light skin and sandy blond hair, that was often falling into my hazel eyes. “Your list of chores for the day is . . .” I interrupted her. “Mother,” I said wearily, “don’t you think there is more to life than sewing or cooking or washing? Something adventurous and thrilling? Something . . . wild?” My sister Katrina laughed at this statement and started getting dressed. My mother looked at me very solemnly. “Mother, don’t you think there is more to life than sewing or cooking or washing?” “Grace, darling, will you ever understand? Women are made for one purpose: to clean, get married and have babies.” I decided that this was not the right time to point out to her that those were three purposes. “Now, here are your chores.” *          *          * I spent the rest of the morning sweeping the floor of our little hut. It had only two bedrooms; one was for my father, mother and Jack to share. Jack was only ten weeks old, with black hair, like my father, and gray eyes, like Katrina. Katrina, my eighteen-year-old sister, was very fond of her glossy black hair that reached halfway between her waist and her knees. She was a very gorgeous woman, and had many marriage proposals, but hadn’t accepted one yet. She and I were complete opposites, not only in appearance (I looked exactly like my mother, and she looked quite the same as my father), but also in spirit. I was adventurous and I never wanted to marry while she enjoyed the housework and believed the same theory as my mother; we’re only here to get married and have babies. In fact, the only thing that kept me from running from that house was my father. My father was bright, witty, and like me, he was adventurous. I just cherished him. He was always trying to reason with my mother, trying to get her to let me come pick flowers in the fields while he worked, or take walks alone, and all of the things that ladies weren’t expected to do. But aside from my father, I had only one thing to keep me sane: my poetry. Whenever I had the chance, I would run off to the old tree with the hollow trunk and take my poetry book out of a hole in the tree, where I also kept a notebook, ink and pen given to me by my father. He was the only one who knew my passion for poetry, because I dared not tell the others. They would just laugh at me, the way they always do when I talk of unusual things. Then I would sit under the shade of the tree and write. Many times I would climb up in the outstretching arms of the tree, and sit and write of the sun, or clouds or night. Sometimes it rhymed, and sometimes it was just the way I feel. And others, I wouldn’t write it at all, just think about it, and eventually, I’d fall asleep. “Gracie, Mother says you have to come help make lunch.” Katrina’s voice pierced my thoughts. I desperately searched for an excuse. “I’m still sweeping,” I lied, forcing a smile, “The floors have to be extra . . .” But Katrina wouldn’t have any of it. “Nice try, but it isn’t fooling me.” I hung my head and sighed. “What must I do?” I asked. Katrina thrust a straw basket into my arms and said, “Just go pick enough apples to make a pie.” I looked up, surprised. Katrina noticed my shock and, exasperated, exclaimed, “For dinner!!!” A smirk grew across my face. “For dessert!” I said. And then I was out the door in a flash, running toward the apple tree, with the straw basket in hand. It was a beautiful sunny day outside, and I wanted to just stretch out on the grass and gaze at the clouds. But first I had to pick the apples. I climbed up in the tree and grabbed the reddest apples I could find. In the end I had about ten apples. I knew that that would be probably over enough, so I picked the smallest apple out of the bunch and ate it. It was delicious! I didn’t want to go home to do more chores on that gorgeous day. I just wanted to sit out in the sun. I’m sure they won’t miss me, I reasoned to myself, I think I will write my poetry. So, with that thought in mind, I sauntered over to the big old tree and took out my notebook, pen and ink. I gripped my pen and notebook with my mouth, and held the ink tightly in my left hand. Then I began to climb. Today, I thought, there must be a very clear sky, so the view must be best from the highest branch. And so I climbed to the highest branch of the tree, and sat facing the hills, leaning my back against the tree trunk. It was actually quite comfortable. And so, I began to write. Then I would sit under the shade of the tree and write I was absorbed in my poetry when I heard a voice calling up to me. “Hello up there!!!”


By

The View from Santa Chiara

One thing was for certain, she never wanted to go. She never wanted to go to Santa Chiara. Francesca stared out the huge windows of the dining hall; the rain beat harder and harder against the window, making it almost impossible to hear the nun as she said grace. The ancient Madonna in the painting over the fireplace looked as tranquil as ever. As the girls started their dinner so did their chatter, almost drowning out the sound of the storm. Francesca sat secluded in a corner, thinking, in self-pity. She was suddenly woken out of her reverie by Sister Angelica, who was standing over her. “If you are done, I will show you around the school. Put your dishes in the kitchen and follow me,” she said. Francesca did as she was told and followed Sister Angelica out of the dining hall. “These are the classrooms. You will be paired with one of the other girls so they can show you to each of your classes,” Sister Angelica informed her. Sister Angelica showed her the nuns’ hallway with the nuns’ rooms and the office. She showed Francesca the courtyard, the student lounge, and the kitchen. Finally, Francesca was shown the room where she would be sleeping with the three other thirteen-year-old girls. Her room looked out over the courtyard and the courtyard looked over the Tuscan countryside and a castle pricked the sky on one of the highest hills. Francesca sat secluded in a corner, thinking, in self-pity Francesca sat on her bed, staring out the window, wondering why she was here, but she knew why she was here. It was her paintings. Francesca was the daughter of the owner of the largest bank in Rome, and her parents thought it hardly suitable that she should paint. They considered painting a useless occupation, so she was sent to a highly recommended boarding school in the tiny town of Castiglion Fiorentino. And here she was in Santa Chiara where the school was taught by nuns. It was about an hour before the three other girls came in. As they got ready for bed, they laughed and talked, almost completely ignoring Francesca until they were almost in bed. A girl named Sofia told Francesca that she would be showing her around the next day. It took a long while, but finally the stars calmed Francesca and she slipped into the dark folds of sleep. The next day was very uneventful, as was the rest of the week. Surprisingly, Francesca was quite happy. She liked the quietness of Castiglion compared to the buzzing streets of Rome. The classes were good and the nuns were tolerable. The only thing she really wanted was a friend, but that could wait. She quickly established that her favorite spot was under the huge shady tree in the courtyard. She liked to look out over the countryside. She drew too, but she was not entirely certain she was allowed to. One day Francesca was again sitting alone in a corner of the dining hall at lunch. She was eating mechanically, not really seeing or tasting what she was eating, when a flash of color caught her eye. It was the Madonna that was always at the head of the dining hall. Francesca had never noticed, but the painting had a placid sort of beauty about it. She whipped out a piece of paper and pencil and started drawing the beautiful Madonna. She was so involved in her drawing that she didn’t even notice Sister Lucia standing over her. “Although I am glad to see you take an interest in the Virgin Mary, your parents specifically sent a note saying that you are not to draw or paint in any form,” she said and whipped the paper out of sight with one sweep of her gnarled hand. *          *          * On Saturday morning, Sister Angelica took the girls to the town plaza. “You may go around the town,” she announced, “but be back here by one o’clock.” As soon as Sister Angelica had finished her announcement, the girls scattered. Francesca wandered down a narrow alley and came out two blocks away from the plaza. She did not think about where she was going, she just simply wandered along the cobblestone streets. She stopped to rest in a plaza that overlooked the Tuscan countryside. The tiny plaza was wedged between two stone buildings. There were only a few people in the plaza; a woman and her baby, two boys play-fighting and an old man. Francesca sat on the stone wall and watched the old man intently. He was painting a picture. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, only concentrating on the stroke of his brush and the sound of silence. Francesca approached him and stood looking over his shoulder. He didn’t notice her standing there and she might have thought him asleep if it wasn’t for the fact that his eyes were open. “What are you painting?” she asked timidly. “Life,” he answered without looking up. The countryside that he was painting did look like the definition of life. The hills were green and dotted with houses and his painting looked as perfect as the real thing. “What are you painting?” she asked timidly I could never paint anything as beautiful as that, she thought. Suddenly, with practically a physical jolt, she was struck with an idea. “Could you teach me to paint?” she burst out in a rush and clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. Finally he looked up at her. His face was a mass of old memories and old smiles. He stared at her for several moments and Francesca stared back, mesmerized by his gaze. “I will teach you,” he said finally, “under one condition. You will paint forever, no matter what.” Francesca thought it an odd request, but she agreed and sat down on the wall next to him. “Now before you ever start to paint,” he began, “you must