Writers-and-Artists

Mae Trillian has always lived a fairly simple life. Nothing brought her more pleasure than perfect, small simplicities—a tall glass of cold, crystalline water full of chinking ice cubes, the noise of a lead pencil as it scratched the surface of a crisp sheet of paper. The sound of the wind amongst a forest of stately trees and the perfect poise of a single flower as it makes its incredible journey from tiny seed to glorious blossom brought the greatest joy to Mae’s heart. That, and of course the delightful thing called writing where one can pour out one’s soul onto a piece of paper. Where intricate worlds are created by the touch of a pencil’s tip, and characters’ lives unfold into brilliant stories of intrigue and romance. Sighing, Mae sat quietly on a wooden stool that stood before the large bay window dominating the eastern wall of her minute kitchen. Her delicate image was reflected in the window’s translucent pane; her thin lips were slightly parted and moved as though she were speaking, although no noise escaped her mouth. Tawny curls spilled down across a pale forehead, where slender brows arched above eyes of the deepest emerald. She silently watched the street before her quaint home, where children played; their shouts of joyous laughter filtered in with golden rays of luminescent sun. And to be but a child,. Their cares light as motes of dust Drifting silently, only to filter out of All existence The poem escaped the young woman’s lips; her bright eyes softened as her mouth slowly formed a tender smile. A salty breeze drifted in through the partially opened window; the sea’s crested waves crashed onto the pebbly beach merely a ten-minute walk from Mae’s diminutive home. Morning had always fascinated Mae Still smiling slightly, she stood and moved across the kitchen’s tiled floor to her countertop: a beauteous mosaic of aquamarine, turquoise, and cerulean pieces forming the image of a rising wave. She ran one hand over the magnificent icon and brushed a stray ringlet from her eyes with the other. The morning light brought the fabulous colors to life; Mae could almost taste the salty ocean water and hear the crash of the waves as they broke onto the jagged rocks with a powerful grace. Morning had always fascinated Mae. The watery sunlight slanting across her scrubbed kitchen tabletop and the dappled patterns it made as it shone through the trees. She adored the birds’ joyous songs, exulting in the beginning of another splendid day. No matter how divine the moon’s silver gleam could be, or how perfect the glistening stars, morning was a time of birth and renewal. Reaching for the kettle, Mae ran the water from her creaky, silver faucet. Her favorite mug, a saffron-colored dish splashed with shapes and patterns of every color of the rainbow’s spectrum, stood beside a battered, corduroy knapsack, festooned with key chains and bright patches. That bag was Mae’s pride and joy, a collection of souvenirs that painted a picture of her rich, young life. Moving away from the sink, Mae carefully sliced two pieces of freshly-baked cheese-bread, buttering them with cream held in her great-grandmother’s cut-glass butter tray. Taking a quick glance at the violet clock that hung above the fridge, Mae speechlessly willed the water to boil quickly It was already ten o’clock, and now that she was shaken from her early morning reverie, she wanted to leave as quickly as she possibly could. The beach would become crowded around noon, when young families, happy couples, and noisy groups of friends would break the morning tranquility with their shouting and laughter. Not, Mae thought, as she carefully wrapped her breakfast in wax paper, that laughter is a bad thing. It is in fact a thing of great beauty and delight! But peace and quiet is a rare gift these days, and one must learn to take advantage of it when they can. As the kettle began to shriek, Mae pulled herself away from her rambling thoughts and unplugged it as quickly as she could, pouring the steaming liquid into her mug. Dropping an Earl Grey tea bag into the water, she slipped her feet into a pair of worn leather sandals and grabbed her breakfast, a notebook, and a sharpened pencil, jamming all but her mug into the corduroy bag. Slinging it over her shoulders, she stepped out of her kitchen’s side door and strolled across her lawn. Waving at Mrs. Winkleby, who smiled at her from her rocker perched on the woman’s large, wrap-around veranda, Mae turned left and continued to walk towards the beach, sipping her tea as she went. Arriving there, she noticed that few others had pulled in—ten o’clock was still early for those who spent their summer in these parts. Kicking off her sandals, Mae proceeded to walk the beach barefoot, as she headed towards her usual spot down the west end. There, the dunes were plentiful, and their dips and crests provided shade and a pleasant seating area. Settling down at the foot of a mighty dune, Mae leaned against a bleached piece of driftwood and languidly stretched out, wiggling her toes amongst the millions of tiny, golden grains. The air smelled pleasantly of salt and the gulls’ raucous cries somehow pleased her, as they circled over top the water, hunting for their breakfast. Taking another sip of tea, Mae carefully slid her leather-bound notebook from the bag, and held the pencil carefully between three fingers, poised just above the blank page. The day was young and bright, and full of potential. Taking a deep breath, Mae settled back and looked at her page. And she began to write. Julia Soderholm, 13Rockwood, Ontario, Canada Annalise Nurme, 12Chestnut Hill, Massachusetts

Her room was quiet. Too quiet. In fact, the whole house was quiet, and Abby knew why It was empty—all except for her. There had been a note, of course, there was always a note, waiting on the table after school. Abby: Gone out for a while. Be back soon. Love always, Mom Abby wondered why her mother couldn’t have been a little more specific, and exactly what her idea of “soon” was. That had been approximately three o’clock, now it was around ten o’clock. She lay in bed, tossing and turning. The silence scared her; it seemed to envelope her and swallow her up. The quilt made her too hot; she pushed it off. Now she was shivering; she pulled it back on. Abigail means “father’s joy,” she thought angrily. If I was his joy, then why did he leave us? Groping around in the dark, feeling for the right buttons, she turned on her radio, turning it up as loud as it would go, blasting it through the house, but the emptiness remained inside her no matter what the volume of the music. She eventually turned it off, but found that she could not lie still, could not take the silence any longer. For one fleeting moment, she screamed, her lungs burning. It made her feel a little better; the screaming gave her an odd sort of sense of power. The feeling only lasted a moment, though, as her common sense took over—what if someone had heard her? What if they had called the police? The fire department? What if one of the neighbors came over to see what was wrong? What if someone called Social Services when they found out she was alone? What if… What if… Ms. Stevens had been right; she did feel better, much better She had to keep herself from thinking these things. Come on, Abby, focus. Green meadows, blue skies, calm river, tweeting birds… She played the game she and her father had played so many times, when she had stage fright before a school performance, envisioning the perfect place, but this time it only served to make her more agitated. Oh, Dad! Swinging her legs out of bed, she got up and walked over to the window. She shoved it open, desperate to hear those nighttime sounds that would fill up her room with reminders that summer was not far off A gust of warm wind rushed in, sweeping back Abby’s long chestnut hair. Crickets chirped their evening song, an occasional lightning bug flashed, then receded into the darkness, flying away to new and better things. How desperately Abby wished that she could do the same. She slammed the window shut with a deafening crash that reverberated against the walls, and then the room was once again quiet. She only heard the bang as if from a distant place, vaguely felt the cold glass beneath her hands, felt her fingers sliding down, down, down. Just how she felt. Her world was going down, down, down. Abby gently leaned her head against the windowpane, trying to fight the emptiness swelling deep inside her. She wondered what had happened to those times, so long ago, when her mom and dad had sung her to sleep, familiar lullabies, beckoning her to dreamland, step by step. Although she knew that at twelve, many people would consider her too old for lullabies, she still missed them achingly. The soothing sound of her parents’ voices had always filled up the silence that haunted her now. Lullaby. Even just the word was soothing, like someone stroking her hair, holding her hand. Like a hug right when she needed one. If I ever needed one, she thought angrily, it’s now. Parents, guidance counselors, teachers, they always say they’ll be there for me when I need them, but where are they all now? Abby flung herself face down onto the bed, drowning her face in her pillow to muffle the heart-wrenching sobs that she was sure could not be hers. Gradually, her back still rising and falling, the sobs began to come more softly, in a certain rhythm, a certain pattern, and she began to relax. Her breathing began to come easier, and she drifted off to sleep at last, to a different kind of lullaby; the feel of hot tears running down her cheeks, the sound of her own ragged breathing, her own crying. Her lullaby. *          *          * It was midnight. Abby knew that she must have fallen asleep at some time, because she had just woken up. She put out her hand and felt her pillow—it was still damp from her own tears. She heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway, heard her mom come in and get into bed. Abby resented that her mom had been out so late without even specifying where she was going, but she knew that her dad’s leaving must have been just as traumatic for her mom as it was for her, alone in the master bedroom, in the queen-sized bed by herself. Even with her mom back in the house, Abby could not shake off the emptiness, and she felt a strange tug inside when she realized that her mom had not come in to say goodnight, as she always had before. Desperately she insisted to herself that there must be a way to make the loneliness go away, she just hadn’t found it yet. Suddenly something her English teacher had told her class just the day before came rushing back. “Poetry can be therapeutic,” Ms. Stevens had said. “Write what you feel. It’ll make you feel a lot better afterwards, I promise.” The kids in her class had moaned and groaned, saying they would never in their lives write poetry of any kind, but Abby had tucked away that information for figure use, thinking there might be a time when she needed something like that. Abby flicked on her bedside lamp, and reached for a