Writers-and-Artists

Memories

The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. She would be moving clear across the country, from California to Massachusetts. After a few moments she sighed and sat down on the floor. She pulled a stack of books toward her and started sorting through them. Old picture books? Into the bin without a second glance. Roald Dahl? Kathy stared at them for a minute and then tossed them onto the pile of books to ask her brother if he wanted them. Her cleaning went well. In half an hour she was on her bottom shelf, with the taller books: comic compilations, encyclopedias of science and mammals, an old photo album, and assorted art books. Kathy flipped through the photo album for a few minutes, enjoying pictures from the first five years of her life, and then she saw the binder. Frowning, she pulled it out. She had no idea what the half-inch plastic binder contained. But as soon as she saw the cover, a grin spread across her face and she settled more comfortably against her wall. “Kathy’s Stories, age 9,” it read in a childish hand. When she was nine, Kathy had gone through a writing phase where she churned out five stories per week. She hadn’t looked at them in years, probably since they were first written. Kathy opened the binder and began to read. At last she reached the final story A clock ticked regularly in the background and the dust motes swirled around her, becoming golden when the ray of sunlight coming through the window leveled as the afternoon wore on. A deep silence spread around the house. Her brother suspiciously became quiet. The clattering from the kitchen became more muted. Even the very birds outside Kathy’s window seemed to stop singing. Kathy delved through time and space, completely alone, held captive by the words of her nine-year-old self. Nothing existed except the words on the paper, speaking with a volition of their own about fantastic faraway lands and heroes who triumphed over evil (interestingly enough, they were all named Kathy) and amazing, exotic beasts illustrated in compelling colors and seeming to breathe with life and spirit. The words wove a complex spell around Kathy, and she sat late into the afternoon, drinking in tale after tale of increasing interest and skill. At last she reached the final story. This one was written at least six months after the others. Kathy remembered that she had wanted to write a story set in the future. A realistic one, unlike her other stories of heroism and adventure. It was titled simply “Memories.” Kathy scanned the page and frowned in disappointment. Only one small paragraph had been written under the title. Apparently she hadn’t had time to finish it. The paragraph read: The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. But there it stopped. The real Kathy gasped. As a nine-year-old, she had written about the very event that was happening to her now! But as Kathy raised her eyes from the page, the world came awake again. The spell was broken. The house was awakening as from a deep sleep. The birds again began to chatter, the scent of lasagna drifted from the kitchen, and Kathy’s brother began once more to whistle to himself. Kathy still sat immobile, but after a few minutes she came to a decision. She turned the page onto a blank sheet and began to write, continuing the story about moving but melding it to the one in the binder. Her neat, slanted handwriting contrasted strongly with how she had written as a nine-year-old, but her style was much the same. Kathy wrote late into the evening, until she was pleased. She read it through once more, checking for mistakes. She didn’t edit the first paragraph at all. Genna Carroll, 13San Jose, California Rebecca Bihn-Wallace, 12Baltimore, Maryland

Memories

The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. She would be moving clear across the country, from California to Massachusetts. After a few moments she sighed and sat down on the floor. She pulled a stack of books toward her and started sorting through them. Old picture books? Into the bin without a second glance. Roald Dahl? Kathy stared at them for a minute and then tossed them onto the pile of books to ask her brother if he wanted them. Her cleaning went well. In half an hour she was on her bottom shelf, with the taller books: comic compilations, encyclopedias of science and mammals, an old photo album, and assorted art books. Kathy flipped through the photo album for a few minutes, enjoying pictures from the first five years of her life, and then she saw the binder. Frowning, she pulled it out. She had no idea what the half-inch plastic binder contained. But as soon as she saw the cover, a grin spread across her face and she settled more comfortably against her wall. “Kathy’s Stories, age 9,” it read in a childish hand. When she was nine, Kathy had gone through a writing phase where she churned out five stories per week. She hadn’t looked at them in years, probably since they were first written. Kathy opened the binder and began to read. At last she reached the final story A clock ticked regularly in the background and the dust motes swirled around her, becoming golden when the ray of sunlight coming through the window leveled as the afternoon wore on. A deep silence spread around the house. Her brother suspiciously became quiet. The clattering from the kitchen became more muted. Even the very birds outside Kathy’s window seemed to stop singing. Kathy delved through time and space, completely alone, held captive by the words of her nine-year-old self. Nothing existed except the words on the paper, speaking with a volition of their own about fantastic faraway lands and heroes who triumphed over evil (interestingly enough, they were all named Kathy) and amazing, exotic beasts illustrated in compelling colors and seeming to breathe with life and spirit. The words wove a complex spell around Kathy, and she sat late into the afternoon, drinking in tale after tale of increasing interest and skill. At last she reached the final story. This one was written at least six months after the others. Kathy remembered that she had wanted to write a story set in the future. A realistic one, unlike her other stories of heroism and adventure. It was titled simply “Memories.” Kathy scanned the page and frowned in disappointment. Only one small paragraph had been written under the title. Apparently she hadn’t had time to finish it. The paragraph read: The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. But there it stopped. The real Kathy gasped. As a nine-year-old, she had written about the very event that was happening to her now! But as Kathy raised her eyes from the page, the world came awake again. The spell was broken. The house was awakening as from a deep sleep. The birds again began to chatter, the scent of lasagna drifted from the kitchen, and Kathy’s brother began once more to whistle to himself. Kathy still sat immobile, but after a few minutes she came to a decision. She turned the page onto a blank sheet and began to write, continuing the story about moving but melding it to the one in the binder. Her neat, slanted handwriting contrasted strongly with how she had written as a nine-year-old, but her style was much the same. Kathy wrote late into the evening, until she was pleased. She read it through once more, checking for mistakes. She didn’t edit the first paragraph at all. Genna Carroll, 13San Jose, California Rebecca Bihn-Wallace, 12Baltimore, Maryland

Life Among the Whispers

By Mathilde Fox-Smith Illustrated by Anika Knudson No longer was the building a building, but a window He had decided earlier that he wouldn’t do it tonight. This nagging annoyed him profoundly. Though now that he was already plastered against a wall, inches from the swerving shaft of police-car headlights in the city, it might as well happen. As soon as the tires rolled over the crumbly pavement, he crept from the shadowed wall, slipping down the road. The streets were licked by shadows and mostly undisturbed by the din of passing cars. He could faintly picture a blank, ancient building in the back of the park a few roads over, one that he had seen before. To avoid being questioned or recognized by drivers, he kept his head down, his eyes burning into the sidewalk. A tall gate guarded the entrance to the quiet park, made up of thin black posts set close together. A barrier of thick bamboo crowded the borders between grass and street. He began to shove aside the flexible trunks, squeezing in between the stems. It enclosed him in a chamber of green as he pushed through to the park’s grassy edge. Pale moonbeams pooled over the dark ground. Barbed wire twisted between the park and the site of the old building. Gingerly taking the smoother bit of the wire in between his fingers, he jerked it up as far as he could to create an entrance for himself. Crumpled leaves and rust-colored pine needles concealed cans of spray paint, stashed there on his last encounter with the police. Lifting a random container, he scrubbed away a patch of the dirt and scanned the color: brown. Pictures fluttered back into his brain. Selecting a cream-white from the paints, he also chose a scene. And then, he began to paint. Lise woke abruptly. The cheerful chirping of a robin rang in her sleepy ears. Roused by it, she slipped out of bed. Her long hair was matted from sleep. Lise clomped into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Morning!” she was greeted by her mother. Lise returned a smile and plopped down into a hard wooden chair. “Would you mind much if I go to the new art exhibit?” she requested. “Well, we have a party, and dinner out tonight… you know that your father’s running for office again,” she warned. “He might want you to help with pamphlets and flyers.” “I won’t be long.” “Yeah, I guess. But be sure to be back by two-fifteen,” she agreed. Lise smiled in thanks and finished her breakfast hastily. The brutal August sun cast its blinding rays over the city and the people that swarmed like ants in the streets. An art gallery was featuring a new exhibit, and Lise was eager to visit it. Though her intention was to stay for that exhibit only, she decided to wander about the old ones, too. Just as she exited, Lise was drawn into the cheerful green park. Her feet ached from her brisk walking in the gallery, so she swiveled around to where she thought was a bench. That ambition quickly vanished from her mind. She remembered the building quite clearly; that was why she didn’t recognize it at first. Its crumbly surface was completely slathered in paint. Lise blinked repeatedly, astonished. The only thing that remained of the eerie side of it was the floppy fencing of barbed wire. Otherwise, it was majestic. A painting of a sunset flourished over the bricks. The vibrant sky was streaked with crimson, magenta, vermillion, and turquoise. They blended beautifully above the magnificent, blazing sun, reflecting in the rippled ocean. Even the water nearly moved. The beach was a golden stretch of beige, shining in the sun’s rays. Just in the front of the piece, a single luscious palm tree leaf waved. No longer was the building a building, but a window. Lise was petrified with amazement at the artwork, her breath blown away. She stepped closer, examining every flawless stroke of the painting. “Wow,” she breathed. A tiny signature was traced with black spray paint: “Tobias Acosta.” She suddenly remembered the stern reporters on television who spoke of the so-called Tobias Acosta, a graffitist. Although his paintings were signed with that name, no recorded resident of the city was called by it. Of course, she knew this painting was outrageously wrong—it was graffiti, but her amazement defied her consciousness. Lise uttered, “I never thought I’d see one in person before they erased it.” She moved close enough that her fingers curled around the rusty barbed wire and took in every perfect detail. Unexpectedly, Lise’s eyes strayed to her digital watch and she gasped at the square letters. “Three o’clock! Oh, I’d better go.” She took one last examination of the picture and reluctantly turned to leave. Lise took a particularly long time returning home, the image glowing in her mind. By the time she approached her doorstep, the little watch ticked three-fifteen. Entering the apartment, she was first greeted by her mother, and her daze quickly dissolved. “Sorry. I… lost track of the time,” she stammered, because it wasn’t a total lie. What would her parents—her campaigning father, mostly—think if she marveled over the artwork of a criminal? Lise passed her mother and entered her own room, standing before the dresser and gazing at the girl in the mirror. “Will I ever be able to draw like that?” she wondered aloud. Lise’s favorite activity was art, and she was praised at school and home for her artwork. The girl repeated her question, but something in her aqua eyes made Lise know that her inquiry was foolish. *          *          * “Mom… I left my purse in the car.” “Lise, do you really need it?” She sighed, “I’ll get it.” Her mother’s forehead creased, but she tossed Lise the keys to their vehicle and called, “Be quick!” The warm August air was much more welcoming at