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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


By

One Hop at a Time

After a bad fall shakes her confidence as a ballerina, Sara resolves to get stronger The thin black straps from my leotard dug into my skin. My feet stung and ached inside my dirty, pink pointe shoes, and the humid room reeked of sweat. The teacher was saying something in Russian, pointing to the corner. Her face was very much like that of a hawk; her sharp eyes speared us one by one. Today was my second week at a Russian ballet sleepaway camp. Some of the best Russian teachers were brought to Connecticut to train kids in their style. I shifted my gaze to the corner, and my feet scraped the dusty, blue floor as I moved toward it. The words of the teacher passed through the translator, and her words hit me like a bucket of ice water. “Hops, from the corner, one by one!” I watched as the girls around me bounced up and down. I, however, was struck with an overwhelming sense of fear. In my dance school, we only did pointe on the barre. Now I was supposed to know how to hop on pointe in the center? My feet had reached the corner of the room, and I found I was in the middle of the line. It couldn’t be impossible, right? When the notes of the song began, the line in front of me got shorter and shorter. My palms got wet and clammy; my whole body felt fragile and stiff with anticipation. Soon, I stood second in line, then first, then . . . I felt a jolt in my toes as I came down from my first hop. The hops were meant to be on pointe, but I fell off my toes so often, anyone looking would have thought they were supposed to be on demi-pointe. There was a big gap between me and the person in front, and I heard groans coming from behind. Suddenly, my shoe came out from underneath me, wind rushed at my face. I felt myself plummet to the floor. People stopped and eyed me with curiosity. What had happened? One second I was jumping on pointe, the next, I had gotten well-acquainted with the floor. My ears burned like fire, and my eyesight got bleary. A metallic taste lay in my mouth. I quickly scrambled off the floor and stared into my hands. The rest of the pointe class was torture for me. It felt like all the girls in the class were watching me, watching me as I stumbled from pointe during échappé combination. I wanted them to accept me as a dancer who was as good as them. For that to happen, I needed to get stronger. In class, the teachers didn’t really notice me. Since I was too shy to ask for help or any corrections, I wouldn’t get any better. Even when I fell from pointe, the teacher didn’t tell me what to do to stop myself from falling in the future—she didn’t even ask if I was okay. I might have even gotten worse at ballet if it hadn’t been for my roommate and friend, Clair. One day, Clair came up to me and asked if I needed help. I thanked her, and she suggested I do one-foot relevés to get stronger. From then on, Clair was my teacher. She corrected my posture and turnout. In less than a week, I knew I had improved a lot. “Wow, you’ve helped so much!” I beamed at her one day. “You’re a great dancer, and you learn really quickly,” Clair replied honestly. “I only had to correct you once and you fixed it right away!” We laughed loudly and chatted in our cold dormitory, eating chips that filled the air with a salty smell much like the sea. The room was comfortable and I felt content . . . almost. “Am I bad in pointe?” I queried. I wanted to know what others thought. “No . . . You could always get better though.” Her eyes shifted, and I caught her fingers curling and uncurling like a flower. “Am I that bad?” “Well, I think you’ve grown much stronger. I’ll watch you during pointe tomorrow. That’s when the teacher said we’d be doing hops again.” “But what if I fall?” “You can always get stronger.” “But—” “Hey! Don’t psych yourself out, ’kay?” “Alright. Good night, then.” “Night.” The next morning in ballet, I worked harder than ever before. During our short break, every molecule in my body shook from the effort. My hands felt hot, and sweat clung to my forehead. Before I knew it, I was tying the long pink ribbons on my pointe shoes. What if I fall again? Then I’ll let everyone down . . . me, my friend . . . I need to do this. I slipped into the center of the room and warmed up. The tip of my pointe shoes scraped the floor. The shoes had grown soft from hard work. The sun streamed through the dusty window. The long mirror on the wall glowed luminously in the dark room. “From the corner. Enter after four counts,” the tall woman translated. I focused on her hair, long and brown. I looked at the chair, the floor . . . anywhere but the corner. The dreaded corner. I felt faint as I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Hundred-pound weights lay on my shoulders, and my muscles were sore from how hard I had worked throughout the week. Slowly, I shuffled up to the corner. The gnarled fingers of the piano player hit the keys as I placed myself in line. Fellow dancers rose onto pointe and bounced like rabbits across the room. I watched the flat tips of their shoes slam down on the floor, scattering dust right and left. I felt my throat close up; I wanted to melt into the floor. What if I fall again? Then I’ll let


By

Whales and Cormorants

When a killer whale smashes into their ship, Alan and his pet cormorant have to fend for themselves The mission was supposed to be simple: sail out into the Atlantic Ocean, take on board a few specimens. Then his work for the month would be done. Alan Stevenson readjusted his grip on the wheel of his ship, the S.S. Stormbreaker, a sleek vision of beauty and a gift from one of his colleagues. It was a windy August morning, and Alan was taking the morning shift at the wheel. To his left, he could see his pet cormorant, Carlo, making short work of a can of seafood. His stomach must have been close to exploding as he was on his fourth can. He cawed at Alan like: “’Sup?” In short, everything was going just peachy, or at least until the sonar of the S.S. Stormbreaker picked up a vast shape hurtling toward them at the speed of 30 knots. When he first registered this, Alan thought that he must be very tired and his mind was playing tricks on him. However, the shadow under the waves, which was heading straight for them, seemed very real. Fumbling with the controls, he finally pressed the button on the intercom and as it crackled to life, he yelled: “Large object heading straight to port! I repeat: large object heading straight to port!” Alan wrestled with the wheel, desperately trying to veer off course, but he was going way too slow. The last dregs of hope he clung to evaporated as the threatening shape’s head breached the surface. Slicing through the water right toward them was a fully grown killer whale. Alan didn’t feel the whale hit the ship, but suddenly he was tossed out of the pilot’s cabin like a champagne cork. He was weightless for a moment or two, then jolted back to reality when he hit the freezing water with a sound like someone slapping aluminium foil. He sank into blissful unconsciousness. When he regained consciousness, the first thing that struck him was the sound of waves crashing against rocks. Groaning, he rolled onto his side and spat out a lungful of seawater. Alan felt like a sock that had been tossed around inside a washing machine along with a couple of bricks. Opening his eyes, he saw Carlo looking at him expectantly. Satisfied that his master hadn’t drowned, Carlo resumed his meticulous grooming as he perched upon a small rock. “I’m alive,” Alan croaked. As his senses expanded, he realized that he was on a beach of pristine white sand. On a nearby outcrop of grey limestone, a dozen or so seagulls nested comfortably, feeding their petulant young. To his right, the beach turned into sandy dunes and then into a dense assortment of palm trees, pines, and bushes. The forest slanted uphill until it evened out into what appeared to be the crater of a volcano, which he presumed to be dormant due to the lack of smoke. I’ll check it out later, he thought. For now, I should search for food and water. Food, it appeared, was not a problem. Sitting up, he noticed a whole stack of assorted fish and crabs behind his now well-groomed pet. “Wait . . . you fished all of that by yourself?” Alan asked, incredulous. A seabird’s expression had never looked so smug. *          *          * Soon the pair were sitting by a nice warm fire with a few fish hanging over it. The dry palm branches on the beach made excellent tinder. Alan busied himself with culinary preparations: wrapping the fish in palm leaves, he then proceeded to place them upon the flames. While the smoked fish tacos (minus the tacos, of course) were cooking, the sailor made inventory of all his materials. In short, they had: five smoked salmon, seven smoked crabs, palm leaves, palm wood, rocks, and his trusty penknife. Not bad, considering Alan hadn’t even started exploring his island yet. But one problem remained: he had yet to find a source of fresh water. So, after a hasty meal, Alan set off into the forest. As he hiked into the undergrowth, he noticed that it was already late afternoon. He started to jog. Alan searched everywhere, but nothing even remotely resembling a stream came into view. Finally, exhausted and thirstier than ever, he sat down on a log. And then he spotted a small deer trotting in the direction of the volcanic crater. As a last attempt at getting hydrated, he followed it deeper into the jungle. The terrain became steep. His head drooped from exhaustion. He would have continued ambling upward forever, except that suddenly our great sailor had nothing to put his feet on, and he tumbled downward, straight into a large body of water. As his head broke the surface, he realized that the volcanic crater had hollowed out into a pool of fresh water! The deer knew the area and lay down to drink. Alan also gulped down great amounts, then called out with a sharp whistle. Soon Carlo appeared in the sky and swooped directly into the water with a mighty FLOOM! There. No more problems with water now! *          *          * It was the evening of the pair’s third day on the island. Alan lay contentedly on a bed of palm leaves while Carlo roosted on a nest of woven palm twigs, preening his feathers. However, Alan was trying to figure out ways to escape the island, no matter how pretty it was. During the night, he heard hooting and screeches in the undergrowth. Finally he sank into fitful sleep. In the morning, he waded into the caldera of the volcano and admired the view of the island. As he was drying off, his gaze came upon an area of the forest that had been torn to pieces. The trees seemed to have been crushed


By

Editor’s Note

A man and a bird. Two young dancers. Two chess-players. A “furow” and a fairy. This issue explores what, other than blood and kinship, binds us to others—even, in the case of the fi nal poem, “To Those in a Cage,” to strangers. As Lydia Iliff asks in her poem “Why are friends like that?”: What is the point of friends? Are they supposed to make you laugh? Cry? Are they there for you? These stories and poems will help you answer some of these questions, though I hope Iliff ’s words will also inspire you to draw on your own well of personal experience. When I was a child, my best friend and I would pretend we were twins because that was how we close we felt. The word “friends” didn’t seem adequate for us! Is there someone like that in your life? Maybe your best friend is your twin! Regardless, what can you express—whether through words, painting, or photography—about what a friend is to you? I look forward to reading what you come up with soon!


By

Nature

Sometimes nature calls to you And you long to be outside Basking in the full light of the moon Or maybe the babbling brook Nearby your house Holds an importance That it has never possessed before And even if you don’t mean to You suddenly find yourself Outside turning cartwheels on the grass Watching the world spin in dizzying circles Penelope Purchase, 11Berkeley, CA


By

In My Liquid Tourmaline

In this shimmering liquid tourmaline A teal and gold-breasted kingfisher whistles in the green pines As the lake’s cool breath whispers in my ear She speaks of laughing trout gliding in her belly Humans pouring acid in her veins And her tree friends she has lost I am wrapped in the scent of salt and sweetness As the freezing rush of cold water billows about my hand And the smooth trout wriggle across the lake Lauren Giglia, 11Irvine, CA


By

Slaying Monsters

William Morgan prepares to surf the same enormous waves that killed his father The usual morning fog is persistent today. The long jetty near Pillar Point is swallowed by the soupy grey, seemingly disappearing into the abyss. Through the panoramic view of my bedroom window, I see Half Moon Bay coming to life in the early morning. A man is taking a jog down the steep beach with his stumpy bulldog. A couple of early commuters’ headlights are slicing through the fog and heading into the overshadowing mountains. The occasional surf shop is lighting up and un-shuttering its windows. The ocean is roaring today, and an excitement bubbles up inside me as I remember that today is Mavericks. I hear the hissing of bacon hitting the frying pan and the hum of the espresso machine. My mouth waters as I stumble down the stairs. Mom is plating up my breakfast. A pink box is set in the center of the table. Wait, a pink box? I settle into my chair. “Donuts, Mom?” I ask, shocked. I open them up . . . My favorite—maple bars. “C’mon. An athlete doesn’t eat donuts on a day like this. My stomach will weigh me down more than the waves themselves!” Mom gives me one of those mom looks. “Now, last time I checked, donuts don’t weigh hundreds of thousands of pounds. And I spent good money on these, so eat. Mom’s orders.” I groan, then my wall caves in. If William Morgan has one weakness, it’s maple bar donuts. I dig in, cover the donuts with that greasy bacon, and feel that amazing feeling of a future heart attack. I swear, if this is what they eat in Vermont, I’m gonna move there someday. *          *          * The forecasters on the minivan’s raspy weather radio are warning that the Mavericks waves are larger this year than ever before. As I stand on the beach, I can see where they are coming from. Beyond the small ripples lining the shore, I see the world-renowned monsters. I’d seen them many times before, but not at this volume or this dramatic angle. It seems Mother Nature is having a temper tantrum. Do giant, lethal waves scare off William Morgan, a three-time Mavericks champion? Possibly. But not today! I can hear the engine of Mom’s ancient minivan kicking up dust in the parking lot behind me. It’s only a faint noise, drowned out by the sound of water pounding water. I know the usual question is coming: “You sure, Will?” I understand her concern. She doesn’t want to lose me in the giants like she lost Dad. I remember the day she came home holding pieces of Dad’s famous orange-and-pink surfboard, but no Dad. I manage a tiny nod. “Yep,” I mutter. “Yep, sure as ever.” But she doesn’t leave. She jumps out of the van, embraces me in a tight hug, then gets back in. As she pulls away, she calls, “I expect to see you at home at seven tonight. Promise me I’ll see you at seven. Mom’s orders.” I look down at my watch. I can’t stay down here much longer. Sandy’s waiting for me on the jetty. “You will,” I promise. Then she takes off, turning onto the main drag. I watch her go. I watch her go every time, hoping it won’t be the last. *          *          * I meet up with my friend Sandy at the jetty. The iconic foghorn is blaring in our ears. My skull seems to rattle every time it bellows loudly. Everybody calls him Sandy because of his trademark surfer-dude hair and yellow surfboard. From here, we have a clear view of the waves in all their glory. They are even scarier from this vantage point than from the beach. “The waves are wicked this year,” Sandy says excitedly. “I’ll be tearing it up out there. You just wait and see. Beating my records from last year.” I know those records will be hard to beat. Last year, Sandy scored a ten on his first wave, then doubled his score on the second one. On the third and final wave, he blew it but still got pretty high up on the podium. Top ten well within reach, at least. As we stare down the giants in front of us, I feel impending doom. The sun, which had been just a half-circle when I first arrived, is now high in the sky and frying us alive. All the fog I saw this morning has vanished. It doesn’t usually top 60 degrees in Half Moon Bay, but today it feels well above 80. My phone buzzes in my board shorts—an email from the guy I met yesterday, a Mavericks Competition commentator: get your butts down here quick. all these tourists are coming in by the tons. I take a nervous breath and tell Sandy, “Game time.” *          *          * The waves are even louder than the foghorn. Sandy and I push our way through the crowds until we find the restricted area by the public restrooms. We duck under the caution tape and find the guy, Mitch, leaning against a rather large rock. He totally fits the part of commentator at a surfing competition— he’s been in 20 model magazines, 60 issues of surfing magazines, and is a three-time Mavericks champion. So, yeah. Definitely a good dude in the public eye. But in real life, he’s a piece of work. His finger pushes down on something—a stopwatch—and he grins mischievously. The pressure underwater makes me feel like I’m about to be crushed. “Only two minutes from the edge of that jetty to the beachfront,” he tells us. “Not bad for some punk teens, huh?” “Punk teens that also happen to be Mavericks champions,” Sandy points out. “Not too shabby for some punk teens .