My secret dream is to soar high like a soccer ball flying into a net and be sort of like the tip of a paint brush. Griffin Romandetta, 13Apex, NC
Seanella’s Magical House
as dictated to a parent A generous, imaginative turtle dreams of building a house for her friends Seanella was an unusual turtle. She could use her shell as a boat. As she flowed down the Owen River near her home, she felt the breeze grow more powerful. Seanella thought the breezes were kisses coming from the friends she loved most. Seanella believed that what you thought of was real. When she imagined a rainbow glistening on the river, she could see the strong colors, and she was never bored. One day, Seanella dreamed she met a kitten. The kitten was shiny brown with purple eyes and a lollipop in her mouth. The kitten introduced herself as Mouse. The kitten did the cutest dance whenever she spoke. Seanella was so happy to meet such a special cat that she wanted to give the kitten the perfect place to live. She continued to dream up a place for the kitten with all her favorite foods, like spaghetti and burnt broccoli. This place was always the right temperature, not too hot and not too cold. She then realized, in order for her friend to be really happy, she would have to stay there, too, or Mouse would be too sad. Out of the blue, a very real dog came to talk with Seanella. “What are you doing floating down the river?” he barked. “I am building my friend Mouse, who is really a kitten, the perfect place to live.” “How can you build houses for kittens when you are just a turtle?” “When I think of it, it is there,” she proudly said. “Can you think of a place for me to live too?” asked the dog, Weevle. “Yes, I can!” The turtle proudly glowed. She then imagined the dog in a very beautiful doghouse made of swirling rainbow glass and obsidian roof tiles. She didn’t stop there. She also thought of the bowls he would drink out of, which were studded with gems and nested in colorfully woven grass. As she thought, the dog got impatient. “Well, are you going to do anything?” he asked. “Don’t you see all the obsidian I used for your roof and the bowls I have knitted with grass?” she cried. “No!” he sputtered. “I can’t see anything!” “It is sad no one can see what I can,” the turtle lamented. At this, the dog thought about the house and bowls the turtle had described. “What an idea!” He realized he could make a house using obsidian and bowls made of gems and grass! “While I collect the obsidian, who can knit the grass?” he asked. “My paws are too clumsy.” And with that, the turtle quickly knew the answer, for she was friends with many a creative bird. “My friend Lil will help you—she makes the most exquisite nests!” In the end, the imagination of Seanella and the practical work of the dog helped create a magnificent home for the two of them, with tree houses equally beautiful for the visiting birds. Sean O’Connor, 3Bishop, CA Marco Lu, 12Champaign, IL
The Mountains Are Calling
Chalk and acrylic Marco Lu, 12Champaign, IL
Days
The nights are long The days are short A breeze is blown A day is a day. It can’t be reliven Make today today Tomorrow is tomorrow The gray is space or a planet. A cold breeze sweeps by It is time to return Analise Braddock, 8Katonah, NY
A Monarch’s Way Through
A monarch butterfly encounters many obstacles—pollution, cars, and predatory birds—on her migration route Silver buildings gleamed in the distance. They rose high into the sky, blocking the view of it. Shorter buildings puffed out too much smoke, making it impossible for birds to fly over the area. Cars honked almost every second of the day, filling the city with sounds of car horns. Around the perimeter of the city was a row of trees too perfect to be anywhere near the new city. The sun looked like it was ready to cough out its sunlight through the smoke in the sky. A small monarch looked out at the new city, afraid of the new obstacles in her way. She had not seen this city before and didn’t like how it was right in her migration path. No other monarchs had made it this far yet, and she had been told by a ladybug that the only ones who had tried had gone in groups and come back with broken wings or had lost almost everyone in their group. This information scared the monarch, but she was determined to migrate to Mexico, only led by her instinctive compass and the warmth coming from the south. The trees surrounding the perimeter of the city look safest at the moment for the monarch, so she makes her way over. From far away, there seem to be no animals perched in the tree. That’s strange, the monarch thinks. A tree like this is perfect for most animals who dwell near the city. She lands on one of these trees and almost passes out from a strong smell that burns her small trachea. Now she understands clearly why not one creature dares use this tree. It is covered in a pesticide meant to repel only a few select insects. Humans thought they were warding off termites. They had really just made this tree uninhabitable for all creatures. The monarch coughs and glides down to the smooth marble walkway. Her small feet slip on the floor because there’s no friction on the walkway. To get around, she must use her wings. The monarch is in front of the first house and stops to take in the view. She has never seen a place so clean, so organized. The house is modern, with three levels and a flat roof. The yard is filled with completely fake plants, with the exception of one small tree covered in pesticide. Children are playing inside, and they appear to be alone. Then there is a light visible from one of the rooms. The monarch finds herself inching toward the light, entranced by the amazing creations of humanity. Then a small child runs up to the window, staring down at the monarch. He yells something to someone and disappears. The monarch flutters to an upper room and can’t see anyone anymore. She hears a slight sliding sound, like wood against marble. Four children burst out of the door, yelling into the street that there is a butterfly. The monarch disappears around the next corner, knowing that staying in that area would only mean death or a short life in a glass jar. The buildings are beginning to get shorter. There is no longer a chemical scent in the air. Here, it smells musty, and slightly of rotten things. Everything is covered in a thick layer of multicolored grime. A few starlings are poking at trash near a fast food restaurant. Not that many people are in sight. The walkway has also turned into gritty concrete, and the monarch guesses that this is part of a cheaper side of the city. All sorts of bad things happen in places like this. She doesn’t want to stay long but wants to visit the only animal she has seen since she started her journey through the city. The monarch swoops down to the starlings, hoping to know what happened to the monarchs who did not come back from their migration. She also wants someone to talk to. When she lands in the middle of a group of starlings, all of them turn to look at her. “What is a monarch doin’ around here?” The monarch is startled, and turns around quickly to see a big starling looking down at her. He cocks his head and puts his face very close to hers. “I’m migrating through the city,” she answers confidently. “Well, monarch, I wouldn’t keep on goin’. Most of your friends died when they got to that main road,” he said with a strange accent. The bird sounded British but the way that he slurred his words slightly led the monarch to believe he was from the city. “Goodbye, bird,” the monarch said as she began to flutter off. They looked uninterested in her. The bird said nothing and went back to picking at trash. * * * The majority of her journey along the walkway had been uneventful, with only the occasional distraction or stomping feet to interrupt the journey. It was noon now, and what would have been a relaxing evening of cricket chirps is now the loud honk of cars not that far away. As the walkway continues, the honks get louder. Everything seems to be tainted with car oil, and the stink is beginning to make the monarch lightheaded. The monarch is coming near to the main road, which sits right at the edge of the city. It stretches on for miles, reaching seven main cities along the way. The road is four lanes wide. Each lane is large enough to fit an 18-wheel truck comfortably. She shudders, afraid that one car going too fast could be the end of her dream to be the first monarch to reach Mexico. The monarch reaches the edge of the road, and all of the determination drains out of her as fast as water going down a drain. She shudders, afraid that one car going
The Cedar Bracelet
A girl needs the courage to face a new home and a new school all the way across the country I only felt like myself when I was listening to stories. It was no surprise, really. Words were my sanctuary. I had never been good at making real friends, but those in books had always welcomed me with open arms. I had lived in the same town my whole life, and the friend I had had since preschool had moved away the previous summer. We hadn’t seen each other since. Books were different. They never moved away. They always stood beside me. My cousin was my only real friend. She was six years older than I was, the kind of person to whom words come as easily as breath. She always told me stories. We used to sit outside on the porch, which wrapped around the back of my house, in the sky-blue hammock that hung between two of the posts. When I was smaller and too young to get into it on my own, my cousin would lift me onto it, nearly tossing me off again when she got on herself, causing the hammock to sway back and forth like a ship on a stormy sea. We sometimes took ice-cream sandwiches outside, or bags of pretzels, or carrot sticks, and we’d munch on them and watch the butterflies and bees dart among the brightly colored flowers of the garden. On windy days, we’d bring a kite and watch the breeze play with the kite tails as it dipped and dived through the air. She used to tell me stories: fantastical tales of other worlds which could only be reached through mirrors, of lands of eternal snow and ice and sun. She would describe the blaze of a sunset over a restless sea and the patterns of the stars seen from the highest tower of a castle perched on the tip of the world. Sometimes, she read to me from books with bright illustrations painted on the covers. But usually, she would tell stories that didn’t come from a book. These were the ones that spun images of fantasy in my mind—of a princess in an azure gown with a bronze-plumed bird perched on her hand, or a forest-green dragon reclining on a vast horde of treasure, or a wizard in starry robes watching a phoenix circle in the sky. There was a land among the clouds where only fairies lived, one story began. An elven girl once floated on a raft down a river of light that ended in the stars, went another. The daughter of the king did not plan on being trapped in the tower for long, began a third. These days were perfect. They were the times I savored, the moments I wished could last forever. But nothing can. It was June. I had turned 12 a few days before. We were moving, my parents said, to the other side of the country. They said I would make new friends, that our new home would be even better than where we lived now. But my cousin was different. I knew no friend could ever replace her. * * * We sat in the hammock as we had so many times, with the wind swaying us back and forth and sunlight playing on butterfly wings as they fluttered through the flowers. My cousin told me that she’d be going to college soon. She said she’d write. I knew she would. But no words could change the miles that would stretch between us, a void wider than the sea. She seemed to sense my thoughts, because she said, “Penelope, have I ever told you about the girl who went on a quest to find a feather but found something much more important?” I shook my head. “No? Well, in a far-off land where trees speak in the language of wind, where magic is more natural than earth and sea and sky, there was an elven girl with moon-black hair who was afraid of change, of the shifting future and the uncertainty of what would come next. There was loneliness and fear in that world as much as in this one, and for her, she had a name to lay upon it. For all the elves go on a quest when they turn 13, and she knew hers would change her life forever. “Her 13th birthday dawned on a sunny day, with bluebirds and orioles singing sweetly in the trees. And she learned her quest would be to find the silver feather that the phoenix Avis left when she was reborn from fire on the top of Blue Mountain, whose cliffs reared high above the clouds. “The elven girl embarked on her journey, as tradition decreed. She scaled Blue Mountain by way of a forgotten road. She faced ancient monsters, outwitted cruel thieves, and went long days without food or drink. After the sun had risen and set more times than she could count, she reached the fabled place. She looked high and low, but she found no silver feather, nor any sign that it had ever been. All there was, was a bracelet made of cedar beads, one of which was shaped in the form of a dragon. She took it back with her, but she knew she had failed. “When she returned home, ashamed and uncertain, she was greeted by the sage of her village. The girl told him of her failure, expecting to be rebuked or worse, but the old man simply smiled. “‘Why do you cry, child?’ he asked, and to the elven girl’s dismay, she realized tears were indeed running down her cheeks. She bit her lip and tried to keep her voice from trembling. “‘Because I have failed my family.’ “The sage laughed, a low, husky sound, like the rustle of dry rushes on a riverbank. ‘You have found what you needed most,’ he
Dandelions
Acrylics Alicia Xin, 13Scarsdale, NY
The Missing Hair
Oliver employs a detective to find his missing hair Once, when I was counting the hairs on my head, I noticed that one hair was missing. You see, usually, I had 2,476 hairs on my head, but when I counted them this time, there were only 2,475 hairs on my head. Someone had stolen my hair. I went to the police station for help, but they said that I was crazy. Then I went to the FBI, but they said that they had much more important cases on their hands. Personally, I don’t understand how vandalism in the White House could be more important than my missing hair, but it wasn’t my choice. Finally, I realized that the best way to handle any situation was to take care of it at home. I went to the private detective on my street. No one ever went to him to solve their cases. I wondered why. I walked into his room, where I found him holding a magnifying glass to my face. “Do you have poor eyesight?” I asked. “No,” he said. “But I could never be a proper detective if I didn’t always hold a magnifying glass to people’s faces when they enter this room.” I was impressed. This was clearly a man I could trust. “What’s your name?” I asked. “My name is Detective DaVinci.” “That name sounds French,” I said. “It’s actually Spanish,” Detective DaVinci said. “My name is Olivier Ruthe.” “That name is also Spanish,” the detective noted. “What trouble do you bear?” So, I told him about how I lost my hair and about how no one would take me seriously. “This is a difficult case,” Detective DaVinci told me. “I will need $100.” I hesitated. One hundred dollars was a lot of money. But my hair was worth a lot of money. “Of course,” I said. “Anything for my hair.” “You should give me the money before I solve the case. Just so I know you aren’t a crook.” “OK,” I replied. I met his price. Then I went back to my house, feeling satisfied and tired after a long day’s work. That night, I had a hard time sleeping. I kept hearing shuffling noises at the window. Once, I felt a sharp pain on my scalp. I kept my eyes closed the whole time, hoping I might fall asleep. Eventually, the noises stopped. The next day, I went straight to my detective. “I found your hair!” he exclaimed. He showed me the hair in a glass bottle. I immediately started counting my hair. It took about an hour and a half. When I was finished, I found that I was missing another hair. “Don’t worry,” the detective said. “I’ll find it.” That night, I had trouble sleeping again. The same thing happened as had happened the night before. I heard noises at the window, felt a pain on my head, heard more noises, then silence. First thing in the morning, I counted my hair. I was missing another hair. I told my detective. He had, however, found another hair. “You probably counted wrong.” He started counting my hair. “There. I counted the same number of hairs you started with . . . whatever that number was.” “Oh,” I said simply. Again, that night, I heard a noise. I rolled over. “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” The voice of the scream sounded familiar. Then I went to sleep. When I arrived back at Detective DaVinci’s house to thank him, he was frantically packing. He was bruised, covered in dirt, and his hair was sticking out in different directions. “You look like you fell out of a window,” I said. “Something like that happened. No one will steal your hair again.” He started toward the door. I tried to say something. “But—” “Bye.” Then he slammed the door. I lived quite happily after that, except for the time I stepped on a broken magnifying glass right below my bedroom window and ruined my shoe. I wonder how it got there. Oliver Giller, 10Providence, RI
Spirit to Healthy Living
Prismacolor pencils Parinita Chandrashekar, 12Bridgewater, NJ
In the Playroom
The silver and bronze chessmen wait to be set against one another, next to Lego soldiers who defend their base from giant robots while starfighters stage dog fights. Facing themselves in an otherworldly mirror like an alien monument to primitive gods. While the slow whirr of the foot massager comforts my mother as she texts her friends. A big centerpiece, a shiny, often-out-of-tune piano on which “Für Elise” was mastered in a month. Opposite, a huge window with sunsets galore and at night, I can make a game of finding how many moths plaster the window. When I am down, I can always escape over here, away from all the excitement and hubbub of outside and indulge in dear playtime and my own fantasies. Ah, the sweet smell of fond memories, of earthy, waxy incense candles burning, fit for meditations at a Buddhist monastery. And the moist lemon and herb tea, as savory as a summer salad. The spicy jalapeño chips contrasting with the clean air of the heater warming me while I type this on the Mac. When stuck on writing, I chew on my comfort food, cheesy, nutty, spiced crackers, and feel the hairy fuzziness of the piano sheepskin cover for inspiration. My favorite sound: Lego pieces falling onto the smooth, polished hardwood, little souls trapped inside and unable to help themselves. William Chui, 12Mill Valley, CA
Grateful
A simple bike ride to school occasions a complex meditation on life 7:35 a.m. My mind is still heavy with sleep, barely woken up by my hurried breakfast. It only allows one thought in at a time, so two words are looping through my head: get ready. I take a last gulp of lukewarm tea and place my lunchbox in the basket on the side of my bicycle. I try to get my thoughts in order as I strap on my helmet and roll the bike out of the garage. I tie my sneakers, the laces chafing my cold fingers, and pull two layers of warm mittens onto my hands. I pause for a moment to look back at my house. It is the smallest on my street, painted a dull brown. I can see warm golden light flooding the rooms inside, illuminating the furniture, each piece of which seems to be having a friendly conversation with the others. I glimpse my younger brother’s face inside. He is smiling. The contented spirit of the house seems to reach out of the dusty windows and embrace me. I carry an image of it in my heart. My talisman. 7:40 a.m. I pedal out onto the street. The crisp, chilly morning air wraps around me like a cloak, blowing the wisps of sleepiness out of my hair and eyelids. Somewhere, I can hear the cheerful fluting of an early songbird. I blink and lean forward in the saddle. I am ready. 7:43 a.m. After a couple of minutes, I take a sudden turn onto the main road. The change hits me like a slap—the formerly empty streets are filled with rushing, honking cars, the peace of the morning cut to pieces with sound and motion. But both environments are so familiar to me that I take a strange pleasure in the new leg of my route. 7:46 a.m. My bike grinds to a halt in front of the main intersection. It is filled with early morning traffic. I walk my bike to a pole and press the walk button, then lean back in my seat to wait. Gradually, a crowd of children appears behind me, filling up the sidewalk. They wait on their bikes, some chattering quietly. Others sit and stare ahead, breathless from their ride. They all have the same look in their eyes—that expression of blank determination. It is the only expression to have when the cold is biting through two layers of mittens and numbing your cheeks. Scarves and conversation are the thawing agents for those kids. The thing that thaws my fingers is the thought that there are some things that are gifted only to me—the sight of my tiny, welcoming house, my muddy-but-strong Goodwill sneakers, the texture of tattered cloth in my fingers. That knowledge is as much a part of my body as my arms and legs, throbbing slowly in the chilly air. I can see this knowledge flickering in their determined-yet-carefree faces, but it is more than a flicker in me. It is a flame, keeping me alive. 7:48 a.m. The cars are facing each other like bulls rearing for a fight, engines growling softly. It takes me a moment to register the faint, ghostly white form flickering ahead: the walk sign. A second later, the group of bicycles is whooshing across the road. We are like a single form, the colors of the bikes blending and blurring together as we ride. We reach the sidewalk and disperse like colorful butterflies, many remaining in tight groups of two or three. I ride alone, as always, savoring the scent of the apple blossoms, which have fallen over the bike path like a carpet. 7:55 a.m. I take a turn into a wooded, shady trail. The trees arch over me. Red and gold ivy climbs over the walls on either side of me, spiraling and curling over the peeling paint. With satisfaction, I think about how the trail will look coming home from school: sun-dappled, the green-gold shadows dancing on the path before me. Only a few riders accompany me on this leg of the route, going and coming: I will enjoy the beauty alone. That is the moment I look forward to all day, the thought sustaining me through seven hours of misery and happiness, dappling the hallways of the school like sunlight on the road. I gaze at the picturesque sight with the same bittersweet pleasure I feel every morning 8:00 a.m. The few bikers remaining with me turn right at the intersection, their flashy wheels glinting as they move. I pause and watch them for a few moments. The road ahead of them is smooth and nearly shiny, the spotless streets lined with green ginkgo trees, immaculate bushes, and sprawling, pastel-hued houses. Their colorful coats dot the landscape, and I gaze at the picturesque sight with the same bittersweet pleasure I feel every morning. Finally, I take a quick glance at my cracked pink watch and ride precipitately in the opposite direction. 8:02 a.m. I ride in the middle of the road—there is no bike path here. The path becomes increasingly cracked and dusty as I move forward, and I watch the ground carefully, avoiding a fall. The houses, packed together like sardines, line the streets. The idea crosses my mind, as it does every morning, that the grimy-yet-sunshiny yellow walls look suffocated, like caged tigers. But the simile, however impressive, does not fit. The houses are more like the stray cats that sometimes sleep on the road in this part of town— bedraggled and tired, yet strangely contented. The thought leaves my mind as quickly as it came, and I wave to an acquaintance standing on her doorstep. The time to linger and dream is gone. 8:05 a.m. My school, from the outside, looks much like the identical yellow houses that captured my imagination a few streets down. It has a bed of flowers growing in the front. Just daisies, nothing more—yet
Contrast
Nikon D3400 Delaney Slote, 12 Missoula MT Nikon
