Hundreds of feet in the air, the world is In miniature, a scale model made of tinfoil, cardboard, and glue The green water ocean is so smooth you could walk on it Haloed by a ring of white foam, tiny islands poke out of the sea They’re so small none of them have a name You could be the first to conquer them, call them your own The wind is high, and clouds rush in The plane rises higher You leave the old world and enter one of pure sunlight The only shadow is that of the plane on the clouds below Sunset is fading fast You chase it— Everything ends in stars Jem Burch, 13Van Nuys, California
Finally Free (Maybe?)
Dear Mother, Tomorrow is the day. Just think of it! Tomorrow I will be in America! Everyone is talking about how much opportunity and dreams coming true and hope awaits us there. No one cares if you’re Christian or Jewish, Italian or German, people say. Once we’re there, we’ll be free! I guess that for most of the people here, that’s true. But for me, there’s really no opportunity or dreams coming true or hope. As soon as I get off this ship, I’m going to Huntington Station and boarding an orphan train. I should be happy. Maybe someone will adopt me. Then I’ll finally have a family, finally have someone who loves me. But you’re in France, Mother. The whole time I was in the orphanage, I was hoping that maybe, just maybe, you’d show up at the doorstep and take me. I’d jump into your arms, and we’d hug each other, and you’d swear you’d never leave me again. I had it all perfectly planned out. That hope is gone now. I am in America; you are in France. The Atlantic Ocean is big, Mother, far bigger than you can imagine. It doesn’t matter anymore whether or not you really are dead like everybody says you are. We will never meet again. Your loving daughter, Amélie * * * Dear Mother, Sara insists that I should learn English. She learned it, and she said it was easy as could be. I know that English is the language they speak in America, and that it would help me ever so much if I were able to speak it. But my tongue refuses to learn that language. It is ever so confusing, and I always forget to put adjectives before nouns instead of after. Sara is a friend I made on this ship. If she were going on an orphan train, she wouldn’t have to worry a single bit. She has silky hair, deep blue eyes, and is very pretty. She also has a talent for thinking quickly, something I’m not quite good at. We were talking about the smell of the sea when suddenly there was a loud honk hink honk. A boat was docking next to us. A few people with white coats stepped out, ready to inspect our ship. People started running all around, tripping over each other, all running toward the rails, as if in a hurry to jump overboard. I had no clue what was happening, so I told Sara, “Come on! Let’s go check it out!” After falling over and being trampled a few times, we sat on a box of old ship things, the only place where we could find room. Then we saw it. I had heard about it, a gift from France to the USA, but never had I thought it would look like this. The Statue of Liberty. People were cheering, crying, going down on their knees and praying. A person was talking to our captain, Captain Santelli. “S.S. La Gascogne, cleared to go!” said the person. We were put on a ferry going towards some island. And that is all I can write now, Mother. I’ll try to write more soon. Your loving daughter, Amélie * * * Dear Mother, I thought that as soon as I got off the ferry, I would be in America. That’s why, even though Sara was speechless, gazing at Lady Liberty behind us, I was sitting and looking at my train tickets. “Think you’re going straight off to America?” someone asked. I jolted. What was that person talking about? “We have to go through Ellis Island, you know,” he spoke again. He was dressed in rags, and he looked like a younger version of how I imagined my father would look. “Pardon me?” I asked. I had heard about it, but never had I thought it would look like this “It’s where all the steerage goes before they come to America. They inspect us and make sure we’re good to enter.” He attempted to scratch out the dirt from underneath his fingernails. “I found out from people on board.” I tried to remember where I knew this person from. “I don’t remember seeing you before…” I said. He suddenly turned red, then purple, then white, then green, and finally back to a normal face color. “I… umm… well… you probably never noticed me… I’m sure that’s it…” He coughed. “If I tell you a secret, will you promise not to tell anybody?” he asked me. I nodded. “Well…” he paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to say this, “I was a stowaway.” I gasped. “I’m turning eighteen tomorrow,” he said. “I wanted to get away from my family, start a new life in America. But I didn’t have any money, so I snuck aboard.” I was frozen. “I hid in the bilge and snuck food from the garbage cans of the first-class deck.” He looked sincerely at me when he was finished. “Please don’t tell anyone,” he said. Don’t worry. I won’t. * * * Dear Mother, I’m so sorry that I forgot to end my last letter. We had just arrived at Ellis Island, and so I had no time to sign my name. There were many people on the dock, as many people as the Atlantic Ocean was big. Never, ever had I imagined there would be so many people! Everyone was carrying their trunks, all trying their hardest in a race to get to freedom first. Me, I had no luggage, only my train ticket and what was on me. Slap! An officer walked up to me and pinned a tag on me, eyes full of concern, yet covered by a comfortable blanket of confusion. I was number 137. I wasn’t sure, Mother. Was that all I was, a number printed on a piece of paper? I guess I was, for I had nobody. Nobody to meet me once I got out of Ellis Island.
Twenty and a Half Minutes
He walks along the narrow path, skirting in-between the buildings. He knows that inside, young men and women are dressing in their uniforms and taking up their swords. Most will last the night. After that… he cannot say. Many on the path are headed toward his destination, the walls that barricade their fort. He eyes their black armor that is lined with red. Just another thing that makes him stand out. He is dressed in the same way, except he wears a white cloak, and white boots and gloves. A sign of peace—except there is nothing peaceful about his abilities. Soldiers peek at him as he passes them, and a few ask him to tell them their fate. Whether they will survive this battle or not. So he takes their arm and glances at their palm. But what he says to each of them is the same: “Fight with all your spirit, and do not leave this world behind.” Their faces turn towards him as he walks on, and he knows that they will puzzle over this riddle until it is time to fight. He can’t tell what will happen, and he decided long ago that if they die, they might as well go out fighting. But he knows that this time, the soldiers will fight fiercely anyway. There are over 150 refugees living here. It is better than having to die in guilt. By now he’s reached the top of the barricade and walks along the platform. When he stops, it is next to his best friend. The young woman turns, her short blond locks peeking out from beneath a red cap. She smiles, but he takes her arm and turns her palm over. He can’t lose her, not her, not his best and only friend Twenty and a half minutes. His breath stops, and he lets her hand slip out of his grasp. The blood pounds in his ears. She is his one friend, the only thing in this world that he truly cares about. He can’t lose her, not her, not his best and only friend. She is oblivious to his distress. “What does it say?” she asks, twirling an arrow in her fingers. He swallows his panic. “You know I’m not allowed to tell you, Rosamy,” he replies. “Although, ‘fight with all your spirit, and do not leave this world behind’ comes to mind.” She laughs. It has always amazed him how she can be so cheerful, even on the edge of a battle. “Well, then, how soon will the fight start?” Rosamy tosses the arrow into the air and catches it by the feather. He closes his eyes. He does not see darkness, but instead the field before them. Now it is filled with the enemy’s warriors, and sounds of battle ring in his ears. He snaps his eyes open. “In just a few minutes. Maybe even sooner.” An intense expression slides onto her face. “Then I shall fight until I die, or until the battle is over. Hope to sages my aim is true,” she declares fiercely. There is a scream, and he turns to see a soldier duck as a scarlet-tipped arrow whistles over their heads. A figure appears on the horizon. Even from here, he can see the flash of sun on silver. Out of the corner of his eyes he notices Rosamy load her bow. A scream reaches him, a war cry so terrifying, he would run if he hadn’t heard it before. Ten arrows thud into the wood. Then the scream is gone, and the lone figure is no longer alone. The battle has begun. He yanks his friend out of the way as scarlet flashes by. He glances at her palm, hoping he has beat fate, although he knows twenty and half minutes couldn’t possibly have passed. Thirteen minutes. They stand in the center of the wall that faces the opposing force, and he steps up, pushing past their archers. He takes the edges of his cloak in his hands. Then he stretches his arms out. The cloak shields some soldiers, and he knows that they will survive, for no one may fire upon the man in white. That agreement was made five years ago, when his ability was discovered and it was decided that his life was much too precious. He can see how soon someone will die by looking at their palm. This gift has tormented him for years, ever since he signed up to be a cadet. He knew when his friends would die, and he could do nothing to stop it. That’s why he’s avoided making new friends. Why the only one he has is Rosamy. Soon, she will be gone too. The foot soldiers will not spill out of the gates until word is given. He closes his eyes and can see the warriors before them, fighting. A sea of black and silver. He whistles and lifts his eyelids. A white dove appears on his hand. He directs it down, to the fort, then it flies to someone on the paths. He can now hear the gates squeak open. A scream shatters the air, cut short. The first casualty. The sounds of fighting attack his hearing. He ignores them, aware that there is nothing he could have done to stop this. At least most of their soldiers will survive. If the time until death extends past thirty hours, he cannot see it. And many palms he looked at were empty. But one palm, the one palm that mattered to him, it had only minutes on it. He glances toward Rosamy, who is pulling an arrow back. He can make out the numbers on her hand. Three minutes. He glances behind him. There are soldiers herding the refugees into the stone buildings, the only ones that are safe from fire. Wailing rises into the air, and he sees a teenage girl, arguing with someone in red and black. He can barely hear her voice.
The Queen of Katwe
The Queen of Katwe, by Tim Crothers; Simon & Schuster: New York, 2016; $16.00 The Queen of Katwe is a true story about an amazing Ugandan girl named Phiona Mutesi. Phiona grew up in the slums of Katwe. Life in Katwe is tough—little or no education, poor sanitation, crimes, violence, and extreme poverty. People search for food on the dangerous streets and often struggle to stay in one place for a long time because they can’t afford rent. This was the life of Phiona. One day in 2005, while Phiona was searching for food on the streets of Katwe, she spotted her brother and decided to follow him. He led her to a dusty veranda where she met Robert for the first time. Robert was a Christian missionary who had a dream of empowering the kids of Katwe through the game of chess. Phiona didn’t know anything about chess. The boys who had already been playing chess for a while made fun of her. Robert didn’t expect Phiona to come back because of all the teasing she suffered, but she came back the next day. So, Robert had Gloria, a girl younger than Phiona, teach her the fundamentals of chess. Phiona didn’t like the fact that she was being taught by someone who was younger than her, so she worked hard every single day to be the best she could. Soon, she started to beat everyone, including her mentor, Robert. Obviously, she had a natural affinity for chess, but it was her hard work and dedication that helped her become the national junior champion at the age of eleven, only two years after she first learned to play chess. By the time she was fifteen, she had become the Uganda national champion. Phiona is now a Woman Candidate Master, the first in her country’s history. Her ultimate goal is to become a Grand Master, the highest title in chess. I consider myself a serious chess player. Although I am not as good as Phiona, I practice the game of chess daily and often go to tournaments on the weekends. I feel like Phiona saw her life reflected in the game of chess. In chess, players have to persevere against many obstacles put in their path. In Phiona’s real-life situation, the obstacles were poverty, starvation, violence, and an unstable family situation in the slums of Katwe. This book definitely has some parts that are sad, upsetting, and even scary. Some people may find it disturbing to read about the horrible conditions in which the children of Katwe live. In that sense, I feel that readers must have a certain level of maturity to read this book. However, the book also tells us a remarkable story of how one girl from one of the worst slums in the world found hope for her future through the game of chess. Like chess, life is all about struggles, frustrations, and triumphs. This book teaches you anything is possible if you put your mind to it. I want to recommend this book to anyone who needs a little inspiration in life. Whether you want to become a chess champion, write a book, get good grades, make it on a soccer team, or run your first 5K, this book will inspire you to achieve your goal. You just have to remember that, just as chess requires a lot of perseverance to win, you will need a lot of perseverance and patience to achieve your goal. This book has motivated me to strive for my best every day. Meg Isohata, 12Mountlake Terrace,Washington
Starry Night
In an art museum in Chicago my dad and Van Gogh stare at each other. On a kitchen table in Sanford my mom watches me draw. In the museum gift shop my dad buys me a print of Starry Night. At home in my room Starry Night hangs above my bed, calming like a space gallery, yellow, white, black, and blue. Jude Stumpf, 8Sanford, North Carolina
In All Its Silvery Beauty
It was in the middle of the night. The sheets were thrown to the floor, useless. The window was open, and you could hear the sounds of summer. Cicadas chirping in unison, the occasional car starting, and the breeze that was so precious it was worth gold. My hair was sweaty, and I brushed away the bangs that clung to my forehead. Maybe I should get some air, I thought. I grabbed my flashlight and stood up. My sister was still fast asleep in another bed, sucking her thumb. Slowly, I walked over to the window and swung one leg over the ledge. The windowsill creaked and I froze. After ten seconds, I let out my breath. My sister still had her eyes closed. When my feet touched the grass, I was in a whole new world. Instead of rough, wooden boards, my feet felt soft dirt and grass. Instead of the artificial breeze from the broken-down fan, I felt a real breeze. The kind that is soft and comforting, like a quilt that your mother draped around you when it got cold. Oh, and the smells. The grass and the dirt and the bark on the trees. Even the moonlight. The silvery glow coming from the moon shone down on every blade of grass that dared to reach for it. It made the sidewalk look metallic—silver. Almost like how hose water tastes in your mouth. When my feet touched the grass, I was in a whole new world I could write a poem about moonlight. Light, fight, height, bite, I thought. Even at night, the air was as thick as my mother’s chowder. It was muggy and humid, not the dry heat from Phoenix. I turned on my flashlight and moved the sphere of light no bigger than a fist toward the house. Everything was calm. Flicking the flashlight off, I sank down to my knees. I lay down on the cool, soft grass and breathed in the scent of the ground. I let out a yelp when I felt a hand on my shoulder. Looking up, I realized it was my mother, her long black hair tumbling down her back. “I saw your flashlight beam,” she commented. She sat down next to me and squeezed my shoulder. “Time to go in.” She gave me a small, sad smile, like it wasn’t her choice that I had to go inside. I stood up and she took my hand. “Sorry, I needed some air, and…” my voice trailed off and faded away, like a line of watercolor paint. She nodded, as if she understood. “The moonlight,” she said. “The moonlight.” I nodded, and I took one last look at the silvery beauty before returning to the shelter of my house. Hannah Ferreira, 11Virginia Beach, Virginia Rachel Maughan, 11Keller, Texas
“George,” Reviewed by Samuel Phillips
George, by Alex Gino; Scholastic Press: New York, 2015; $16.99 George could not have come out at a better time. LGBT rights is an important issue, yet for kids unfamiliar with the acronym or those interested in the subject, like me, seeing this in a kids’ novel had never happened, until George. The main character of the book, George, is transgender. Because of this, I believe that George is a thought-provoking and fresh book for kids and teens of all ages. George looks like a standard fourth-grade boy, short hair, freckles, and the parts that make a boy, a boy. But George knows on the inside that she is a girl. The annual school play of Charlotte’s Web is coming up and George and her friend Kelly are really excited for auditions. But George doesn’t want to play Wilbur. She wants to be Charlotte. On a trip to the library, I picked up this book and got it, just because. Little did I know, this book would consume my life for four hours on an emotional journey through the mind of George. Cliffhangers propelled me through the book faster and faster. I struggled to find an explanation for my reading outburst until I broke it down. Here are the three things that really won this book over for me: The characters, writing style, and plot. The characters in this book were realistic and relatable. Kelly is this lighthearted, kind, and caring friend, people we need more of in this world. I have a friend who is like Kelly. We were signing up for game workshops and I was in the library. I really wanted to play Capture the Flag, so I asked a favor of him. He actually crossed his name off the list so that I could play. I still need to repay him. Kelly is truly the hero of this book, making her my favorite character. The brother, Scott, I also find realistic. He really understands what George is dealing with, despite being a little shocked at first. My brother and I talk late at night and we talk about what’s happening in our lives and I feel that he understands me, unlike even the best of my friends. Scott and George feel like my brother and me a lot. I love the plot in George for so many reasons. It’s simple, with only one goal and mission, giving it the opportunity to deeply tell the story of George. The other reason is it’s predictable, from start to finish. This allowed me to focus on those little moments and small details that I would otherwise miss. The way Alex Gino wrote this book was very interesting. The book is written in a third-person viewpoint, but George’s character is written the way George identifies, as a girl. This makes this book confusing, but in the best of ways. But by the end of George, I had become so used to the idea of George as she is, that I didn’t notice. I admit, I almost cried at the end. The ending is just so magical and so right for the book. I cannot express the emotions that seep through those words. In fact, the entire book is emotional, with triumphant moments and times of lonesome sorrow. And when you can feel those moments, where tears pool up in your eyes or when you scream out in joy for the character, that is the making of a good book. I used to find myself picking up books with awards to their names, but now I see that George is different. George is one of those amazing books left unrecognized.
Count Your Blessings
“Kenna, come push your sister out to the car.” I swing my backpack onto my shoulder and jog down the stairs just as I hear the school bus pull up to our driveway and beep. “Can’t you do it? I don’t want to have to walk again. The bus only waits five minutes, and Anna is really hard to push over the gravel.” “Don’t argue. I’ve got my hands full with your brother, and I have to get this roast beef put in the crock pot. You’re perfectly capable of walking to school, and it’s a nice day,” Mom replies, pulling three-year-old Leo’s hands from her apron strings and retying them. Sighing heavily, I rest my hands on Anna’s wheelchair handles and push. Her wheelchair inches slowly towards the door. By the time I have Anna just outside, I hear the bus brakes squeal as they let up, and the driver and the load of kids begin to roll away. Holding back angry tears, I shove the wheelchair the rest of the way to the van. “They don’t pay me enough to do all this,” I grumble, even though I don’t get paid at all. I pull open the van door and help my sister into the seat. Folding her wheelchair together, I lift up the trunk door and heave it inside. Pushing the van door closed, I shove my hands deep in my pockets. Without saying goodbye to my mom, I start off down the driveway. A little finch hops along at the same pace as me but keeps a cautious few feet between us. It turns its head and chirps at me, but even the cheerful singing of a pretty little bird can’t lift my spirits. “Kenna, come push your sister out to the car” I sigh and turn away from the bird. “It seems that every day of my life, I’m stuck taking care of Anna. ‘Kenna, come help Anna eat.’ ‘Kenna, come read to Anna.’ ‘Kenna, do this.’ ‘Kenna, do that.’ It’s not fair,” I say in a hushed, irritated voice. “I’m always doing stuff for Anna. But what is she doing for me? Nothing, is the answer. All she does is eat and drool and constantly smile at me.” * * * It’s only a few minutes past eight o’clock when I reach the school. I hear the warning bell ring as I hurry inside my classroom. Luckily, Mr. Regardo has his back turned and doesn’t even notice me. I take my seat next to my best friend, Piper. A seat behind Piper sits one of our mortal enemies, Ruth. Two summers ago, we were all best friends. But she went to a sleep-away camp this past summer, and now all she’s interested in is the latest hairstyle and fashion magazines. Apparently, she roomed with the group of girls who bully everyone here at school. Now Ruth isn’t really nice to me or Piper. She just hangs out with those girls. “All right, class,” says Mr. Regardo presently, turning around and grinning at us. “Seeing as it is almost time for fall vacation, and Thanksgiving is approaching quickly, I have a surprise for you.” The class gives a small cheer at this, all except for Ryan Hoss, who always has to get everyone’s attention. He jumps out of his seat and throws his baseball cap in the air, whooping and hollering. “That’s enough, Ryan. I’m pretty sure you don’t want to have to go to the principal’s office—again,” Mr. Regardo says, with a warning look. Ryan, grinning with pride, gives one last attention-seeking toss of his baseball cap and plops down in his chair, his cap landing on top of his desk. “What I was saying—before I was interrupted,” Mr. Regardo goes on, pointedly turning his eyes toward Ryan, “is that, instead of our usual English worksheets, we will be doing a Thanksgiving craft!” This gets the class going again, and Mr. Regardo walks to the rear of the classroom and puts a hand on Ryan’s shoulder before he can get all riled up a second time. “All right now, let’s keep quiet. I’m going to hand out craft packets to you all. They have ten leaves and a tree trunk in them, as well as a picture of the ground and the sky on a piece of paper. Paste your tree and leaves onto the paper, and then write what you’re thankful for on the leaves.” “This is too easy! Can’t we write the names of all the presidents on the leaves or something?” Ryan pipes up. “This isn’t homework, Ryan,” Mr. Regardo replies. “This is a craft to put up on your fridge.” “I’m not allowed to put things on my fridge,” a girl named Ria answers. “Well, do what you want with it,” Mr. Regardo says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “So… I can throw it away?” Ryan calls, putting his hand in the air. “No. Ryan, although this is not homework, it is an assignment, so treat it like one,” Mr. Regardo says sternly. Ryan drops his hand to his packet and begins tearing out the pieces. I take all of the pieces out of my packet and lay them across my desk. There are red, yellow, and orange leaves, a brown tree trunk, a blue sky, and green grass. I always notice colors— they’re my favorite thing in the whole world. I love getting out my art stuff and making gradients. Red to orange, yellow to green, blue to purple. Smiling, I take the glue stick out of the packet and pop off the cap. The smell of glue always appeals to me. I take a long whiff until I see Piper looking at me strangely and Ruth giving me the evil eye. My cheeks flush with embarrassment, and I hunch over my paper. I begin rolling the glue stick over the back of the tree trunk, careful not to let my hair get in the sticky
Shadow-Dancing
Sarah wrapped her arms around herself, shivering. The wind was bitingly chilly, and it kept worming its way up her sleeves and through the open space where she was missing a button. She tugged on her little dog Ollie’s leash, and he trotted toward her, flashing her a doggy grin. “Come on,” she said, and they headed toward the woods. But just as Sarah went to enter the woods, she heard a voice say, “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.” She turned to see two kids standing behind her, a boy and a girl. Sarah guessed they were twins. “Why not?” she asked. “You’re new, so you wouldn’t know,” said the girl. “Know what?” said Sarah, growing irritated. “Well, the woods, they’re… haunted,” said the boy. Sarah laughed. “It’s true!” said the boy. “Yeah, we’re not kidding,” said the girl seriously. “By the way, I’m Meg, and this is my brother, Mac.” “I’m Sarah,” said Sarah, “and I don’t believe in ghosts.” She brushed her sandy curls from her forehead and looked down at Ollie. He tilted his head and sat down, waiting patiently for their walk to begin. She bent down to ruffle his ears and then turned back to the woods. “People have seen things in there,” said Meg, her voice hushed, “if they go in after dusk. Dark figures dancing around a campfire… a strange man playing even stranger music… people say that he plays music so terrible and wonderful it disturbs the dead.” “I have waited a long time for you,” he said Sarah rolled her eyes. “It’s probably just some guy camping out.” Mac and Meg looked at each other. “Once,” Mac said, “someone went in and never came out.” “Maybe they got lost,” Sarah suggested. “Anyway, there’s no such thing as ghosts, and I’m going to go for a walk in the woods. Just you wait and see, I’ll be perfectly fine.” “Well, we warned you,” said Mac darkly. “OK,” said Sarah, and she and Ollie strode into the woods. It was nice in the woods, quiet and peaceful, with all the trees forming a leafy canopy overhead. Sarah and Ollie took a long, lovely walk through the trees, and soon it began to get dark. “We’d better get back,” Sarah told Ollie, “or Mom and Dad will be worried.” He yipped and followed her back the way they’d come. They’d only gone a little ways when Sarah caught a whiff of smoke on the breeze. She soon spotted the flicker of fire ahead. She remembered what the twins had said to her about the woods being haunted and wondered if they were out here trying to scare her. She crept forward quietly, and then she heard the music. It was beautiful. It danced on the breeze and seemed to call to her. She followed the sound and came to a little bonfire. The smoke seemed very thick and dark, but as she stepped forward, the music stopped and the darkness dispersed. A man was sitting at the bonfire, holding a fiddle in his hands and watching her. He was an old, old man, old and weathered with many wrinkles on his face, but his smile was that of a child’s. His eyes were bright and shiny as mirrors, and they had clearly seen many things. “I have waited a long time for you,” he said. He took his fiddle and laid it in a case. He held the case out to her. “You want me to take your fiddle?” she asked, confused. “You are the one,” the man said solemnly. “You are my successor.” “What do you mean?” She was even more confused now. “I’ve been waiting for the perfect person to pass this down to,” said the man. “Now remember, there must be a flame, and everything must be back as it was before sunrise.” He placed the fiddle case in her hands. All of a sudden, the fire went out, and a rustling noise filled her ears. Scared, she turned and ran, Ollie scampering after her. When Sarah had left that part of the woods behind her, she looked down at the fiddle case in her hands. Then she looked down at Ollie. “Do you think that man was a ghost, Ollie?” she asked. Ollie tilted his head. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either. He was just a little odd. Nice of him to give me his fiddle, though.” Ollie wagged his tail, and they went home. After eating dinner with her parents, Sarah and Ollie went up to Sarah’s bedroom. Sarah read a book for a while and then decided to go to bed. She got on her pajamas and lay down to sleep. But she couldn’t. Finally she got up and took the old man’s fiddle out of its case. As she turned over the pretty instrument, she remembered what the man had said: “There must be a flame.” She went and got a tall red candle and lit it. She put it on her bedside table and thought, Now what? Then she realized, Of course. I have to play the fiddle. Sarah knew nothing about playing the fiddle, so the first few notes she screeched out sounded awful. But then she felt almost like someone was guiding her hands and showing her what to do. Soon she was playing a beautiful song. It sounded bright and lively, like a jig. She was really enjoying playing the music when all of a sudden her shadow peeled itself off the wall and started dancing! Sarah froze, her mouth falling open in shock. The shadow stopped dancing and watched her expectantly, so she started playing the song again. Then Ollie’s shadow jumped off the wall, too! Ollie yelped in surprise as his shadow chased him around the room. Sarah’s shadow went to the window and threw it open. Her shadow made a strange rustling noise, like leaves in the wind, but soon Sarah began to understand it—it
A Fraction of an Inch
Either the boat did not want to be withdrawn from the water, or the water did not want to let its new prize go. Waves of green foam rolled over the railing in a calm firmness, and the trees cast shadows on the rippling water pooling at the edge of a concrete slab where a red truck’s wheels were spinning in the mud. A few more inches and the rubber would have connected to the waves bouncing off the boat’s hull. I sometimes think of life’s fractions of inches it reminds me of how closely life and death are related. I’m thinking now watching two hawks circle a fraction of an inch to the left of the chickens below. Abigail Rose Cargo, 13Lexington, South Carolina
Baseball
The sun beat down mercilessly on my sweaty neck. My shoulders ached. I was tired and my mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Bases were loaded. Three balls, two strikes, pressure on. I adjusted my baseball cap as I stepped carefully onto the dusty mound, fingering the ball in my right hand. Change-up, I thought. I stepped back in my windup. The ball shot out of my hand, bouncing right before the plate. The batter didn’t swing. “Ball four!” The batter set his bat down by the fence and took a base, advancing his teammates. I watched helplessly as the third-base runner happily jogged home. My team groaned. Coach called time out and jogged over to where I stood, defeated on the mound. I knew at once I was being replaced. I had just walked a batter home, but what I got instead surprised me. “You’re doing good, son, keep it up,” Coach said, slapping me hard on the back. “It’s so hot,” I complained in reply, wiping the beads of sweat from my forehead. Coach knelt so we were face to face and stared at me with his wise, chocolatey-brown eyes. “It’s baseball.” With that, he headed back to the shade of the dugout, nodding to the umpire to begin the game again. “Play ball!” “Don’t worry,” I said, acting as his coach. “Try again.” The batter stepped up to the plate, ready to jump out of the way of a bad pitch. I felt the ball in my sweaty palm. It’s baseball. I pulled my arm back like a slingshot and launched the ball. Whack! It slammed into the catcher’s leather mitt. The batter flinched but didn’t swing. “Strike!” * * * Thwack! My younger brother, in a third attempt to hit the ball, knocked over the black rubber tee it rested on instead. “Darn it!” he exclaimed in frustration. “Don’t worry,” I said, acting as his coach. “Try again.” He mumbled something under his breath but did as he was told. Dull gray light crept through the thick fog that hung over the field. Crisp, early morning air stung my lungs and a soft breeze rustled my sandy hair. A crow danced around on the deserted bleachers, looking for scraps. Me and my younger brother, Julian, had been at the field since seven a.m., almost two hours. Julian was new to baseball and hadn’t adapted to the hard work and discipline it takes to become a quality player. That, and he’s eight years old. Finally, he successfully hit the ball off the tee and it landed at my feet with a thud. I picked it up out of the dust and nodded with approval. “Not bad. Do it again.” Julian crossed his arms over his maroon Harvard hoodie and groaned in protest, “This is so hard!” He stretched out the words as if they were silly putty. I looked him up and down, remembering Coach’s words. “No,” I said knowingly. “It’s baseball.” Ruby DeFrank, 10Richmond, California Brayson Brown, 11Hartford, Wisconsin
Anne of Green Gables
Anne of Green Gables, by L. M. Montgomery; Simon & Schuster: New York, 2014; $7.99 Few books copy the whimsy of childhood. Picasso said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up.” L. M. Montgomery’s Anne of Green Gables is a remedy to that lack of adolescent joy. To me this book also represents perseverance, to survive through the bad times to get to the good. When I was going into third grade, my family moved to a new school district. At eight, I was incredibly shy and self-conscious. Even when I went to my first school I had few close friends. To me the move was the end of the world. How was I going to make new friends? Would the teachers be nice? As I walked into the classroom on the first day of school, I was terrified. What could make it worse? I already knew what the teacher was teaching. Instead of going to recess, I took tests to measure my skills in math, language arts, and science. The school district decided that I would skip a grade. For the first week everything was perfect. I received tons of attention, but soon everything changed. Being so shy made me hate to answer in class, people would ask me to do their homework, and teachers thought I had to get a perfect on every test. In that school year, I had lots of difficulties, and one of the things that helped me get through the year was Anne of Green Gables. Anne was orphaned as a baby. Until age eleven she moved from house to house, working as a maid and caregiver. She helped me believe that my situation wasn’t that bad. If she could still be so happy and intelligent, even though she had no parents, then how could I be angry over being teased? How could I complain over a bad grade on a test, when Anne didn’t get to go to school until she was eleven? To me, Anne is stronger than any other character in this book. Even though life gave her a terrible deck of cards, she made the best of it. Anne of Green Gables was first published in 1908. At that time, women were expected to stay in the home and raise children. Anne proves that girls can be anything they believe they can be. Even though Anne didn’t start her education until eleven, she soon rose to the top of her class. She went to a junior college to get her license in teaching. Because of her hard work, Anne received her license in one year and won a full-ride scholarship to a university. Anne is an inspiration to me. That she could achieve so much, yet with so little to work with. Now I have read Anne of Green Gables for the second time, and it still makes me smile. This novel will make you have empathy. No, it’s not an action novel, full of violence and guns, but is a story of how hard growing up is. This book is more than paper and ink. It is a symbol of childhood that I hold close to my heart. Autumn Shelton, 13Lamar, Missouri
