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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


By

Baby

The wind burns my face as Willow and I bound over tree roots and the soft earth of the forest. The sun-dappled woodlands stretch invitingly before us. The majestic spread of leaves lies like a masterpiece, untouched by human or horse. Eagerly Willow gallops into it, causing the leaves to blow up like a bomb. The horse snorts delightedly. It is a crisp late-November morning in Lake Ariel, Pennsylvania. To our left glitters the frigid cobalt lake. The ducks, Jack and Sydney, patrol along the shoreline, making sure everything is under control. To the right is nothing, just the tangled mass of skeletal maples and dogwoods. Suddenly I hear the faint call of my mother’s worried voice, signaling Willow and me to come back to the barn. Reluctantly and somewhat irritated now, I turn the horse back in the direction of Strawberry Grove. Willow is as deflated as I am as he heads back to the barn at a reluctant trot. The untamed wilderness turns into a well-worn path. Various footprints trample it. I think back to how many horses have galloped on these lands. Let’s see, there was Rosebud, Juno, Penelope, Pumpkin, Typhoon, and so many more. My parents have owned Strawberry Grove Farm since they were newlyweds of twenty. Now, nearly twenty-five years later, the strong stone walls of the barn and the old farmhouse on the hill are going strong. Suddenly I hear the faint call of my mother’s voice, signaling Willow and me to come back to the barn My mother stands at the hayloft window with her binoculars in hand, worried lines creased on her weathered forehead. My black bangs fly up when I sigh in exasperation. Ever since the accident, my mother has become increasingly more of a worrier than she ever was. It is irritating sometimes, but I simply remember what Dad has drilled me to tell myself, “She’s worried because she loves you.” “Dylan, please stay closer to the house where I can keep an eye on you. Or better yet, just ride in the paddock. Why don’t you get back into showing?” I sigh yet again and shut my eyes. I fight the urge to yell. “Mom, Willow and I know the woods like the back of our hands. Or hooves in Willow’s case,” I told her, cracking a grin. But Mom’s face remains stern and a little bit sad. I can tell she’s thinking about Georgina. The sight of Georgina’s pale face lying in the leaves with her cloud of dark hair lying eerily around her still haunts my mother. “Dylan, please. You’re my only daughter left. I don’t want to lose you too,” Mom tells me in a choked voice, and hurries back toward the house. Sighing in frustration, I untack Willow and let him loose with his pasture buddies, Comet, Tiny, Warrior, and Persia. The eldest horses, Pumpkin and Rosebud, recognizing me, nicker softly and lumber forward. I feel a surge of affection for the sweet horses, who are in their high twenties and the oldest horses at Strawberry Grove. But their chestnut coats still gleam a healthy shine and their brown eyes shine. My parents had bought them as a pair when they were a shade over four. We are old friends. “Hey, guys,” I greet them, pulling some fresh carrots out of my coat pockets. Greedily but daintily they nibble each one, grateful for the attention. Suddenly the horses prick their ears and the sound of the rattling trailer comes up the road. Dad’s back with the new horse. *          *          * All three of us, along with the yellow-and-chocolate labs, Banana and Ryley, gather around the roomy box stall that is now occupied with a gorgeous gray mare, dappled white and complemented by a black, gray, and white mane. Her name is Baby Blue, nicknamed Baby, and she is my newfound interest in the horse breed. Baby munches calmly on the hay, casting her three awed onlookers curious glances once in a while, but otherwise the move hasn’t affected her. “Dad, she’s gorgeous,” I breathe for about the millionth time. Since the moment my father backed the finely conformed Arabian mare out of the trailer, I knew she was something special. But how to find out . . . The afternoon swiftly flows into a milky pink twilight, the winter sky dotted with cotton-like clouds. The last of the procrastinating geese fly overhead, frantically fleeing from the frigid cold to the tropical south. In the warmth and coziness of the huge stone farmhouse, I can hardly concentrate on the dullness of my math homework. Baby occupies my mind now. Dreamily I sketch a horse head on the margin of my paper. She has a finely dished face and intelligent wide-set eyes. My mother is overlooking. “What interesting math homework. It’s changed quite a lot since I was in sixth grade,” Mom observes dryly. “Oh, um . . . I was just getting a head start on my art project,” I reply weakly. Mom just raises her eyebrows and continues with the dishes. “Dylan, if this horse is going to inhabit your mind, I’ll have to find another home for her,” Dad tells me from his nest of newspaper on the couch. “Oh, no, Dad, she won’t,” I vow hastily, and quickly flee back to my math homework. *          *          * A week later, now in the early stages of December, I am delighted to find at least a foot of snow draped dramatically over the earth like a blanket. The horses, even more enthused, frolic merrily about the paddocks. The dogs nip at each other playfully as they roam the property. The fat barn cat, Callie, lounges lazily in the snow, enjoying the weather at a calmer level. School, to my delight, is cancelled today, so I take the opportunity to finally get on Baby’s back. The gray mare leans against the sturdy box stall door, relishing the fact that she could hang her


By

Summer Winds

The breeze tastes sweet and warm of sun of ripe fruit and of grass It ruffles my hair and plasters my sweat-wet shirt on my skin It blows doors shut and wafts in windows to cool hot pies and fill empty spaces In the gentle lull of the wind trees creak and shiver, fresh cut grass is tossed onto the walk and the clouds are pushed like cotton-ball puffs across a blue-glass sky At night the wind carries fireflies on its wings and sweet chirping songs of crickets and frogs When the breeze stops playing with my hair or creaking the loose gate and begins chafing my skin and redding my nose and cheeks making breath visible You know the summer wind has left But you remember its playful soul Sam Brandis-Dann, 11New York, New York


By

Zordex

A harsh wind swept across a great plain of nothingness. Dry, stiff grass bent, giving way to the force of the wind. Nothing could be seen from any direction. Only grass and rolling hills. A cold, white sun blazed just over the horizon, creating a glare on the brown grass. A smell of dry dust and dead weeds lingered in the air. There was no shield, no barrier against the Cold here. The Cold ransacked everything and everyone, leaving no trace of warmth or comfort. The sun was now directly overhead, and on top of the furthest hill in sight, a dark mass was approaching. From the exact opposite side, another mass, though slightly smaller, was coming. Both were approaching the steepest hill in sight. As they got closer, one could see that it was not a single, immense object, but was made up of thousands of men, striding quickly and confidently toward their destination. Nearer and nearer they got, the wind picking up sounds of the clatter of chain mail and the dull thud of footsteps, tossing them about. Suddenly all noises ceased, and nothing could be heard but wind whipping through loose fabric. A man from each army stepped forward and started up the hill, as was the tradition in this world. From the smaller army was a tall and lean man. He had warm, dark brown eyes, and short, neatly trimmed, black hair. His face was clean-shaven, and he had no lines anywhere on his face. He wore a serious, thoughtful expression and had an air about him that drew people toward him. He was greatly respected throughout all kingdoms and was Lord of the most powerful kingdom in the world, Xaveron. People knew him as Zordex. It was said that he was the greatest, wisest wizard that ever walked the planet. His long, blue tunic fluttered in the breeze, and he carried a long, thin, golden staff, with a bright blue sphere on the top. It was said he was the greatest, wisest wizard that ever walked the planet The other man was short, and made of solid muscle. He had ice-cold gray eyes, and heavy, black eyebrows. He had greasy, black hair that just brushed the top of his shoulders and a neatly clipped goatee. The hatred that was generating out of his eyes was overpowering. He wore a scowl on his face, his eyes narrowed to slits. A blood-red cape fluttered out behind him, and the black robe underneath it rippled in the light wind. In his hands, he held a jet-black staff, with a wicked-looking skull settled on the top. He was called Yoleighwan, and was the leader of a ring of the six most evil, sinister, and dangerous wizards in the world. The two men stood face-to-face on the top of the hill. The hatred flowing out of Yoleighwan’s eyes was potent and unstemmed and would have caused anyone but Zordex to wither. Yoleighwan opened his mouth to speak, revealing chipped, yellow teeth. In a harsh, grating voice, barely above a whisper, he spoke. “So we meet again, Zordex. This time you won’t be leaving.” Zordex looked directly at Yoleighwan. “Yoleighwan,” he said it politely with a small nod of his head. Zordex’s civility and tranquility appeared to infuriate Yoleighwan. “You fool!” he screeched, “Do you not know what we are here over? Do you not know what danger you put yourself and that puny little army of yours in? Today is your last day living, Zordex. This is the last sun you will see!” Both armies heard Yoleighwan, and both armies reacted. Yoleighwan’s army sniggered and snorted, and Zordex’s army started forward. They would have attacked their enemy if not for Zordex, who raised his arm and ordered them back to their regular positions. Still calm and composed, Zordex answered Yoleighwan, “I am no fool, Yoleighwan. If I thought this little gathering would be of any harm to my army or me, I would not be standing here right now.” Soft cheers and hollers were heard from Zordex’s army. Yoleighwan’s troops retaliated by boisterous boos and curses. Yoleighwan’s eyes narrowed to slits and he hissed, “You are a fool, Zordex. And I will prove that to you and your little ninny squad behind you.” A puff of wind blew back Yoleighwan’s cape and he threw back his head and cried, “Charge!” Instantly, his army started forward, yelling at the top of their lungs. The spears they were carrying soared out of their hands, directed at the hearts of their foe, and would have struck true, if Zordex had not raised his hand and caused the hundreds of spears to bury their heads into an invisible wall and stay there, handles still quivering. The yells died in the throats of the men, and catcalls and shouts of triumph arose from Zordex’s army. Realizing that he had not prepared his men and himself for this kind of magical defense, he waved his hands and signaled “retreat” to the generals of his army. Silently, his army left. Yoleighwan spun on his heel and strode furiously from sight, his cape streaming out behind him. *          *          * As Zordex’s triumphant army approached the main capital city, Luvrann, cheers and whistles rose up from it to greet them. Although the soldiers relished this attention, Zordex had problems pressing his mind. Once he saw that his soldiers were on their way to their quarters, he magically disappeared and reappeared in his palace. In his own home, Zordex relaxed. He decided to go to the dining hall for some dinner before he retired to his room. He walked to the great hall, traveling down a long, comfortably carpeted hallway. After passing countless doors, he stopped and turned right into a set of double doors on his right. He paused in the doorway of a huge room furnished in blue and silver. A long, low, chrome table stood in the middle of the hall. Puffy cushions of blue


By

A Natural Lullaby

Click. Mary turned on the white lamp next to her bed and squinted as her eyes adjusted to the intensity of the bright light. She glanced at the clock on the wooden night table next to her bed; it read two minutes after three o’clock AM. “Uggh,” Mary exclaimed loudly as a wave of anger surged through her. It was Sunday night—or rather Monday morning—and she had school today. Now that she had managed to get to bed a little bit earlier she woke up again. But it made sense, Friday and Saturday she had woken up at three o’clock and her body had adjusted to the schedule. Then she just stayed up, now she had to get enough sleep to be able to get out of bed at six in the morning. Well, I’ll just go back to bed, Mary thought. She flicked off the lamp and sunk back into her comfortable bed. She turned on her side, pulled the sheet over her shoulder, and tried to relax her mind. She tried to count sheep, but that didn’t work. She tried to think about going to sleep, but that made her apprehensive. She tried thinking about school, but that stressed her out. The longer she thought the tenser she got. The shining full moon outside threw a blanket of light into her room After a while of worrying, bad thoughts crept into her head. I won’t be able to concentrate on my math test. I’m going to be so tired tomorrow. I have to get to sleep, I already got to bed late. I won’t be able to move tomorrow morning. I could fall asleep in class. Mary’s eyes shot open as she realized that she had been lying there forever and she wasn’t asleep yet. She looked at the clock and the green letters read three-forty already. Time always seemed to go so much faster when you were trying to go to sleep. Mary pushed her thick red hair out of her face angrily and switched on the light as she sat up on her bed. She was frustrated, exasperated, and most annoyingly her adrenaline was running. She rested her chin on her hands as her mind raced with possible solutions to this nightmare. She could go downstairs and get a drink of water? No, she might wake someone up. She could try to go back to bed again? No, that would just lengthen this nightmare. She could read her book? Yes, that would make her sleepy enough to go to sleep. She picked up her thick book and studied the cover. It read Anne of Green Gables on the front. It had a picture of Anne running across a picture-perfect field. She never had any trouble sleeping. She plopped back into the bed and turned to where the page was dog-eared. She read, half paying attention and half worrying if reading would really work. After another eternity she looked at the clock. Four-thirteen. She bit her lip furiously, and fiercely pressed her palm into her eye. She pushed loose hair away from her face, turned off the lights, and closed her eyes. She sat there for a while thinking peacefully, very aware of the fast pace of her heart. She opened her eyes gently and looked to the open window next to her bed. The stars outside twinkled brightly against the black sky; the shining full moon outside threw a blanket of light into her room. Mary studied the moon carefully and made out some of the craters to be the cheerful face of the Man in the Moon. As the cool breeze blew against her she drew her beige comforter closer to her body. Although it was cold, the wind felt calming on her face. She breathed it in; it felt cold and refreshing in her lungs. She closed her eyes. She heard the familiar sounds of crickets and trees swaying in the breeze. She loved the sounds of nature, they weren’t loud or abrupt. They were subtle and beautiful. They were a natural lullaby . . . With that thought and a feeling of revitalization she drifted into a deep sleep. Leah Richmond, 11Louisville, Kentucky


By

Roscoe

CHAPTER ONE   Roscoe the River Otter peered at the glittering stream with bleary eyes. The warm sun had dulled his senses and left him asleep on the bank since noon, but the cooling mists of twilight brought a searing pain to his stomach. Hunger. It was the driving force in all the forest creatures, and Roscoe was no exception. He yawned, exposing a row of gleaming, ivory-white teeth sharp enough to slice an elephant’s hide. He stretched, feeling the cords of his muscles draw taut and send tingling waves cascading over all of his body. A soft patter of feet on the dry leaves startled the half-awake Roscoe; he whirled to face the danger but readied himself to leap into the water at a moment’s notice. But it was merely Red, the fox, coming down to drink of the sweet river water before his nightly hunt. He ignored the frightened otter and bent his auburn head to lap up some of the cool liquid. Roscoe relaxed. The fox posed no danger to his welfare and always kept to his own affairs. And, besides, it was time to think of more important things. Like food. Roscoe dove gracefully into the water, making a series of ripples that warped the peaceful reflection of the woodlands into a six-year-old’s crumpled painting. He darted through the stream like an elongated torpedo, his beady black eyes searching the murky depths for the shining scales of the fish his mouth desired. And then began the chase. Roscoe twisted, circled and sliced through the water, mimicking his prey’s every move. Between rocks, under logs, through twisted masses of rotting roots he pursued the tasty morsel, who was fast tiring. And with one last, great effort, his jaws closed on the silvery scales to silence the fish’s life forever. Roscoe broke the surface with his prize. Dragging it onto the shore, he curled up and started to hack away at the juicy pink meat with his scissor-like teeth. Roscoe broke the surface with his prize As the smell of blood filled the air, scavengers began to flock around the fresh kill with lust in their eyes. A mink peered at the fish hungrily from behind a rock, and a pine marten sighed enviously from a green thicket, where he waited impatiently for the otter to finish. But it was quite some time before Roscoe deemed himself satisfied; in fact, he was fully gorged and bloated before he finally turned away from his catch. Curling up on a flat rock, he closed his eyes contentedly and fell into a happy, dreamless sleep. CHAPTER TWO The morning dawned smoky. A haze of burning, bluish smoke settled over the forest, smothering the cheerful robin’s song and sending many of the animals into cautious hiding. Roscoe sniffed the air warily. There could be no doubt of the scent; man was near. The smoke was from his campfire—a very large one, to be sure—and the deathly silence that hung over the woods was proof that he was very close. Roscoe slid into the water quietly. It was time to go. Man desired his fine pelt, and where man was he would not stay. He swam swiftly, away from the smoke, away from the smell of man, like an arrow soaring through the blue-black depths to safety. He surfaced for a breath and scanned the shoreline with trepidation. The smell was stronger. Roscoe’s whiskers quivered and twitched with fright, and his nose rebelled at the putrid, unpleasant scent. He dove back under. The river widened up ahead, and the stronger current already began to tug at his sleek body. Onward, onward. The river was frothy now, and all of his swimming skills were applied to steer a straight course in the roiling waves. He lifted his head for a gulp of air. “Bang, whiz!!! Bang!!” Bullets ripped through the water on his right and left! He yelped and sank beneath the surface, his heart pounding madly. Man was on the shore! He swam toward the opposite bank. Perhaps there was some brush to shelter him. “Bang!! Whiz!!!” The bullets hissed as they hit the water, inches away from Roscoe’s head. He was a clear target in the crystal-blue liquid. Air! Air! Roscoe’s lungs screamed. He surfaced. “Bang!! Whiz!! Bang-bang!!!!” A searing, red-hot pain lashed through the river otter’s body. He managed to sink back under the water, but his right side had been viciously scraped by a bullet. He kicked feebly, trying to get up enough propulsion to sail with his usual grace. But it was impossible. He floundered about helplessly, crying and sending bubbles of precious air back up to the surface. It wouldn’t be long before the man sent his dog in to fetch him. One Tooth was pitying the otter very much as he sank slowly into the water But there was other movement in the water. An old, solitary beaver, named One Tooth because of obvious reasons, had seen the entire plight from his small, brush-and-mud lodge and decided to play a part in Roscoe’s fate. Now, the beaver and the otter are most certainly not friends—one builds and the other takes extreme delight in tearing down—but old One Tooth hated man above all other hates. Man burned the forest. Man shot the animals. Man cut down his trees that he needed for his lodge! So, you see, One Tooth was pitying the otter very much as he sank slowly into the water. Roscoe kicked with the last of his strength and ended up beside the beaver. “Bang!!! Whiz!!!” A red dot began to swell on One Tooth’s scruffy hide. He roared with anger and slapped his great tail against the water’s surface. Roscoe squeaked as the huge beaver drew him in, sheltering him with his body, taking the bullets, the pain, the death that was meant for the injured otter. They swam to the lodge, where One Tooth nudged Roscoe inside with a look that said, “Take


By

Dream Freedom

Dream Freedom by Sonia Levitin; Harcourt, Inc.: New York, 2000; $17 Dream Freedom is a beautiful book. As early as the foreword you can feel the anguish, the hope, and the love in every sentence: This book was born from emotion. First came the shock that slavery still exists, in our own time, and that most people are oblivious to its existence. And those two opening sentences are true. They really are. Slavery does exist. It’s happening right now, in Africa. While you’re playing kickball at recess a child might be taken away from his mother, a brother might be killed while trying to keep his sister from being taken. While you are at a theme park with your parents somebody else’s mother might be made to become pregnant with her master’s child, when she is already married and has another little one at home. While you’re slurping up Pepsi and snacking on Cheetos someone’s brother, uncle, daughter, mother, might be lucky to get a taste of the food the hogs eat. What the pigs eat is probably better than what some people are thrown. One reason this book is so beautiful is that Sonia Levitin, the author, is not African herself. She is white. But she cares. Cares like it is her sister being torn away from her. Cares like we all should care. What happens to one person, or one family, or one country, affects us all. And Sonia Levitin is trying to get us all to see that, or at least want to see that. Besides the parts about the fact that slavery does exist, there are chapters of the book about Marcus, a boy just like some of the children you might know. Marcus lives in America and his teacher is teaching his class about the slavery that’s happening, and they are trying to help. You may not believe this, but some people in the book were strongly opposed to their children learning about slavery. A quote from one of the fathers in the book is “I know what Miss Hazel intends! She is using our children to become a national celebrity! Oh yes, you want your fifteen minutes of fame. Well, let me tell you, you’re not going to get it at the expense of my son!” Miss Hazel then tries to tell him she couldn’t care less about being on television. The father replies that he sends his son to school to learn the basics, not to get worked up about a bunch of primitives who have been fighting and killing each other since time began. If I were Miss Hazel, I think I would have about blown my top. But then in the book you learn that some people might reason with the angry father. They say buying slaves to free them promotes capturing them, but I think the most important thing is to keep all of the people of the world free. We all have that right, no matter what color skin or what name. Slaves aren’t even allowed to keep their names! They are given new Arab names! Think about how you would feel if someone stripped you of your home, your family, your way of living and even your name. That would be the most terrible fate on earth. I would never mean to say all Arabs are bad, because you can’t brand a race. Some of them are taking the Sudanese as slaves, but you can’t dislike all of them. Most of them are people just like you and me. Like Aziz, in this book. Aziz didn’t know what it was like for the slaves his father bought. But then one day he went with his father to buy slaves and he saw a girl being taken away from her sister, the only thing she had left of her own past. Also Aziz’s father struck a man because he would not obey him. Aziz can’t figure out how he is going to make it through the rest of his life, and sits in his bed thinking, It’s a lie. It’s a lie. They are exactly like us. At the end of the book you learn these facts: in the civil war going on in Sudan, 1.9 million people in Southern and Central Sudan have died, and 4 million Sudanese have had to flee from their homes, leaving their houses, jobs, farms, food and toys behind. Should anyone have to live like this? You decide. Kat Clark, 11Racine,Wisconsin


By

Phyllis and Me

I ran down the stairs, grabbed my backpack and rushed out the door just as the bus turned the corner. It was the first day of school. I was new. I wondered whether the fourth-graders would like me. What if they didn’t? On the bus, I sat next to a girl who was tall and had long brown curly hair that went down to her waist. She wore a short blue-jean skirt with black platform flip-flops, and a green-and-purple-striped sleeveless shirt. She looked nothing like me. I was short, with straight black hair that went down to my shoulders. I was wearing bell-bottoms with white socks, white sneakers and an orange T-shirt. “Hi,” the girl said, “my name is Meagan, what’s yours?” “I’m Elizabeth,” I said. “Well, Lizzie, since you’re new, I might as well warn you about Phyllis. She’s crazy and she plays baby imaginary games.” I looked down at my lap and remembered the games I used to play with my old best friend Ashley. We would pretend that we were horses running free in the fields, or running away from horse catchers. Ashley never called me Lizzie. She knew I liked my full name, Elizabeth. At recess, I sat on the cement steps in front of the school with Meagan and her friend Jane. “Look at that handsome boy over there,” Jane said, pointing to a tall boy near a grove of trees on the edge of the playground. “Oh my gosh! He’s so cute,” Meagan said. “Look at that handsome boy over there,” Jane said, pointing to a tall boy near a grove of trees All I could see was a tall boy, who looked a bit mean. Behind him, a girl was crawling on her hands and knees and talking to herself. He was teasing her, but she didn’t seem to mind. The girl reminded me of Ashley. At the next recess, I was following Meagan and Jane to the cement steps, when the girl that had been crawling on her hands and knees the day before walked up to me and asked, “What animal are you?” I was puzzled for a moment, but then I thought I knew what she meant. “I was born in the year of the monkey,” I answered. “You don’t look like a monkey to me,” she said, “You look more like a panther. Don’t you think I look like a lion?” I stared at the girl’s red straight hair which was pulled up in a bun with the ends sticking up all over the top of her head. She did look something like a lion. She was thin, and she had freckles all over her arms, legs and face. “Quick! Here comes the hunter!” She pointed to the tall boy who had been teasing her the day before. She grabbed my arm and ran to the grove of trees at the edge of the playground. “Lion,” I gasped, “that was a good escape, but he’ll find us soon. We need to go deeper into the woods!” Lion ran ahead of me, deeper into the grove of trees, and I followed as fast as my legs would carry me. Then we heard the bell. Lion raced back through the trees beside me, when a stick popped out from the edge of the path. I had no time to slow down, or stop, so I tripped over the stick and landed on my face in the dirt. Lion landed beside me a few seconds after I had landed. Lion jumped to her feet and shouted, “I’m going to get you this time, Mike.” It was the tall boy. One of the lunch monitors ran over and told Mike to go to the principal’s office, and helped me get up. Lion had a bloody nose and a skinned knee. I had a scraped chin, and a mouth full of dirt. In the nurse’s office, Mrs. Smackers, our school nurse, gave Lion a tissue for her bloody nose. “Here you go, Phyllis,” she said. Phyllis? I thought. Lion was crazy Phyllis? She sure didn’t seem crazy to me. When I got on the bus, I sat next to Meagan, and she said, “I’m not going to sit with you until you stop playing with Phyllis. I warned you not to, but you didn’t take my word for it.” I had been looking forward to playing with Phyllis at recess the next day, but now I had changed my mind. The next day, I sat on the concrete steps with Meagan and Jane. Mike came over and apologized to me. I didn’t say anything back because I was still mad at him. After Mike left, Meagan said, “You’re so lucky! He likes you!” Then Phyllis came over and asked, “Aren’t you going to play with me, Panther?” Meagan and Jane both laughed. “Don’t you know her name is Lizzie?” “Her name isn’t Lizzie, it’s Elizabeth,” Phyllis said. I looked at Phyllis, then at Meagan and Jane, and I said, “Maybe I’ll play tomorrow, but right now, I’m busy.” Phyllis looked down at her feet and walked away slowly. Meagan and Jane gave me a high five, and said, “Great work!” but I felt like I had done something terrible. I watched Phyllis sit down on the path near the grove of trees. I wished I could be climbing trees and running from hunters, instead of talking about boys. Then I saw Mike walking toward Phyllis with a stick in his hand. I jumped up and ran across the playground. “Mike!” I shouted. I ran up to him and said in a low voice, “I have a message. Meagan and Jane want you to go sit with them.” “They do?” “Well, yeah! Of course. They think you’re the cutest guy in school.” He dropped the stick, and started walking toward Meagan and Jane. Meagan put her hand over her mouth, and Jane’s jaw dropped. I looked at Phyllis and said, “Hey, Lion, let’s get


By

The Baseball

I was only eight when Pearl Harbor was bombed. It was so long ago—back when I had fountains of cranberry-red hair tamed into ragged half-ponytails. Back when I had yellow dresses with hems that danced around my legs, displaying scraped knees; I never did girly stuff. No, I broke the sugar bowls at tea parties and tore the silken gowns of dolls. Besides, my idol was no woman. It was Sammy. He was my brother, eight years older than I, and I worshiped him. I always tried to tag along with him and his gigantic friends—he always tried to avoid this by taking giant steps, scaling treetops, running races, playing ball. So I lengthened my strides and walked like him, confident, big, I-mean-business strides. I took a deep breath and gripped the rough limbs of the oak out front, pulling myself into a palace of emerald leaves and sun-dappled branches. I practiced running by the steaming bog and bony cattails over the golden hilltop behind the baseball field, teaching my legs to move and letting the air roar in my ears like a jet plane, feeling at first as if I were going to topple over, then speeding up and finding I had wings. And in the folds of spangled night, I trudged to the baseball diamond with my brother’s too-big mitt and my brother’s too-heavy bat, and tossed baseballs into the air, watching their vague outline fall where I wanted, then slamming them out of sight. One day, Sammy discovered a gold mine of baseballs bordering the outfield and asked his friends in puzzlement about where they had come from. Nearby, following them as usual, I chirped up. I announced my secret rehearsals, then showed him what I could do. I walked next to Sammy with great, joyous steps. I climbed up the maples, the bays, the twining cypress, the keeling willow. I raced his friends and beat them all. And I showed what a ballplayer I was. “You guys are lucky,” Sammy snorted to his friends. “You guys don’t have a bratty, tomboy little sister that’s one hundred percent bad news.” But I could see in his eyes that he was proud of me. I raced his friends and beat them all. And I showed what a ballplayer I was Probably the thing I’ll remember most about that time was how we played. It was fantastic. We started after our homework was done. School was tough for me—I understood all the subjects, but went around doing them in unusual ways. In poetry I wrote without uppercase letters or punctuation; in math I added up numbers by making faces out of the digits first. My teachers didn’t understand, and as a girl who didn’t act the way girls were supposed to, I had no friends to help me parry their unconcealed disapproval. But I had Sammy. And every day, without fail, we would hastily do our work, then get bats and gloves and join his buddies, split into teams, and get dirty. We’d play until the darkness of purple dusk fell, until Mom trudged up the hill, battling the wind as it billowed out her skirts and ruffled up her auburn hair. And when her call rang round the dugout, Sammy would wave good-bye to his friends and drag his feet back home, holding my slender white fingers in his big, warm hand. I still believe today that if it wasn’t for Hitler, Sammy Corboy could have become a professional ballplayer. We found out about Pearl Harbor when listening to “The Green Hornet” after dinner. Sammy and I were wedged together into the same faded, pink armchair, listening attentively to the radio. Then there was a rush of static, and our program was interrupted. “We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin. This morning, Japanese planes attacked the American military base in Pearl Harbor . . .” We stared at the radio as if it was going to explode in our faces. The distant war was creeping into our home like a tiger closing in on prey. *          *          * Sammy and his friends wanted to fight. They talked of the Japanese and Germans as if they were a cup of something nasty that had spilled and simply had to be wiped up. No need for soap or sponges—just a rag would do. They seemed to think they could just go overseas, kick butt, and be back in time for dinner. One of Sammy’s best friends, a tall boy named Rolando, was two years older and signed up immediately. I watched him leave, happy, determined. He never came back. My music teacher, Mr. Phelps, went abroad as well, abandoning the class to a series of frazzled volunteers. I never saw him again, either, but it never really registered in my eight-year-old mind how grim the situation was and that he was really dead. I guess I thought he had gone away somewhere and, like Rolando, would come back sometime or other. Death is just a word when you’re young. Everything was changing. I grew out of my oxfords the summer following the bombing, and Mom replaced them with some old saddle shoes she found at the “Shoe Exchange” that were much too big and stuffed the toe with newspaper. We collected bacon grease off the griddle in tin cans, and when the cans were full gave them to the fat butcher three blocks away. I was told they were somehow used in the manufacturing of bombs. Gold stars stared from windows everywhere, and adults were tense, stretched thin, looking older, on the verge of breaking. Everything in my world was a roller coaster—except baseball. The sport insisted on keeping the same rules, the diamond still waiting patiently for me every day after school, its popularity never faltering. Hordes of kids would crowd round the makeshift bleachers and watch all the high-schoolers and me play on weekends. The kids my age jeered at me, but it


By

Ligiri: A Dogon Cinderella*

Ligiri ran. She ran with all her might away from the Dama on the third and last day. She dropped to the ground and wept for what seemed hours. The last of the family that cared for her had passed away. Her grandfather had died when she was just a baby, and her grandmother, ten years ago. Now her mother, a Yasigne, which was why a Dama was even held for her death. Ligiri was now left to her sister Koro, who bossed Ligiri around. Ligiri tried to love her, for she was a kind soul, but she just couldn’t love her cold-hearted sister, who was a favorite with her father and had a way of making him believe whatever she said. The stars were barely beginning to fade, when Ligiri was up. As quickly as a mouse she arose from the hard bed she was given by her sister and put on the only clothes she managed to sew before Koro forbade her to make herself clothes, a torn wrap-around skirt and a slightly damaged top. Ligiri’s back was stiff and sore from sleeping in her bed, but that didn’t matter. “Chores must be done,” she’d say to herself, as she climbed up to the roof of the house where her father and sister were sleeping during the dry season, from the stuffy and irritating inside where Ligiri had to spend her nights whether she liked it or not. A cool breeze hit her in the face the moment she stepped outside and she felt good to be outside once more. Nevertheless, she was grateful. “I have food and I have a roof over my head, that’s all that matters,” she’d say to herself, though deep down inside she knew she longed to be treated like she was when her mother was alive. And with that she took out the most beautiful beads Ligiri had ever seen Ligiri fed and milked the goats and collected the eggs and gave water and some seeds to the chickens, when she realized that Koro wasn’t working by her side like she was supposed to. She climbed back onto the rooftop. Careful not to wake her father, Ligiri whispered, “Koro, time to wake up.” She got a reply, “Huh? Oh, it’s you! Ligiri, you stupid girl! How dare you wake me so early?” “But, elder one, it’s work time.” “Ha! I laugh in your face! I’ll make you a deal. I took your place on the roof, and you can take my chores! Ha, ha, ha!” And Koro’s roaring laughter could be heard far and wide at that moment. Poor Ligiri made her way down from the rooftop where the family was sleeping during the dry season, picking up a clay pot, later filling it at the well and balancing it on her head. And so, it continued. Ligiri did Koro’s and her own work every day, hoeing and weeding in the fields, cooking, and other jobs, though she was the age to be playing and making string figures, while their father, coming back from the Hogon with a usually good fortune, praised Koro, thinking she did all the work. Ligiri’s only comfort was a fifty-foot baobab tree, which reminded Ligiri of her kind grandfather as it loomed overhead. The years passed until Koro was old enough to marry. “I don’t care for marriage. If I did, everyone would want to marry me,” she’d brag, though deep down inside she knew that nobody liked her. One morning Ligiri awoke to the cry of a young boy. “The Griot has arrived! The Griot is here!” Ligiri looked forward to this time. Not because she could listen to exciting stories through poems and songs. No. Koro forbade her to do that. It was because she had free time. Of course she still did all the work, but Koro was not there to make up something else for her to do. And so, when the day’s work was finally done, Ligiri quietly made her way down to the baobab tree. She took out a cleverly hidden piece of pretty beadwork. Call it a secret hobby of which nobody knew, but Ligiri was working on it for over a year. Quickly and happily she finished it that day, and when she did, she burst into tears. “I know I should be happy for life, and glad that I at least have a roof over my head, but I just can’t stand it! I wish Mother were here. Or maybe Grandfather!” “Oh, but wishes do come true sometimes. Now, don’t cry Ligiri!” Ligiri looked up. “Who said that?” “Why, I did. I’m your grandfather. My spirit is in this baobab. I know how Koro treats you, and I want to help you. Tomorrow is market day. Go there and expect somebody special. Now run along.” “Oh, thank you!” and with that she ran back to the village. The next day Ligiri awoke even earlier than usual. She did all she was supposed to and packed up her goods for trading and selling during market day. She had not forgotten her grandfather’s words. Ligiri had taken along a newly started piece of beadwork to work on when nobody was looking. Ligiri joined a group of women and girls going to the marketplace, and when they got there, Ligiri looked around at the familiar market-day sights: men were sitting under a big silk-cotton tree, drinking millet beer and discussing the latest news, among them her own father, the children playing together making string figures. Ligiri hoped that the “special person” would arrive soon. She expected to see someone young and pretty, so you can imagine how surprised Ligiri was when an old, feeble, yet kind-looking woman appeared in front of her, with a look which told Ligiri that she wasn’t there to trade for goods. “I see you like beading,” said the woman with a smile. “Yes. Yes, I do.” “Then I have a little something for you.” And


By

A View to Kill

When my dad came home he was not my father, but a king an emperor he had not a gun but a scepter in his hand. It had the power to start or stop my adulthood. He said, “I’m home.” We were in the woods out back. I had spent my whole life looking forward to this, I would spend the rest dreading it. Then suddenly out of the early morning mist came the deer in its entirety. I saw it The deer I leveled the gun Like dense lead in my hands. As soon as I fired the gun I collapsed into an endless space. I remember my last view as if it were a movie frame (cut to black) I saw the deer fall. We both went at the same time. I still recall that fateful day, when I traded a deer’s life for my own pride. Bradley Culley, 11Portland, Maine


By

The Christmas Realization

Ben rolled his eyes as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. His robe was too hot, and the sheet he was forced to wear on his head was too tight. As you can probably guess, Ben was in the Christmas play for his Sunday school. As a sixth-grader, he had been in it for the past seven years, and was absolutely sick of it! He was so ready to be in the youth group next year. “Shepherds, you are in the wrong spot—again,” the distant voice of the play director droned. “Ben! Get with them. As the eldest, you should be responsible in getting the others to the correct place. I’m ashamed of you!” Ben jolted out of his daze at his name, but he tuned the rest of the reprimand out. The director seemed to be waiting for him to apologize. When he made no effort to do so, she went on. Wh000000, Ben thought to himself, survived another one. This happened every practice. Old Mrs. Bruster, though he preferred calling her The Brute, would pick on him. “Don’t do that” and “Benjamin, get with it.” “Haven’t you been practicing?” It was all “Yadda, yadda, yadda!” He dreaded that two hours every Saturday. “Shepherds, you are in the wrong spot—again” Ben heard his cue, “So the shepherds left their flocks . . .” He and the other two kids in rags dragged their feet to the cardboard box to stare at the plastic baby doll. He never got that part. Poor shepherds would leave their sheep, with no one to watch them, to see a baby. Big whoop! To him, it would not be worth the risk. Ben glanced at the clock, relieved to see that it was almost time to go. *          *          * Ben marked the calendar. One week until Christmas, which meant five days till his birthday! He called some of his friends to make last-minute arrangements for his party on his birthday. After that, he helped his mom make the cake. Their next-door neighbor was a good friend of Ben’s, whom he often visited. That sunny afternoon he ran over to pay the old man a visit. Ben waited for a long time after knocking before the door creaked open. “Oh, hi, Ben. Come in out of the cold.” “Thank you, Mister Jack. I was concerned that you were hurt, when you didn’t answer,” Ben said gently. “Oh. I’m fine. It’s just the cold; it gets into my bones. Slows me down a little. Enough about me, how’s the play coming?” With a roll of his eyes, Ben made sure that his old friend was coming to see it. “Now don’t you roll your eyes. It is a very important happening and story. You know, without the shepherds, who would know what had happened.” It was more of a statement than question, so Ben just shrugged. “One day I’ll find a way to make you believe me.” Jack had no way of knowing how soon that would be. An hour later, Ben left the old man in happy spirits. When he got home, his mom wanted know how it went. “Just fine. We looked around his attic while he told me stories from the war.” He sampled the leftover frosting. Satisfied, he went outside to go sledding. *          *          * It was ten o’clock. Ben lay awake thinking about his birthday party the next day. He jumped at the sound of the phone. His mother’s muffled words, then steps, reached his ears. She stuck her head into his room. “Hey, buddy, you awake?” she whispered. He lay still, pretending to be sleeping. But curiosity finally overcame him. He turned toward her expectantly. She came closer and sat on the edge of his bed. “That was the hospital.” Ben sat up straight in the bed. “Jack slipped in his driveway a few hours ago. He has a broken rib and arm.” The boy was shocked into silence. His mother gently said, “And he wants you to visit him.” The first thing that went through Ben’s mind was his party. On the other hand, if ol’ Jack died in the hospital, he could never forgive himself. “It is important that I go, for Jack’s sake. Tomorrow I’ll call everyone to rearrange the party for after Christmas.” “I’m glad to hear you say that. Good night.” Ben lay awake a little while longer. Oh well, the hospital could be an adventure after all, he thought. *          *          * “Happy birthday, Ben!” came the frail voice of the shriveled lump in the hospital bed. Ben gulped at the form of his pal. “Come over here so I can get a look at my favorite boy.” He slid beside the bed and put a fake smile on. The smile quickly melted when Jack had a coughing spell for some time. A nurse rushed in to do whatever they do to stop coughs. Ben thought she stuffed a cork down Jack’s throat, but he couldn’t be sure. He and Jack talked and laughed, and coughed. They walked down to the cafeteria, just to do something other than sit. After resting and eating in the room they went to the gift shop. There, Jack bought Ben a birthday balloon, while Ben got Jack a get-well balloon. He also bought the old man a rubber-band gun to shoot at the balloon to pass the time. Back in the room they tried it out. They were having a great time when the nurse came in without knocking. She poked her head in just as her elderly patient pulled the trigger of the rubber-band gun. The two chums held their breath as the oblivious nurse was snapped in the forehead with the band. Her eyes flew open wide when she saw it coming; when it hit her she fell backwards on the floor. Ben and Jack crowded over her till her eyes fluttered open. “I will be right back to help you, sir,”


By

The Baseball

I was only eight when Pearl Harbor was bombed. It was so long ago—back when I had fountains of cranberry-red hair tamed into ragged half-ponytails. Back when I had yellow dresses with hems that danced around my legs, displaying scraped knees; I never did girly stuff. No, I broke the sugar bowls at tea parties and tore the silken gowns of dolls. Besides, my idol was no woman. It was Sammy. He was my brother, eight years older than I, and I worshiped him. I always tried to tag along with him and his gigantic friends—he always tried to avoid this by taking giant steps, scaling treetops, running races, playing ball. So I lengthened my strides and walked like him, confident, big, I-mean-business strides. I took a deep breath and gripped the rough limbs of the oak out front, pulling myself into a palace of emerald leaves and sun-dappled branches. I practiced running by the steaming bog and bony cattails over the golden hilltop behind the baseball field, teaching my legs to move and letting the air roar in my ears like a jet plane, feeling at first as if I were going to topple over, then speeding up and finding I had wings. And in the folds of spangled night, I trudged to the baseball diamond with my brother’s too-big mitt and my brother’s too-heavy bat, and tossed baseballs into the air, watching their vague outline fall where I wanted, then slamming them out of sight. One day, Sammy discovered a gold mine of baseballs bordering the outfield and asked his friends in puzzlement about where they had come from. Nearby, following them as usual, I chirped up. I announced my secret rehearsals, then showed him what I could do. I walked next to Sammy with great, joyous steps. I climbed up the maples, the bays, the twining cypress, the keeling willow. I raced his friends and beat them all. And I showed what a ballplayer I was. “You guys are lucky,” Sammy snorted to his friends. “You guys don’t have a bratty, tomboy little sister that’s one hundred percent bad news.” But I could see in his eyes that he was proud of me. I raced his friends and beat them all. And I showed what a ballplayer I was Probably the thing I’ll remember most about that time was how we played. It was fantastic. We started after our homework was done. School was tough for me—I understood all the subjects, but went around doing them in unusual ways. In poetry I wrote without uppercase letters or punctuation; in math I added up numbers by making faces out of the digits first. My teachers didn’t understand, and as a girl who didn’t act the way girls were supposed to, I had no friends to help me parry their unconcealed disapproval. But I had Sammy. And every day, without fail, we would hastily do our work, then get bats and gloves and join his buddies, split into teams, and get dirty. We’d play until the darkness of purple dusk fell, until Mom trudged up the hill, battling the wind as it billowed out her skirts and ruffled up her auburn hair. And when her call rang round the dugout, Sammy would wave good-bye to his friends and drag his feet back home, holding my slender white fingers in his big, warm hand. I still believe today that if it wasn’t for Hitler, Sammy Corboy could have become a professional ballplayer. We found out about Pearl Harbor when listening to “The Green Hornet” after dinner. Sammy and I were wedged together into the same faded, pink armchair, listening attentively to the radio. Then there was a rush of static, and our program was interrupted. “We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin. This morning, Japanese planes attacked the American military base in Pearl Harbor . . .” We stared at the radio as if it was going to explode in our faces. The distant war was creeping into our home like a tiger closing in on prey. *          *          * Sammy and his friends wanted to fight. They talked of the Japanese and Germans as if they were a cup of something nasty that had spilled and simply had to be wiped up. No need for soap or sponges—just a rag would do. They seemed to think they could just go overseas, kick butt, and be back in time for dinner. One of Sammy’s best friends, a tall boy named Rolando, was two years older and signed up immediately. I watched him leave, happy, determined. He never came back. My music teacher, Mr. Phelps, went abroad as well, abandoning the class to a series of frazzled volunteers. I never saw him again, either, but it never really registered in my eight-year-old mind how grim the situation was and that he was really dead. I guess I thought he had gone away somewhere and, like Rolando, would come back sometime or other. Death is just a word when you’re young. Everything was changing. I grew out of my oxfords the summer following the bombing, and Mom replaced them with some old saddle shoes she found at the “Shoe Exchange” that were much too big and stuffed the toe with newspaper. We collected bacon grease off the griddle in tin cans, and when the cans were full gave them to the fat butcher three blocks away. I was told they were somehow used in the manufacturing of bombs. Gold stars stared from windows everywhere, and adults were tense, stretched thin, looking older, on the verge of breaking. Everything in my world was a roller coaster—except baseball. The sport insisted on keeping the same rules, the diamond still waiting patiently for me every day after school, its popularity never faltering. Hordes of kids would crowd round the makeshift bleachers and watch all the high-schoolers and me play on weekends. The kids my age jeered at me, but it