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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Stranded

PROLOGUE   The words were like white-hot knives plunging into Tom’s skin. His mahogany eyes were flaring at his parents’ shouts. “You’re banned from GameCube!” “You’re grounded!” “No allowance!” All Tom wanted was to run far, far away from here. His two little sisters, Hannah and Beth, huddled in a corner, wide-eyed with fear. Tom could take it no longer. Roaring like an angry lion, he charged out the door and slammed it behind him. All Tom wanted was to run far, far away from here Tom was running like a rocket, his fine-tuned sprinter’s legs pounding the ground. He didn’t care if he had to slam through a brick wall, he just wanted to run. And it was pure coincidence that the first things Tom slammed into were his best friends, Andrew and Henry, CHAPTER ONE Wham! Tom fell to the ground, stunned by the sudden impact. Andrew lost his balance and started pinwheeling his arms. Henry, who had taken the impact full force, flew backwards and fell flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. After Andrew regained his balance, he walked over to Tom and helped him up. “Are you OK?” “Fine,” Tom replied. Tom couldn’t help feeling a bit envious of Andrew. After ten years of hard training, starting at age three, Andrew had convinced his father to sign a contract with the WWF stating that Andrew would be a pro wrestler when he graduated from college. Henry staggered over, gasping for breath. “Man, you sure know how to rip a person’s shirt.” He looked down and added, “And his jeans!” Andrew spoke up. “Why were you running?” Tom shot a look at him. There was a long silence. Both Henry and Andrew knew what Tom meant. Tom had been failing in math for months. After many comments from the teachers, his parents blew a fuse. A sudden noise broke the silence. It was the sound of a car speeding down the road. “It’s my mom!” Tom shouted, and they took off down the sidewalk. Henry, who was a little chubby, fell behind the other two. The SUV pulled up alongside Henry. Tom’s mother rolled dawn the window. Her pumpkin-colored hair was frazzled with stress, and even though she was wearing shades, Henry could tell there was a lot of anger in her eyes. “Have you seen Tom anywhere?” she asked politely. “Yes, ma’am. I saw him run past the school a minute ago,” Henry lied. “Thanks, honey,” said Tom’s mom, and she sped off down the street. Henry caught up with Andrew and Tom and they decided to hide in the community boathouse. “I stole the keys to our boat,” Tom smirked. “There are plenty of islands off the coast. I’ll just sail over to one of them and stay for a couple of days.” “What about us? You’re not getting all the fun!” For the second time in two minutes there was a long silence. The boys’ eyes drilled a hole through him as they waited for his reply. “OK! OK!” Tom sighed. “You two can come along, but it’s your own lives you’re messing with.” Andrew beamed, “Thanks, dude!” Grabbing a flashlight from the boathouse floor, Henry smiled, “Be prepared!” CHAPTER TWO The boys pulled the boat out onto the beach. Henry was dripping with sweat, muttering something under his breath, while Andrew was lifting it as if it weighed as much as a puppy. As for Tom, he was doing as well as an average twelve-year-old sprinter should, pretty well, but stumbling now and then. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, they set the boat down with a hollow thud. Henry wiped his forehead. “Man, the only way I could take a step carrying that boat was to say its name over and over. Salmon, Salmon, Salmon! It makes my mouth water!” The Salmon was sleek and smooth, like its namesake. The sail had a picture of a fish leaping up a waterfall. Tom smiled slyly at Henry and said, “You know, Henry, you really should get in shape because not all boats have appetizing names. See that one over there? It’s called the Bloody Head.” Henry gave a little gasp of horror when he saw the image on the sail. Tom smiled as the sea sprayed his face. He knew this was where he belonged Andrew gave a sharp whistle and shouted, “It’s time to cast off.” Giving the Salmon a final shove, they scampered onto the boat. Henry went to the navigation room, Andrew to the sails, and Tom to the wheel. Tom smiled as the sea sprayed his face. He knew this was where he belonged. Henry was deep in thought. He was thinking about his social life, as they called it at school. Ever since kindergarten, every kid but Tom and Andrew had made fun of his chubbiness. Here was a chance to earn their respect. He was taking part in an adventure that no one in the history of Ponce de Leon Middle School had ever done before. He and his friends were running away; they were outlaws! CHAPTER THREE Andrew was looking across the water when something caught his eye. It was a huge mass of clouds moving across the sky. Suddenly the wind started to howl and the thunder boomed. The rain poured down and water churned around the Salmon. The Salmon creaked and groaned as she rocked back and forth. Then, out of nowhere there was a sucking sound. The boys looked behind them and saw a fifty-foot wall of water towering above them. Unbelievably, it grew still higher and then with a deafening crash it thundered down upon the Salmon. Tom was flattened against the deck. He felt like he had been body-slammed by a sumo wrestler. With his strength to hold on failing, his last thought was of his fight with his parents. Then everything went black. Tom was now at the mercy of the roaring sea. CHAPTER


By

A Story to Tell

Imagine being lost in the New York City train station with people you don’t know. Imagine a four-year-old kid in the middle of the stairway, scared and confused. Imagine a crowd all around you, and there’s nowhere to go. Who was that four-year-old kid that got lost in the train station? I was that four-year-old, and I was alone and afraid. I went to preschool in Chinatown. I always came home at around six o’clock, so my grandma would pick me up. “Let’s go and buy some fruits!” my grandma would say every time she picked me up early. “Look, Grandma! Look at all the fruits we bought!” I said one day. “Yes, we bought so many fruits! Now let’s get home and put them away,” my grandma said when we got to the train station. Since there were so many bags of fruits, it was hard for my grandma to see if I was beside her or not. Ding-dong! The doors of the train started to close. I looked up and I didn’t see my grandma. I looked from one side to another. Every way I turned were more people, but none of them were my grandma. People pushed and shoved me as they passed by I thought I would get bruises soon. I got real scared and slumped to the floor. My heart started pounding and my hands started shaking. I got up and started calling for my grandma. “Yes, we bought so many fruits! Now let’s get home and put them away” “Grandma!! Where are you?” I yelled. I spoke in all three Chinese languages, but there was no sign of my grandma. I started to feel the urge to throw up, but I continued to call. “Have you seen my grandma? Have you seen my grandma!?” I asked many people, but all of them said, “No,” or shook their heads. I started to cry, and the noise filled up the station. I was hoping my grandma would show up, and I would be by her side again. “What is that racket?” the train conductor said. “Huh . . . better open the doors.” As the doors opened, I turned around. I saw a familiar figure inside. She had loads of bags. I peered inside and the bags were full of fruits. I looked up at the person. That person was my grandma! She looked at her side and saw no one beside her. She looked up again, shocked to see me outside in tears. I ran inside and held her tight. I started to wipe my tears from my eyes. “Where were you?” my grandma asked. “I was outside!” I answered. “I thought you were beside me.” As I held my grandma, I didn’t feel fear anymore. I stopped shaking and my heart stopped pounding. All I felt was relief, and I felt safe when my grandma held me. I was glad I got through that, and I was happy to be beside my grandma once again. “See, Grandma, that was exactly what happened,” I said as I ended the story. “That’s quite a story,” my grandma said, “but I don’t remember that happening when you were four. I think you were three, no four, no three. Hmm .” “But that’s the way I remember it,” I said, while my grandma and I entered the subway to go to 34th Street. “Well, I remember it differently. But it’s a little hard to remember. I mean, look at you now. You’re eleven years old now.” She looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. “So what do you remember?” I asked. “I remember you were very little, yes, we were coming home from school. There was a crowd in the elevator down on our apartment lobby. You went in and I didn’t. Suddenly, the doors closed and you went up,” my grandma answered. “Oh I remember, I went up, you went down, up, down. Then we finally met,” I said and giggled. “But I remember that, and I remember getting lost in the subway too,” I said. “Maybe you dreamt it,” my grandma answered. “But I know it happened,” I replied. “Maybe you remember it, but I don’t,” my grandma answered, and started to laugh. “Maybe it was when I went to the laundromat and you were asleep at home. You woke up and couldn’t find me. Heh heh . . . you were so small and you opened the big door!” my grandma said. “Really? I don’t remember that,” I said. “Heh heh. You see, you don’t remember and I do. You were way too young anyway,” my grandma replied. “I think it was 34th Street. I saw red poles, and Grand Avenue has blue poles. You know, when I got lost,” I said. “Maybe,” my grandma said. Ding-dong! The doors opened in front of 34th Street. My grandma and I stepped outside. I looked at the train before we got on the escalator. “Maybe it was a dream . . . but it felt so real,” I said to myself. I got on the escalator and it started to go up. That day when I was four was the first time I got scared so badly I looked at my grandma, and felt safe. I looked back one last time, and smiled. Maybe it was a dream, but it sure gave me a story to tell. Amy Xu, 11New York, New York Chloe Hamilton, 12Bakersfield, California


By

Beyond the Dance

Beyond the Dance, by Chan Hon Goh; Tundra Books: New York, 2002; $15.95 When I first saw the cover of Beyond the Dance, I thought it might be a book that was just about dance technique. But, as the saying goes, you can’t judge a book by its cover. As I started reading, I found that Chan Hon Goh was writing not just about her dance career, but also about her life growing up in Communist China where the government was very unsupportive of artists. I was sad to learn that Chan’s parents, who were both dancers, had to split up for a year while Chan’s father sought artistic freedom in Canada. From the moment I started reading, I was rooting for Chan and her family to be successful in their search for freedom. I have read several books before about totalitarian governments, but this book addressed a subject of great interest to me: how artists can be affected by politics. Living in America all my life, I appreciate even more, after reading this book, how fortunate I am to be able to write and dance without opposition from the government. I feel connected to Chan in several ways. We both love to dance, and take it very seriously. When she was eleven, Chan set high goals for herself as a dancer. I have always had a dream of being a principal dancer in Swan Lake or Giselle—two famous ballets that Chan has gone on to perform as an adult. There are things other than dance that Chan and I have in common. One is that we both moved when we were eleven (as I write this review, I am preparing to move). Chan’s move from China to Canada was extremely difficult because she spoke no English. My move from Connecticut to Manhattan will involve my getting used to living in an apartment instead of a house, going to a new school, making new friends, and adjusting to life in the big city. But while my move will be only around sixty miles, Chan’s move took her halfway around the world. Beyond the Dance offers great advice to everyone, not just to dancers. The author recommends that people who want to become better at what they do should create personal challenges, and try to believe in themselves. My favorite part of the book was when Chan, at seventeen, auditioned to get into The Prix, a dance school that only had a few openings. She had worked so hard, and made it to the semifinals, but assumed she had not been accepted, and left. Later that day, she went back to one of the judges to ask what she could do to become a better dancer. I admired that, even though she was disappointed, she wouldn’t let anything stop her. I won’t give away what happened, but I was happy and encouraged by the way things turned out for her. Chan’s life and career are fascinating, so I strongly suggest that you read Beyond the Dance. I admired the strong descriptions of both the good and difficult times Chan faced in her life, and how she dealt with each. I found myself relating to so many of her experiences, and was able to appreciate the advice given throughout the book about persevering for what you believe in at all costs. Beyond the Dance is a book that truly goes beyond just dancing. It is an autobiography that is great for anyone at any age. Karlen Schreiber, 11New York, New York


By

Storm Dancer

I gazed out from the ferry, my eyes growing big as we neared the island. It shone like an emerald in the morning sunlight, green trees waving to me in greeting. I could not help but smile. What a wonderful way to spend our vacation—my first time seeing the ocean and we were going to be right in the middle of it! The ferry docked and my family and I disembarked, all four of us dressed in pastels and dragging bulging suitcases. From the moment I stepped onto the pier I was captivated by the regal splendor of the island. The beaches were carpeted with sand white as sugar and the ocean swelled in a blue rhythm. Clouds began to gather above the water, blocking out the sun every so often. It all seemed so wonderful to me. My family checked into the hotel and dropped off our luggage. The hotel was luxurious, with soft mattresses and royal crimson and gold decorating our rooms. My brother was completely enthralled by the satellite TV, but my favorite part of the room was the floor-to-ceiling window along the west wall. It overlooked the ocean and it thrilled me to think that I could watch the tides come in and go out. I stood by the window, watching the swells rise and sink, finally gaining enough momentum to rise high enough to touch the cloud-heavy sky and then cave in on themselves in a chaos of foam and saltwater. I was hypnotized by it, and as the cold blue caressed the white sand, it seemed to me that the ocean was breathing. In fact, I fancied I saw a figure in the waves as they collapsed into the surf, a figure dancing and moving to the ocean’s pulse . . . My first time seeingthe ocean and we were going to be right in the middle of it! “Shelia?” I jumped at my mom’s call and turned to look at her. The entire family was clustered around the door. “Well, are you coming with us for the tour or what?” “Yeah—I’m coming!” I said, jumping up to join them. My mother shook her head as we left the room, muttering, “I swear— sometimes you just get lost in your own head.” *          *          * “This—as you can all see, I’m sure—is the ocean:” The guide swept his hand across the horizon. We all nodded and smiled, adjusting our hats and sunglasses. My family was just a small part of a group of tourists standing on the pier, who came to see the famous Dancer Island. The air was filled with clicks and flashes of light as people took pictures of the setting sun. Not that it was easy to see the sun, with all the clouds. “Now,” said the tour guide, a man named Eddie in his early twenties, “does anyone know why this island is called Dancer Island?” Everyone shook their heads. My brother, recognizing the beginning of a story, groaned, but I leaned against the railing to get more comfortable. I loved stories and this sounded like an especially good one. “Hundreds of years ago there lived a woman here who danced to the ocean. It’s said that she could change the ocean’s mood—could tame it into a gentle babe or stir it up into a frenzy. She was called the Storm Dancer.” The Storm Dancer, I thought, visions of a beautiful woman dancing to the ocean, auburn hair caught up by the wind and eyes blue as the ocean playing through my mind. What a mysterious and exciting name! “The villagers living here at that time, though, were pretty superstitious. They called her a witch and sentenced her to death. Burned her at the stake.” The crowd around me gasped. What a terrible thing to do to a person! And all because of a little superstition! Eddie straightened his hat and continued. “That’s not all. After her death, this island had the worst hurricane it’s ever seen. Wiped out the entire population. Weren’t any people living here until about fifty years later, when someone came off the mainland to start a tourist spot here. And even after that, people say they’ve seen her dancing on the beach when there’s a storm—dancing to the beat of the ocean.” I was spellbound. I wondered if perhaps the dancer saw the ocean the way I did. I wondered if she felt its breathing and the swells seeming to rise and fall to the beat of her own heart just as I did . . . “Well, folks, you should be getting back to your hotels now—the weather changes fast around here. Looks like rain,” said Eddie and as he spoke a drop of rain fell. A light drizzle started, growing heavier with every second. “Come on!” I heard my father yell. “Let’s get back to the hotel—fast!” I nodded and began to walk toward the town, but it was raining much harder now. I couldn’t see anything in the rain—it was coming down in sheets. I felt for the railing, thinking it would lead me back to the town. The wood was slick and I had to inch my way along. Damp and cold, dripping wet, I found the end of the boardwalk. I took a step forward and slipped, tumbling down in the storm and rain. I landed in something gritty and soft. I opened my eyes and found somehow I had ended up on the beach. I sat up and found myself staring at the ocean—a raging, screaming ocean that lashed out at me. Its rhythm was no longer slow and steady but angry and unpredictable. Waves rose fierce and black, crashing down in a brawl with the wet sand. The spray hit me full in the face, and I gasped at the overwhelming saltwater. I cried out and pulled away from the water, trying to crawl away from it. But it followed me, shoving me underneath with damp fury


By

I Am a Golden Trout

The sound of silence shatters When a buzzing fly splashes into a cool freshwater lake The water, like liquid tourmalines, ripples to kiss the sun-bleached shore I wait for a delicious, squishy fly to plop into striking range Anxious yet excited Each time is as thrilling as the first I strike like a ravenous eagle WHAM! I clamp the sweet, juicy fly between my jaws like a wrench GULP! What a luscious fly! I descend into the liquid silk water To snooze in my blanket of warm earthy mud Colin Johnson, 11Laguna Beach, California


By

The Sky, the Water, and the Shell

My damp hair lies strangled on my sweaty shoulders. The air around me covers every bit of me with heat, and continues to close in on me. My hair clings and knots on my swirly tie-dyed top. It swirls along with the oranges, reds and yellows. As we bounce up and down along the dusty gray, brown South African road, pictures of my father and sister far away bounce along with my stomach. Suddenly the car stops, my mind begins to swirl with thoughts: Did we break down? This can’t be good. My aunt’s smooth voice bounces out of the car with her tall dark body. The dust shines in her eyes. As she gleams in pleasure the wind pulls and pushes her, pulling her into its clutches, as if to smother her with a kiss. The dust is rising into the sky, swirling, taking away all hopes of being able to see. “Calm down, settle back into the ground, dust,” my mom whispers to me jokingly. And then, like it knows what she said, the dust gently floats to the ground. From the dust is rising a forest of cactus, rose hips and tiny shrubs. A chorus of sighs rises in the silence. I begin to talk but my mother hushes me. “This place is nothing like the hot busy streets of New York; enjoy it while you have it,” she says. The rose hips have tiny green stems protruding from big luscious fruits, each the size of a golf ball, the color of blood. I stick my nose out of the car and take a sniff. I smell something salty. Something not at all like the cruddy, cigarette-butt-covered sidewalks that I always used to wake up to. This something smells like something salty, but with the same sweetness as a newly unwrapped candy. My aunt says that it is the ocean and I think that it is the love that is in this place. We stand there against the wind, looking out onto the ocean before us. The wind dries up all the sandy sweat off our bodies, sweeping it off gently. A big gust of wind brings the gritty sand and harsh salt mist into our eyes, making them tear as we walk blinded into the sand. When the sand finally comes out of our eyes, gray seagulls hit and dive across the sky, chasing tiny bugs. Their young sit in their nests, cawing for their mother or taking their first flight. The shell seems magical, as it rests in my hand, sending waves through my body “Each tiny bird spreads its sticky wings and is gone, just like that,” my mother snaps, then stares into her hand as she slowly drops it into the sand. The sun is dipping into its blue blanket, and is making the sky into a fuchsia blob. “An ocean is a mural, of a part of a big idea, the beginning of a memory” My father used to say things like that. “Life is a canvas that goes on forever right above the water and anything can be painted on it,” and I would roll my eyes and walk away. But now I know what he meant, and I can see the paintbrush painting. I stand in the sand, my feet slowly sinking, my mind racing with memories, then like a bullet I run splashing into the white foam, my toes numbed. Then I run crashing out of the waves and rush into my mother’s arms, burying my face in her shoulder, my knees wobbling and my feet blue. I lift my head to her ear and whisper that the water has frozen icicles in my brain. She laughs and blows in my ear. “I am all better now,” I say. “Good,” she says and we talk and giggle until I know she’s still a kid inside. We stand there for a second under our fuchsia sky, as pale blue clouds lazily roll through the sky, and my mother’s baked cookies smell fills the air. I take a deep breath in and smell the sweet, salty ocean, cookies and car sweat—and the corners of the sky seem to lift and say, “I feel the same way.” There is only one thing missing: a souvenir, something that I could paint a mural of in the sky when I got home. And then something sparkles, shining like a diamond. I run from my mother’s grasp, and into the icy water. But now I do not feel the coldness or see my feet turn blue. My mind is focused on something. The water pulls from the sand and the something goes with it, slowly toppling over itself, and then it is gone. The water pushes towards the sand and it shines like a star. I dash for it and quickly pick it up. I rub it, shining it on my shirt as I walk back up the beach. I move it from hand to hand, massaging it, making it burn my hands. One side has a metallic glaze and the other is just a shiny black shell. The shell seems magical, as it rests in my hand, sending waves through my body. All of a sudden a little hand reaches from behind me and snags the shell. I turn quickly to see my tiny cousin’s gold locks swiftly moving down the beach and into my aunt’s arms, her pink cheeks flushed and her little body heaving. I want so badly to scream, to run towards her and snatch the shell from her tiny fragile hands. But all I can do is cry. The hot tears stream down my face, making tiny bubbles in my eyes. I rub the tears away and run towards her. Tiny bits of sand fly in the air behind me, making little whirlwinds. I slide across the sand arid kneel before her, pretending to be some humble servant begging for mercy. She smiles but keeps the shell locked in


By

The Run Away?

Eliza opened her bedroom door a crack and looked through the small slit into the tan-carpeted hallway. It was deserted. Eliza breathed a sigh of relief. She stuck her head out and listened for any noises that would signify that she was not the only person up. To the left, her little sister Emily’s room was silent. Eliza cocked her head the other way to listen for her parents. Nothing. She was the only person awake in the whole house. That made sense, though, because it was five-thirty in the morning. The house was dark; only one long beam of moonlight lit the staircase, leaving the rest of the house in pure and complete darkness. Eliza left her room, a light jacket slung over her shoulder, fully dressed in summer shorts and her T-shirt with the blue-and-white stripes. She crept across the black hallway, clutching at her jacket. Feeling her pocket, she made sure that the note she had written yesterday was still there. Just to check it and make sure it was the right one, she took it out for a second and the words Dear Mom, Pop, and Emily shone across the top for a moment in the moonlight, but then she quickly folded it up again and roughly shoved it back into her pocket. Eliza started down the carpeted stairs, holding tightly to the banister as she went. Emily watched through band-aided fingers and her slightly open door as Eliza crept through the silent house. The second- to-last stair creaked as she stepped on it, and the banister shook as she tried to take all of her weight off of the steps. You miscounted, Emily thought gleefully, giggling softly to herself. I never step on the creaky stair. This, of course, was not true. Emily had made a horrible racket as she had come up the stairs just the night before, stepping on that creaky step, and the third one down, which was much, much worse, but of course, her five-year-old mind had already forgotten that. You miscounted, Emily thought gleefully Eliza’s head whipped around, hearing Emily’s giggle. “Emily!” she hissed, but Emily didn’t catch the harshness in her tone. “Hi, Liza,” she whispered, though it was so loud that Eliza hurried back up the stairs, counting right this time so that none of the steps creaked and complained, and hurried into her little sister’s room so they could talk quietly and not wake up their parents. “Shh, Emmy,” she said, gently now. “Don’t want to wake Mom and Pop.” “Pop.” Emily giggled at Eliza’s name for her father. To Emily he was always Daddy “Pop,” she said again. “Pop. Pop. Poppoppoppoppop.” “Emily!” Eliza hurriedly covered her sister’s mouth with her hand. Emily strained to see Eliza’s painted nails, which were a deep red right now, and had always fascinated the little girl. “You’ve got to be quiet, ‘K?” Eliza looked into her little sister’s brown eyes and repeated her demand. “Quiet.” Emily nodded and Eliza’s hand retreated from her face. “Where was you goin’, Liza?” Emily asked immediately, but, true to her word, she was very quiet this time. Eliza looked at her little sister. She thought about when she had been born. She thought about all the times that she had kept the whole family up all night with her relentless wails. She thought about how cute she had been as a toddler, and how much fun she was to play baby games with. And how annoying she was when she cried when she lost. And when she didn’t get just what she wanted right when she wanted it. Eliza thought about the green duffel bag that was hidden under the bushes by the mailbox. She thought about the red train tickets that were safely hidden away in the inside pocket. And she thought about the hulking black train that was waiting for her at the station across town. She thought about her little sister, and all of the times that she had wished that she was somewhere far, far away, and all of the good times that she would miss when she was gone. She thought about how her parents loved Emily more than they loved her, and then she remembered the fantastic birthday party they had thrown her when she turned thirteen. She thought about how Emily’s present had been a hug and a kiss, and how that had meant much, much more to her than all of her other presents combined. And she thought about Emily right now, standing there in front of her, waiting with bated breath for an answer from her favorite person in the entire world. “Where was I going?” Eliza repeated. “Yeah, Liza, where?” “Nowhere, Emmy, I’m staying right here.” Emily never questioned the answer that her sister gave. She leaned forward and hugged her tightly. “Good, Liza. That’s super good.” Eliza smiled and hugged her tightly back. Sarah Jick, 13Lexington, Massachusetts Sheri ParkRedwood City, California


By

Pompeii’s Last Day

Sylvia wiped her sweaty brow with the back of her hand. She dipped her fingertips into the marble fountain and relieved her discomfort by plunging both feet into the refreshing water. How she longed to be able to swim on this hot day. It wasn’t fair that her four brothers got all the fun. “Sylvia! Oh Sylvia!” came a loud voice. “Help me with the babies! Do you not want some lunch?” A middle-aged frowning woman strode out, juggling two small children whose angry voices raged like the thunderstorms that often poured out their rage on the city of Pompeii. It was August of 79 AD and a miserable time to be alive. The heat was unbearable, at least to the young girls, who were not old enough to frequent the public baths alone. As she shouldered Lucius and Marcella, her young brother and niece, Sylvia thought of how nice a bath would be just now. She tried to banish the thoughts of cool water and a quiet atmosphere as the two babies began howling again. “Hello, Sylvia!” Sylvia spun round. “Flavia!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been?” Flavia relieved her friend of Marcella and answered laughingly, “Visiting my uncle. He has received an import of fine silks and would like your opinion!” Sylvia flashed a brilliant smile. “All right,” she said happily. “When shall I come over?” “Right now, of course!” “But what will I do with the. . .” “Babies? Oh, bring the babies! Old Helen will be sure to have something for them!” Sylvia hurried after her friend, panting as Lucius seemed to become heavier and heavier. Through crowded streets the two girls and their charges jogged. They passed the busy marketplace where a fruit vendor tossed them some grapes. They rounded the corner and came upon the public baths. Sylvia looked hopefully at her friend, but Flavia shook her head. “No stops!” she said sternly, reading her companion’s mind. At last, the girls arrived at the house of Marcus Flavius Primus, Flavia’s only uncle. Old Helen, his faithful servant, came out to greet them and bore off the now-smiling babies to play in the garden. Sylvia and Flavia hugged Flavia’s Uncle Marcus and followed him into a dimly lit shop. “I have just received some fine silks from Persia!” he said. “They ought to bring a good price. What do you girls think of them?” Sylvia blushed and said happily, “I think they are the most lovely in all Pompeii!” Suddenly, she stumbled backwards against the rolls of cloth, upsetting one. Flavia and her uncle laughed. “Sylvia, you silly thing! The finest silks in Pompeii will be ruined at that rate!” But they were not laughing long. Flavia lurched suddenly and fell to the ground. Then her uncle was thrown from his feet. “Not another earthquake!” said Marcus. Sylvia heard the babies crying. Her first thought was of them. She got to her feet with difficulty and staggered out of the room. Clutching furniture and walls, Sylvia managed to make it to the kitchen where old Helen was curled up in the corner with Marcella and Lucius. “Helen!” she whispered, fearfully. “What’s happening?” Helen shook her head. “We’ll be all right. It will soon stop.” Marcella whimpered quietly. Flavia came crawling into the room, her rosy complexion hidden by a rag which she held to her face. “Sylvia! Helen!” she coughed, grabbing Lucius. “Mount Vesuvius! Hurry! Come see! Hurry! We must get away!” With another fit of coughing, Flavia stumbled out of the room. Helen’s lip began to tremble and her face to drain color. “Come on!” shouted Sylvia. “No time to waste!” She led the trembling old nurse outside along with the howling babies. But neither Sylvia nor the nurse was prepared for what they saw next. A violent tremor shook the ground, and Sylvia lost her breath as she hit the hard ground. Stinging pains were pounding her back and legs and the smell of smoke nearly choked her. Her brown curls were filled with what seemed to be little round stones. Then she looked up. Mount Vesuvius was spewing ash and pumice all over the place Sylvia stifled a gasp. Men, women, children were running, some without clothes, some dripping wet, others covered with ash and soot. The fruit vendor from early that morning was racing past her. Two soldiers, eyes wide in fear, fled down the street. Her own mother and aunt were rushing past now, turning every now and then to look back. Her father, Uncle Marcus, and a priest from the temple were fleeing with all their might. They didn’t even notice her lying on the side of the road. The family chickens were winging their way through all the commotion. Everyone was running, running towards the harbor. She noticed that the sky was dark and full of smoke that seemed to be rolling ever closer. But when she lowered her eyes, the worst sight of all met her eyes. Mount Vesuvius, the huge mountain beneath which the town was nestled, was spewing ash and pumice all over the place, and it showed no signs of ceasing. Sylvia screamed as small bits of pumice came hailing down on her from above. Where was Flavia? Where were the babies? Where was Helen? What would she do? She curled up on the corner of the street, her heart filled with terror. It will stop sometime, she reassured herself. It will stop sometime. Suddenly, a strong arm grabbed her by the shoulder and jerked her to her feet. “Come on, little girl. It isn’t safe here. You’ll be buried alive!” Sylvia shrank back in fear. The man hurried on. Sylvia, by some instinct, began to run also. Amidst the cries of horror and astonishment, Sylvia heard a dismal wail from the other side of the street. “Help! Help!” it cried. “My mother is gone!” Sylvia was touched with pity for the child. She stopped running and turned to the direction of the


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Grandpa’s Memories

One day my grandpa gathered me in his arms and said, “Come, sweety, let me tell you something.” And he got a faraway look in his eyes as he told me of life with Hitler in power. He told me of being rounded up and separated from his family when he was still young; to the left, or to the right; to death, or to life. He told of working hard, every day, getting only a crust of bread and a bowl of watery soup, and of lying awake, every night, in fear. He told of the nightmares, the killing, the round-ups, the death. He told of the lice, the typhus, the sickness, the fear. He told of the hatred for a nation, and of praying for only the best. He told of watching his friends and family die, their ashes rising from the chimneys, and not being able to do anything about it. He told of hiking in the winter snow, and the summer heat, shoved by rifle butts to an unknown destination. He told of the Nazis’ defeat, and the Russians’ triumph. He told of the joy of being free, and the sorrow of the knowledge of being the only one to survive. He told of going on, despite the painful memories. And when he finished, he was in tears. And all I could do was hug him. Mushka Bogomilsky, 10 Millburn, New Jersey


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My Landlord on an August Morning

My landlord wakes to a dawn where everything is silent, and even the trees still linger in the unconsciousness of night. Dewy grass dampens his shoes as he strolls out over to his most used patch of land: the garden. The smells are soft and fresh and the rain’s clear drops from the night before are a blanket strung with pearls, that drape over the green leaves of lettuce as he walks over to tend them. A cricket sounds in the strawberries, awakening the rustle of wings, but the bird passes over, gliding on an invisible thread through the air. My landlord’s hands, rough, yet tender in his work, soften the moist earth at the roots of the unwanted, allowing him to pull them up, and let his green, leafy children live on. Alyssum Quaglia, 12Piermont, New York


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A Shore Thing

I looked down at my watch; it was already five past six. Where are they? It was starting to annoy me that they were late again. The plan was that we would meet at the bench under the third streetlight at exactly six o’clock to go swimming. The ocean was at low tide at exactly six so every minute that ticked by, the tide came in and the waves became rougher and rougher. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and rolled onto my side. The bench was hard and creaked under my weight. I stared up into the dull light of the old streetlight. Hundreds of mosquitoes swarmed around it. My eyelids drooped and felt ever so heavy. *          *          * “Hey, Martin! Sorry we’re late. Let’s go!” Martin’s eyes popped open and he sat up with a jolt. A boy was sprinting down the street towards him and was shouting at the top of his lungs. A much smaller boy was trailing behind him, huffing and puffing as he struggled to keep up. “What took you two so long? I’ve been waiting here for at least fifteen minutes!” Martin said, as he got up and started running alongside them. “It wasn’t my fault. Danny couldn’t find his dumb flip-flops.” The three friends raced all the way up the street, onto the path and right onto the beach. None of them stopped until they were at the water’s edge. A dark wave swelled on the rolling ocean and crashed down upon the sandy shore where the three best friends stood and were staring out into the deep blue ocean. The youngest of them, Danny, was only eight years old, with thick layers of dark hair covering half of his face. He was the shortest of the three, no more than four feet tall. His eyes lay hidden beneath the mat of hair, but they were constantly moving. Left, right, left, right, always taking in the surroundings. “Hey, Martin! Sorry we’re late. Let’s go!” Next, was his older brother, Steve, who was just over four years older than Danny. If one looked at the pair of them standing right next to each other as they were then, it would be impossible to determine any family relationship. Steve was Danny’s exact opposite. He was tall and slender, almost six feet in height, and stood like a giant to the other two kids. Steve also had a short crew cut and deep blue eyes; almost as dark as the ocean they were staring into. Finally, there was Martin. He was Steve’s age but was always very dull with a blasé expression on his face. His hair was a wild mess that hadn’t been washed or combed for weeks. Martin’s eyes never seemed to be able to look at something directly; they were always staring off into the distance. Another wave swelled and crashed down, this one more powerful than the one before, and managed to knock Danny off his feet. This small incident seemed to send a spark of life into the trio. “Let’s go in the water!” Steve exclaimed, as he yanked off his shirt and tossed it in the sand at his feet. “I think I’ll pass,” mumbled Martin with his usual lethargy. “I might have wanted to go in at six, but since you guys were so late, now I don’t want to. Besides, the lifeguards left hours ago and it’s already starting to get dark.” “So what?” Steve kicked off his flipflops and dashed into the dark water. Danny rolled up his pants above his knees and slowly waded out into the shallows. He had to hop over the rolling waves to avoid getting his clothes soaked. Martin lazily flopped down and buried his hands and feet in the cool sand. When Steve got smashed by a wave and fell under water, Danny started to laugh out loud and Martin let a smile slip. But, after a moment, neither of them saw Steve come back up and their shared laughter subsided. With the exception of the usual waves crashing upon the shore, there was no sign of movement in the water. “Steve?” Danny called in a soft voice. He frantically started searching in the water, forgetting about his wet clothes, as he went farther out. “Steve?” Danny called again in a much louder voice. All this while, Martin was still sitting in the sand. He stood up and used his hand as a shield to block the small amount of remaining sunlight as he stared out into the vast ocean, searching for Steve. Then, at the exact spot where Steve had gone under, the ocean changed colors as if someone had just put dye into it. The color of the water in that area had changed from a dark blue to a deep red, the color of fresh blood. Danny was about to let out a scream, when suddenly something that looked like a finned hand from Martin’s perspective emerged from the water and wrapped its scaly fingers around Danny’s ankle. The thing made one sharp tug and pulled him down. Just before he was yanked under water, he managed to suck in a breath. Martin’s eyes were wide with fear and his jaw hung agape as he slowly inched his way from the water. He wasn’t able to see Steve or Danny who had both been standing right next to him just moments ago. Suddenly, a small hand shot out of the water, desperately groping for something to grab hold of, something it could not find. But, as another wave rolled by, the hand slipped back under the water, almost as quickly as it had come out. After a brief pause of absolute silence, except the steady lapsing of waves, Danny’s head broke the surface. He had a deep gash on his forehead and was rapidly losing blood. He was struggling to get air and was choking on the ocean’s water. A monstrous wave crashed over


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Once Upon a Marigold

Once Upon a Marigold, by Jean Ferris; Harcourt, Inc.: New York, 2002; $17 What if you were a princess who lived a perfect, happy life except for one minor problem—your mother kept trying to marry you off to a boring royal suitor so she could become queen? What if you had never met or talked to your best friend except by letter? And what if, after too many boring suitors to count, you fell in love with someone you weren’t allowed to marry? Once Upon a Marigold is a riches-to-rags fantasy about a young runaway boy, a plain, unpopular princess, and a four-foot-tall troll. Christian is only a small boy when he runs away from home, tired of living in stiff suits, with too many siblings and too many rules. However, when he is found by Ed, a short, friendly troll, he becomes a young inventor living in a beautiful cave with his troll foster father. Through a small telescope, Christian can watch King Swithbert’s castle, and all the goings-on there. He watches the three beautiful, blond princesses grow up, as well as their smaller, dark-haired sister. He is an uninvited guest at the balls and banquets, and even at the weddings of the three triplets. But Christian is especially attracted to the younger, dark-haired princess. When he finally gets the courage to contact her, through p-mail (pigeon mail), he finds out her name is Marigold, and starts a long correspondence between them. Right from the start, I loved reading Once Upon a Marigold. Although I’ve never run away from home, met princesses or trolls, or lived in crystal caves, I can very much relate to many of the feelings and emotions of the characters. Throughout the story, both Christian and Marigold felt restricted by too many rules, and were trying to break free of them and make their own decisions. Christian succeeded in this when he was only six, by running away from home. However, Marigold’s life was much more complicated. Her mother, Queen Olympia, was always forcing her into lessons on ruling, manners, and many other “stiff, proper skills,” never leaving Marigold any time for herself, or letting her make her own decisions. Even in my daily and ordinary life, I can relate to these feelings often. Whenever I clean my room, I feel restricted from making my own decisions because, being a naturally messy person, I tend to procrastinate and would rather spend the time on other meaningful activities and leave my room as I’m comfortable with it. Another interesting lesson I was reminded of in Once Upon a Marigold was to respect other people’s opinions and feelings. Though Queen Olympia’s daughters’ ideas about ruling were different from her own, that didn’t give her the right to ridicule and disregard their ideas. Many of these fairy-tale crises may seem very different from our world and reality, but they really aren’t that far from some of the problems in our world today. Consider the quilt of different cultures, religions, and beliefs. Does that necessarily make any of them wrong? Just because your best friend goes to a temple and you go to a church, does that affect your friendship? Once Upon a Marigold was jammed with many unpredictable turns and surprises so that I never knew where it was going next! The next time you’re in need of a good book, I suggest you pick up Once Upon a Marigold, by Jean Ferris. Kaitlyn Gerber, 12Ridgefield, Connecticut