Loud, excited barking came from the front yard. He must be home, I thought. I opened the front door and walked outside. I took in the group at a glance. “Where are Swiftfoot and Mak?” I asked, suddenly afraid. “It’s no matter,” he said dismissively, and continued to lead the dogs to their kennels around the back of the house. “Dad?” I called, my voice rising. He didn’t stop. He just said gruffly, without looking at me, “They could not stand up to the Iditarod, but it does not matter—because I won again.” I felt still and cold. Those dogs had been my friends for years—faithful, cheerful, always glad to see me, always -willing to run in any weather in order to please. Now I had lost them to the Iditarod, the thing I hated most in the entire world! I still had enough sense to realize I couldn’t confront my father. There had been so many fights about the Iditarod and the dogs throughout the years, and I knew he would just get mad and say I had to “Harden up!” and “Get used to it,” in order to “Follow in his footsteps.” “Here, let me do that,” I said, taking the leather leashes out of his hands. He jerked them back. “I may be fifty, but I can still take care of business myself!” he snapped. “And I have a new trophy to prove it!” That did it. I couldn’t stand it any longer. “How can you act so . . . so . . . normal?” I shouted. “How can you care about the stupid trophy when two dogs died so you could have it?!” “How can you care about the stupid trophy when two dogs died so you could have it?!” “Why don’t you grow up?!” he retorted. “Lots of dogs die in the race; dogs die every year, it’s not as if it’s just mine.” “That just makes it worse!” I cried, and my voice was suddenly high and shrill and I was afraid I was going to cry. There was so much I could have said, but I couldn’t trust myself. And I had said it all so many times before. Dad turned around and stood squarely in front of me. His face was now an ugly red color, but he spoke in a deadly quiet voice. “I’m sick of this!” he said. “You happen to be all I have. You’ve always known you’d be taking over from me in the race some day, so you’d better start getting used to it!” * * * I was still for a moment. My lower lip shook trying to hold back tears. I turned and ran into the backyard where the older, retired dogs and the puppies were housed. I went straight to two special kennels. Bluemoon scampered out of the first; Icewalker stepped quietly out of the second. I knew they would help me calm down, these two dear companions who were so different. I loved them both so much—Bluemoon because she always made me laugh, and Icewalker because she was so peaceful and serious. As I knelt in the rough grass, stroking them, I was struck by how much my father had changed. When had this coldhearted person replaced my caring dad? Almost before I finished the question though, I knew the answer. It was when I was still very young. My mother had been a veterinarian who took time off from her practice to work during the Iditarod race each year, even though she hated it. She thought she was needed there, because it was so brutal. The last time I saw her, she said she was just going to look for a runaway dog that had been lost. It had torn loose from its harness and escaped just before its team started off to the next checkpoint. Not wanting to lose time, the musher had used a replacement dog and left. They found my mother the next morning, frozen to death. The lost dog turned up later and was fine. When I was old enough to realize what had happened, I blamed the Iditarod—unlike my dad, who blamed the dog, and had taken it out on our own dogs ever since. I suddenly realized how much better it would have been if my father had given way to his grief, rather than keeping it inside and turning it into anger. I returned to the present, if anything more upset than before, to find Ice and Blue looking at me, obviously worried. Seeing them reminded me I had just lost two more of the dearest beings in my life, Mak and Swiftfoot. Suddenly I had an idea. I had had enough. I would run away with Blue and Ice. I admit I didn’t think very far ahead. In fact, I acted on impulse. Quietly, I went inside the house and got some light snow gear, and returned to the yard where the dogs were waiting. Leaving the yard through the gate at the back, we went into the woods behind our property. * * * We walked for a long time. I was still so upset I didn’t bother to check my compass or pay much attention at all to where we were going. After what seemed like hours, I realized we hadn’t seen any houses, so I finally checked the compass—to find we had been heading not east, as I had assumed, but north. I suddenly felt tired, so tired I could barely think. I decided to have a quick rest before we moved on. I pulled off my backpack to use as a pillow, curled up in a hollow on the ground with the dogs next to me, and was immediately asleep. * * * Several hours later, I opened my eyes to a world of white and a changed landscape. I was shivering in my thin jacket, and night had fallen. I sat up, shaking snow from my hair
Winter Walk
A winter walk— My dog barking by My side, Leafless trees Piled with snow, Rotten cornstalks Golden brown, Cows with frosted fur Chomping dead grass, Squirrels feast on Stored acorns, Frozen water under A rusted bridge, Snow piled in drifts, As I whistle Trucks pass. Dylan Geiger, 11Everest, Kansas
1942: A Changing World
They came one day, their green army trucks all in one winding line, rumbling down the nearby road. I’d heard the noise, running to the balcony to look across the familiar swaying fields of sugar cane in our family’s plantation, palm fronds bowing gently to the humid breeze. Lazy mosquitoes flicked in and out of the courtyards of the large house, a solid white against the tropical background. Yet there was a difference; at the normally deserted road I could make out a line of trucks with their fluttering white flags and blood-red circles. Soon I heard the rush of running footsteps to find my mom tugging me away from the open balcony to the sheltered curtains within. She was joined by all the other women—the maids, my nanny and my older sister. I looked questioningly at their pinched faces, eyes revealing a fear they dared not voice. “Whose trucks are those, Mommy? The ones with the flags? Why can’t I look?” I was shushed by looks from the rest, all of them craning their necks to peek at the line. “Whose trucks are those, Mommy? The ones with the flags?” “Th- they’re the Japanese and that is their flag,” my mother answered hesitantly, adding bitterly, “probably bringing reinforcements for the cities.” The trucks were only a distant rumble now, like the thunder before a storm. I looked up at her, my ten-year-old braids swinging, wondering if this was about that word I’d heard whispered during meals. What was it? Occupation. One never said it out loud, as though to do so would be to accept defeat, but even I knew it existed, a looming storm cloud not yet bursting to rain. It meant long famished months of food shortages and foreign soldiers who destroyed our government, all the while claiming the Philippines as their own. It was 1942 and somehow, that storm cloud seemed so much closer to raining after I first saw the Japanese trucks. Somehow I knew our lives were about to change. How, I did not know. Somehow. * * * I’d heard my mom say often that change was slow on the islands. If it ever came at all, it came slowly. And even if it did creep up on us unsuspected, it was met with such determined opposition it usually ran away. She said all this with pride, as though change was something to be feared. Maybe there was more truth to her statements than anyone realized, for after that first day the Japanese came my world did change, and it was every bit as awful as Mom made it sound. Except it wasn’t slow; this change arrived overnight and no matter how hated I knew it wasn’t going to run away. Change was evident at school, where our class was taught about bomb raids. Once a week a shrill siren would sound and like scared cats in water at once we all jumped and huddled under our desks, glancing at each other. It was almost a game—who could remain the quietest and most still until the imminent all clear. Then, at home ugly black curtains were put up on all the windows every night, dark shadows next to the familiar flowered frills. When I asked why these were needed, Mom pursed her lips, while Daddy muttered something about needing to be “invisible” and “safety” against “bombs.” The following day Mom placed all her jewelry in one big metal box. The pearls I’d longed to play dress-up with, heavy gold chains and even the sparkling diamonds were all put in, never to twinkle again for a very long time. She gave this box to Daddy, who dug a hole one night and dropped it in, burying everything. My older sister finally admitted that it was to hide them in case of war. War? Who ever said anything about war? That was a long forgotten remnant of the past, remembered only in dusty school textbooks. The Japanese may be occupying the Philippines, yet they weren’t causing war. Really, they didn’t do much that we could tell, not yet at least. The bomb drills were a precaution, nothing more. But if all that was true, why was my sister talking about war? And suddenly it came to me. This change was war. “You’re the Japanese and I’m the Americans,” my sister announced one afternoon, weeks after the Japanese had arrived. We were playing a familiar game of Bad Guys versus Good Guys, except now the Japanese were bad and the Americans were good. Our plantation was a bubble, and though we might catch rare glimpses of the war outside, that bubble had yet to pop. Without any chance of seeing real battles, my sister and I had to be content with our own fake ones. And as usual, I was the bad guy. “Not fair! I was the Japanese last time!” “Fine . . . but only this once,” my sister conceded surprisingly Sometimes being the older, better, smarter sister wasn’t the unbeatable weapon it appeared. Satisfied, she started running down the lawn, whizzing past green-fronded plants and a menagerie of jewel-like flowers or even the odd bird, the scorching afternoon sun beating down relentlessly. Shaded by the cluster of trees, I waited. I was still too little to win if I tried to beat her running, so I listened to her feet pounding, bouncing, skipping, until finally my chance came. She stopped, gasping for breath, and I darted into the hot sun, tapping her back and declaring, “I win!” “You can’t win . . . The Japanese always win!” “Yeah well . . . the Americans are the good guys and the good guys have to win.” “If the Americans are so good, the Japanese wouldn’t even be here now!” “Shhh . . .” I was hissing at the sound of wheels on gravel breaking the tense silence. “What, it’s just a stupid truck.” All the same, she peered around the bush with me.
Blue
“Pomegranate, apple, or bunch of grapes?” Mom asked, just asking out of sheer politeness, as she knew what the answer would be. “Pomegranate, please,” her three daughters said in unison. Mrs. Loft sliced the brilliant red fruit in quarters, passed each girl a quarter and took the remainder of the sphere for herself. The two younger girls picked the seeds from the white, inedible and bitter “meat” of the fruit, but Elsabeth, the eldest of Mrs. Loft’s three children at thirteen, looked down at her slice with distaste and surprised her mother on a sudden whim. “Mom, do you have any leftovers of last night’s blueberry pie, or did Lucille and I finish it this morning?” Mrs. Loft blinked, surprised by her daughter’s sudden inquiry. Shaking her head and regaining her usual calm senses she looked intently about the interior of the hamper. “No,” she said to Elsabeth, “I’m afraid there is none left.” It was then that Mr. Loft turned his head slightly from his driving. “I’ll have Elsa’s quarter of pomegranate if she does not care to eat it,” Pa spoke in a bittersweet, chocolaty voice, which made Mom turn her head the opposite way to hide the scowl that had shattered her usually composed features. She detested her husband’s voice, because in her opinion, it was too fictional. No voice was like that in real life. But she had made up for her disapproval by being known to say that, other than his voice, Mr. Loft had no other visible faults. Elsabeth swore a silent oath that blue would, until her death, be her favorite color Road signs protruded from the cold snow every few feet on either side of the vehicle. The wintry white scenery was like a giant blanket spread over a vast expanse of flat terrain, or an electric blue tarp keeping the plants safe from a harsh frost, the heavy wrinkles forming what makes the continental crust of our Earth land: hills and valleys, mountains and even minute anthills. The Confederation Bridge loomed into sight as Dad plucked a scarlet pomegranate seed shiny in luster and held it up to the light before popping it into his mouth. Elsabeth, slightly paranoid for her thirteen years, looked up in alarm. “Pa, I would watch closer at where I was going, if I were you,” she said irritably, before adding hastily, “I don’t know much about driving of course, as I have only just reached my teens.” Mr. Loft was very particular about what others had to say about his maneuvering abilities. However, he heeded his daughter’s warning, and placed the remaining pomegranate into the cup holder next to him. He grasped the steering wheel tightly, and screwed up his eyes in mock concentration. Eve laughed at her father’s false expression of serious deliberation. A claret red car passed the Lofts’ vehicle, its bright hue reflecting off the colorless, almost transparent shade of mystic silver of the automobile’s exterior. Its speed was impregnable, and the crimson car wobbled back and forth on the smoky gray road, every now and then passing a boundary of brilliant yellow, the line that separated the two obscure lanes. “Well I’ll be!” Mr. Loft said after the clumsy-looking sports car had passed, throwing his hands up momentarily in surprise and causing his knuckles, which were deathly white from clutching the steering wheel, to resume their normal color of rouge. He continued his speech, winking at Elsabeth. “If I hadn’t been watching the roads, I assume that there would have been a horrible accident on this Confederation Bridge.” Something about the tone in her father’s words made Elsabeth think about what would have happened if she hadn’t told her father to watch the roads. Would her corpse be lying upon the frozen icy pavement right now, beside a demolished car lacking in hue, marks of red scattered upon the glistening metal of the vehicle’s surface? Elsabeth shook herself as if to relieve her head of such a burdensome thought. Such a troublesome predicament was almost impossible to fathom, not to mention quite unpleasant. At that moment a car the color of the azure sky slowly lumbered past. Blue, it seemed to whisper to the young Miss Loft. Blue. Elsabeth had always liked that color; there were so many names for its numerous shades. For green there was just lush, viridian, and kelly With red there was claret, scarlet, and crimson. As far as black was concerned there was only the elegant phrasing of the adjective, ebony Brown was perhaps of a wider range of choices, with burnt sienna, chestnut, sepia, etc. Yellow had hardly any names of much consequence. Orange possessed the sole vermilion, unless you intended on pairing it with the crayon color name of marigold. Pink could be known as salmon, rouge, and mauve. But with blue—Ah! There was cerulean, phthalo, and indigo. Azure, cornflower, and periwinkle. There was midnight and sky. Oh, there were so many different shades of blue, and at that very moment Elsabeth swore a silent oath that blue would, until her death, be her favorite color. * * * Elsabeth lived in Sacramento, California, with her parents, Richard and Cladissa Loft, and her two sisters, ten-year-old Lucille and four-year-old Eve. Elsabeth was no straight-A student when it came to academics, but she was somewhat of a genius when it came to computers and could even outsmart her high school technology professor. This remarkable gift had been accompanied by a strong desire in her early years to save the rainforests, and to become an environmental lawyer. Elsabeth swept her bushy, rather tangled locks of short auburn hair out of her placid face. Prince Edward Island in the winter seasons looked like a jewel-encrusted pendant, all covered in quartz crystal and zircon. Elsabeth was no favorer of diamonds. Their abrupt transparence made them seem like they were not in existence at all. They seemed like sheets of glass scrubbed clean; so clean that one could
A Girl Called Helena
It had to be the worst storm the town of Seaport, New Jersey had ever experienced. The rain struck the earth like pins piercing a pincushion, so keen and strong that there was only a foggy sheet of gray encircling the ocean. Flashes of lightning brightened the sky, and thunder sounded all around. Wind swarmed, howling at the ocean and tumbling through the air, sending a chill through our house. Behind it, the mangled ocean tangled with the thunderstorm. Even the stars and moon were shielded by opaque, blackening clouds. Meanwhile, I, Linda Fortinger, sat trembling by my bedroom window. I was wearing lavender fleece pajamas. Covering my quivering shoulders with the orange sheets on my bed, I peered out into the gloom from my bedroom window. I heard my younger sister, Kaitlyn, snoring from across the room, honey-blond waves scattered on her pillow, and my parents sleeping silently in the next room over. I was alone, too awed to sleep, to tear my eyes from this scene. In my eleven years of life, I had never seen the ocean like this, a wave of fury fighting, an angry mob rampaging through the streets. The ocean was my only friend here on vacation in New Jersey. I swam by its shores, surfed along its waves, sailed its surface, but never saw it in frenzy. “Linda, don’t you love the ocean?” Helena said suddenly And then I saw it. My eye caught a blurry silhouette emerging from the ocean. As I squinted to get a better look, I saw the figure slowly bob to the surface and glide toward the sandy beach. I gasped in fright. No, it couldn’t be . . . I rubbed my eyes, and the figure had disappeared. I lay back on my bed, amazed. I assured myself it was only a wrecked sailboat, or perhaps an unlucky sea creature. Maybe my eyes were fooling me. I couldn’t bring myself to believe it, but I was sure I saw, through the darkness, the profile of a girl, with a shadowy stream of black hair tossing in the wind behind it. * * * “Linda! Come down to breakfast, dear, it’s nearly nine o’clock!” At the sound of my mother’s voice, I rose hesitantly from bed, thrust on a lime-green T-shirt and denim shorts, brushed my hair and teeth, and went downstairs to the kitchen. There, my mother was bustling over by the stove, her brown ponytail skipping along with her, adding brown sugar to my hot cereal. Kaitlyn sat at the table, stirring her own cereal with one hand, and holding her dainty head with the other. My father had apparently already left; an empty bowl lay on his placemat. He was probably down the street fixing the Fervents’ old fence or down at the old boardwalk, nailing stray boards into place; he was an engineer and was always volunteering for something or other. I pulled out a stool and sat, glancing at the small television in the middle of the table. “Here you go, sweetie,” my mother smiled heartily, handing me a bowl of hot cereal. “Now girls, today I was planning that we could spend the morning at the beach, then try this new Asian restaurant at the end of town. After that, we’re free to do anything, unless your cousins in Ocean City call us . . . Anyway, I was hoping that—oh no, not another one!” Her head was turned to the television, announcing that a certain Hurricane Helena was likely to travel northwest from its current perch in the Atlantic Ocean and hit New Jersey in about a week. “These storms . . . just all popping out of nowhere, and on vacation, too! Now we might have to go grocery shopping this afternoon instead . . .” my mother grumbled, clearly annoyed. She began to slice a peach in silence. I simply gulped down my cereal. “Well, it looks as though some new folks are moving into the Melbournes’ old shack,” Kaitlyn piped up. It was true; moving vans were parked along the road, and many people were unpacking sofas and mattresses and bureaus, heaving them through the open door. This was good news; the Melbournes were an old, quiet couple who lived across the street from our beach house in an unkempt two-story house that wasn’t in very good condition for a house right next to the ocean. After Mrs. Melbourne died, her husband left the ocean, and for three years the building stood alone and untouched, until now. “Let’s go watch!” Kaitlyn suggested eagerly. The pair of us trotted across the street, where the family was just getting settled. A surge of envy filled me as I caught a glimpse of their daughter. She was beauty beyond belief, with shiny black hair that fell to her hips, a long sheet of dark silk. She wore a velvet magenta skirt that dragged behind her and a ruffled, white shirt. Then I saw her eyes flash toward me, blue-gray, with a hint of green and silver, identical to the ocean on a sunny day. My curiosity drew me closer. “Hi,” I muttered shyly, “I’m Linda Fortinger, and this is my little sister, Kaitlyn. We’re staying for the summer at our beach house across the street.” “I see,” the girl replied, in a tone so soft I could almost feel it. “I am Helena.” “Helena . . . ?” “Helena Crest. This is my mother, Lela, and my father, James. Pleased to meet you. I’m sure we’ll become good friends.” Helena held out a tanned hand, and I took it. “It’s our pleasure.” I grinned, my hopes rising. I’ve never found a true friend in these parts. “Well, I’d better get back home now. I’ll see you later!” I dashed off across the street, too excited about my new neighbor to think about anything else. * * * “This is Helena. How may I help you?” a soft voice spoke
Ghost Park
Swaying wooden swings Whisper to each other The wind blows dry leaves, Scattering messages across the park. The white, lacy blur Of a girl Polished black boots drum along stone paths As the boy calls out her name. “Come back, Margaret! I didn’t mean it! Come back!” Sariel Hana Friedman, 9Pacific Palisades, Californii
The Fallen Log
Elizabeth and Alexandra stepped across the deep, jungle forest. Palm tree branches tilted slightly in a soft breeze. Palmettos fanned the humid air, and their deep, dark green leaves and sharp stems bent to one side. The lush green vines decorated the branches above. Tangles of weeds cloaked the trees, and every now and then wildflowers scattered the forest floor. Wild citrus trees were here and there, bearing the sweet fruit that sprinkled the trees. The forest was bustling with business up high in the trees, where native Floridian birds cooed, squawked, yakked, and sang above. It was a perfect day for their little exploration in the jungles of central Florida. They were on the Ranch, where cattle and citrus were the produce. The Ranch was large and vast with long, yellow fields and pastures flecked with thousands of cows, the light brown, tan, charcoal black, and murky gray colored cows. They were raised and sold to make beef. There were several forests. There were woods, lines of citrus trees, and long canals that looped around the Ranch. There were even wild hogs that tore up the pastures and some people hog hunted to control the population. Elizabeth and Alexandra were cousins. Elizabeth was nine. She had short brown hair and dark brown eyes. She had freckles, was bigger built, and loved to explore the beautiful forests at the Ranch. Alexandra was thirteen. She had soft blond hair down to the center of her back. She had starry blue eyes and was thin and lithe. She also had the desire to explore. “It’s just a log” Elizabeth assured her “No it’s not,” Alexandra sad “Look!” The cousins ducked beneath a long, silver spider web, which was magnificently spun from one tree to another. A banana spider descended a couple inches, leaving a string of delicate thread behind. Alexandra was not a big fan of spiders but even she was in awe over the beautiful web it had designed. As they stepped through the forest they remained silent so the beauty and sounds of the forest could be fully enjoyed. “Look,” Elizabeth breathed as she pointed and indicated to some animal a ways off. Her face shone with excitement as she tugged on Alexandra’s shirtsleeve. “An armadillo!” Alexandra whispered. She slowly inched closer as the armadillo emerged from a thick cluster of bushes. It was small and almost looked like its middle was made of brass. It had four little legs and a short tail. Its nose was brushing the ground as if it was searching the ground for something to eat. Alexandra slowly advanced. A thrill of excitement shivered down her back. She loved animals. Snap! Alexandra stepped on a twig and it snapped in half, frightening the armadillo so that it scurried away a distance. For a while, the girls pursued it until it was completely hidden somewhere in the deep green plants that cloaked the forest. “Man!” Alexandra said. “Let’s walk over to the canal,” Elizabeth suggested. “I like to stand on the water’s edge.” “As long as we don’t run into any alligators,” Alexandra said. They pulled branches out of their way and made their way through the obstacles that blocked their path. The cousins’ feet sloshed into marshy ground and their sneakers became muddy and soaked. “Ick,” Elizabeth said as they waded across the squishy ground. They pushed through tangles of vines and branches and finally they came out onto the bank of the skinny canal. The bank was made of white sand. The water was black velvet and branches floated on the surface. Where the water was clearer, there were rings of orange, yellow, and red on the bottom. On the other side there was a large, sloping bank, and the trees on the far bank had lines across them, revealing where the water level had been after the last hurricane. The last hurricane had sure swallowed up the area, for the waterlines were at least five feet above the regular waterline on the shore. “Look at all the amazing colors in the water near the shore,” Alexandra observed. “Let’s walk along the canal,” Elizabeth said, taking off her wet sneakers and setting them on the bank. She waded in the shallow canal and let her toes wriggle in the sand. Then she and Alexandra walked along the bank, taking in the nature. The sun seeped through the shade of the forest’s trees. The girls listened to the peaceful rustle of the palm tree leaves. They kicked sand as they strolled down the canal. Suddenly, Alexandra shrieked. “What?” Elizabeth asked, as she immediately froze. “L-l-look!” she stammered. “A-alligat-ttor!” She pointed a shaking finger to a brownish lump on the far bank. “It’s just a log,” Elizabeth assured her. “No it’s not,” Alexandra said. “Look!” There was a long nose with flaring nostrils and a grin of sharp teeth. The overbite was obvious and the dark reptile’s profile was in the shape of a large head with four legs to its side and a long, powerful tail with scales rippling down its back. Elizabeth and Alexandra had seen tons of alligators on their several canoe trips and airboat rides but they had never been this close. The large alligator was about eight feet long and was only a couple yards away. The little eyes seemed to stare blankly at the girls. Of course they knew very well that alligators are frightened of humans and crocodiles are the ones to be aggressive and attack. But Elizabeth and Alexandra took one look at the dinosaur-like creature and ran. “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” They did not look back. They ran down the bank, scooped up their soggy sneakers, and tore through the forest. They broke through the branches that scraped their faces, arms, ankles and knees. They screamed and ran across the wet, muddy ground and through several patches of moss. They leapt over fallen logs and sprang over palmettos. The soft whoosh of the wind’s deep breaths that rustled the
Thura’s Diary: My Life in Wartime Iraq
Thura’s Diary: My Life in Wartime Iraq, by Thura al-Windawi; Viking Children’s Books: New York, 2oo4; $15.99 “In the middle of the night we were thrown out of our beds by some massive explosions,” described Thura in her diary. Thura al-Windawi was nineteen years old when the war in Iraq began. That was also the time when she started a diary, which was later published into a book. In the process it was translated into English by Robin Bray. As I read her diary, I was surprised by how similar Thura’s life in Iraq is to my life in America. We both watch television and use the computer, we both are in school, and we both have a passion for writing. At nineteen, Thura is the eldest of three girls. Although I only have one sibling, at thirteen I’m also the oldest child in my family. Our parents are similar in many ways too. Like my parents, Thura’s mother and father are well educated and value education for their children. Although we have commonalities, we have differences, too. When Saddam Hussein ruled Iraq, Thura didn’t have access to a large range of media, while I have an abundance to choose from: television, the Internet, books, magazines, and newspapers. As an American, I am allowed more freedom than Thura was allowed in Iraq. Thura states in her diary that “men are in charge of everything,” whereas in the United States women have much more freedom of choice and movement. A personal difference between Thura and me is that she has experienced war, even though she is not a soldier, whereas I have never stepped on a battlefield, not even as a spectator. Since the start of the war with Iraq, my life has changed in some ways. My parents’ obsession with following wartime events drove, and still drives, me crazy. I could never get away from it, not even during a meal, but since the war, Thura’s life has changed so much more drastically that my disruptions pale in comparison. After the war began, she wasn’t able to go to college. Her father couldn’t work anymore. It was difficult to get food for her and her family and insulin for her diabetic sister, Aula. It even became hard to breathe due to oil fires and smog. The chaos of the war also allowed religious men to force their beliefs on the women of Baghdad, requiring them to wear the headscarf or fear being kidnapped. Under Saddam Hussein’s regime, women could choose to wear a headscarf or not. It was unbelievably tough to live in the wartime conditions. As I read, I wondered how Thura, as an Iraqi teenager, felt about the American invasion. Thura doesn’t care for either side of the war. Like me, she dislikes the fact that the Americans and the Iraqis won’t talk about their problems peacefully. She hates it that men have to go to war and leave their wives and children. She also expresses her distress about men dying in the war and her concern that the women left behind won’t know how to take care of themselves. She does not call Baghdad “liberated,” as President Bush has said time after time. Rather, she calls Baghdad an “American colony.” What I believed to be ironic is that Thura described the Iraqi people’s vision of Saddam as a lion, but in my view Thura has the courage and the heart of a lion for being strong for her family and not hating all Americans for what has happened to her country. Rose Brazeale, 13Auburn, Georgia
Paintings
Lara flung the covers away with an arm and nearly fell out of bed in her rush to get to the clock, on the other side of the room. The piercing wail of the alarm had always irritated her immensely. She saw it as a shatterer of dreams, a malicious creature that waited until the very moment when you jumped into the sky to ring its sorry heart out. Hand slamming down on the “off” button, she sighed and ran her long, slender fingers through her tangled dark brown hair. Then she regarded them with fastidious interest. She decided they should be included in her list of good features, as number three, owing to the long, unbitten fingernails and delicate, almost visible bones. The other two were her eyes and her hair. The only delicate thing about me, really, she thought rather sadly, as she tried to walk to the bathroom but tripped over a sheet that was wrapped around her ankles. She hopped on one foot, tugging the miscreant sheet off, and continued on her way. Once there, she scrutinized herself in a tall mirror on the back of the door. Stocky, five foot five, straight, lanky brown hair, stormy blue eyes, check. Unfortunately, she thought, nothing had changed. She turned to the mirror over the sink and began to search for the easiest place to start brushing. She had long ago decided her hair was like a wild stallion. Sometimes it could be elegant, pretty, even affectionate, but mostly it was willful, impertinent, and unyielding. Yanking her brush through the first wild snarl, she heard a small, metallic crack. She sighed and reached up to pull a tiny metal tine from the knot, then looked at the corresponding hole in the brush. There were other holes too, mostly around the edge. She felt sorry for the decimated thing, and compared it to the soft grass the stallion viciously chomps. Unfortunately, she thought, nothing had changed She brushed her teeth quickly and brusquely, and then went back to her room to grab a book before heading downstairs. The Hounds of the Morrigan. A fantasy story but centered on Irish mythology. She stroked the shiny cover as she walked down the hall. Ireland. She would be going there soon. She smiled at the thought. Maybe, just maybe, she would have a magical adventure. After all, where would one be more likely to happen than in Ireland, the Land of the Fae? She trilled three happy notes, and then found herself in the kitchen. Lara always had the same thing. She was aware this was very unimaginative, but she told herself she could not be infinitely creative. In things that were not artistic, she always followed a set pattern or order. Even though it made no difference, she liked to think she accomplished more when in a comforting ritual. Grabbing a bagel from the breadbox and a bottle from the fridge, Lara set them on the table. She was in the act of dipping the knife in to spread on the bagel, when she realized it was ketchup. She hurriedly wiped the knife off, screwed the top on, and put it back in the fridge. Then she pulled the right bottle out, feeling minor irritation. As she lazily spread creamy yellow mustard on the bagel, Lara thought it was quite possible no one else in the world had the same thing for breakfast. She liked to think that at least one thing was all her own, unshared. She knew it was unusual to eat mustard on a bagel, but she was a firm believer in Pleasure Before Convention. Like Age Before Beauty, an idea she thought excellent. She both envied and despised exceptionally pretty people. She knew (or told herself she knew) she only had one remarkable feature; her cloudy gray-blue eyes. She would have loved them even more if they had worked properly, instead of making her wear glasses. Well, need them, anyway She hardly ever wore them. Carrying her plate to the table, she put her feet on the chair diagonally across from her and began to eat. She also read, using one hand to hold the book and the other to eat. She vaguely heard her mom, Michaela, begin to stir above, and she felt a sort of sinking. She loved her mother, but she liked having the house to herself. She finished the bagel and licked her fingers, then put down the book and carried her plate to the counter by the sink, and left it there. She climbed the wide staircase, and halfway through the hall, she met her mother. “Good morning, Lara,” she mumbled, then rubbed her eyes. She seemed to come more awake, and smiled. “Only a day and a few hours left until you go to Ireland!” “Yes, I know, Mom. Thank you. I’m really glad to be going.” Her mother smiled even wider and her eyes got the melted look Lara recognized as fondness for something inanimate. Whenever she thought of a special place, object, or even idea, her eyes became shiny with moisture, and they seemed to stare right through whatever was in front of them. Lara’s mother cried very easily, but not out of sadness. Now she shrugged her shoulders in excitement and then, suddenly, frowned. “You’re still in your nightgown!” “Yes, I’m going to change right now, Mom.” Lara slipped into her room and nearly tripped over the giant suitcase. She swore silently and glared at the thing. She had tripped over it nearly daily ever since she finished packing. She imagined it glaring back at her in a stuck-up fashion. “There’s only enough room in here for one of us,” she told it sternly, then without another word, she booted it into the hall, where it lay in haughty defeat. She lifted her chin and turned to her dresser. Nothing much was in the maple drawers. It had all been packed, all but her least favorite clothes.
Moonbeams
Big and bright It stood and watched me. Shattering as I Skipped stones Across the surface Of the Solid lake, The ripples spread its Perfect whiteness. Silent but bold. It moved the ocean waters. It was howled at by the Wolf, Enraged by loneliness. It lit the path of the Dead night. I cup the cool, crisp Water in my hands and Splash them on my face. The drops Capture its rays And I am splashed With moonbeams. Lauren MacGuidwin,12McLean, Virginia
Nothing Here But Stones
Nothing Here But Stones, by Nancy Oswald; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2004; $16.95 “Bookworm” may be one of the best words you could use to describe me. Ever since I was little I could be found curled up in the oddest places, deep in a story, obviously oblivious to the real world. Reading is one of my favorite things to do, but lately I have been disappointed to find that not many of the newer books have the same quality of writing as the classics. That is why I was thrilled when I read Nothing Here But Stones. When I read the jacket cover I knew right away that this was going to be a great book with writing that I’d love. When I read the first sentence I was immediately pulled into Emma’s body where I watched through the eyes of a Jewish immigrant girl as she started her life over in a new land. It would be hard on any eleven-year-old girl to leave the country she had been born in to live in a country where she didn’t even speak the language, but to make it worse Emma’s mother had died not long before they moved. This left Emma in a new country with no friends, almost no belongings, and a big hole of emptiness in her heart. Through the whole book I could feel the heavy sadness Emma had and could understand it. I had felt the same kind of loneliness once when I lost many good friends. I went from having a big group of best friends (about eight) and over-night they wouldn’t speak to me and would turn their back to me when they saw me. They were dead to me in a sense and left me lonely and friendless for a while. Emma was worse off than I was though. I had a loving family who supported me and Emma really didn’t have anyone to go to. I was glad in the end, when she finally felt loved. I felt happy all over and felt like it was me who finally felt accepted. I loved this book because not only was the story line great, but the author had a way of writing that made me feel like I was Emma. This and the beautiful descriptions she used made the story seem real, like it was happening the moment I read it. Even though all the characters in this story and the story itself were fiction I could visualize everything the author described. I also enjoyed reading this book because the author, Nancy Oswald, accomplished something while writing it, which I have always wanted to do. The mountain she described in the story (where Emma lived) is actually a real mountain in Colorado. From 1882 to 1884 (around the same time the story took place), Jewish immigrants like Emma and her family really did settle there. Today the author and her family own the land the mountain stands on. I have always wanted to write about something in my family’s history or something old, but I have not been able to come up with anything—yet. I enjoyed this book very much and am glad I was able to read it. It has even made it to My Top Ten Favorite Books (a poster I make every year). Nancy Oswald definitely has created a must-read book which I will strongly encourage my friends to read. Hannah Ritter, 11La Crosse, Wisconsin
Forgiveness
“Swim, Amelia, swim faster,” Star screamed. My hands and feet moved faster and faster towards the ship but the pressure of water was pulling me deeper into the sea. I looked at the ship as it moved farther. “Stop the ship, Jack, please,” I heard Star’s voice. “I can’t, the waves are moving it,” Jack yelled. “You can do this, Amelia; just a little faster.” I knew that it was my mother’s voice. I felt a hand grabbing on my ankle. I swam faster but the hand holding onto my ankle was very strong. I sank deeper and deeper in the salty water. I opened my eyes with horror. I looked around to see who had pulled me in the water. My eyes felt weak but I managed to see the person whose fingers were still around my ankle. I saw a faded image of my father. I screamed, I asked him why, but only bubbles came out of my mouth. “Because you shouldn’t be in that ship,” he said. Although only bubbles came out of his mouth I understood what he was saying. I closed my eyes and screamed once more. I opened my eyes; I was sitting on my bed. I was on the bed in the ship moving across the sea. Star, my sister, was sitting by my bed. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I think so,” I said. “You had a bad dream. You were screaming and you woke everyone on the ship,” she said. “Is Dad still angry?” I asked. “Swim, Amelia, swim fasten” Star screamed “About what?” Star asked. “About me coming with you, coming on the sea voyage,” I said. “I’m not sure. Is that what your dream was about?” Star asked. “Yes, he pulled me deep in the water and . . .” I sighed. “And what? It’s not that important, Amelia. It was just a dream, Dad isn’t that angry. You should go back to sleep.” She left the cabin. I lay on my bed. I tried to forget about the dream. I remembered how Dad had said that I shouldn’t go on the sea voyage; how he had said that it was too dangerous. I had told him that I wasn’t afraid and I wouldn’t change my mind. He had said that he wouldn’t forgive me if I did go on the sea voyage but I had only ignored him. Now I felt the ship’s movement. I wasn’t scared of the sea or the roaring waves. I didn’t feel lonely on the ship. I enjoyed walking on the deck of the ship and staring at the blue water. I only felt miserable when I closed my eyes and heard my father’s voice inside my head. * * * I stepped off of my bed, came out of the cabin and went to the deck. My cousin Jack was on watch that night. He saw me and walked towards me. “What are you doing here?” he asked. “I couldn’t go to sleep. I can be on watch for you if you’re tired,” I said. “Nah, I’m OK. I like the sky tonight,” Jack said. “What’s so special about it tonight?” I asked. “Look at it,” was all he said. I stared at the sky It looked so beautiful, the stars were so clear. The moon’s reflection was visible in the water. I had never seen such a beautiful sky in the city which we lived in. I sat on the deck. I didn’t take my eyes off the clear sky Then I started to feel sleepy I rested my head on my lap and closed my eyes. I heard my father’s voice once more inside my head; he was saying that he wouldn’t forgive me. I was afraid and I felt guilty but I didn’t open my eyes. I just sat there with my eyes closed and repeated his words in my head. “Jack?” I opened my eyes now, fearing that I might have the dream again. “Yeah?” he said. “Did you ever have big disagreements with your dad?” I soon bit my lips after saying these words. Jack’s dad, my uncle, had died five years ago when Jack was ten years old and I was only eight years old. Since his mother had died two years before that, he lived with me and my family Asking the question I had asked made me feel terrible. I wanted to start a new conversation and make him forget about the question but it was too late. “Yes, I did. A lot of arguments.” He blinked and quickly looked away to hide his tears. “Oh . . .” I said this and stared at the sky, acting like I hadn’t seen the tears. I was giving him time to wipe his tears away. “But they were never worth it, the arguments I mean. I wish we had only talked about it. When I was angry at him I would talk to your father and he would tell me that the right way to deal with it was to talk about it with my dad. I never did talk about the arguments with him though, and he never talked about them with me. We would just forget about the arguments after a while and would put it aside, without knowing what the other person had been angry or upset about or why they had been upset.” Jack sighed and looked away from me once more. I stared at the sea this time; I didn’t want to start talking with him until I was sure he was ready. In the meantime I thought about my argument with my father. I thought about talking to him, telling him why I had come on this voyage. But then I thought that maybe the way Jack and his father had just put the argument aside was the right way Just then I noticed that it had been silent for a long time. I quickly glanced at
