It was Christmas Eve, and everything was ready. Presents had been purchased with great care months before. Yesterday they had been wrapped in dozens of pretty papers and decorated with beautiful bows. Now they sat like sparkling jewels in a pirate’s treasure chest, under the fragrant boughs of a giant spruce. The farmhouse was filled with tinsel and holly and light. The dining room table was covered with a white tablecloth, and red and green candles stood in silver candle holders waiting to be lit. Golden streams of light poured down from the dining room chandelier onto plates heaped high with frosted cookies in the shapes of snowmen and reindeer and elves. Soon these plates would need to be moved to make way for the huge Christmas Eve feast that was almost ready. From the kitchen came the smells of cinnamon, nutmeg and vanilla, and of a golden brown turkey almost too big for the oven. On the stove, every burner was in use. Steam was pouring out from underneath the lids on various pots, fogging up the windows in the farmhouse kitchen. The sink was filled with pots and pans and utensils, and the counters were happily cluttered. As the mother worked, chopping, stirring, and checking the pots, she sang along with the Christmas carols coming from the nearby radio. Suddenly the door to the outside burst open and happy voices filled the air. Having finished their evening chores, the children rushed into the house, each trying to be the first to reach the Christmas cookies in the dining room. Max, thinking himself too old for such childish behavior at twelve, slowly removed his shoes and walked seriously into the kitchen. He called out to his younger sisters, “You leave those cookies alone! You’ll all spoil your appetites for supper!” His mother grinned. “A white Christmas,” she said happily. “It’s been a longtime since we’ve had one of those” “Now you sound like me,” she said. “Before I know it, you’ll be taking over my kitchen and doing the cooking as well.” “Not a chance,” replied Max. “You are the only person in the world who can make dinner smell this good.” He inhaled deeply. “Did you know that it’s starting to snow out there?” he asked. “There’s already almost two inches on the ground.” A broad smile lit his mother’s face and her brown eyes twinkled. “A white Christmas,” she said happily. “It’s been a long time since we’ve had one of those. Have you and your sisters finished your chores?” Max nodded. “Great,” his mom replied, “Now where’s your father?” “He’s still out in the back pasture,” Max answered. “I think he’s…” But before he could finish, the door to the outside once again blew open. Into the kitchen came Max’s dad, his hair wet, his clothes rumpled, and a grim look on his face. “Molly!” he called to Max’s mother. “Call the vet! That cow with the white face is having trouble calving. She’s been trying since early this morning, and I went out just now thinking she’d have a nice calf on the ground. But she’s made no progress since I last saw her. I’m not even sure that the calf’s still alive but we’ve got to do something.” “OK, Frank,” said his wife, “I’ll call the vet and be right out to help.” “Dress warmly” said her husband, “it’s only twenty degrees out there and the temperature’s dropping fast.” As he left the kitchen, his wife called to the children. “Max,” she said, “I’m going out to help your father. I’ll need you to finish dinner and feed the girls. Turning to her younger children she said, “Now, no Christmas cookies until you’re done with dinner. Max is in charge and you’d better listen to him. I want you all in bed early so Santa can come. Understand?” Three little heads nodded agreement. “Yes, Mom,” they said. But as she turned around, Max was already pulling on his boots. “Let me go out instead,” he said. “You’re still getting over your cold, and I’m not really great in the kitchen. Besides, the little kids are way too excited to want to listen to me tonight.” His mother smiled. “You’re right, of course, but dress warmly. You don’t want to get sick either.” As Max struggled into layers of warm clothing, his mother called the vet. Max headed out the door, still shrugging into his coat. Outside, it was bitterly cold. The falling snow swirled around his head. Steam rose from his nose and mouth as he breathed out warmed air into the frigid night. This was not good calving weather. The baby, if it was still alive, was liable to freeze to death before morning. The cow giving birth to him was the worst mother on the farm. She usually abandoned her calves, refusing to take care of them or even let them nurse. Now here she was having her calf in the middle of a blizzard. It was crazy. The sight that greeted them was not a pretty one As Max crossed the front yard, he heard the roar of an engine and looked up to see headlights coming up the driveway, illuminating the falling snow. The vet had made it in record time. Max walked over to meet him, and together they drove out into the back pasture to find his father. The sight that greeted them was not a pretty one. Max’s father held one end of a rope, and the cow was on the other. The center of the rope was wrapped around a tree trunk, and his dad was trying to pull the cow up close so that she couldn’t move around as much. Although she looked exhausted, the cow had the fiery glint of rage in her eyes. Her sides heaved and sweat steamed off of her. She thrashed and kicked and struggled, trying to break free of the rope. “Hey Frank,” said the veterinarian, climbing out
We’re Moving
“We’re moving.” The words fall with a dead thud on my ears. I can’t believe it’s happening. The possibility has been there for weeks, months even. But I never thought it would happen to me. “Why?” I choke. “You know how long your father has been searching for the right job,” Mom says apologetically. “We prayed that it would be near here, but it didn’t turn out that way.” All I can do is nod numbly. This house has been my home for all of my twelve years. All my friends are here, all the places I love are here, everything I’ve ever known is here. I stare out the window at night and can’t imagine being in a different place. “You’re down in the mouth today, Lucy” my best friend Grace says cheerfully to me at school the next day. “What’s up?” “We’re moving,” I reply in the somewhat deadened voice that has become mine since the announcement. “You’re not serious!” Grace exclaims, but I can tell that when she looks into my eyes, she knows it’s true. * * * The yellow sign goes up in our yard the next week. Every time I walk past it on my way home from school, the bold words, FOR SALE, glare at me mockingly Mom and Dad fill the kitchen table with printouts of house descriptions near this new job of Dad’s. “I’ll write every day,” Grace promises as she helps me pack one afternoon Springfield. We’re moving to Springfield, Illinois, a place I know only vaguely as the capital of its state. It’s just a word on paper to me; how could I soon be living there? Rockville—now that’s home. The new house is soon picked out. Dad has to fly to Springfield for some sort of interview; Mom jumps at the chance to look at the house she wants. I spend the entire plane ride praying that something will be wrong with the house. It’s too fast, I plead silently. This is all happening too fast. Can’t I have a little more time? No such luck, though. The house is perfect. Somewhere inside me, I knew it would be. Mom spent hours gushing over it back at home. My home. Not this strange place that I have to go to. She brings me to see the new place on the last day of our “vacation.” I am surprised to see that the people who own it have a daughter, just my age. An only child, just like me. We look shyly at each other, and I realize that the same daze of moving that I’ve seen in my eyes is in hers as well. Silently, imperceptibly, we make a connection. But we’re both too shy to say a single word. * * * It’s back to Rockville then. For a few blessed weeks, I am able to forget about the whole business of moving. No one is interested in our house, and it takes a while to buy the new one. Grace and I chat and laugh as if things aren’t different. Still, inside, we both know that it’s not the same. I begin boxing up my things that week. The sale on the new house —I still don’t think of it as mine —went through, and the old family has already left. Mom wants to get everything ready for Moving Day, June 15. Now I know it’s real—the awful day has a date. Finally, it has sunk in. We’re moving. “I’ll write every day,” Grace promises as she helps me pack one afternoon. I look at her and nearly laugh at the absurd pledge. Everyone knows you can’t write every single day. Probably not even every single week. “E-mail me instead,” I suggest. She laughs, and for a brief instant, I am happy. * * * It’s the night before. All day it was hot and muggy, and the night is no better. I am on a sleeping bag on the floor of my room—no, my old room. I have a new room now, I remind myself. One of those strange rooms in the Springfield house is mine. Somehow, I thought that taking possession of something in the unfamiliar house would give me something to look forward to. It doesn’t really help. I know that the new room will be just as empty just as forbidding as my room is now. Only worse, because it’s not mine. I clutch the letter in my hands, realizing the ray of hope it has given me We’re back at the airport bright and early the next morning. I have only my backpack, like a brick, slung over one shoulder. Everything else is in the moving vans. They left before I even got up. I always used to love flying in airplanes. Once a year, we would fly to Florida and visit my grandparents. To me, airplanes were fun, exciting, and exotic. But all of a sudden, I hate airplanes. This time, they’re taking me away from home and they’re not going to bring me back. After an agonizing stretch of time in the air, we’re in the Springfield airport. Dad drove the car with the moving vans, so we don’t have a way to get to the house. Mom hails a cab; she doesn’t want a rental car because then she has to worry about driving it back. The cab works out because the drive to our new house isn’t far so the cab driver can’t charge very much. Then I’m standing in the cavernous innards of the new house. I thought it was forbidding when there was furniture inside; now that it’s empty with only electrical outlets glaring at me from the bare walls, it almost scares me. “Why don’t you pick a room, Lucy?” Mom suggests, seeing the look on my face. “We can move your things into it as soon as the moving van gets here.” I nod and head for the second floor. Inside, I
Brotherhood
It was a warm, brisk Saturday afternoon, and Jack and I couldn’t wait to get to the river. Crisp, dry auburn leaves were settling to the ground like fairies relishing their last ballet before reaching the forest floor. We knew they would soon be buried under mounds of snow, obscuring the path to the forest. The wind snapped at our faces as we sprinted over rolling hills that made their way into the lush forest. We ran along the path, kicking aside piles of leaves which had formed a quilt of a million pieces for us. Jack suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, and I stumbled, falling onto the path. “What is it, buddy?” I asked him, as I picked myself up and brushed the crumbled leaves off my jeans. He pointed to a glorious river as long as five blue whales linked tail to tail. It stretched up into the towering snow-capped mountains and emptied into the horizon. From there, it made its way back down the mountains and plummeted steeply over the waterfall. “It’s beautiful,” I said simply. “Yes, beautiful,” Jack echoed in wonder. Bighorn River was an exhilarating place to spend our afternoon. With birds and insects spotting the sky and the river winding its way through the mountains like a gigantic snake slithering in the grass, this place was paradise. I loved the tale of how the river was named. Long ago, many buffaloes tramped over this land and caused it to rumble until springs shot out of the ground, forming the river. My mind traveled to the thundering herds, rushing through the trees, eager to reach drinking water. I could almost feel the vibration of the ground and smell the musky odor of their matted fur. Bighorn River was an exhilarating place to spend our afternoon “Alex, we have to continue so we can spend more time at the river.” Jack’s voice snapped me back into reality. We sprinted off the path to the edge of the forest. Directly in front of us, the river was waiting. We hurtled ourselves onto the bank and sank down into the warm, round pebbles on the shore, giving our feet a well-deserved reward. Our shirts were soggy sheets of cloth, for the autumn sun was flaming on our skin. We cupped handfuls of fresh water and splashed them greedily on our sweaty faces. The crisp, cold water washed away our exhaustion, and we gave sighs of contentment. As trout arched across the water, the afternoon sunlight sank into the river, spreading colors of light which faded into the depth of the water. The majestic river was overflowing with life and painted with beauty. “Jack, how are you feeling about the… the… thing?” I asked uneasily. “Look, my parents are divorced, and I’m sent to live with my relatives. So what?” He glared at me menacingly. “I mean, if you need help to sort things out, I’d be devoted to helping you,” I volunteered. He just looked down and slapped some sand into the tranquil river. Frightened baby fish quickly scattered in fear. As they gathered back together at another cattail, a significant idea popped up in my mind. “Jack, why don’t you try getting your family back together?” I suggested. He looked at me with doubt. “Alex, I know you’re trying to help me and all that, but I just want to leave it the way it is. Really” I knew Jack was lying to cover his pain. “Don’t try to fool me, man,” I replied, tossing a pebble into the rushing river. The rock sank and softly settled to the river floor. Jack looked at me and snorted. Both of us were mute with embarrassment. Finally, after what seemed like an hour of silent moments, I managed to utter, “You OK?” Jack sat staring at the silent water. “I feel bad for you, Jack. We haven’t talked about the divorce a lot, but I had the feeling you could handle it,” I said quietly. Jack couldn’t speak, as if the words were frozen in his throat. “Jack, talk to me! Is something wrong?” I shouted. He just raised his head in sorrow and stared at me. Then he muttered, “I just miss my parents. I wish they’d come back.” Tears trickled from his miserable, green eyes, making a faint path down his cheeks. He gazed up at the burning sun and quickly turned away in dismay. A curious tadpole swam up to my big toe and circled it, wondering what this big peach-colored thing was. As I turned away, a hungry stickleback swam up and devoured it with greed. I spat at it and it hurried away shamefully. I sighed and looked to my right. Jack was wading in the river, heading straight for the steep waterfall. I screamed his name, but he didn’t come back or even turn his head. I jumped in the river and landed on some jagged rocks, wincing with pain. The water, piercing my skin, was as cold as hundreds of freezing daggers. Now I knew how my mom had felt the day she lost me in the mall. I was frantic with fear. I kept my eyes glued on the figure that continued to walk away from me. I started to cry. What was Jack doing? I wondered. He must have lost his mind! The river’s current propelled me closer and closer to Jack. Just a few more steps, I told myself. I proceeded through the water with perseverance, my legs like robotic sticks that kept me moving. I pushed and pushed, and I was suddenly there, right by Jack’s side. He was floating facedown in the water like a dead person. I quickly snatched him out of the racing water and pulled him into an upright position. “Why? Why do you do this to me? Why!” I demanded, weeping helplessly. My tears dropped into the river and were carried off. Jack looked at me and took in his
A Day at the Ranch
It was a bright and clear Monday morning on the Flying T ranch in Texas. Almost everyone at the ranch was still asleep, except a little Blue Heeler named Patches. She was a small dog with short brown legs and a stumpy tail. Her ears were black and she had a black patch on one eye. The rest of her strong little body was a silver-gray. She was an intelligent and spunky dog who loved to run and play. It was best to stay clear of her if you got on her bad side. Oh, and her specialty was herding the horses or anything else she thought needed herding. * * * She sat very patiently by the door of her pen. Ears pointed and alert, listening for any sound that might signal the people in the house were up. Not very long afterward she heard the rewarding sound of footsteps. Up came the rancher; he was a tall handsome man with gray hair in his early sixties. He opened up the door to have Patches, tail wagging profusely, jump up on him as a good-morning greeting. But enough of that, thought Patches to herself, there are bigger fish to fry this morning! And away she ran on her brown little legs. First she stopped by the barbed-wire fence and barked a friendly and cheery good morning to the neighbor’s dogs. When she got a mind-your-own-business bark in response, Patches trotted away. See if she ever told them hello again. Now to the horse pastures! Patches had taken it upon herself to make sure that the horses would mind every morning. She would stealthily slip under the rust-covered iron gate and nip at all of their heels a bit before Major Ed, the rancher, opened the big gate so he could take care of them. Patches had taken it upon herself to make sure that the horses would mind every morning That always takes all the fight out of them, Patches thought happily as she finished her daily routine. It saves the people a lot of trouble too, she commended herself warmly. Just as she was squeezing under the gate, Joan, the rancher’s pretty wife that would cook tempting tantalizing things for you until the cows came home, said, “She’s going to get the snot kicked out of her some day!” Patches puffed herself up with pride. What a compliment! She didn’t know what it meant, but it must be something good. What a compliment! She was so proud and pleased with herself that she didn’t look where she was going as she made her rounds around the ranch to make sure everything was safe and normal and SPLASH!!!! Water went everywhere as Patches ran at a rather fast pace, into the cold pool. If there was one thing she didn’t like it was being immersed in bitterly cold water. She paddled to the steps panting, thoroughly disgusted with herself and also at the cold, wet water. Well, Patches thought sadly to herself as she drooped her head, I guess pride really does go before the fall, or the jump in my case… She stopped short though because she heard a car coming down the quarter-mile downward-sloping driveway. She ran around to the other side of the house to investigate, coat dripping wet and gleaming in the warm September sunshine. It was an unknown car! How dare it enter her premises! It could be a threat to her people that she had worked so hard to keep safe and happy all these years! Anger burned within her as she shook with fury and rage. She would take care of that car once and for all. Patches leaped into action as the unidentified car progressed slowly down her driveway. She ran at it with an aggressive speed, biting at the large steel-belted tires. The car slowed down almost to a stop. She was winning! Just as she thought this battle was won Major Ed came around and stared darkly at Patches, making her whimper. “Patches! Patches, get over here! What are you doing?” he hollered. “I’m protecting my property and you! What else would I be doing?” she barked in reply. Before she knew what was happening she was dragged, claws dragging in the dirt, toward her pen. “Oh, no! Not that!” she begged. “I’ll do anything, please don’t put me in there!” Despite her pitiful cries of distress she was locked up, as the intruder stepped triumphantly out of his car and strode toward the barn. Patches lay down her short-haired head, sighing a huge dog sigh. She had had quite a day. Why not rest for a bit? She stretched out, soaking in the golden rays that fell across her. Her eyelids drooped, almost closing, covering her brown eyes so that they could barely be seen. The next thing anyone knew the Blue Heeler was fast asleep, but not for long. As soon as Patches woke up, she stretched her legs and neck and started barking. She must get out of that pen which restrained her! She needed desperately to make sure everyone was in tiptop condition. If anything had hurt them, they would have her to deal with! That is if she could escape her pen. Her owner Brad, the rancher’s grownup son, heard her cries of desperation and frustration and came to her rescue. As soon as he had lifted the latch Patches took off running at lightning speed without even stopping to say hello or thank you. First, she ran around the main part of the yard twice to make sure everything was normal. Then, she searched the barn. There was Major Ed and he looked just fine shoveling out the horses’ stalls. Next, she sprinted over and peeked through the short wooden fence posts that surrounded the backyard. The posts were not to keep Patches out, but the housedogs in. They were worthless. All they did was bark when they felt like it and
Loving Will Shakespeare
Loving Will Shakespeare by Carolyn Meyer; Harcourt Children’s Books: New York, 2006; $17 History is a great topic. When you combine that with William Shakespeare, the greatest poet in Europe, you have a story so intriguing it takes only a few days to read, once you get hooked. Loving Will Shakespeare by Carolyn Meyer is a realistic fiction book that takes place during the sixteenth century. It’s a story of Agnes (Anne) growing up and interacting with Will Shakespeare, who’s younger by seven years, who adores her. In her story she struggles to develop relationships with many men before finally appreciating Will. Although Will pops up throughout the story, he doesn’t become a major part of Anne’s life until the end. It’s a down-to-earth story with festivals, many births, and Anne farming the land under her cruel stepmother’s direction. If you take pleasure in fast-paced stories, Loving Will Shakespeare is perfect for you. I truly enjoyed reading this charming book. I often found myself advising Anne in my head because she, like all of us, makes mistakes. She is a mistreated daughter who longs to find love. She is neglected by her father, and she argues viciously with her stepmother, Joan. Although he loves her, Anne’s father is too overwhelmed by his workload to pay much attention to Anne, which I find absolutely awful. Could you imagine if neither of your parents cared in the least about you, but they expected you to care for their children and the farm as well? Throughout the story, her friends and family all find “the right person,” leaving Anne unsatisfied and alone. I can relate to Anne because both of us have to cope with rowdy, younger stepsisters. It is obvious that Anne much prefers her own sister to her cruel stepsister, Joan Little. Joan Little, an ill-tempered little girl, spies on Anne and threatens to tattle on her whenever she makes even a tiny mistake. The author, Carolyn Meyer, proved that some relationships are not destined to be. I find Anne’s struggles to be very emotionally touching. Anne discovers this through the many love disappointments in her life. First comes Kit Swallow, a poor sheepshearer with a sweet disposition. Alas, he flees from authorities hot on his trail. Next Anne encounters Edward Stinchcomb, whom she falls deeply in love with. Hob Ingram appears third. Anne’s stepmother forces Anne to betroth herself to him. She is obliged to accept, but after she realizes the effect this could have on her life, she gladly declines the offer. Each man deserts her. After these numerous love letdowns, Anne couldn’t have been more exhilarated to have Will enter her life. When Anne gives Will a chance, she is thoroughly pleased with the result. They fall deeply in love, but Will pursues his true passion, poetry and playwriting. He ends up making a choice that affects the entire book. I enjoy happily-ever-after endings, so I was rather disappointed by the outcome, but that’s life. Life can be both harsh and rewarding, and both are a part of Anne’s adult life. I was delighted in how true-to-life Loving Will Shakespeare was. It had ups and downs, a perfect balance of glamorous times and melancholy moments. Kelsey May,13Grand Rapids, Michigan
The Journey Begins
STORIES OF THE UNICORNS BOOK ONE When God created the earth, he asked Adam in the Garden of Eden to name the animals. When Adam picked the unicorn to name first, God reached down and touched the unicorn’s horn. This is a sign that unicorns are blessed above all other creatures. —Nancy Hathaway, Unicorn Shelly looked longingly at the big jugs of water being sold in the shops scattered along the dusty street. “Hey, hey, hey, girlie! Get off’ the road! You’re blocking it with your over-large body!” The voice laughed heartily Shelly sighed. They were the rich boys and newspaper boys. Their favorite activity was to tease Shelly They were trying to provoke her to come and hit them. Then Shelly would be arrested and severely punished by the government. Shelly flicked her long, red, wavy hair out of her face. It fell far past her waist, and many folks thought it greatly needed cutting. Her big, green eyes swept the street floor, searching constantly for dropped or forgotten coins. The nine-year-old girl pushed her small body through the crowds. She desperately wished it was Christmas, her birthday It was the only day of the year when she allowed herself to buy a feast. The boys were partly right about her. Shelly was a beggar girl and was extremely scarce of money. The stream opened into a little pool. Curiously, it was silvery The cold evening wind blew her dress and hair. Shelly could see her wispy clouds of breath and decided to head back to her alleyway. When she at last reached her beloved alley, Shelly immediately curled up in her few blankets. One of them had been hers ever since she could remember. It was silvery blue with a single unicorn embroidered in the middle. The thick blanket felt a thousand times better than silk. Shelly wouldn’t, couldn’t ever part with it. Shelly wrapped herself in that special possession and the other thin brown sheets she owned. Her box stood overhead, weather-beaten and dirty. It was so large, Shelly was sure it once held a bed frame. An eventful sleep took over Shelly. First she dreamed she was walking in a field of unicorns. The earth turned blacker than black and colder than cold. A black-hooded figure loomed toward Shelly through the magnificently never-ending darkness. Shelly backed away and tripped over her own unsteady feet. The figure of darkness (at least that’s what Shelly thought it was) gracefully curved its body downward toward Shelly’s face. At that precise moment, the dreaming girl woke up, breathing hard and sweating. “It was just a dream,” she told herself firmly, “just an old dream. It’s not hurting anyone, and it’s not real.” Shelly tried to sound confident, but her voice trembled slightly. “Big sign of madness, talking to your own head,” stated a newspaper boy by the name of Frederick Afintger, who was passing. He smirked. Shelly ignored him. Dawn was Shelly’s favorite time of day. Most people were still snug in bed. No one shot insults at her, she was free of owners of stalls and shops shouting at her to get away from their selling areas. Shelly was sick of that. Now the girl grabbed the last of her bread loaf and headed for the stream. It was warm, especially for this time of day Shelly finally reached the cold, playful stream that flowed around the edge of the enchanted place, Magic Forest. The beggar girl took a long, refreshing drink from the creek. When Shelly finished munching on her bread loaf, she waded into the water. The deepest place reached up to her knees. Shelly stared absentmindedly at the horizon. The sun was still determined to climb over the mountain. The sun had almost accomplished that goal, which it repeated every morning. Shelly marched back to the bank and dried herself off. Suddenly, she glimpsed a flash of white in the trees. Shelly started. Then she saw it again, further this time. “Hello?” Shelly called out. “Anybody there?” No answer. Shelly entered the Magic Forest and sprinted toward the white. She ran until she could run no more. A stitch had arisen in Shelly’s side and her breathing was fast and hard. She had arrived in a clearing. A small, lush apple tree stood in the corner, its fruits swaying slightly in the breeze. The very same creek Shelly had earlier waded in flowed before her. The stream opened into a little pool. Curiously, it was silvery. It must come from here and go around the wood, Shelly thought to herself. Shelly sighed heavily for no particular reason and headed for the apple tree. She heard a hiss and tripped over a tree root, or she thought it was a tree root. Fangs sank into her leg and poison shot through her body. Hooves pounding like thunder, and everything went black. Everything was blurry and Shelly could hear a faint neighing sound. With difficulty, she sat up and slowly looked around. There, trotting along the path toward her, was a unicorn! He had a long, flowing, milky-white mane, tail, and forelock. His eyes were like crystals, glowing in the bright sunlight. His hooves were cloven like a goat, and the fur was silky. It was beautifully white. He came over to her. Shelly didn’t know how to feel. The unicorn started to speak in a strange language. Oddly, Shelly could understand it. “Hello, my name is Magic Star. What is your name?” the unicorn asked. Shelly replied shakily, “My name is Shelly. I am an orphan.” For a moment, Shelly thought she saw an excited look on Magic Star’s face. But when she blinked, it was once again replaced by a curious expression. “What happened to me? Are you really a unicorn? Why are you here? Where are we? Was that a snake? If it was, did you kill it? Do you live here? Is this forest dangerous? Why is that pool silvery…?” It all came
Autumn
We see autumn As a blaze Of red leaves, falling leaf-shaped embers From the branch-lined sky, A blaze Of squirrels rushing, Geese hurrying, of motion, A blaze Of jack-o-lanterns. But around the jack-o-lanterns falls the night, Advancing slowly through the days, A black cat stalking the now-mouse-weak sun. Northern winds come Hand in hand with warm zephyrs Above the autumn’s thin skin of fire, Waltzing around each other; Summer to winter and back While below, Frost turns soil to stone, For hardy autumn-leaf mushrooms to stand brittle Like Medusa’s stare. Gabriel Wainio-Theberge,12Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
You Just Have to Trust Me
The first time I ever met Erica Stevens was in Miss Moore’s first-grade class at Thomas Grant Elementary. Erica had had a big first-grade crush on Tyler Applebaum, who sat across from Erica at their table. Of course, Erica, being the excessive talker that she was and still is today, chatted non-stop to poor Tyler every chance she got, whether it was during Miss Moore’s addition lesson or during D.E.A.R. time, which was supposed to be silent. Finally after a few weeks Miss Moore got fed up with Erica’s talking and just like every other teacher we have both had from first grade through now, she moved Erica’s seat. Guess where the chatterbox got moved to? That’s right, my table. Miss Moore had probably figured that since I was extremely shy and hardly ever said a word in class that Erica would have no one to talk to and that would be the end of Erica’s constant chatting. Boy, was Miss Moore wrong. As soon as she sat Erica down across from me, Erica stared at me with her beautiful baby-blue eyes and I stared at her back, chewing on one of my brown braids. Then, Erica uttered the first words she had ever said to me: “Hi, my name is Erica. Do you think Tyler is cute?” That was the start of our friendship. Erica’s talking was contagious and pretty soon I had “caught” it. We talked all the time in class, which led Miss Moore to move Erica yet again. But that didn’t stop us! The two of us were inseparable, and we did practically everything together. We went over each other’s houses almost every weekend, playing with Barbie and Ken dolls for hours at a time (Erica pretended that they were her and Tyler Applebaum). “Look,” she said, “I don’t really know how to say this, so I’ll just say it” Even though Erica and I were best friends, we were still complete opposites. I was unbearably shy around practically everyone but Erica and never talked that much. Erica was always bold, on the other hand, and would say anything that was on her mind. She would always jump off the park swing when it was at the very highest it could swing or would sled down a big, steep hill in the winter. Then she would call after me, “Now you try, Natasha!” “That’s all right,” I would say. “I might get hurt.” “No you won’t!” she would holler back. “You just have to trust me!” The years passed, and Erica and I went through so much together as best friends. We grew out of Barbie dolls and replaced them with CDs, makeup, and going to the movies. Sleepovers turned into giggle sessions complete with gossip about boys. But no matter how much we grew up, one thing seemed like it would never change: we would always stay best friends. However, when Erica and I started the seventh grade, things started to change. We weren’t in the same homeroom like we usually were, and we didn’t have the same classes. Erica started to become more popular. She always had a huge group of girls that would surround her every minute of the day, and it seemed like every boy in the grade wanted to eat lunch and hang out with Erica after school. Whenever I tried to talk to Erica, they would act like I wasn’t there and make me feel small. I made some new friends, and Erica and I didn’t hang out as much as we used to. We didn’t have our late-night phone calls anymore, and there were never any sleepovers either. I felt sad that we never saw each other anymore, but I knew I had to move on. The months passed, and before I knew it the seventh grade was over and summer vacation had arrived. I had always loved summer, mostly because there was no school and I could do whatever I wanted during the day. Erica and I used to get together almost every day during the summer, but I knew it would be different that year. One hot day in July my mom came in from outside where she had been gardening. She was holding a stack of envelopes and magazines in her hands. “Natasha, mail’s here,” she said. “Did I get anything?” I asked, putting down the Nancy Drew book that I had been reading on the couch. I hoped that the summer issue of Teen Wave had arrived. “You got a letter,” my mom replied, handing me a small, pink envelope with sparkly star stickers all over it. I ripped open the flap, eager to see if my grandmother who lived in Florida had sent me birthday money seven months early again. But it wasn’t money. It was an invitation to Erica Stevens’s boy-girl summer bash at her lake house. It was to be two weeks from Saturday. Mom peered over my shoulder and read the invitation, which had a picture of a smiling sun with sunglasses on it. “Erica’s having a party? That’s nice,” she said. “I haven’t seen Erica around here for awhile. Is everything all right between you two?” “Yeah, fine,” I replied absentmindedly, reading over the invitation again and again. Why would Erica invite me to her party? There would probably be all popular people there, and they would all make me feel so lame. Her mom probably just felt bad for me and made Erica invite me. That’s probably why she invited me. I sighed. It would be rude not to go after I was invited, so I might as well, even though Erica probably wouldn’t even notice I was there. * * * The day of Erica’s party arrived, and when I arrived at the lake house, I knew right away that this was a big bash. The house was a small but pretty cottage on a sandy beach that was right by the lake. Streamers ran all across
Empty Spotlight
Does anything exist at this hour, when my footsteps crash, and my breathing screams? When every slight movement I make, Feels like a leap? When I’m all alone, my house is quiet. Outside the streetlights blur, and twist themselves into shapes that spotlight on the patch of gravel, that’s empty No one is there, to stand in that spotlight, and listen to the applause, of the grass, blowing in the wind. And I am inside, looking out, at an empty place, that I wish were mine. Cora W. Bucher,13Missoula, Montana
Saturday Night at the Panadería
A fresh, warm, yeasty smell drifts through the screen door of the panadería and out onto the sidewalk. As if under some magic spell, we find that we must follow the command of the sweet fragrance and allow ourselves to be pulled inside the small brick building. As we enter the bakery we stand, staring in amazement at all the beautiful pastries behind the glass display case doors that surround us. There are dozens of different kinds, each more exquisite and tasty-looking than the last. My mouth begins to water… Oh, how I long to sink my teeth into each and every one of them! Should I try something new this time? Or stick with trusted old favorites? It is a Saturday night and the bakers in the panadería are hard at work, their conversations in their native Spanish washing over us like music. They are busy preparing for the following morning’s crowds. Everyone will come in after church tomorrow, dressed in their Sunday best… Women in brightly colored dresses, clustered together and resembling beautiful bouquets of brilliant flowers. Men in starched and ironed Western shirts, wearing straw cowboy hats and their highly polished boots, all reserved especially for Sundays. Abuelos and abuelas, shepherding their little grandchildren into the bakery where they will stand and stare in awe… their eyes big, their tiny hands pressed against the glass doors, mesmerized by the delectable pastries inside. Although the churros, long spirals powdered with cinnamon and stuffed to perfection with sweet creamy custard filling, tempt us to choose them, the rest of the pastries all call out to us as well. Cream spurts out the sides and dribbles onto the tray. Oops… I look around. On one shelf I see empanadas de frutas. These are miniature fruit pies, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand… flaky dough wrapped around fillings of apple, pineapple, strawberry, mango, lemon or peach. There are pan de huevos, egg breads, sometimes called conchas or seashells because that’s what their concentric rings make them look like. Small plump buns, very plain and somewhat dry, they are covered with a thin glaze of powdered-sugar icing tinted in shades of pink, yellow, tan, and white. For all their pretty colors they are still a bread instead of a pastry, and not really sweet enough for me. I see reposterías, or cookies, of every description. Most are bigger than my hand. Some have frosting, others are dusted with sugar, still others are coated with multicolored sprinkles. Many of the cookies themselves are made from colored dough. Some are bright pink and others are a deep gold. The brown ones are chocolate. Payasos (clowns) are triangular-shaped cookies made with all three doughs, yellow, pink and brown. It’s so hard to choose! There are my favorites! Cuernos de azucar, or sugar horns. They look a lot like a croissant, and like croissants some are plain while others are filled. The ones I like best are filled with rich yellow custard. All of them, even the plain ones, are coated with a thick layer of sugar on the outside. Un sabor pequeno del cielo! A little taste of heaven! Unlike most other bakeries, panaderías are self-serve. I open the glass doors of the display case and, taking a pair of gigantic red tongs, use them to pluck the pastries of my choosing from the shelves. I place the pastries on a plastic tray which resembles the one my lunch comes on in the school cafeteria. As I use the tongs, I grab my cuerno too hard. Cream spurts out the sides and dribbles onto the tray. Oops… But what a great excuse to grab a second one! Mom doesn’t say no, she is too busy looking at all the other pastries, so I take another horn, handling this one much more carefully. I like using the tongs, so I ask the rest of my family what they want. It turns out that what they want most are goodies that don’t have the fillings squeezed out of them, so they decide to use the tongs themselves to choose their own sweets. Dad picks out a marranito, or gingerbread pig, and a pineapple hojita, a fruit tart made from pan fino, or sweet bread and filled with piña, or pineapple. My sister picks out a pastel para los niños, a slice of a single-layer moist vanilla cake, covered in fluffy pink frosting and sprinkles. Pastel means cake, and para los niños means for the children. My sister doesn’t mind, even though she is eighteen and almost all grown up. She will normally argue fiercely that she is no longer a child, but hey, this is cake we’re talking about! My mother is already at the counter, asking for a slice of pastel de tres leches or tres leches cake. This is the only treat kept in a refrigerated case. It is a very moist, sweet cake, soaked in a mixture of three milks, with whipped cream and a cherry on top. Luckily for us, Mom can never eat a whole piece, so she always shares. A forkful or two is enough for most of us because it is so rich. I always try to get the cherry. The shopkeeper rings up our order. All our pastries together cost less than three dollars! We walk outside, happy and content, clutching bags filled with our fresh warm pastries. We can hardly wait to get home and enjoy them. Dad says the best part about our trip to the panadería is that it’s like a ten-minute vacation to Mexico. I say the best part about our trip is eating the things we take home. Mexican pastries are the best! William Gwaltney, 11Englewood, Colorado
From Terror to Triumph
A low growl vibrated out of his snarling jaws. Drool trickled over the cruelly glinting teeth and onto the cracked concrete sidewalk where he stood in a threatening stance. His brown eyes, which portrayed nothing but pure hatred, pierced the small toddler’s who stood stiff with fear in front of him. The little girl, four years old at the time, was frozen in a trance, too afraid to run, or even tremble. A scream was caught in the back of her throat that would not escape. A lower growl from her assailer at last set it free. “Mommy!” the girl shrieked. The dog pounced with a sickening half-growl and half-yelp, and all Asa remembered was hitting the concrete with the dog’s hot breath on her neck. * * * “My favorite animal has to be dogs.” “Hmm?” Asa was jerked out of that nightmarish recollection as she realized her friend Jenny was talking to her. “Hello?” Jenny joked. “Anybody home in there?” “Sorry” Asa replied, shifting her crystal-blue backpack to her left shoulder. “I was just thinking.” “About what?” Asa shrugged. Not many people knew about the incident of her and the aggressive dog, even though it had been all over the news when it had happened. Asa rubbed her throat gently, running her finger along the familiar five-inch-long scar that ran along the side of her neck, curving into the middle of her throat. Jenny, like most people who knew Asa, had in the past asked where she got the scar, but Asa always replied evasively, “In an accident.” So far, she hadn’t met anyone who had pushed to know the full story. “Wanna hold him?” jenny offered, nuzzling the small black-and-white Great Dane “Well, you have to see my neighbor’s new puppies,” Jenny went on with her dialogue. “There are three of them, two boys and a girl, and they are just the cutest things in this world.” “What?” Asa interrupted, totally lost in the conversation. “Weren’t you listening to me previously?” Jenny chided playfully. “I was talking about Ella’s three puppies.” Asa shuddered slightly at the thought of the huge Great Dane. “Ella’s Mrs. Lander’s dog, right?” “Yup, and the puppies look just like her.” Jenny gave a little skip. “They’re just not as big.” Yet, thought Asa. Ella was a sweet, gentle giant, but her size intimidated Asa immensely. And the thought of three more giants like her… Asa shuddered again. “Are you all right?” Jenny queried, looking into her friend’s face. “You look pale.” “Oh no, I’m fine.” Asa straightened and smiled, but it was rather strained and unnatural. Jenny looked unconvinced, but she didn’t pressure Asa into telling. “So, do you want to come see Ella’s pups with me?” Jenny continued. “Mrs. Lander is letting me come over today, and…” “No!” Asa almost shouted, with a slight tremble in her voice. Jenny’s mouth fell open. Asa blushed and shuffled her feet more quickly. She was almost home. Just around this corner here… “I better go, Asa,” Jenny murmured with a half-confused, half-apologetic glance. “See you.” “Bye, Jenny,” Asa sighed with a slight wave of her hand. When her friend had left her, Asa dashed down the sidewalk to her house, as if a mad dog was right at her heels. The door slammed behind her as she jumped through it and skidded into the kitchen, taking a deep breath as she came to a halt. The smell of homemade oatmeal-raisin cookies greeted her like a warm hug, snug and assuring. Asa dropped her backpack and kicked off her new dress shoes that were required for the school’s dress code. Asa followed the delicious smell to the oven, where the oven light illuminated two pans of yummy goodness. BEEP! BEEP! BEEEEP! Asa jumped as the timer blared its warning, and the clatter of footsteps was heard on the stairs. Asa’s eighteen-year-old sister, Ann, hurried into the kitchen, snatched an oven mitt, opened the oven door, took out pan number one, set it on the counter, and said, “Hi, Asa,” all in one whirl of activity. After Ann took out the second pan, she asked, “Could you get out the cooling racks, Ace?” Asa rummaged through a cluttered cabinet and found the racks. She set them on the counter. “Ann?” “Yes?” Ann thrust a spatula underneath one lightly toasted cookie, and then let it slide off onto a rack with a helping shake. “Do you think that people should follow all that advice about facing their fears?” Ann crossed her arms and leaned against the counter thinking. All fear affects your life, Asa” “Well, I guess,” Ann replied. “I mean, people can’t just live in fear all their lives.” “But what if the fear is something minor?” Asa touched her scar briefly. “Something that won’t affect your life very much?” Ann crossed her arms and leaned against the counter, thinking. “All fear affects your life, Asa.” She peered knowingly into Asa’s face. “Are you thinking of dogs?” Asa nodded, taking a warm cookie and gazing at it steadily. “I just—well, I hate being afraid,” Asa admitted, breaking the cookie in two and watching the crumbs bounce on the tiled floor and skitter under cabinets. “It’s like I’m a wimp, or something. I know most dogs won’t hurt me, but I don’t believe it.” Ann leaned over and pulled Asa to her side, her shiny black curls touching Asa’s light brown forehead. “Did something happen at school that scared you, Ace?” Asa shook her head. “All that happened was Jenny invited me to go see three puppies, and I freaked out.” Asa sighed. “I think puppies are adorable, but they scare me to death.” Ann’s brown eyes shone with under- standing. “So what are you going to do about it?” “What?” “Are you going to be afraid, or are you going to face your fear?” Asa was silent, fidgeting with the broken cookie in her hands. At last she looked up. “I think I need the
Watching
I lie on the grass, My back on the soft earth, Wind quietly whistling Through the tall oak behind me I watch the sky And as the clock spins The sky does also, The clouds passing through On their way To the rest of the world Gently waving their shape-shifting fingers And floating away The sun finishes its continual arch And shows off its silent brilliance as it Prepares to slip below the horizon Its light piecing the rainbow on the blue canvas sky Like an enormous jigsaw that Just like the clouds Shifts every day, then fades to blue A deep, restful blue held back by the tiny pinpoint stars That emerge from their day of sleep And wink at the last of the sun Then turn respectfully again towards the moon Their moon. Their hushed lullaby a soft glimmer As the moon holds itself with such posture, Such presence. Carrying out its midnight duty. And as I breathe it in, I feel like one of them. Goodnight, I whisper to them. And I truly am happy to be alive. Laine Bruzek, 12Wheaton, Illinois
