He sat there for what seemed like an eternity The wind whistled against his head as the leaves blew in a cyclone and rain threatened with a distant rumble of thunder. The man turned, his black overcoat flapping. Walking slowly away, he hoped his memories would not be blown away as the dry brittle grass. His hand felt empty and cold without her small hand gripping his. The streets were empty as he boarded the bus. Staring out of the window the man could almost hear her voice pointing out anything that her little eyes could see. The voice faded as the bus abruptly came to a halt, and the cracked and broken voice of a driver said, “End of the line.” He got slowly up, his back bringing pains that did not hurt around her. Climbing down the stairs he saw with his hazy eyes a candy shop where they always used to get her favorite candy, licorice. As he moved closer he realized all the windows were cobwebbed with boards and tape showing that he was not welcome here. Moving a little farther he came to a park where she used to immediately pull his arm to the garden and jump into the flowers until a smiling park ranger told her to get out. But now all that remained as the old man hobbled up was the cold hard dirt, an old torn-up magazine, and one withered flower. He bent down to pick the last beautiful memory, when a sharp wind flew through the trees and snatched the flower in its fearsome jaws. It continued to howl until the man shuffled away, taking shelter in a gazebo that looked to be a thousand years old. There in front of him was a merry-go-round. The wind pushed it around and around and every time it turned a white horse, now faded gray, brought the laughter of a small girl with it. He sat there for what seemed like an eternity until the laughter faded from his mind. He got up and walked against the wind, his face seeming like an old grape. Leaving the park he entered a subway and bought a ticket for the next train, not caring where it went. Sitting down, he imagined picking her up so she could grab with her small fingers the holding bars and squeak in her delighted voice, “I’m Tarzan.” Then everyone would look up from his or her newspaper and laugh. But no one was on the train today and a single tear full of emotions fell from his eye. He emerged from the subway and he walked on, in front of him a ray of light broke through the clouds. Erik Dinardo, 13Carlisle, Massachusetts Susannah Benjamin, 13Greenwich, Connecticut
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Sixty surfers sat like giant black spiders, fangs bared, waiting to strike out and take one wave. Only one surfer could ride a wave at a time, which poisoned the air with the tense gas of ruthless competition. This was Trestles, a place where waves rolled like moonbeams into eternity Because of this phenomenon, Trestles attracted crowds of people like termites to a rotting log. My first time at Trestles was like a race in wheel-spinning mud. Of the two to three waves I caught, I only rode one all the way in. It seemed like every time I paddled for a wave, I missed the wave by five feet—just three more paddles and I would have caught each one. I felt frustration like an icy hot pad— cold with glum depression and hot with frustrated aggravation. Like a pot of moldy mush, I slunk back out to the treacherous takeoff zone on my surfboard. * * * “ It’s firing,” Chance, my surf coach, gleefully shouted 1 through the telephone. “The set waves are rolling in like dinner courses at a five-star restaurant.” “Really?” I asked anxiously. I was a little nervous about going to Trestles again after my first disastrous experience. At the same time, I was excited to give the world-class waves another try. “Yes, it’s two- to three-foot overhead, with an occasional four-foot.” I have gotten used to this jargon. One “head” is usually considered about six feet. So in this case, we were talking about set waves with an eight- to nine-foot face and occasionally one with a ten-foot face, which is the front of the wave. With a few swift- strokes and a squeal of delight I stood up on perfection itself “I’ll pick you up after school,” Chance said cheerfully. Excitement bored a tingly shivery hole in my stomach, and my hands started to sweat. Swookachsh! Chance and I stood on the beach getting ready to change while waves like charging elephants rolled through the mossy rock point. Salty mist filled my lungs with new hope. “This is it,” he said as we began to paddle through the molten cloudy fluff. As I sat in the lineup to wait for a wave, venomous glares from the salt-crusted spiders pierced me. Who is this newcomer? they asked with speculative beady eyes. I tried to return their fierce stares, but failed and only managed a shivering glance. “Whoa, that’s a big wave,” I exclaimed to Chance, pushing my electric-green board through the wall of blue gel. “Shhh!” he replied with a cranky frown. “Don’t say that.” “Why?” I asked, curious at the harshness in his normally calm and easygoing voice. “I’ll tell you later, but don’t say that again.” A wall of sea glass danced toward me, and I paddled eagerly toward it with a salivating smile to ride its treasures. Excitement rattled my bones. There was no one to steal it from me. I was in the right spot and had the right-of-way. My silver fingertips shattered the smooth glass wall with repeated strokes of eagerness and delight. With a push from bubbly nature herself, I glided down the face of the wave, my fins slicing the shimmering sea like silver knives through honey butter. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the slicing of yet another board. My screaming smile suddenly shimmered and then was blown out. Frantically, I shouted and waved at the rider to get off of my wave, but he just ignored me and pretended I wasn’t even there. I tried to get next to him so that he would see me, but when I got close, he snapped a big turn and sprayed me in the face. Blinded by salty sea tears, I fell and smashed into the bottom of the sea. * * * “Hey, Gromulet!1 What’s up?!” Chance cheerfully asked me a few days later. “Trestles is going off. The swell’s picked up and it’s going to be perfect after school.” “Can we go somewhere else?” I groaned. “Because last time I ended up at the bottom of the sea.” “Nah. We’re going to Trestles. It’s just that last time you did everything wrong. You have to keep your mouth shut when you go out there because if you don’t they’re just going to take advantage of you. For example, if you say the waves are big, they will think that you are a novice and won’t let you catch any waves. Also, you have to strategize and get your spot in the pecking order. Right off the bat, catch a couple waves and do some good turns to let every one know that you mean business. Oh yeah—one reminder: whoever is the deepest2 has the right-of-way. So if you can manage to get the deepest every time, you’re gonna get all the waves.” The next day at Trestles, I sat amongst the giant black spiders again. But this time, I was ready. When I was on the beach, I had told Chance, “If anyone wants to take my waves I say, ‘Bring on the heat.” “That’s the right attitude buddy” Chance had said, grinning. Paddling up the point, I wore my stoniest face and said nothing. When the first couple five- to six-foot waves rolled through, I was as ready as a rattlesnake. It was my turn to strike. I nimbly paddled to the deepest place possible and dug my fingernails into the rampaging wave. Then with one last blast of effort, I stood up and claimed my first wave for that day at Trestles. I dug my fins deep and threw huge sprays. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the spiders staring their beady eyes at me. But this time it was not with a look of condescension, but with admiration and respect. My eyes shimmering with happiness, I paddled out hungry for a set wave. I waited and waited, letting many mediocre sets go by. Then the wave came. It was
I watch the sun melting like butter into the calm swirl of waves and foam It glides down, a flying ballerina In the far end of my vision, I can see shimmering stars glistening: City lights I look deeply into the vast universe below, a world of its own, And see reflections Somewhere, I can be sure, someone else is beholding the same image. And watching the same moon run like a track star into the waiting sky, Her finish line I hear the buzz of voice and wind and sea, blended to perfection I breathe the deep night air in deeply and regard the infinite sky, Ever changing like the world around me And in that short moment of life, everything is silent I can remember none of my past, and can think not of my future I can hear no buzz, only the rhythmic sounds of my heart and my breath I feel I am alone on this earth, alone with the stars and the moon and the wind Alone with only one song to listen to: The song of peace that has been heard by many before, And will be for many to come And then it all disappears: The aloneness The light San Francisco, Into darkness Rhiannon Grodnik,11San Francisco, California
Harsh, cold wind rippled across the snow that blanketed the farm’s fields. Sighing, Sam led the shivering sheep across the wide plain. Cauliflower, the farm’s sheepdog, ran with Sam, keeping the milk-white sheep in line as best as she could. “Snow Sheep,” muttered Sam, kicking at a withered plant poking its way through the snow. “How stupid can you get?” He had never asked to be herding sheep. He hadn’t even asked to be on Edenary Farm. Edenary Farm. Those words marked a turning point in Sam’s life. Ever since he was born, Sam lived with his father and mother in Salisbury His father, a rich merchant, had made sure the family led a luxurious life. That had all changed two months ago. In the middle of October, 1796, both of Sam’s parents had died from influenza. They had been on a trip in Vienna, which was still getting over an epidemic, and caught the deadly disease. Sam, eleven years old, was put in the care of his uncle, Daniel Edenary, his mother’s brother and the owner of a poor family farm. Sam’s parents had offered Daniel part of their fortune many times in the past, but he had refused out of pride. So Sam’s father’s riches would stay in a local bank until Sam was eighteen and could inherit them. It was now the end of December of the same year, almost Christmas, a time Sam used to look forward to. This year, though, there would be no Christmas tree, no fancy food, no presents. The Edenary family didn’t have any money to spare on things like that. Shocked, Sam called above the blizzard’s roar; ‘Are you all right, sir?” Sam looked all around him. To his right, the way he had come, the wooden buildings of the farm stood out against the cloudy sky. They marked the road to Salisbury, the nearest town. It was the only road out of the white eternity that was Edenary Farm. Everywhere else, there was only snow and the occasional tree. Sam hated it. But not too far away there stood a famous stone structure. Stonehenge. It was one of Sam’s favorite places and one he had visited frequently in the past with his father. These days, Sam would sneak off to Stonehenge whenever he could, to escape the dreary farm life and see again the magnificent blocks of stone. He couldn’t get away very often because he had his uncle to help. Sighing again, Sam called to Cauliflower to help him lead the sheep back home. * * * “Potatoes again?” groaned Jasper, Sam’s eight-year-old cousin. He crossed his arms and sulked, glaring fiercely at his plate. “You know I hate potatoes!” “It’s all we have, dear,” replied Sam’s aunt, Elizabeth. “Last year Daddy’s sheep didn’t make enough wool for us to buy better food.” “Don’t worry, though,” grinned Uncle Daniel cheerfully. “My new Snow Sheep technique will make us the best wool for miles around.” Supposedly, if his uncle’s sheep spent enough time out in the cold, they would make higher quality wool, which would bring in more money. Daniel Edenary was tall and stocky. He had a loud laugh, and even in hard times tried to keep a smile on his face. Elizabeth, on the other hand, was small and anxious. She had a nervous smile, and hated loud noises. Jasper was unlike either of them. In Sam’s eyes, he was incredibly selfish, and liked to complain. “That is,” added Edenary, glancing at Sam, “they’ll make enough wool to last until Sam’s eighteen, and he can inherit his parents’ fortune.” These days, Edenary often talked about the money He had become desperate and decided it was worth more than his pride. Sam sometimes felt his aunt and uncle blamed him for not being old enough to inherit the money right away. In truth, they were probably worried he wouldn’t share it with them. Suddenly, Sam became angry with his uncle. “You and your Snow Sheep,” Sam shouted. “What nonsense! And if it weren’t for the money, you’d probably throw me out. You love my parents’ fortune more than you love me.” Sam’s anger left him as fast as it had come. His aunt and uncle had been nice to him since he had come to stay at the farm. Looking at Jasper, who had become frightened at Sam’s shouting, Sam felt ashamed. “I-I’m sorry,” he mumbled, standing up. “I-I didn’t mean it.” As the family’s eyes followed him, Sam pulled himself up the stairs to his room (the room his aunt and uncle had given him, he reminded himself). “Potatoes again?” groaned Jasper, Sam’s eight-year-old cousin Sam flopped onto his soft bed, thinking about what he had said. He knew his uncle loved him. Of course he planned to share his money with the family. What had made him say such a cruel thing? But Sam also knew that some of his words had been true. Edenary Farm could barely support the family, and might go out of business if his uncle couldn’t make more money from his sheep. Sam also feared that if his uncle kept using his Snow Sheep plan, some of the sheep could even die. There had to be some way to get money for the farm, Sam mused. He decided to go to sleep and think about it again in the morning. * * * For the next few days, Sam did his daily chores without really concentrating. He was distracted by the problem of saving Edenary Farm. Meanwhile, Uncle Daniel didn’t have much to say to Sam. He was still angry with Sam because of his outburst. Christmas and New Year’s Day came and went, like all the holidays at the farm. There was almost nothing to distinguish them from the other days of the year. But two days after New Year’s Day was different. January third was very different. It was early in the morning when Sam went out to
