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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Hope

On the dark wood table, a plain plate lay inches away from Abigail. Her blond hair flounced around her shoulders. Her light blue dress with darker flowers brought out the bright blue in her eyes, which contrasted strangely with the rich brown of Hope’s. Hope, on the other side of the room, was sweeping the grimy floor with a homemade broom of stiff bristles. Abigail was watching Hope’s every move disconcertingly. Suddenly, she ordered, “Fetch me that plate.” Hope’s eyes bore fire into Abigail’s. Abigail ignored Hope and her smug nose tilted up into the air as Hope replied with no choice, “Yes ma’am,” though Abigail was only a year older than her. But Hope did as she was told. After Abigail had the plate in her hands, she leaned against the kitchen wall, holding it. Hope could feel her disapproving gaze upon her working back. “Abigail,” someone said in a harsh voice from another room, “are you doing your embroidery?” “Yes, Father,” Abigail replied stiffly, reaching for her sewing on the chair. Hope’s gaze averted to the floor and she swept faster. “Good,” the tall man said as he came into the room. “I am going into town,” he declared, straightening his overcoat. “Be good. I’ll be back soon.” Abigail gave a small nod and looked into her busy father’s eyes. He left the room briskly and it gave way to silence. Then all Hope could hear was the scratch of the broom on the floor. Abigail was watching Hope’s every move disconcertingly *          *          * Later that evening, Hope was pouring water into tall, thin glasses for her master and his guest. Sitting down beside her, grasping a fork elegantly, was Master Thompson. He was talking to Mr. Stevens, a fat, jovial man who Hope couldn’t imagine would own slaves. Spread across the white tablecloth was a large, colorful array of soup and turkey and vegetables prepared carefully all day by Auntie Edna, who would only get to try the leftovers. Steam rose from Mr. Stevens’s heaping pile of food. A warm, meaty aroma wafted through Hope’s nose. But she did not care to envy this small advantage she did not possess—there were many things far worse, and anyway, her concentration was now on only the plump, stout silver jug she held coldly and tightly against her creamy brown palm. That is, until she heard something distressing. Master Thompson was talking about selling someone to Mr. Stevens! Grimly, she considered who might be leaving. Could it be Sarah, the twenty-something-year-old woman who worked here? Or Sam, the hardworking young man who tended the horses and brought in the firewood, who had taught her jokes and riddles? Might it be Auntie Edna, who had cared for Hope when she was sick and her mother was working, gathering cotton or fixing clothes, a grandmotherly old woman with a kind nature? Hope would miss anyone who left so! She fought her thoughts and tried to listen quietly to the conversation. “She is a hard worker. She could help you with many things. She knows how to patch things up and sew well,” Master Thompson insisted in a businesslike way. Oh no. Is it Sarah? Hope pleaded, not Sarah, oh please no! Hope dreaded the thought of the woman who had acted as an older sister to her leaving. “But she would be willing to go alone?” Mr. Stephens inquired. Hope grimaced. Master Thompson wouldn’t mind. She had seen him separate families. “We could arrange it,” Master Thompson assured abruptly. When Hope had refilled both glasses, slowly so she could hear what the men were saying, she went into the kitchen. Edna was there, washing dishes. “Oh, Auntie Edna,” Hope cried. “Master Thompson’s gonna sell someone!” “I’m sorry, baby.” Edna opened her arms. Hope flew into a hug. Sobbing, she told Edna what she heard. “I think it might be Sarah!” Hope wailed. “But I don’t want none o’ ya to go!” “Shhh,” Edna soothed, rocking Hope back and forth. “Shhhhhhh.” “Girl,” Master Thompson ordered sharply minutes later. “Take away the plates.” Hope went into the dining area and lifted up the plates, stacking them. When she was back in the kitchen, she saw that Edna had left. But Sam was there, with wood for the fireplace. “Sam!” Hope said. “I heard ’bout the sale,” Sam said, glancing at Hope grimly. “But I’m afraid it’s not Sarah.” “Hope, we’re gonna have tuh run” “Afraid? Why, do you want Sarah to go?” demanded Hope. “No, no, no. I’m worried who it might be.” “Who?” whispered Hope anxiously. Sam hesitated before responding. “I think it might be your mama.” Hope gasped. Gaping at Sam, she asked why he thought so. “Well, Master Thompson said whoever it is, is a good seamstress, can cook, and can’t read, and you know yo’ mama can’t,” Sam answered, concern and sorrow in his eyes. “But he said she ain’t got family!” Hope remembered in horror. Sam stacked up the wood on the ground next to the fire. Avoiding Hope’s eyes, he said, “I heard him say they could arrange fo’ her tuh leave. Not that she ain’t got no family.” “B- but!” Hope stammered. “He can’t do that!” Sam stood up and brushed himself off. He looked at her as if to say, do you think it matters to him? Hope ran to the living room, where her mother was calmly stitching up a sock. “Mama, oh Mama, they… Master Thompson… he gonna sell you!!!” she panted desperately. Hope’s mama, Caroline, froze. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. Her hand was still clutching the needle when she said, “When, Hope?” sharply. “I don’t know! wailed Hope, feeling helpless. “Soon!” Caroline rose from her seat in a wooden chair. She held Hope close to her and whispered, in perfect, quiet diction, “Hope, we’re gonna have tuh run. To the North. To Philadelphia, or Canada, maybe, I don’t know where ’xactly, but I can’t let you stay


By

Flying Against the Wind

In a marsh, long green grass reaching up to touch the sun swayed slightly in the cool morning breeze. The marsh was teeming with animal and insect life. A snake slithered through the grasses looking for mice while an osprey swooped low overhead, wind ruffling its feathers. The osprey was looking for an animal to catch; a fish was on the main course for today. He needed to find a big fish or several smaller fish to feed his mate and chicks. He headed towards the river, wind pushing him forward like an arrow shot from a bow. The osprey was happy; he was always happy just flying, hunting, sleeping, and mating. A powerful hawk, he didn’t need to worry about being the prey to some bigger animal. His chicks, on the other hand, did. Eagles were known to come flying by and snatch hatchlings to eat. The osprey promised himself that he would never let that happen to his chicks. He loved his chicks, and would easily sacrifice his life for theirs, and so would his mate. She would fly out of their nest and peck and claw an invader until he retreated, defeated. Ground animals couldn’t get to their nest because the tree they picked was about twenty-three feet high and had sharp branches jutting out from the base. His mate always stayed with their chicks. Often when he came home he would see their chicks huddled under her warm fluffy wings. He was going to catch a big fish worthy of his wife and three chicks He finally arrived at the river. It was fast moving and clear. He felt the thrill of excitement he always felt when he was going hunting. He was going to catch a big fish worthy of his wife and three chicks. He swooped into a dive. He loved the sensation of the wind rushing past his head. He pulled out of it about three feet from the surface of the water, looked quickly for a fish, and then swooped in. He dove quickly and made a splash as his talons entered the water. The fish, alarmed by the commotion from the ripples, tried to get away. Too late. The osprey speared the fish with his talons, piercing through the scales and deep into the flesh. He quickly flew up, the fish’s head dangling in the air. With a tight grip, he headed to his nest where his chicks would be with his mate. He was flying against the wind, which made it harder, but he prevailed. He finally reached his nest. He saw his mate, with their chicks under her wings, and felt happy that he had such a good family. That night they ate well. Christopher Fifty, 13Churchville, Maryland Sarah Emig, 13Fort Belvoir, Virginia


By

Someone Absolutely New

A dull, cloudy morning, On the couch with my parents, Cozy, like the three little bears. My dad holds the camera, …Why? An unexpected turn in the lethargic morning conversation My dad tells me to look at some papers, Confused and unsure, Why are they meant for me to read? All the words on the paper were blocked out, Except for one—like a lighthouse, flashing news… PREGNANT My legs jump in the air, My feet tap out the sound of joy. Then I know what the camera is for. These new and different feelings and thoughts Crowd my head Like a crowded pack of people at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I would have to take care of someone Small, gentle, and fragile like a feather. What to do, what to do? This new baby—new person in my life Will change the way I think of others, And will change the way I care for others. A baby brother? A baby sister? Someone I am excited about, Someone I’m looking forward to—someone absolutely new. Imani Apostol, 11Seattle, Washington


By

Into the Night

Loud chirping surrounds the house. It is hard to concentrate on anything else, While the wood frogs and peepers are calling. Silently, I put down my book, and slide away from my chair. I lean out of the window, seeing nothing, But feeling something in the air. The stars are shining brightly. I cannot see the tiny creatures, But their voices are calling, calling, Begging to be heard. Suddenly, I am through the window And into the night. Sitting on the porch roof, Letting the chirps and peeps envelop me. The tiny animals of the swamp are calling, calling, We are alive. Eliza Putnam, 13Hartland, Vermont


By

Living to Forget

The wind tugged at my hair as I rode my bike faster and faster, trying to shake off the constant dread that was welling up inside me. Sweat glistened on my brow. My whole body ached. Burning fire ran up my throat. But the faster I pedaled the more my dread rose, until visions started to appear before me. Two smirking figures flashed before my eyes. Numbers and letters swirled. In a desperate frenzy I pulled my brakes down, hard, feeling every little stone that my tires were braking on. I screamed. Voices rang in my head and then there was complete silence. Almost too much silence. I sat breathlessly on my hard black bike seat and waited for my air to return. As I caught my breath I looked down the long gray road before me. I felt like following it on and on, but my common sense got the better of me. Don’t be stupid I told my self. Don’t be stupid. As I sat, the weight of my terrible year crushed down on me like waves crashing on a drowning person. I felt so alone in the world. Alone, alone, alone. The words paced and then collapsed in my head. I had no friends at school and I felt like I was growing up too fast. The thought of getting older and not being a child anymore loomed before me. I felt scared and frightened. This was the first hot sunny day of summer break. All the other people in my class were probably at birthday parties or pools. But me, I was alone. My parents were away at their restaurant, Waterfall Delights. “Enjoy your day at home, honey,” was all my mom had said. How was I supposed to enjoy my day at home? Anger ran through me, then sadness. And now, with the sun beating down hot on my face, I had a complete feeling of dread. I felt a mix of anger, sadness and hope. I clung to that hope tightly as I made my way slowly, almost not seeing back down the long road. The faster I pedaled the more my dread rose, until visions started to appear before me *          *          * The water ran down my throat, cooling me down and calming me. I sat on one of our swivel chairs in our kitchen and took a deep breath. I just sat there for a while, looking into space, and watched the green digital numbers on our stove change. I got up, treading on one of my cat’s squeaking toys as I went. I ran up the stairs. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot. At the top of the stairs to the right my brother’s black door loomed with the words scrawled on tattered paper: Keep Out! I missed my old brother, the one who used to play games with me and laugh with me and comfort me. Now in his teenage years he was a black, rearing dragon always shut up in his room or hanging out with friends. I sighed and continued to my room. I flopped on my bed and took out Swallows and Amazons and began to read. As I read, my mind relaxed and I forgot my troubles. As I lay there, book in hand, I glanced up at the clock. Would time ever stop? Tick, tick, tick, time is flying by, it seemed to always remind me. The clock was right, I should get moving and make my day alone better. My parents would be home soon. I walked to the other side of my room where young plants were soaking up the sunlight. Their slender bodies reached to the sky in a beautiful arc. I had some new seeds I was going to plant. I looked at the seeds and was amazed as I had been many times before at how this little seed could turn into a plant. Children are like seeds, I thought. They reach up to their goals and become adults. They get sick and sometimes die, and eventually time sweeps them away. Would time take me away before I found a companion I longed for with all my heart? Suddenly, I heard the sound of the door swing open. It was my parents! Just as I was starting to enjoy my day alone. Things happen like that, I thought. I slowly, slowly went down the stairs (so I would make my parents wait) and continued through the living room. As I walked I stubbed my toe on a chair, making me even more grumpy. I reached the dark coatroom and there were my parents. My mom was wearing an apron that said in huge fancy cursive letters, “Waterfall Delights.” She was carrying a pink umbrella. My dad was wearing a chef hat and carried a briefcase in his hand. They were quite a sight. “Hi Michael!” they said with a little bit of fake enthusiasm and a little bit of self-embarrassment. I guess they saw the look on my face. “Where is your brother?” they asked. Red hot fury ran through me. The first question they ask is about my brother, my mean, stupid, selfish brother. I tamed my fury and said calmly, “I have no idea.” My parents looked at each other and looked grim. Without another word they went into the kitchen. My mom started cooking and my dad went upstairs to his office. Enough cooking and sorting out money, I wanted to yell, you did that all day today. But I didn’t. *          *          * I opened the door and went outside. I started down the street at a brisk pace, jingling some money in my pocket and hoping it was enough for an Aero bar. The general store was a fairly long walk from my house so I picked up my pace a little. I jogged past Nathan and Hannah’s house, and then I was lost in a time where only trees and


By

The Year the Swallows Came Early

The Year the Swallows Came Early, by Kathryn Fitzmaurice; HarperCollins: New York, 2009; $16.99 What happens when someone you love betrays you? Well, in this book, The Year the Swallows Came Early, you can learn that understanding and forgiving someone you love is the key for your own peace of mind. The main character of this book, Eleanor (Groovy) Robinson, deals with disappointment and anger, but later she finds out that you can’t hate someone forever and that, sooner or later, you’ll have to forgive them. When this story starts off, taking place in the historic town of San Juan Capistrano, Groovy witnesses her dad being arrested and has no clue why. That night her mom reveals to Groovy that her great-grandmother had left her a lot of money. Upon hearing this, Groovy starts to eagerly make plans for using this large sum to go to cooking school. But she only gets a few seconds to be excited because her mother shatters Groovy’s dreams by informing her that her father had lost all that money on a single bet, and that was why she had called the police. When I read this part, I was automatically hooked because I so desperately wanted to know how Groovy would react to this news. Groovy was disappointed about losing that money, but she also started to doubt that her father cared about her. Meanwhile, Groovy’s best friend, Frankie, doesn’t even want to think about his mother or read her letters. He is mad because his mother went on a voyage with his stepfather and left him with his stepbrother, Luis. She promised to be back in three days but didn’t come back for three years. That whole time, Frankie believed that she had betrayed him, and so he never chose to read or hear the explanations from her, and he doesn’t even want to know the real reason she didn’t come back. Even when she appears at Luis’s shop, Frankie still chooses not to listen to her, and so she leaves with a broken heart. But there are wise and helpful people in Frankie and Groovy’s neighborhood. Mr. Tom really wanted to help Frankie. He once said to him, “All that anger will turn you to stone.” Unfortunately, that’s exactly what ends up happening to Frankie, and then to Groovy as well. From just being sad and discouraged, Groovy becomes very angry and starts to hate her father. When mid-spring came, so did the scout swallow, and this time early. The rest of the swallows followed, bringing many changes. Groovy finally talked to her father on the phone, and she decided to forgive him and give him another chance. After a while, Luis explained to Frankie what really happened with his mother. Frankie understood and sincerely forgave her. It was a year of much disappointment and loss, but it would be a year to remember, the year the swallows came early. I learned from this book that “people are just who they are.” That means you need to be able to accept and trust the people you love before jumping to conclusions or thinking negatively about them. I also learned that you can’t carry so much anger and hatred inside yourself because it will slowly destroy you and make many people around you miserable and unhappy. You should try to do as many good things as you can, and stay positive, because it will not only make you feel good, but it’ll also brighten up the world around you. Nicole Timofeevski, 11Carlsbad, California


By

Simple Treasures

Mara was entranced. The shop blurred before her in a tribute of glory to the necklace. Draped carelessly over a slender black velour cone, its gold, glassy pendant gem glittered as if with dew. It hung on a short golden chain. Mara could tell, without even trying it on, that it would nestle snugly in the hollow of her throat with a cool, fluid ease. The shop vendor, an old man, smiled at Mara kindly. “Try it on if you like it, dear. Don’t be shy.” But Mara was hesitant even to touch the exquisite thing. Just as she reached out trembling fingers to grasp its chain, she felt a tug on her shirt. She turned to see Tommy, her little brother, clutching her tightly. “What?” she said sharply. The old man tutted and turned away. “What?” she repeated angrily, pulling her fingers regretfully away from the necklace in order to pry him off of her. “Mommy says to come, Mawa.” “Now?” “Yeah. Mommy says to come now.” Mara fairly flew across the store to her mother, who was waiting impatiently in the cosmetics section. Tommy jogged after her. “Mom… look… I found this gorgeous necklace—come see,” she gushed. “I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes, Mara,” her mom warned sternly. “We can’t stay any longer.” “But Mom.” Mara thought she looked rather like a goddess, or perhaps some sort of sprite or tree nymph “Nope. Come on.” Taking Tommy’s hand, her mother exited the store. Fuming, Mara followed. The moment they got home Mara jumped out of the car and ran into the backyard. Sinking down onto a stone bench covered with lichen, she scowled at the ground. She wasn’t spoiled. She knew that she hardly ever asked for anything, but she really, really, really, really wanted that necklace. Her mother didn’t listen to her. Her brother was annoying. She probably had the worst life in the whole world. Mara sighed. What really irritated her was that she knew that wasn’t true. Mara raised her head and looked around the peaceful backyard where she sat. Dusk was falling, and the plants were shrouded in blue-gray shadow. Mara spotted a big white flower lying on the ground near the ivy-smothered wall. As she knelt to pick it up Mara corrected herself. “White” hardly seemed to do it justice. The flower was silver, and in the center where the petals met and twined into a cup for the chalky pink pollen, the hues deepened into a warm sapphire blue. There were others like it, spread-eagled on the wet grass, but they were limp and the colors neither so beautiful nor so vibrant. Presumably, they came from the tree above, reaching over the wall from the neighbor’s garden. The sky darkened as Mara turned the flower over and over in her hands. “Mara—dinner!” called her mother from the kitchen window. Mara stood and, as though following whispered directions, tucked the flower behind her ear. As she ascended the creaking steps of her porch, she glimpsed her reflection in the dark window—and caught her breath. The silvery flower glowed brightly in subtle contrast to her wavy brown hair. With the fireflies coming out, flickering on and off around her, and her pale leaf-green eyes, Mara thought she looked rather like a goddess, or perhaps some sort of sprite or tree nymph. She thought again of her golden necklace, only now it didn’t seem very important. Struggling to find the cause of this new apathy, Mara’s eyes left those of the nymph staring back at her and alighted on the silver flower fixed stunningly in her hair. The nymph’s coral lips curved into a knowing smile. The necklace, for all its gaudy gold, could never have given her pleasure or beauty like this. “Mara!” called her mother again. “Your dinner is getting stone cold.” Mara gave her reflection one more angelic smile, before dashing into the house. Emma Watson, 13Los Angeles, California Mary Campbell, 13Fort Worth, Texas


By

A Special Kind of Family

Our car trundled along a dusty gravel road one day in the middle of July. I stared out the window at the clouds of dry dirt that billowed from beneath our tires, picturing what our car must look like from the outside. Aside from the layer of dust covering it, our big red Subaru looked completely normal. With two kids in the back seat and a trunk filled with towels, bags, and blow-up water toys, our car was the image of an ideal family headed off for a fun summer day. I sighed. I wonder what it would be like to have a normal family. How different would life be if Aaron were an average ten-year-old boy? I pondered. I knew that if anyone looked past our car and surveyed the people within, they would not find an ideal family. They would see that my younger brother has autism. They would see that, at age ten, he can’t do certain simple things like dress himself, read, or talk in full sentences. And they would see how much Aaron’s special needs keep our family from being perfectly normal. After a few more miles, our car crunched to a stop in a dusty parking lot, and my train of thought was interrupted as I climbed out of the hot back seat. I was relieved to be back at the lake that my family travels to every summer for a day of swimming. It looked just as I remembered it, a small green lake nestled into a wooded hillside. I inhaled the spicy scents of sagebrush and pine, wafting from the central Oregon vegetation. As I exhaled, glad to be back in this beautiful setting, thoughts of my family’s imperfections were momentarily wiped from my mind. Emerging from the car behind me, Aaron let out a joyful yell, exclaiming “Oh! Oh yes!!!” He then picked up a nearby stick and attempted to hit a pinecone with it, pretending to play baseball. He associates baseball with happiness and does not hesitate to grab a makeshift ball and bat whenever he is pleased. Embarrassed with his behavior, I grabbed my towel and ran down to the rocky lakeshore. I immediately plunged into the chilly water, frolicking around and shouting that everyone should hurry up. It was a sweltering day, and the lake was dotted with other swimmers, many in the vicinity staring at Aaron, who was still playing “baseball.” Upon reaching the point where ripples of water lapped up against the pebbly ground, my dad plodded slowly in, punctuating each step with a loud “Ow!” as the icy water made contact with his skin. Aaron tried to run right in but forgot to take off his shoes, shirt, and glasses. After my mom removed them, he proceeded with painstaking care until, with an enormous splash, he lost his footing and fell chest-deep in water. Finally my mom, who has a notoriously low tolerance for cold water, screwed up her courage and dove under. We took off swimming—Aaron swims with a peculiar dog paddle—until we reached the very heart of the lake, where huge white driftwood logs floated and provided nature’s best toy. I pulled myself up onto one, noticing how pale and eerie my feet looked as they kicked a few feet below the surface. Aaron struggled for a moment to pull himself up on the log, the difficulty of this simple action reminding me how much his disability affects his coordination. I took pity on him and helped hoist him up. I had just spent the last hour completely enjoying my family just the way we are Exhausted from his efforts, Aaron collapsed on the log and pushed his sopping brown hair out of his eyes. Suddenly remembering last year, he exclaimed, “Jump!” Upon his command, I sprang off the slippery wood and dove into the water, causing the log to rock and create a sea of ripples. Following my example, my mom jumped off, and my dad helped Aaron to fall off the log in an uncoordinated dive. After dozens of crazy, log-rocking, water-spraying jumps, many involving disastrous attempts at cannonball contests and synchronized diving, we finally took a rest. My mom stretched out on the sunlit log, and my dad sat next to her. We were all lost in the moment, a whirl of happiness and fun that warmed us as much as the late afternoon sun did. Aaron, perched a few feet down the log, patted the wet patch of wood beside him, smiling proudly as though he offered the coziest chair in the world. “Sit! Come sit!” he invited me. I climbed closer to him, and together we sat. My feet dangled in the cool green water and I listened contentedly to the buzzing of millions of pine needles tingling in the forest. My nose took in the wilderness-like, sunny smell of the set- ting. We were just a family sitting on a log in the middle of a lake. My family. And in a dawn of realization, it occurred to me that I had just spent the last hour completely enjoying my family just the way we are. Anyone looking on wouldn’t think about how strange and different Aaron is. They would have seen how happy we were, they would have been caught up in the joy and fun we had been radiating. It seemed to me in that moment that nothing, not even perfection, could match the happiness, spontaneity, and love that makes my family unique. Overcome by my new thoughts, I scooted even closer to my brother, and together we gazed at our reflections in the green lake. The image of our smiling faces was bent a little by the water, but the imperfection made us look all the better. Emily Boring, 13Salem, Oregon Hannah Phillips, 12Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania


By

Frisbee

I curl my cold fingers Around the yellow Frisbee Coil my arm back Dip it low, flex my wrist, Release. It sails smoothly through the air Floats gently above my father’s head And then The wind carries it slowly Into his waiting hands He smiles and tosses it Back into the wind I am prepared My arms are open, ready As his were To grasp it, to hold it in my clutches But instead The wind takes it, Swoops it, low and high Suddenly I am snatching air, And the Frisbee lands Softly in the grass, Wet with mud I pick it up Bend low, Step forward, Let go. Dad leaps With a ballerina’s grace His hands clasp Around its plastic yellow body Our eyes lock He nods, I nod, A mental understanding Then it’s whizzing through the air A bright, lemon-colored streak against the violet sunset. I push off the ground My feet lift from the grass I reach for the sky, Palm open Instinctively My hands snap shut Like the pincers of a crab on the beach And suddenly it is there I am holding it Thud. My sneakers meet the ground And I am thrusting it into the air A triumph He smiles I smile The yellow disk Is in my hand We smile We nod Go home Now we are done here. Laura Dzubay, 11Bloomington, Indiana


By

Rumor

Frigid wind whips through my long brown hair and bites me with cold teeth. It carries the strong smell of the sea in it, which stings my nose. Gray, salty water is churned into waves by the gale and sprinkles my chilly bare feet that are sinking into the wet sand. A seagull struggles to fly to its nest. I watch the large bird as it finally defeats the wind and lands in a small hollow high on a weathered rock. I sniff, disappointed by the wind, then turn around and walk up the beach, avoiding flurries of gritty sand. Huge rocks like the one the seagull is perching in stud the beach and reach into the sky like the rough fingers of an old man. I come to the gravel road leading away from the beach and the sea and awkwardly hobble across it, not wanting to press my feet too hard against the sharp little rocks. I walk across a lawn of grass that is long and plush like a carpet. As I enter my small house, I welcome the warmth and savor the familiar smell. “Is that you, Nicole?” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Yes.” I enter the steamy room and sit at the table. My mom is at the stove, grilling the sea bass my brother, Brent, caught that morning for dinner. “Why back so soon?” She starts humming a pretty tune as she adds spices from glass shakers. “The wind is too cold,” I groan miserably. “I thought it might be,” Mom says knowingly, looking at me. I see that she is wearing her peach-colored apron. It has the handprints of Brent, Zoe, and me on it in red paint. Mine are smaller than my two older siblings’. “Well, that’s Maine’s beaches for you,” she sighs. I nod in agreement “It seems it always is,” I say, fiddling with the zipper of my jacket. “Well, that’s Maine’s beaches for you,” she sighs. I nod in agreement. Maine’s beaches are always cold and windy. I get up from the table and walk down the narrow hallway that leads to my room. School pictures of us three kids hang on the walls alongside my dad’s fishing boat, a large, proud vessel. Mom and Dad are standing next to each other in the bow of the boat, squinting in sunlight yet smiling. I enter my room, which is small like the rest of the house. Sand dollars of various sizes and hues are tacked to the walls, and the bedside table, desk, and dresser are all covered in dark, glossy seashells which I have collected along the beach and in tide pools. Several of my watercolor paintings add to the decoration, resting on the seagreen walls. They are mostly of the sea, but there are a few lighthouses as well. My bed is messy and unmade, as it usually is. I let myself fall onto it. I punch my pillow a couple times and lay my head down sideways. In this position I can see my painting of the large sky-blue lighthouse. It is taller and wider than most lighthouses, and unlike the rest of my paintings, it actually exists. I discovered it one day while exploring along the beach. It is old and rickety, abandoned, with wide sheets of wiry ivy growing on it. I think the ivy looks like it’s strangling the lighthouse, so I left that part out when I painted it a few weeks ago. That night, after dinner, and after I have brushed my teeth with thick toothpaste, my sister, Zoe, and I sit in the living room and look out the big window. We stare at the choppy waters, illuminated by the pale moon that sits in a throne of twinkling stars. The light of the moon dances on the water, glittering brightly. “The sea is so beautiful,” Zoe murmurs, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. I pull a blanket draped over the back of an armchair and wrap it snuggly around myself. *          *          * “I know,” I agree, “especially in the night.” The next day the wind has stopped. I am relieved and return to the beach, after Mom tells me to stay away from the water and be safe. Despite the wind’s absence, it is still cold. The sun shyly peeks through thin, stretched clouds, providing no warmth. Instead of heading back home, I start the short journey to the blue lighthouse. It is hidden in a small bay that has huge boulders blocking the entrance from the sea. Large trees grow around it, hiding it like a leafy wall. There is no door to the lighthouse, just rusty hinges connected to an empty frame. The sky-blue paint is faded and peeling, revealing cracked wood and rusty nails. The inside of the lighthouse is hollow and dim. I am sure there used to be doors and floors, but now it is just one large room that leads up to a glass roof, for the large light is gone too. A few bird nests are built on the wall, but I don’t hear anything from them. If ferrets smile, I’m sure that is what Rumor is doing A squeak brings my attention to the floor of the lighthouse, which is dirt and weeds now. A small ferret is looking at me cautiously. I can see its small legs are tensed, ready to run. I freeze, not wanting to scare it or make it angry. I am afraid it might be rabid. The ferret takes one step nearer to me. It seems to relax. It is brown and skinny with a long tail tipped with black. It has dark eyes ringed with white fur, as are its ears. I’m not sure if it is a boy or a girl, but I’ll pretend it’s a boy. “What’s your name?” I ask thoughtfully. My voice echoes in the lighthouse. “Is it… Rumor?” I realize using the word


By

Writing Is Like Knitting

Writing is like knitting. When you write or knit properly and take time to learn the craft, you can enjoy hours of pleasure from doing it. However, if you don’t take the time to learn the skill carefully, the needles or pen can be your downfall, stabbing away at your heart and making you angry or upset. It just depends on whether you’re patient. These words ran through Ruby McClure’s mind as she typed away at her old-fashioned typewriter that her grandmother had given her. Click! Click! Click! She pulled the page out of the typewriter and quickly re-read what she had written. Of course, she wasn’t nearly satisfied. Scowling in frustration, Ruby ripped the page into pieces and tossed it in the direction of the garbage can, where the pieces floated through the air and landed on the floor. Ruby’s deceased grandmother’s words came back to her as if her grandmother whispered them in her ear. Ruby knew that writing took time to learn, and you have to practice to master it. But, Ruby thought in exasperation, I have practiced, and if my writing doesn’t get accepted, how will I pay the bills? This was true. Ruby always knew that she wanted to be a writer, and she had always thought about that as she went through middle school, got her high school diploma, and graduated from college, but none of her novels had been accepted for publication. When she gave up her full-time job as a receptionist to become a freelance writer, acceptance became critical. Ruby’s only source of income came from writing short stories and submitting them to contests and magazines, but that wasn’t enough. After watching bill after unpaid bill stack up on her kitchen counter, Ruby started to doubt herself. She began to write more and more, which was good, but, reading it over, she recognized a forced quality in her writing, something that she had pointed out in a piece by a critiquing partner in a writing club that she had abandoned a few months ago. And nothing had been accepted. Ruby stared at the letter, not daring to believe it Ruby was sure she had taken time to learn the craft, but she knew that she couldn’t spend her life trying to convince herself that her novels were being rejected by numerous publishing houses because she hadn’t taken enough time to practice. Be patient, her grandmother would say. Ruby rubbed her temple wearily and decided to take a break to go check the mail. She stood up from the old swivel chair that she spent many hours of her day in. Since the extra bedroom that she called her office was so tiny, Ruby didn’t even have to turn to open the door that stood to the left of her desk. She cast one last glance behind her shoulder at the office as she stepped out the door, taking in the shelves, packed with books and papers and threatening to collapse any day, the card table that she called her desk, and the typewriter sitting upon it, an old, manual Underwood with a few broken keys, the only possession of her grandmother’s that Ruby had left. Ruby blinked in the bright light that came through a small window on the opposite wall and shut the door behind her. She walked down the hallway, enjoying the familiar sounds of creaking floorboards under her feet. Ruby opened a door and stepped onto a small porch. The paint was chipping off at the edges, and one side’s rails had already begun to rot. Ruby ambled down the driveway, blinking in the bright sunlight and enjoying the feel of fresh air on her skin, and remembered that she had to mow the lawn as soon as she got a chance, which, with her busy writing schedule, could take as long as two weeks to get to. She pulled open the mailbox and sorted through the envelopes, mostly magazines and junk mail, including one bill that Ruby opened with dread. She gasped as she read her electric and water bills. How can I ever pay this off? she thought. A knot grew in her stomach. Ruby pursed her lips and closed her eyes, wishing for the thousandth time that her novels would get accepted and she would be able to pay off the bills. One more letter still sat in the back of the crooked mailbox, a letter in a fancy envelope with curly cursive writing on the front that said: Ruby McClure 13330 Beach View Lane Brasewater, MS The return address was the one of a publishing house in North Dakota that Ruby remembered she had submitted to about a month ago. Ruby opened the letter casually, as she was sure that this was just another rejection letter. She didn’t even want to see what suggestions the editor would have for her novel. Only one sentence caught her eye: “Your novel, The Mage of Malilea, has been accepted for publication.” Ruby skimmed through the rest of the letter as it went on to explain what the editor liked about the manuscript, things that the editor would like to improve, the publishing contract, and so on. She barely processed the words, as she was absorbed in her success. Ruby stared at the letter, not daring to believe it. She lowered her hand and pulled out the enclosed contract that was also in the envelope. There it was, real, solid proof. Ruby raced back into her house, threw the letter onto the kitchen table, and, grabbing her cell phone, proceeded to call all of her friends. “Guess what, Becca?” Ruby nearly shouted into the telephone. “What?” “They accepted my manuscript!” “They did?” “They did!” Becca let out a shriek on the other end of the phone. “This is amazing, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, they’re going to publish you!” A few minutes later, after Ruby called everyone she knew to celebrate, she dropped into a comfortable leather


By

Candyfloss

Candyfloss, by Jacqueline Wilson; Square Fish: New York, 2008; $6.99 What would you do if your mom moved to Australia? This is just one question Flora Barnes, also known as Floss, has to answer in Jacqueline Wilson’s excellent novel, Candyfloss. Floss is a girl in her preteens living in England. She lives with her mother, her mother’s husband, Steve, and their toddler, Tiger, and spends the weekends staying with her dad in the house behind his rundown cafe. Floss is in the middle of a family split. She loves her mom and cherishes the girl-time that they spend together, yet at the same time she has more in common with her honest, easygoing father, who will do anything for her. When Steve gets a new job in Sydney, Australia, Floss makes a tough decision. She defies her mother’s insistence that she must accompany them to Australia and declares that she will stay with her father. This is hard for Floss because she is choosing one parent over the other, but she decides that her father needs her the most. Her mother has Steve and Tiger to look after her, but Floss’s dad has no one. He lives for the short weekends that he and Floss spend together, and Floss realizes that he needs her more that her mother does. I have a friend in a similar situation to Floss. Her family spent a year in California, and while they were there her mother fell in love with another man. When they got back, her parents divorced. This was only in third grade, but she is still scarred. She now switches between her parents’ houses every week. Both Floss and my friend have dealt with the sadness of divorce. Not only does Floss have problems at home, but school is becoming a concern as well. Floss is best friends with the pretty and popular Rhiannon. Unfortunately, just because Rhiannon is popular doesn’t mean she is nice. When Susan Potts, a nice, nerdy girl, comes to Floss’s school, Rhiannon and her friends start to tease her. Floss wants to stand up for Susan, but it seems impossible with Rhiannon always teasing her. How can Floss possibly remain friends with both of them? Floss is torn between wanting to be popular and fit in, and wishing that Susan was her friend. I am a nerd, no doubt about it. I expect other people who write for and read Stone Soup are. But most kids don’t like nerds. For some reason, we always find ourselves on the fringes, occasionally being included, but for the most part off in our own little world. Another reason that I can really relate to Susan is the feeling of being the new kid. I spent half a year living in Cambridge, England, when I was in fourth grade. Overall, the kids welcomed me with open arms. Unfortunately, there are always some characters, like Rhiannon, who feel insecure enough that they need to pick on a new kid to fit in with their group. Sometimes I was called names, sometimes I was picked on, and lots of kids enjoyed making fun of my American accent. Eventually, like Susan, I learned that if people tease you the best thing to do is to hold your head high and rise above unkind bullies. Over the course of the book Floss finds herself motherless, homeless, and friendless, but she also has her good times. She makes a friend, discovers a circus, finds a pet cat, and befriends her teacher. Candyfloss is an excellent book—as Floss would say, “Simply brilliant!” Sarah Gavis-Hughson, 12Princeton, New Jersey