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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


By

Sisters

    OUR MAGICAL ISLAND “Hey, Cam,” MaCall whispered, nudging me in the side to wake up. “What?” I asked groggily, peeling one eye open. “What time is it?” “Midnight,” MaCall grinned. I groaned. “I got some M&Ms from the vending machine at gymnastics. Do you want to share them with me on a magical island?” MaCall asked excitedly. “Huh?” I moaned. “A magical island—the roof!” MaCall whispered, her green eyes lighting up. “Now go get these jeans and tennis shoes on—I don’t want you to get hurt in case you fall off!” MaCall urged, thrusting clothes at me. Yawning, I pulled them on. “Put this belt on too,” MaCall commanded, handing me a pink sparkly belt. “I’m also wearing one. We’ll attach another one between us so we can be like mountain climbers,” MaCall explained, hurriedly tying my belt while she double-knotted hers. “Uh… shouldn’t we tie mine tighter?” I asked, looking doubtfully at my mountain-climbing getup. “Don’t worry about it. You’re lighter than I am,” MaCall sniffed, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. “Wait. Let me just make sure Mom and Dad are asleep. You stay here.” MaCall, I don’t feel like I’m on a magical island” MaCall tiptoed over to our parents’ room and placed her ear to the door as I sat there fuming. MaCall thinks she’s stealthier than I am, but the truth is, she’s downright noisy. Every time we sneak downstairs to “get a glass of water,” (i.e., eat ice cream and watch our favorite latenight TV show), she either creaks every stair or topples down the whole flight with a giant BANG that would wake the dead. Well I guess the last thing is kind of my fault. I kind of advised her that the faster you move, the quieter you go, but now I see it depends on who’s going. “Definitely snoring,” MaCall announced cheerfully, beckoning for me to follow her. “Well Cam, are you ready?” she asked, quietly opening her bedroom window. (It’s the only one in the house with a removable screen.) “Yes,” I snorted with all the pride an eight-year-old could muster. “Yo. Don’t snort at me like that. I’m thirteen years old. You’re lucky I’m bringing you on this adventure!” MaCall whispered, looking all offended. MaCall pushed me out the window and onto the wood-shingled roof that slanted below it. “Ouch, MaCall!” I screeched, trying to pry the splinter out of my hand. “Now stay there, I’m coming out!” MaCall announced. Two seconds later, she had plopped down beside me. “Whoops!” she cried as she almost slipped on a loose shingle. “If Dad knew about this, he would be so mad!” MaCall said, calmly ripping open her bag of M&Ms and pouring them into her mouth. “Oh yeah. Here,” she said, handing me one brown M&M. “Oh gee, thanks,” I said, crunching down my one M&M. “You’re welcome!” MaCall said cheerfully, silently enjoying her bag of M&Ms. To tell you the truth, I was getting a bit bored. “Do you have any more candy?” I asked hopefully. “I’m not a vending machine,” MaCall said dryly. “MaCall, can we go back now?” I asked hopefully. “No.” A car’s headlights suddenly shone against our house. “Duck!” MaCall screeched, diving to hide her head between her arms. Personally, I don’t think it helped much. I looked at my sister and sighed. “MaCall, I don’t feel like I’m on a magical island. I feel like I’m watching you eat M&Ms,” I moaned, watching her scarf down the last one. “What? You mean you’re not at this very moment burying your toes in hot sizzling sand as the sun sinks into the sea?” MaCall whispered, closing her eyes and sprawling back on the splintery shingles with a contented sigh. “No.” “Well then… use your imagination!” MaCall screeched, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Do you think Mom and Dad heard that?” “Yes,” I whispered, closing my eyes and grinning. “Even a deaf person would.” “Huh. Then maybe we should go back now,” MaCall said hurriedly, scrambling to her feet. “Wouldn’t want to get grounded for the next 300 years.” MaCall reached out a hand to me and looked at me with mischief in her bright green eyes. I reached out my hand to clasp hers, and at that moment, I knew she was my sister. *          *          * MY SISTER THE SPY “Hey, Cam, guess what?” MaCall giggled. “What?” I groaned, knowing this meant trouble. “I made us these files for our ‘agency,’” MaCall chirped, slapping down a manila folder with a mysterious number 52 on it. “Did you steal these from Dad’s office?” I asked, looking at them suspiciously. “Yeah, well that is not the topic,” MaCall said breezily. “The topic is that we are starting our own spy agency.” “Oh.” “Aren’t you excited?” MaCall breathed, her eyes practically popping out of her head. “Uh, the thing is, MaCall… whenever we do something together, I usually get in trouble.” MaCall looked offended. “Name five times that happened.” “Well, there was that one time that you convinced me to eat candy on the roof with you because it was a magical island and then dad found the wrappers when he was hanging the Christmas lights.” “Umm—that’s one,” MaCall shrugged in disgust. “And then there was the time you hid your stray cat in my closet and Dad thought it was my cat.” “Well…” MaCall hemmed. “…after which Dad made us knock on every door in the neighborhood to ask if they had lost a cat—which was really embarrassing.” “That was last year,” MaCall said, rolling her eyes. “And then you’re always making me play Naiads… ” I began. “I object to the word ‘always,’” MaCall interrupted. “Dad yelled at us for three hours for that!” “It’s not every day you can pretend you’re a water nymph and steal your little brothers’ souls,” MaCall said smugly. “Also, just recently you gave me five dollars to buy you a drink and a


By

Sisters

    OUR MAGICAL ISLAND “Hey, Cam,” MaCall whispered, nudging me in the side to wake up. “What?” I asked groggily, peeling one eye open. “What time is it?” “Midnight,” MaCall grinned. I groaned. “I got some M&Ms from the vending machine at gymnastics. Do you want to share them with me on a magical island?” MaCall asked excitedly. “Huh?” I moaned. “A magical island—the roof!” MaCall whispered, her green eyes lighting up. “Now go get these jeans and tennis shoes on—I don’t want you to get hurt in case you fall off!” MaCall urged, thrusting clothes at me. Yawning, I pulled them on. “Put this belt on too,” MaCall commanded, handing me a pink sparkly belt. “I’m also wearing one. We’ll attach another one between us so we can be like mountain climbers,” MaCall explained, hurriedly tying my belt while she double-knotted hers. “Uh… shouldn’t we tie mine tighter?” I asked, looking doubtfully at my mountain-climbing getup. “Don’t worry about it. You’re lighter than I am,” MaCall sniffed, tossing her blond hair over her shoulder. “Wait. Let me just make sure Mom and Dad are asleep. You stay here.” MaCall, I don’t feel like I’m on a magical island” MaCall tiptoed over to our parents’ room and placed her ear to the door as I sat there fuming. MaCall thinks she’s stealthier than I am, but the truth is, she’s downright noisy. Every time we sneak downstairs to “get a glass of water,” (i.e., eat ice cream and watch our favorite latenight TV show), she either creaks every stair or topples down the whole flight with a giant BANG that would wake the dead. Well I guess the last thing is kind of my fault. I kind of advised her that the faster you move, the quieter you go, but now I see it depends on who’s going. “Definitely snoring,” MaCall announced cheerfully, beckoning for me to follow her. “Well Cam, are you ready?” she asked, quietly opening her bedroom window. (It’s the only one in the house with a removable screen.) “Yes,” I snorted with all the pride an eight-year-old could muster. “Yo. Don’t snort at me like that. I’m thirteen years old. You’re lucky I’m bringing you on this adventure!” MaCall whispered, looking all offended. MaCall pushed me out the window and onto the wood-shingled roof that slanted below it. “Ouch, MaCall!” I screeched, trying to pry the splinter out of my hand. “Now stay there, I’m coming out!” MaCall announced. Two seconds later, she had plopped down beside me. “Whoops!” she cried as she almost slipped on a loose shingle. “If Dad knew about this, he would be so mad!” MaCall said, calmly ripping open her bag of M&Ms and pouring them into her mouth. “Oh yeah. Here,” she said, handing me one brown M&M. “Oh gee, thanks,” I said, crunching down my one M&M. “You’re welcome!” MaCall said cheerfully, silently enjoying her bag of M&Ms. To tell you the truth, I was getting a bit bored. “Do you have any more candy?” I asked hopefully. “I’m not a vending machine,” MaCall said dryly. “MaCall, can we go back now?” I asked hopefully. “No.” A car’s headlights suddenly shone against our house. “Duck!” MaCall screeched, diving to hide her head between her arms. Personally, I don’t think it helped much. I looked at my sister and sighed. “MaCall, I don’t feel like I’m on a magical island. I feel like I’m watching you eat M&Ms,” I moaned, watching her scarf down the last one. “What? You mean you’re not at this very moment burying your toes in hot sizzling sand as the sun sinks into the sea?” MaCall whispered, closing her eyes and sprawling back on the splintery shingles with a contented sigh. “No.” “Well then… use your imagination!” MaCall screeched, then clapped her hand over her mouth. “Do you think Mom and Dad heard that?” “Yes,” I whispered, closing my eyes and grinning. “Even a deaf person would.” “Huh. Then maybe we should go back now,” MaCall said hurriedly, scrambling to her feet. “Wouldn’t want to get grounded for the next 300 years.” MaCall reached out a hand to me and looked at me with mischief in her bright green eyes. I reached out my hand to clasp hers, and at that moment, I knew she was my sister. *          *          * MY SISTER THE SPY “Hey, Cam, guess what?” MaCall giggled. “What?” I groaned, knowing this meant trouble. “I made us these files for our ‘agency,’” MaCall chirped, slapping down a manila folder with a mysterious number 52 on it. “Did you steal these from Dad’s office?” I asked, looking at them suspiciously. “Yeah, well that is not the topic,” MaCall said breezily. “The topic is that we are starting our own spy agency.” “Oh.” “Aren’t you excited?” MaCall breathed, her eyes practically popping out of her head. “Uh, the thing is, MaCall… whenever we do something together, I usually get in trouble.” MaCall looked offended. “Name five times that happened.” “Well, there was that one time that you convinced me to eat candy on the roof with you because it was a magical island and then dad found the wrappers when he was hanging the Christmas lights.” “Umm—that’s one,” MaCall shrugged in disgust. “And then there was the time you hid your stray cat in my closet and Dad thought it was my cat.” “Well…” MaCall hemmed. “…after which Dad made us knock on every door in the neighborhood to ask if they had lost a cat—which was really embarrassing.” “That was last year,” MaCall said, rolling her eyes. “And then you’re always making me play Naiads… ” I began. “I object to the word ‘always,’” MaCall interrupted. “Dad yelled at us for three hours for that!” “It’s not every day you can pretend you’re a water nymph and steal your little brothers’ souls,” MaCall said smugly. “Also, just recently you gave me five dollars to buy you a drink and a


By

Time

“My name is Charlotte, and yes, I do know a ‘magical way to time travel’ ” CHAPTER ONE Thomas was ten years old and on a plane, a plane going to his grandparents’ house on the shore of Lake Michigan. He hadn’t seen his grandparents since his father’s funeral three years ago. All he could remember was his grandpa smelled like apples and his grandma made delicious chocolate-chip cookies. Thomas got off his plane at the airport. He took a taxi to his grandparents’ address and had the driver drop him off at the beginning of the long winding driveway. He slowly dragged his suitcase up the driveway and found… nothing. It was as if there had never been a house there. Thomas did recognize the old dead oak, but for some reason, it was alive. Strange, but he was sure he was in the right place. Grabbing his suitcase, he ran back down the driveway, which was now nothing but dirt, rocks, and dead leaves. Thomas tripped and skinned his knee but got up and kept on running until he reached the road. It was now dirt with wagon ruts on either side. He saw the beginning of another driveway a little ways down the road to his left. It took Thomas a short time to reach it and he walked up the flower-bordered drive. A stately white Victorian house appeared, enclosed within a wrought-iron fence. It looked very out of place. Thomas stepped through the gate, walked onto the porch and knocked. The door was answered by a redheaded girl about six years old wearing a white dress and a sash that matched her sea-green eyes. “Um, e- excuse me, but could you tell me the date?” Thomas asked, somewhat afraid of the answer and unnerved by the way the girl was staring at him. “It is June 15, 1908, of course!” she laughed. This is not happening, Thomas thought. This only happens in movies or comic books! I’m dreaming. Yes, that must be it. Wake up! He pinched himself. It hurt. But wait a minute… this doesn’t seem to be a dream because I can feel and smell and hear everything. It isn’t fuzzy like my other dreams… so maybe this isn’t a dream? He pinched himself again just to make sure. “You’re from the future, aren’t you, Thomas. 2004 to be exact,” the girl said quietly. “And all you want right now is to get back to your grandparents’ house.” “Yeah, but I don’t see how that’s possible,” Thomas said. “Unless you know some magical way to time travel,” he added sarcastically. “My name is Charlotte, and yes, I do know a ‘magical way to time travel.’” Charlotte shut the door and skipped around the back of the house to the lakeshore. Thomas stood there, stunned, not sure if she was joking or if she actually could time travel. He decided it was worth a shot because he somehow trusted her. Thomas dropped his suitcase on the porch and followed her. Down by the lake, the mid-afternoon sun was glinting blindingly off the water. Charlotte handed Thomas three pebbles she had picked up from the shore. How were pebbles going to get him back to 2004? “Skip them while wishing as hard as you can to get back,” she said cheerfully. “But what happens if they don’t work?” Thomas asked. “Oh, don’t you worry, Thomas. My pebbles will work, I guarantee it, just as long as you believe,” she said confidently. Slightly unsettled by Charlotte’s certainty, Thomas skipped the first pebble. Nothing happened. He glanced at Charlotte, who smiled innocently at him, then skipped the second one. Again, nothing. Thomas was starting to wonder if he was going to be stuck in 1908 forever. Gloomily, he picked up the last pebble. He threw with all his might, but the third stone came skipping back. It was shining with all the colors of the rainbow, flying back towards him. There was a flash of bright blue-green light and Thomas found himself standing on his grandparents’ front porch with his suitcase. *          *          * CHAPTER TWO Thomas’s grandparents were, of course, happy to see him. They fussed over how much he had grown and asked what had taken him so long. Thomas mumbled something about delayed flights. His grandma, sensing that something was wrong, immediately fed him a plateful of warm chocolate-chip cookies and a glass of milk. Soon feeling better, Thomas put a Band-Aid on his skinned knee and helped his grandma with the dishes. In his bed that night Thomas replayed his conversations with Charlotte in his head and noticed something that he hadn’t before. She had known his name, the year he came from, and exactly what he wanted. How? Who was Charlotte? I’ll bike down the road tomorrow and see if I can find her house, he promised himself as he drifted off to sleep. At seven o’clock the next morning, Thomas wrote a note for his grandparents and dug the old bike out from beneath all the other junk in the garage. Coasting down the driveway, he turned left and pedaled hard up the hill until he found the spot where Charlotte’s driveway had been. Now, it could not even be called an animal trail. Hopping off the bike, he walked up the trail until he found the fence, and beyond it, the house, still standing, if a bit overgrown and falling apart. Leaning the bike against the fence, Thomas walked cautiously onto the wobbly porch and knocked on the door, half expecting Charlotte to answer it. “Hello? Is anybody here?” he called, slowly forcing open the rusted hinges of the door and peeking inside. “Um… Charlotte?” he whispered. “Hello, Thomas.” Charlotte’s voice sounded whispery and seemed to come from everywhere at once. “I told you my pebbles work.” *          *          * CHAPTER THREE Thomas’s mouth fell open. He was stunned. What was happening? “Follow my ribbon, Thomas,” Charlotte said. Thomas noticed


By

Spring Morning on a Farm

My black-and-gray rooster crows. The sound of birds’ chatter filters through the morning. I open the icy gate and walk the familiar trail. A cool, damp haze swirls around me. I carry the rusty bucket filled with a ton of feed; It pours like sifting sand into the concrete trough. Cowbells reverberate as they prance over the hill. Stopping beneath my willow tree, I watch them eat. I turn around to head home, But first I pick the first Wild buttercup. Levi Crossley, 12Russellville, Kentucky


By

After the Train

After the Train, by Gloria Whelan; HarperCollins: New York, 2009; $15.99 Picture this: you are thirteen years old and living in Rolfen, West Germany, ten years after WWII has ended. All your history teacher talks about is the war and how big an impact it had on history, along with how horrible it was for the Jewish people. You know all this already and you think everyone should move on and live in the moment. Of course you have sympathy for all the people who suffered and died, but right now your biggest concerns are playing summer soccer with your two best friends and helping your father rebuild the town’s church in your spare time. This is Peter Liebig’s life in a nutshell, until he discovers a treasure trove of letters that had been exchanged between his mother and father during the war. While their country fought, Mr. Liebig, an architect by trade, built barracks in the prison camps. At home Mrs. Liebig, eager to play her part in the war, worked as a nurse at the Red Cross organization, treating mild wounds and making care packages for the soldiers. She saw the trains shipping off thousands of Jews to concentration camps but chose to ignore it all. The couple was happy helping the cause and blissfully unaware of the terrors going on around them. That all changed when a desperate woman held a baby out the window of a train and begged Mrs. Liebig to take him. The small child, later named Peter, had changed the Liebigs’ lives forever. Peter, now grown up, had always assumed that he was the son of his parents, just as anyone would. But when he discovers his Jewish heritage, his world is flipped upside down and he scrambles for anything to hold onto while he gets his head around this newly discovered information. When Peter talks to one of his father’s Jewish friends and starts attending some of their religious services and dinners with him, he finds it easier and easier to come to terms with his past. I thought I knew everything about my family and my past, but two years ago, when my father told me how my great-grandfather and great-uncles survived Auschwitz, I was astounded! They had lived in Poland and were helping Jews escape persecution. But the Nazis caught onto them, and they were sent to one of the worst prison camps created. Luckily, they all survived, but not without injuries. I was most certainly not in the same predicament as Peter, but I could relate to him and his sense of astonishment. Peter is a good role model, and easy to relate to. He has the mind of an adolescent, making his thoughts about soccer and friends easy for the young reader to understand, but he is also a very kind boy with a logical mind and a generous heart. He is curious and works hard, as evidenced by the sections of bricks he carefully and dutifully laid while learning the trade with his father. He helps his friends with their crazy ideas and is respectful and polite to his parents and other adults, making him my favorite character in the book. Because it is short in length, I found this book to be slightly predictable and some parts repetitive and slow moving. Overall, however, I enjoyed it. The book is a wonderful example of how learning about your past is not always a bad thing, and can be a grounding experience. Siena Teare, 12Essex Junction, Vermont


By

Unstoppable

I am perched in the car anxiously, inhaling the sweet, salty air of the sea. I stare out my window, feeling my mind swirl violently with thoughts of what was soon to come. The sun thrashes on the ocean’s gentle papery surface, and the water glistens as three birds merrily fly over. The waves lap coolly on the surrounding sand. The car comes to a sudden halt and I leap out, not looking back. The sun sits in a cloudless blue sky and blazes with a glowing smile. I am in such a rush I don’t put sunscreen on. My feet sprint over the scorching sand. I maneuver over the mounds so I won’t stumble and fall, and soon I am plunging head first into the Atlantic Ocean. The water is freezing, but when I am swimming, I am unstoppable. Nothing can remove me from the ocean, and nothing can take the thrill away from me. A wall of water approaches me, and I puff out my chest. I brace for the impact and soon I am tumbling in multiple back flips underwater. My buzzed blond head is exposed to the tangy salt water and I feel completely refreshed. My feet sprint over the scorching sand I go back to the water’s surface and see my younger brother, John, slowly sinking into the water. I wave at him and he shivers and gives me a frown as I hear his teeth clatter. He hates being immersed in cold water as most five-year-olds do, but nonetheless he loves to swim here. He slithers up beside me. I can’t recall how long we swam; all I know is that the stars were breaking through the thick texture of the night sky by the time we were done. My mom hollers for John and me and tells us that it’s time to go and I unwillingly depart from the place that felt like a second home. I gather myself in the car, nestled in a towel. As we drive away from the beach, my feeling of invincibility weakens, and soon I am just a regular person again. Nicky Cannon, 12Dallas, Texas Isaiah Garrod, 12Frederick, Colorado


By

Mung Bean Noodles and French Bread

“Here,” my mom shouted in Mandarin over the bubbling of the cooking pot. She lifted her hand and motioned me over. “Hold on to the handle,” she grunted, nodding to the handle of the slowly revolving pot as she stirred with a pair of chopsticks. I chuckled. “I’m guessing that the bottom of the pot isn’t flat?” Mom lifted the pot up ever so slightly and glanced at the convex surface. A stray drop of boiling water dripped from the spatula onto the glass cooktop and sizzled dry. “Affrmative.” I gingerly held the handle while Mom scurried over to the counter and brought back a bowl of fine white powder. I sniffed, and smiled. The evanescent fragrance of mung bean wafted out soothingly. Mom now held the bowl, poised at the cooking pot edge. The boiling water purred below the bowl’s lip. “Ready?” Mom inquired, half teasing, half serious. “Yawp,” I rolled my eyes, but still instinctively blinked as I heard the first dusty sounds of powder sliding on powder, then the wet “plop” of collision between powder and hot water. The burning spray of water that I always half expected never came. Humming one of my piano pieces, Mom went about stirring the cloudy mixture, pushing her hair out of her eyes as she worked. There was a certain comfort in watching the apron-clad figure prepare one of our family’s favorite dishes, accompanied by a Chopin waltz. I thought of the distances love for our family could go “Ouch,” she suddenly gasped. The chopsticks stopped their revolution around the pot’s inside and clattered to a halt on the pot’s rim. Her stirring hand flew up to her mouth, and she quickly sucked on the tiny burn that had been caused by the pop of a bubble of hot mung bean water. “Lemme see,” I clamored, tugging childishly at Mom’s tightly clutched hand. She reluctantly pulled away her hand to reveal a small, teardrop-shaped burn that blushed a rosy pink. Mom carefully extricated her hand. “It’s OK,” she reassured. “It’s not the first time.” I knew that she was in a rush—Dad was coming home from a business meeting in Paris in half an hour, and everything had to be perfect. Still, I thought I could see her wince as she grasped the chopsticks again. Hoping to be helpful, I wandered over to the dish rack and plucked out a large, long-handled bamboo spoon. “Mom, use…” I started. She shook her head automatically. “Stay away from the stove—it’s really hot now, so if the bubble pops, you’re going to get a burn twice as bad as this little blemish,” she nodded at her hand. By now, the cloudy white water had thickened to a paste in the pot. There was the thick thlop! of boiling air bubbles as the sweet-smelling concoction simmered and burped like some sort of Yellowstone mud pot. Mom had, by now, turned off the stove and was rinsing her hands in cold water at the sink. She exhaled slowly and grimaced. It was then that I noticed the odd speckling of pinkish burns along the back of her hands. “Your hands really got burned,” I exclaimed stupidly. She gave me a sideways glare. “Thanks for stating the fact,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “My hands feel much better already.” Mom checked the clock. Twenty minutes, and Dad would be back home. She pressed the surface of the cooling mung bean paste with her hand. I half expected her fingers to sink into the agonizingly hot starch, but her knuckles merely brushed the translucent surface. The paste quivered slightly, like Jell-O, but held firm. Lifting the pot up slowly, Mom pried the block of paste out with a pair of chopsticks and let the pot-shaped block relax into a plastic bowl. As usual, I was amazed. The bottom of the pot looked as if nobody had used it in the first place, and the curved surface of the paste block was flawlessly smooth. Mom smiled at her handiwork. “Beautiful,” she finally decided. I contented myself with sitting at one of the bar stools by the counter, listening to the muffled tapping of Mom’s knife slicing easily through the soft gel and meeting the solidity of the cutting board. I half dozed, listening to the soft tap-tap of the knife, the rustle of the tree leaves outside, and the sound of a car motor. My eyes shot open. A car motor? I raced through the living room to a front window, where the already raised blinds revealed the sight of a large, black Lincoln Town Car that squatted in the driveway. “Mo-om!” I screamed. “Dad’s home!” “Greet him for me. I’ve got to season this stuff,” she scowled at the bowl of mung bean starch noodles that she’d cut the block into. Slipping on a pair of sandals, I pelted outside, to where the cab driver was helping Dad unload. Dad stopped and smiled. “Bonjour, mademoiselle?” he laughed and gave me a hug. Once the bags had been put in the shoe room and the taxi driver paid, I turned to Dad. “So, how’s Paris?” “Beautiful place. It’s old, but the atmosphere’s fantastic,” he responded. “You and your mom would love it there.” “How was the food?” I spat out the question that I’d been dying to ask for a week. Dad brightened. “Wonderfully light. Of course, it doesn’t compare to your mother’s cooking. Speaking of which…” He grinned impishly and raised his eyebrows. I stood by, watching, as Mom and Dad hugged and smiled, with Dad rushing back to his suitcase for the gifts he’d brought us. Besides a snow globe and key chain, he set another oblong package down by two bags of French chocolate. “Here, hon. I got something for you that I hope you’ll like. Open it!” It was a command. I opened the package’s carefully folded waxed-paper wrapping and smiled. Dad had brought me a real French baguette. My mind automatically snapped


By

From Dust to Dreams

It was like the desert was breathing and singing a silent but glorious song! The crunch of the pickup truck’s wheels and the sound of the girl’s breathing were all that could be heard as the rusty vehicle huffed to a dusty stop in front of the low sprawling wood-and-stucco house with a very rusty farm windmill attached on the side. The door to the driver’s seat slammed, but Alicia was staring out at the miles of foreboding sand dunes, broken only by some very distant grayish-brown hills, harsh against the bright sunlight, and did not move to join him. She was rooted to the frayed vinyl seat, the words of her last conversation with her mom running through her head again and again, as if trying to impart some hidden meaning which she had not yet grasped, an answer to why she had been sent here, banished to this isolated place for the whole summer vacation. She knew the answer, it was simple: her mother had just gotten a job offer, which required her to teach a summer session art history course for exchange students at the university in Siena, in Italy. She could not take Alicia with her (although she’d begged to go along), so she had sent her daughter to her grandparents’. It really was quite straightforward, Alicia reflected, but she couldn’t help feeling a touch of resentment towards her mother; why did she have to send her to a place so far away from everywhere that there was not even any Internet connection, let alone any other people, let alone anyone her own age? This was not Alicia’s idea of any way to spend a summer vacation. Alicia had been looking forward to hanging out with her friends, and taking that watercolor class she’d longed for, not sweltering with two old people on what now was staring her in the face: a decrepit homestead in the middle of a desert. “It’ll be even better than what we were planning before,” her mother had said, “I promise.” “Hey, Alicia, you coming?” The gnarly voice shocked her out of her daydream and she got out of the cab of the truck into the glaring light. Her grandpa was waiting for her with her luggage—two suitcases and a backpack. He handed her the backpack and took the suitcases, carrying them over the hot gravel as if they weighed nothing. She studied him as they walked; he was thin and tall, with a tanned weather-lined face, and still some wisps of gray hair on his scalp. Everything about him was tough and leathery as old hide. A bit like a cactus, Alicia thought, and had to stifle a giggle. As she took a few steps, the screen door of the house banged open. A short, wrinkled white-haired figure in a beige apron and faded denim dress came quickly limping out, like one of those desert hens who roosted in the cactuses and strutted about on the sand clucking. Her grandmother rushed to her, wrapping her in a tight hug, smelling very very faintly of old-lady perfume, exclaiming with happiness at seeing her… the usual greetings after a long time spent without seeing someone, Alicia thought, but it had all happened too fast, her mind was still processing the previous day, unable to cope with the present. “So, Alicia, how do you like your new home?” her grandmother indicated the house with a proud gesture, which would have been used more to indicate a grand palace, even a fancy car, but never this… Stung with bitterness at the words “new home,” Alicia stared at it critically. It was a typical decaying ranch house for the area, maybe a bit bigger than normal, with a sagging porch supported by cracked wooden beams. Looking around, Alicia decided that everything here was dry and cracked; the earth, the house, her grandparents… She winced as she tried to smile… even her lips. Now was the time to stop musing and put on her actor’s face. Alicia had always thought of herself as a good actress, now was the time to use this talent. She noticed, just in time, three brand new pots of marigolds in the shade under a window which clearly someone had very recently organized. They were already a little wilted. She rallied around to hug her grandmother. “Oh my gosh, it’s awesome! It’s so big, I can’t wait to see the inside!” Lying, she excused herself for doing that, it was better than making other people feel bad. But her words, even to herself, sounded like she was overdoing it. Her grandmother smiled, she looked a little bit relieved, but quizzical, and Alicia realized that she must have been worried about what her granddaughter would think of her house. See, it’s a good thing I lied, she told herself. “So, Alicia, how do you like your new home?” “Well now, you come along right this way, and I’ll show you your room. I’m sure your grandpa will manage with the suitcases,” and she led Alicia over the wooden porch and through the screen door. It was dim inside and Alicia’s eyes had trouble adjusting after the glare of the desert outdoors. The inside of the house enveloped her with the musty smell of really old furniture. They were walking rapidly down a narrow hallway, her grandmother giving her a tour of the house. They passed the living room, the dining room and an incredibly archaic kitchen to the back of the house, stopping in front of the last door in the hallway. Her grandmother flung it open with a grand sweep of her arm. “And this is your room! It used to be your mother’s.” The door creaked as it swung open to reveal a tiny uncarpeted room, with faded yellow walls and nothing except a bed with a thin white bedspread, a wardrobe, a small wooden desk and an old wooden chair. No evidence of her mother having grown up


By

For No One

I watch her From the garden A baby girl Wobbling around, like a buoy On a choppy ocean, Batting playfully At her rainbow of toys, Her blue eyes, Darting around the room. Her mother softly coos, “So big,” With a pearly smile Drifting gently up her face. The baby shoots Her tiny fingers Towards the heavens. The mother, Clapping and cheering, Tells everyone. But when I Was a sprout, Nestled warm In my cocoon of soil, Like the jelly encased In a fluffy doughnut, Soaking up the nutrients, Readying for my awakening, The thunder boomed to me, “So big!” With its blinding smile Shooting straight to the ground. I sprawled out My verdant fingers And rocketed to the sky, My tiny heart full Of pure pride; All the creatures in the forest Saw me, But they told No one. Mara Schiffhauer, 12Tabernacle, New Jersey


By

The Unfinished Jester

The jester came alive, and my grandfather did too In Memoriam. Angelo Salvatore D’Amico, 1919–1989. That was what I wrote, at the bottom of the painting, in felt-tip pen. That isn’t the beginning of this story. It’s the end. This story starts a month earlier. It starts in the library. That’s a room in our house—the library. Right next to my bedroom, across the hall. It’s filled head to toe with books upon books, stories upon stories. In one corner is a tall fireplace, near the couch and the faded leather armchair. On the mantle are Halloween pictures of me: kindergarten, third grade, fourth grade, sixth grade. On a different shelf are old black-and-white photographs, grainy and lovely, of my mother’s parents. My mother and I were sitting on the rug, flipping through black portfolios she had put together of my paintings and sketches. She was proud of her work. I was proud of her work. “See, Emma?” she said. “I’ve put all your drawings in these plastic covers, so they don’t get faded. Look—there’s that watercolor you did of the girl and the calla lilies.” “Thanks,” I said. “You did a really nice job with these portfolios. Why is this one backed with newspaper?” “I don’t know,” she said, shrugging. She flipped the portfolio page. “That’s amazing! Who drew that?” She had flipped to a breathtaking charcoal sketch on yellowed old paper. It showed a dark, meticulously drawn little house teetering on a cliff above a lake. The drawing was gorgeous. “My dad made it,” she said wistfully. “You remember I told you he loved drawing?” “He was very skilled,” I said. “Yes, well,” she said sadly, “he never got to use his skills.” “Why not?” I asked, although I half knew the answer. “He had to work all the time to support our family. He never had time to be an artist.” I flipped the page. It was a portrait of a man, his sculptured face dark and brooding. His long hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and he wore a fancy coat with tails and a ruffled cravat. I didn’t like this drawing as much as I liked the first drawing. On the next page was a third drawing, and this was the most captivating of them all. It was a black-and-white charcoal portrait of a court jester. His face was spread in mischievous delight, his snub nose upturned. In his right hand, he held a staff with a toy face on top, almost a mirror of his own. He wore a voluptuous coat and pants, decorated with thin outlines of birds and stars, moons and tiny trees. The detail on the coat seemed unfinished, as did his left hand. The hand was a mere outline, pale and ghostly. My mother and I stared at the picture. “I never realized he didn’t finish this picture. Look at the left hand and the coat. I think he was drawing this right before he died.” “It’s beautiful,” I said. “My paintings pale in comparison.” “No, they don’t,” she said seriously. “You’re already a better artist than he was.” “Do you think he would be proud of me?” I said, smiling slightly. “Yes,” she said. “He would be extraordinarily proud of you.” “Would he help me with my art?” “Yes. I don’t think you need it, though.” We sat there for a long time. “He was a good man,” she said, tears brimming in her eyes. *          *          * My grandfather died a long time ago, when my mother was eighteen. On our mantle, right there in the library, is my mother’s favorite photograph of him. He’s smiling from ear to ear, wearing his Navy-issue baseball jersey and throwing his glove into the air after his team’s victory. Even though the photograph had been taken during his service in World War II, his face is nothing but pure joy. So he played baseball. He drew. And I wish I had known him. *          *          * Two days later, I took the court jester out of the portfolio. I brought him over to my drawing table, cleared a place of honor for the drawing among my desk clutter, sketches, and art supplies. I tore a sheet of paper from my watercolor pad, got out my best mechanical pencil, and began to draw. I stared at my grandfather’s court jester and copied him carefully. I refined the lines, finished his left hand and drew in the details on his coat, carefully penciled in tiny stars and birds and trees. I inked it in. I did this all in secret, when my parents weren’t watching. I didn’t want them to know. This was between me and my grandfather. Then I painted it. In watercolors, because they were my favorite medium, rich and versatile. The jester came alive, and my grandfather did too. My grandfather came alive through my pencil, my pen, my paintbrush. He smiled out through the court jester’s lips. I stood back and stared at my grandfather’s jester, my jester. It had been a month since I first saw the sketch. Homework and school and life had crowded out the jester, but whenever I had a moment I inked a little here, painted a little there. Now it was finished, and it was beautiful. No—not quite finished. Not yet. “Mama, what was your dad’s name?” I called out. “Angelo. Why?” she yelled back, sounding puzzled. “Just wondering!” I said. I pulled out a felt-tip pen and wrote my In Memoriam at the bottom of the painting. “There,” I said. “Now it’s finished.” Then I went out and played baseball. I threw much better than usual. I think my grandfather was throwing through me. Emma T. Capps, 12San Carlos, California


By

Road to Tater Hill

Road to Tater Hill, by Edith M. Hemingway; Delacorte Books for Young Readers: New York, 2009; $16.99 It was a delightful coincidence to find a book in the library that was set where I live! Road to Tater Hill is a heartwarming and fulfilling story of friendship, family, hope, home, and the bumpy road through grief. As eleven-year-old Annie Winters spends another summer at her grandparents’ house in the mountains of North Carolina, I could imagine every sight and smell of the creek, rhododendrons, washed-out clay roads, and windy hilltops easily because my house is nestled in similar North Carolina woods. I’ve enjoyed trips to waterfalls and mountaintops just like the ones in the book. This summer, however, is like no other for Annie. Her Air Force dad is overseas in Germany, leaving Annie and her mother alone when their day-old baby, Mary Kate, dies. Annie grieves the death of her only sister, who she never even got to see, and she struggles as the whole house falls into gloom. While her mother sinks into a stony depression, Annie escapes to visit the creek to hold her “rock baby,” a river stone whose weight is a comfort while cradled in her arms. She later befriends a reclusive mountain woman, Miss Eliza, who is mysterious at first, but Annie realizes that she is just lonely, too. The two share similarly sad stories and troubles, but also wisdom that helps Annie cope with her mother’s behavior and reconciles Miss Eliza back into the community. While I’m grateful to have been spared from anything as heartbreaking as losing a close family member, the way the book described the behavior of the characters in their sorrow was very real to me. I would be as frustrated as Annie is when the household tiptoes around the subject of the baby. It was also interesting to compare the emotional outlet that she and Miss Eliza found in the rock baby, books, and weaving, to Annie’s grandma’s constant, busy kitchen work. My grandmother also sometimes seems to live in the kitchen, so it seemed fitting that busying about in the kitchen would be her outlet. Another similarity between Annie and me is that she’s close to her grandpa. In the story, he’s the one who listens to and asks about her, and he doesn’t complain about her running off all the time. My grandfather might not be as quiet as Annie’s, but I like the way he is frank and up front and understands that when I do something embarrassing or the wrong way, it really is wrong and laughs about it good-naturedly rather than trying to cover it up. He also listens to me and continues an interesting discussion on things I bring up. He is full of practical wisdom for creating and fixing things, just like Annie’s grandpa is a good woodworker. Miss Eliza says that books are “medicine for my soul” and that “once I could read, that made all the difference” during her loneliest years. I share her love for the world of books. Not only can they be a diversion in times of sorrow, but I am fascinated by how each of the myriad books out there leads you into a new world, a new way of looking at things. I thoroughly enjoyed Road to Tater Hill and highly recommend it. It is a great read for anyone who shares my love of stories, character development, and the mountains! Adair Brooks, 13Black Mountain,North Carolina


By

Wave Song

A vast land Small enough to comfort me Not an ocean, too big Not a pond, too small A meadow of green A field of waves So loud, so soft So big, so small Green Lake is a blanket *          *          * I am standing on a cliff made of sandstone that crumbles into the lake. I watch branches that sway on the trees; their visible roots are a baby’s arms, clinging to its mother. I gaze at a skyline where a bright ball of fire is suspended, as if by a string, from the heavens. I am standing on a cliff made of sandstone that crumbles into the lake I walk down rickety steps, plants reaching out to brush against me, not grab me, not scratch me, embrace me. I laugh as a breeze plays with my hair, as a puppy would. I run down a creaking dock and jump into an ice-cold, refreshing lake. Bubbles fly around me as I sink to the sandy bottom. This is a heaven, under the dock, over rocks of many sizes, each I know as if they were my friends. The water is clear, showing me sand, seaweed and so many stones. Bobbing up, I see again that skyline, trees, so green, like a line scribbled by a two-year-old. But I remember when I was zipping around on a small little boat, a motor with a seat. I remember gripping onto my strong brother, a security in front of me. And that line was not so fuzzy anymore. Large hotels, fancy restaurants, mansions, so rich but beautiful, all placed like a collage on a background of thick, lush, green trees. Our little cabin is small and humble compared to these huge houses, but it is more of a home. Leaving the lake, wrapping a towel around my cold body, I watch the sun leave the horizon; I watch the sky grow dark. I see the last purple clouds disappearing like smoke; I see a few brave stars beginning to peep out. I walk up those steps and on past the cliff, feeling grass on my ankles. Darkness is here; voices and light protrude from our small, humble cabin. Anna J. Mickle, 12Madison, Wisconsin Ida Otisse McMillan-Zapf, 12Roanoke, Virginia