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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Dreaming

“I wish I was like them, the seals,” I say to Russ, still a little dazed. “Why the seals? Why not any of the other animals we have seen?” Russ asks with a puzzled look on his face. “Because they are so free in their own little world with no problems at all,” I think aloud, gazing through the fogged-up glass of the exhibit. “Sometimes it’s nice to be in a big world, more people to meet and talk to,” Russ says to me with a giant smirk on his face. Russ is always getting after me for being too shy and not knowing more people. I just don’t talk that much. “Only idiots talk when they have nothing to say.” I always say that to people who ask why I’m so quiet. But at least he cares. Russ and I have been together for almost as long as I can remember. Being older by many years, and being my brother, he has always looked after me like another parent. I wonder if the seals know that they are in captivity. Or that, even though they are having the time of their lives, they are prisoners, I think to myself, awed. They have nothing to worry about. It must be absolute bliss to live like that. I keep thinking to myself, already in a trance. Drifting back down from the cloud I was dreaming on, I ask Russ, “Wouldn’t it be nice to be as free as they are?” I turn around for an answer and probably a look from Russ that is sure to call me a dumbstruck dreamer, but no one is there. He wouldn’t just take off like that. Did he tell me he was going somewhere? “Oh man, oh man,” I say while wringing my hands together so tightly they started to turn white. “I shouldn’t be daydreaming. I do it too much, and now because of it I don’t know where Russ went.” I start to ramble on, punishing myself. I feel like cursing. Half running, half tripping, I move quickly around the circular area. Scanning the crowd, I see no sign of Russ. Shouting his name would do no good. No one could hear anything over this grunting mass of tourists. Without Russ I am really, truly lost Swiftly, I squeeze past mobs while looking for a front desk or anyone who could help me. I run backwards up the ramp and look over the building layout and no Russ to be seen. Stopping dead in my tracks, I start to finger the braided ring Russ gave to me. I always do this when I am nervous. I have fingered it and rubbed it so much it is starting to slowly disappear. People tell you that worrying gets you nowhere. That is not true, it gets you more scared. I walk outside onto the picnic place right outside of the aquarium. I stand across from a table and lean on a wall. I scan the harbor and around the area for the red flame of Russ’s head he calls hair. Thoughts run through my mind that should never enter anyone’s. Did he leave me here on purpose? Will I ever get home? Is Russ all right? What will happen to me? My body’s shaking because of how scared I am—more than the cold fall wind. I still look around, hopeful to see any sign of Russ. I feel a little pinch on my foot. Scared of what I might find, I take a deep breath and slowly look down with my eyes closed. I’m shaking. Not wanting it to be a giant bug or a snake, I reluctantly open my eyes. I almost laugh. There is a turtle lying at my feet, having a small snack of my sneaker lace. I bend down cautiously to the turtle and soon I’m eye-to-eye with him. I look into the little guy’s eyes and “Russ!” I exclaim, ashamed that I forgot. Lost. I didn’t think of it that way. I’m lost. Without Russ I am really, truly lost. My legs slide slowly from under me. I sink down against the wall, feeling more invisible than ever. A tear wells up in my eye and slowly it slips down, not seen or heard, only sensed. More and more keep flowing down silently until my face is soaked and my eyes blurred. I flinch; a familiar pinching feeling is now on my elbow. Turning my head, I feel a flow of warm air that stinks of rotten garbage and greens. The turtle is on my legs and crawling into my lap to nibble at my jeans. “I bet someone is looking for you just like I hope that Russ is looking for me,” I say to the turtle while looking at it and seeing some things I didn’t see before—the turtle’s neck craned over my leg and his eyes darting back and forth, looking for something particular. The turtle looks very determined to get closer to my pant leg to get a little nibble. He is moving very slowly but in such a cute way it seems like time stands still just so I can see this creature journey through an obstacle course. “Maybe I should have just stayed put with the seals in my own world,” I tell the turtle with a glum look on my face and my arms crossed across my chest. Now more frustrated than scared, I look once more over the crowd in the grassy area. No one and nothing worth seeing. I look down toward the turtle and am almost ready to collapse when a hand lifts my head up. It’s Russ and an expression of pure alarm on his face melts into relief and tears are streaming down both of our faces toward where the turtle had been. Julia Gaitley, 12Needham, Massachusetts Shanthi Chackalackal, 11Coralville, Iowa


By

Masked

“I- I- I’m going to the Masked Ball?” she stuttered Gemma was shielding herself from a sandstorm of dandelion seeds. Her tutor, Dominick Vickson, and herself were right at the core of a lush field. “As you can see,” Dominick called above the strong summer wind, as they made their way through the long, fine, green stalks, “wind is another form of seed dispersal. So that makes…” He choked on a mouthful of seeds, and coughed them out. Gemma giggled behind her hand and finished the sentence for him. “…that makes three different ways of seed dispersal we’ve learnt today!” Dominick nodded approvingly. They had almost reached the village smothered by the thick forest pines on the other side of the field. “And can you remember what they are?” he tested her. Gemma thought for a moment, recalling their trek through the woods, then snapped her fingers. “The first one we learnt was how the seeds sometimes get stuck in a passing animal’s fur, then fall off later,” she replied carefully. “The second one was how they eat the seeds and— well—excrete them,” she blushed but shook it off. “And we just learnt the third,” she said with a grin, as Dominick managed to get another mouthful of dandelion seeds, “…seed dispersal by wind!” *          *          * Soon they were back in the village. The ripe, orange sun was low in the sky, staining the horizon a horrifying yet fascinating red. Gemma was bathing in the river that trickled be-hind the small log cabin that she and her parents lived in. The water was cool and refreshing, gurgling and bubbling happily as it streamed along like an endless cord of blue ribbon. As she washed, a twittering bird caught her attention. Its wings were a deep, eye-catching turquoise; its chest was a soft, plush orange and it had a white underbelly. The bird’s beady black eyes darted back and forth, as it hopped along the bank. It must be a bluebird, Gemma thought, look at that magnificent sheen! Suddenly, her mother walked out of the back door of the cabin, startling the bluebird. “Gemma, your tutor is here to see you.” Her mother smiled. “And he’s brought the loveliest clothes with him! You’d better dry yourself off, then greet him.” She handed Gemma a clean linen towel that had been left outside to be baked by the sun. “I’ll be right there!” Gemma exclaimed, hopping out of the river and gladly taking the warm sheet to towel herself off with, from her mother. *          *          * Gemma walked in, her curling raven-black hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her red cotton dress creased as she sat down on the chair opposite Dominick. “Hello!” she said cheerfully. “Haven’t today’s lessons ended?” He beamed. “Well, this isn’t really a lesson,” he said. Unable to contain himself, he blurted it out, “Have you heard of the Masked Ball?” “No.” Instantly, a flashing yellow question mark appeared in Gemma’s head. It was her weakness—a thirst for knowledge. “Well,” Dominick explained excitedly, “it’s a marvellous ball that happens every year, and the theme is masquerade. All the famous scientists, writers, mathematicians and artists meet there every year and exchange information. The fun part isn’t the elaborate dresses, delicious food or bittersweet drinks; it’s the fact that you have absolutely no clue as to the identity of the person you’re getting information from, because all of these great, talented people are masked. And so you will be too, Gemma.” He stopped for breath, panting. Dominick pulled out a beautiful black mask from his satchel, along with a dark blue gown of silk and pair of pearly white shoes. Gemma’s eyes widened as she realized what he meant. “I- I- I’m going to the Masked Ball?” she stuttered. Her heart was pounding wildly, she felt the blood pulsing ecstatically inside her. She would get to meet all of those wonderful people! She, Gemma Burberry, would become a masked guest at this extravagant event! “I’m not even on the guest list though!” she cried, more with excitement than doubt. “How can I get in?” Dominick grinned. “That’s the sneaky bit,” he said. “My Aunt Jennifer is the cousin of the man who runs the catering at the ball. She was invited to come along and mingle with the guests, but sadly she caught pneumonia and can’t go. Instead, we’ve agreed that you, a young scholar with plenty of potential, should go instead. Your name from then on will be Jennifer Vickson.” “But what if the catering man mistakes me for your aunt?” Gemma gasped. “He’ll certainly be there!” “No he won’t,” Dominick replied calmly. “He’s gone down with pneumonia too—who do you think my aunt caught it from?” Gemma sat down, not even realizing she had stood up in the first place. There was nothing stopping her. Nothing blocking her way from becoming a guest at the Masked Ball… what should she do? A smile slowly began to spread on her face, as sweetly and willingly as hot butter on toast. “Of course I’ll go,” she said. “I’d be crazy not to!” *          *          * Meanwhile, the ball was taking place. Lords and ladies, scientists and amateurs, all gathered under the brilliant, golden light that leaked through the crystals of the grand chandelier, which hung suspended over their heads. The floor was a cool marble, the tables all of the smoothest oak, even the curtain cords were tied in fancy silver bows! But the highlight of the evening was the masks. Oh, what a variety! There were red masks of velvet lined with gold tissue; menacing black masks adorned with long, dark feathers; pleasant, solid blue masks with shining silver pearls. Suddenly, the chatter subsided as the doorman led another person into the room. It was a young woman, wearing a soft, navy-blue dress and an intriguing, mysterious dark mask almost as black as her hair. Eventually, the noise grew back to its usual level. The girl


By

Arcadia, the Adventurous Wolf Girl

  At the creek, Arcadia was almost able to forget that she wasn’t like the rest of her family Somewhere on his travels, Conroy had found it. The human pup. He had brought it home for lack of a better thing to do with it. He had thought that maybe they could use it to teach their pups to hunt, but when he got home, another thing entirely occurred… *          *          * “Conroy, Conroy! Did you bring anything good? The pups are starving and we… why what’s that?” Mother Wolf asked. “What on earth did you bring a human cub for?” She pawed it, turning it over. “Bring it over and it can nurse with Blaze and Cassie.” “But Atalaya, I had brought it home for the pups to hunt!” “Well, it will help us someday if we help it!” Atalaya was a firm believer that if someone helped you, you should repay it, and vice versa. Because of this, many a time had she brought home a motherless cub and nursed it back to health. “We’ll call the human pup Arcadia, and I will raise it.” Conroy grumbled and growled at this, but not too loudly because mother wolves are very protective of their cubs, and although Arcadia was not a wolf, Atalaya felt very strongly about her already. Arcadia crawled over to Atalaya, where she was nursing Blaze and Cassie, burrowed herself between them, and began to suckle. Atalaya chuckled softly and glanced over to where Conroy had stopped growling and was sleeping peacefully. “You just wait,” she said softly, so as not to wake him. “This one will help us, you’ll see!” She had no idea how right she was, on that warm summer evening. *          *          * FOUR YEARS LATER Six-year-old Arcadia sat up quickly. What had woken her up? She looked over to Blaze and Cassie. One little tan bundle of fur told her that Blaze was still asleep, but where was Cassie? Arcadia looked all around the cave, then closer at Blaze, to be sure Cassie wasn’t hiding somewhere. She wasn’t. Cassie was always hiding, or playing, so Arcadia wasn’t worried. She was lonely, though, so she howled the “I’m here, where are you?” howl so Cassie would come back. In almost no time she heard a rustling in the forest, but it was not Cassie who stepped out of the bushes, it was Atalaya and Conroy. “I see you’ve woken up.” Atalaya nuzzled her human cub. “It’s a good thing, too,” Conroy added, “It’s time to go to the creek.” By this time Blaze had begun to stir. “Mamasha, Babashar,” he yawned, “where’s Cassie?” If wolves could roll their eyes, Conroy would have been rolling his. He had very little patience for cubs when they weren’t hunting, or sleeping. It was his turn to howl the “I’m here, where are you?” with a little more demand in it than Arcadia had used. It didn’t take very long before they heard the familiar rustling in the bushes. What was unfamiliar was the low growl that accompanied the rustles. Conroy growled back, unsure of what to expect. A dark ball of fur hurtled out of the bushes and landed on Arcadia’s back. Arcadia flailed her arms and legs, but to no avail. It was at times like this that she wished she weren’t so different from the rest of her family. She didn’t like having teeth that no one could feel when she sank them into a neck or an ear. She didn’t like not being able to keep up with even Blaze, the baby of the family. And she especially didn’t like how different she looked and smelled. Going to the creek was the worst, because she could see from her reflection in the water that she wasn’t like any of them. She only had fur on the top of her body, and it was red, not brown, like Blaze’s and Cassie’s. Not even black, like Conroy’s and Atalaya’s. Instead, hers was red, and in her eyes, red was the ugliest color in the world. Atalaya gently grabbed the neck ruff of Cassie, (for that’s who was on Arcadia’s back) and pried her off Arcadia. “Let’s go to the creek now,” was all she said, unruffled from Cassie’s entrance. At the creek, Arcadia was almost able to forget that she wasn’t like the rest of her family. She was having too much fun splashing around with them. *          *          * Arcadia sat up and stretched. After being at the creek, everyone had gotten tired and had drifted off to sleep. She had been sleeping under a large tree, in the shade, but now the sun had moved and was in her eyes. She looked around and found Blaze and Cassie just waking up and squinting because of the bright light. Blaze rolled over. “Where are Mamasha and Babashar? They were here when we drifted off!” “Don’t worry, Blaze,” said Cassie, always protective of her younger brother. “If they aren’t here, then we’ll just have to go look for them,” and she darted towards the nearest set of trees. Before she could step into the forest, though, Atalaya and Conroy came into the clearing. “Mamasha! Babashar!” Blaze whimpered with delight. “I was worried! I thought…” Here he broke off and looked hard at his parents. “What’s wrong?” He whimpered again, this time with fear. “Cassie, Arcadia, you come with me. Blaze, you go with Babashar.” Atalaya paused. A shot rang out, sounding much louder than it should, in the normally quiet wilderness. She and Conroy ran in opposite directions, Arcadia and Cassie following close behind Atalaya, Conroy carrying Blaze. Atalaya, Arcadia, and Cassie made it home safely, but Conroy ran for miles, with the hunter silently following. He could have gone for miles more, but he was carrying Blaze in his mouth, and that slowed him down. When he reached a little clearing he thought would be good for defending himself and Blaze against


By

Simon, Dik-Diks, and No Worries

Whenever my parents plan a vacation for my younger sister and me, they never include Disney World or a Caribbean cruise on our itinerary. Instead, they define a vacation as a learning experience that expands the classroom to include the real world. That is how I ended up spending last summer sleeping in a tent in the grasslands of Tanzania. From Simon, our guide, I not only learned about the local culture, but I also met the dik-dik of Tanzania. When I first met Simon, a broad-shouldered modern Maasai who stands over six feet tall, I thought he looked mean. Then he smiled, and his white teeth, even the two front ones that stuck out like sticks, sparkled like the snow on top of Mt. Kilimanjaro. Simon’s brown skin reminded me of the dirt covering the back roads upon which we traveled in a 1986 Land Rover; his hair, the black of a zebra’s dark stripes, created tight curls around his head. Simon loved wearing his Lewis & Clark T-shirt, a gift from some college students. He insisted the school was in New York City, while I argued it was in Oregon. Simon, who only knew about New York and California, refused to admit that I was right. Simon also boasted that his tire shoes bound with leather were better than my American-made hiking boots. I wished I had his shoes after my mother made me trade my boots for my sister’s tennis shoes with their mesh tops. My sister complained that the neck-high grass slipped through the mesh and created a pinching feeling in her feet. Her complaints led to my suffering. Everything about Africa was different from what I knew But, according to Simon, my suffering was nothing compared to what twelve-year-old Maasai boys endure. If I were a Maasai, I would have to undergo a circumcision next year to celebrate my coming-of-age ceremony. I would then spend the next three to four months recovering in a black hut. Unlike the BaMbuti of the Congo, a Maasai boy cannot scream to show his pain. The BaMbuti boys also get to go away with their fathers to learn the ways of their tribe. The thought of becoming a Maasai boy sounded as unappetizing as the funny stew that another African made for us. The stew contained red, green, and brown vegetables buried under a thick brown sauce. I spent the entire meal separating the vegetables from the meat. As someone who spends a lot of time reading about and studying wars and weapons, I could not understand why the Maasai would fight over cows. Simon explained that the Maasai, a semi-nomadic tribe, believe that they own all cows; therefore, they steal cows from other tribes. This led to a war in 1987 between the Maasai and Barbacks. Fifty Barback warriors tried to rob the Maasai farmers of their cows. After hearing cries from the farmers, fifteen Maasai warriors rushed to their rescue and killed two Barbacks. The Maasai army numbered 1,500, while the Barback forces totaled 1,700. Neither side won because the spears of the Maasai and Barbacks could not defeat the guns of the 300 government policemen. While in Africa, I expected to see ostriches, giraffes, lions, and elephants. I did not expect to see the dik-diks; in fact, I had never ever heard of a dik-dik before I walked past some tiny pellets lying in a pile on the ground. When I stepped on a few pellets, I heard a crunching sound as if I had crushed the bones of a small animal. “What’s this?” I asked Simon as I pointed to the pellets. “Dik-dik poop,” he answered. A dik-dik, I learned, is one of the smallest members of the antelope family. When I later met one, it reminded me of Winston, my Yorkie, in size but not in features. Under its eyes, the dik-dik has a blue gland that secretes a jelly-like substance. The dik-dik rubs the gland against a tall piece of grass to mark its territory; it also uses dung to mark its spot. When I walked near a dik-dik, it ran away as if I were a scary monster about to kill it. Everything about Africa was different from what I knew. The sounds, unlike the city noises of talking people and roaring engines, were more a symphony of animals, each playing its own instrument. Without the fumes emanating from cars and the stench coming from garbage, Africa had a clean aroma as if the air had just been created. The plants and animals boasted colors as radiant as fall leaves. Even the stars that shine over Africa like nature’s night-lights differ from the ones that illuminate the sky above my house. During our two-week stay in Tanzania, my sister missed her mirror, my mother missed her washer and dryer, and my father missed his cell phone connection. I missed pizza, my computer, and my collection of toy guns. To all my complaints and concerns, fears and frustrations, Simon responded as he did to everything: “No worries.” Jacob E. Gerszten, 11Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania Keysun Mokhtarzadeh, 13Tehran, Iran


By

Up in a Tree

I climb the water oak in my yard Its gray bark Tearing my once smooth skin As I pull myself to a New branch A cool breeze Like the cloud That rolls out of the freezer When you crack open the door But gentler, softer Breathes on my face The sea of Gray, white, blue Swirling as one sky Lifts my heart And makes it joyful That special joy Where Your heart pounds Your chest aches Your eyes water Your lips smile The dull Almost twilight Sun Giggles from behind A cloud Showing up In gay splotches Here and there Every thing Every worry or care Every war, lie, death Shut out All is beauty When I’m Up in a tree Isabel Sutter, 13Houston, Texas


By

Escape Under the Forever Sky

Escape Under the Forever Sky, by Eve Yohalem; Chronicle Books: San Francisco, 2009; $16.99 Moving. Awe-inspiring. These are words I would use to describe Eve Yohalem’s first novel, Escape Under the Forever Sky. Lucy Hoffman, the daughter of an American ambassador in Ethiopia (a country in east Africa), is kidnapped. She’s taken to a place far from where she and her mother are staying. At first I thought Ethiopia was pronounced “Utopia.” It is anything but that. Ethiopia is a dry desert land where the sky appears huge. Many animals live in Ethiopia, like hyenas, monkeys and lions. Lucy manages to escape the kidnappers, but now she must get back home and she has no idea where she is. Lucy must use her knowledge of African animals to survive in the Ethiopian wilderness. I love animals like Lucy does. I like birds, cats, dogs, fish and many more animals (except for worms and slugs), so I especially enjoyed the parts of the book where animals helped in Lucy’s survival. For example, Lucy follows a monkey, who leads her to water. She follows the water, which turns out to be crucial to her survival. Lucy finds food many different ways. One is finding a banana tree. When night fell and Lucy had to sleep, she would sleep in a tree. I can’t imagine sleeping in a tree. I would be worried about falling out of the tree and about other animals in tree. You have to realize that when Lucy escaped from the kidnappers she had nothing at all. No food or water. No technology. And most importantly, no one to help her find food or water, no one to tell her if a certain thing is poisonous or good to eat. It is as if she is totally cut off from the world. This book is based on a true story. In 2005, a twelve-year-old girl was kidnapped from her Ethiopian village and was held captive for a week before she escaped. A few hours after her escape, the police found her. I would describe Lucy as a fun and loving girl. However, Lucy’s mother doesn’t always have time for her, and Lucy’s father is in Indonesia working for the World Bank. Lucy and I are a lot alike. We both want adventure, not just to be cooped up in the house. I have been lost once, but it was only for a very short time—definitely not as long as Lucy. But from that experience, I know that when you’re lost you have a sense of urgency and a strong will to get back to a familiar person or place. This is an adventure book, but it is funny. Lucy never loses her sense of humor. For example, even when Lucy is being held captive by the kidnappers, she still has the heart to nickname a mosquito Mr. Malaria. This book is probably one of the best books I will ever read! It is beautifully written and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it. I encourage you to read it, too! Libby Davis, 10Anniston, Alabama


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