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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


By

Arachne

Arachne was my sister, but we were as different as night and day. I was tall and lanky, tanned from hours spent on the seashore hunting for the shellfish that Father used in his dye. She was small and pale from hours in front of the loom, doing the weaving that had brought her fame. Ever since she was small, Arachne had been able to take an ordinary piece of cloth and turn it into a blaze of color and beauty that would take your breath away. On her work, figures breathed and flowers blossomed. Her amazing weaving had spread through Greece, and now people came from Crete, Sparta, Macedonia, places we had never heard of, to see the miracle weaver for themselves. On the morning that it happened, the spectators were already thick around our hut. Father was behind it, dying a new batch of yarn. I was looking for my best friend, Cora. We liked to stand behind the crowd and hear their praise and Arachne’s biting remarks. Besides extraordinary weaving skills, my sister also possessed a sharp tongue. Finally, I was about to resort to looking in the pig sty when I heard Cora calling me. “Alethea!” She was standing by the crowd. I joined her with a dirty look. She shrugged and mouthed, I was at the beach, and I mentally kicked myself for not thinking of that. We turned our attention back to the crowd just in time to hear a man joke to his companion, “Now if only my wife could weave like that! I’d be richer than the emperor! How does she do it?” Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come Arachne’s response was quick and sharp. “I certainly did not learn by standing still and gawping like a goat! I used my own two hands, to a much better result than you!” Another woman murmured, “What skill! Surely, dear, you must have been taught by Athena herself !” She made two of the worst mistakes you could make with Arachne. Father once absentmindedly called Arachne dear and she threw a fit and tore one of the tapestries she had woven that day into shreds. Arachne also hated to be compared to anyone. I held my breath and hoped Arachne wouldn’t kill the woman or tear the cloth, because we needed the money. Thankfully, her attack was fully verbal. “How dare you compare me to that goddess! My weaving is far better than hers, but she won’t admit it! I would challenge her to a contest, but of course she wouldn’t come!” In the shocked quiet that followed this outburst, a hunched, ragged old woman near the front suddenly spoke in a quavering yet surprisingly firm voice. “You foolish girl. Nothing good has ever happened to mortals who challenged the gods. Take back what you said at once, and later make an offering to Athena, lest she truly come and unleash her fury on you.” For an inexplicable reason, my blood ran cold when she uttered the final threat, and I glanced at Cora. She was pale under her tan. Gripped by fear, I started to squeeze my way through the crowd, trying desperately to reach Arachne before something happened to her. I also kept an eye on the strange old woman as well as I could. But she was too angry and too proud to notice anything but this old woman that dared to rebuke her. “I will not take back my challenge!” Arachne raged. “What do you, a ragged old beggar, know of me? I am the greatest weaver among both the gods and the mortals, and Athena is welcome to compete against me!” Barely had her words died off when the old woman began to glow. She threw off her ragged cloak and was suddenly dressed in a shining white chiton. She grew taller, and her face was radiant and beautiful, tender yet at the same time stern. I had seen that face before, on statues in temples. Arachne had challenged Athena, and Athena had come. My sister stood silently before her loom, and her face was a thunderstorm of emotion. Anger, astonishment, and was that fear? The crowd was silent with shock, waiting for something more to unfold. Finally, Arachne’s mouth tightened into a thin, determined line, and she motioned Athena towards another loom that was standing in the corner. She removed the cloth she had been working on and, without any further ado, began a new weaving. Athena did too. Someone must have told Father because he came running with two baskets filled with skeins of his yarn, in colors bright as the rainbow and as varied. He silently placed one basket by Arachne and one by Athena, with a bow to her. Then he looked around and came to stand beside me. We watched without a word. Athena wove faster than Arachne. A pattern began to take shape on her loom. I strained to see, and suddenly understood. It was a warning to Arachne. In the center of the pattern, Athena competed with Poseidon for possession of Athens. She stood by her newly created olive tree, and the sea god stood tall by his creation, the horse. The other gods were also there, Zeus in the middle, blazing with glory. It was clear, somehow, that they were all favoring Athena. On the four corners of the cloth, the goddess had woven the terrible fates of mortals who had dared to compete with the gods. It was clear what Arachne’s fate would be if she continued to defy Athena. I turned to see my sister’s weaving, and gasped. Her face was hard and angry, and her pattern was a direct insult to the gods. There was Leda, with Zeus disguised as the swan, and Danae, locked in her tower, visited by Zeus as a golden ray of light. I also recognized Europa and the bull. All the unworthy acts of the gods were displayed on Arachne’s


By

The M31: Borrowed Bus Stories

Will you ever have a relationship as special as that? Every day, you wake up, eat breakfast, and walk down the five flights of steep, stone-cold stairs. As a cheery neighbor greets you, you put on a fake smile and fast walk out the door. You’ve never been a big “people person,” or a dog person, or even a cat person for that matter. Should you be someone? As you step out into the traffic, you realize your morning is already buzzing by and you haven’t even gotten your coffee. 7:57. A small boy and his dad walk up to the bus stop. The boy can barely reach his father’s hand. They sit and talk, play patty-cake. Will you ever have kids? Or even just a relationship as special as that? A warm feeling fills your stomach. The wind blows. You shiver and watch as the small boy and his father hail a cab. 8:06. The strange old woman comes. She’s the one who feeds the pigeons, who searches through trash for cans and bottles. You wonder if she ever had someone. 8:13. You kick a rock. No buses. 8:28 ticks by, the latest time you can get on the bus and be at work by 9:00. Finally. The M31 creeps down the traffic-covered hill and you step up the black-and-yellow stairs. You choose your favorite seat, near the back, sit down, and watch. You can see the whole bus, everything that goes on. A million little stories, and a million different feelings flood the open space. The York Avenue bus. From 63rd to 91st. You spend about 45 minutes a day on average on that bus. The part that makes it all worthwhile are the people. French kids. Doctors and nurses. Crying babies. You see and hear little bits and pieces of people’s days and sometimes, for the slightest moment, you take off your veil of aloneness and intertwine. Giving someone your seat, loaning someone change, or even just exchanging a glance when the cranky old lady yells at a little kid. You need the confusion, the distraction from the loneliness. When you’re on the bus, you’re an observer. A listener. A looker. You’re not there. A fly on the wall. Bits of conversations fly through your thoughts, you take in. With each breath you inhale the moods of others. You get on the bus and get off, leaving behind the stories for the next day. One day, you stepped up the yellow-and-black steps, ready to absorb. As you sat down, a cute little baby and his mother caught your eye. Buttoned up in his shiny white jacket, he was happy, and observing just like you. Suddenly, BUMP, spit-up on the seats. On the floor. On that little white jacket. “It’s all right,” the mother whispered, “it’s OK.” An old man, lifting his silent vow of isolation, offered the baby’s mother a napkin. You watched. Two friends made that would never see each other again. Ever. Bus stops. Baby and mother get off. And the old man’s eyes were glued to that little baby. You looked out the window and saw a mirror image. Smiling, waving, gleaming blue eyes lit up. But off the bus, continuing with the push and pull of daily life, the man and the baby disappear into oblivion. Forgotten. In the world of borrowed bus stories. Charlotte Merrick, 12New York, New York Athena Gerasoulis, 12Edison, New Jersey


By

The Mighty Jump

This was it. I could see it in front of me. The stream was ending. I had to jump. The strong current was blinding. The mischievous drops of water were going against me. I picked up speed. Flapping my tail fin one hundred times a second. Propelling forward faster and faster. I jumped. Elegantly soaring through the air. Slipping right through a grizzly bear’s jaws. I could see the open sky above, and the rushing water crashing below. Then just like that, I gracefully slipped through the quiet and frigid waters. My adventure was over. Ella Rogers, 10Lake Forest Park,Washington


By

A Night of Fire

A gloomy hole sheltered the shivering cardinal during a raging thunderstorm. The hole was an incomplete snake house, burrowed with consummate skill. The cardinal knew he had to get out before the hole filled with rainwater. Ever so carefully, he worked his way up the shallow passage, his gorgeous red feathers now streaked with dirt. He chirped desperately; he was stuck, as water started to fill the shelter. The cardinal used his last shred of energy to try to push his way out, but it was no use. As thunder boomed and lightning cracked, the cardinal knew he was done, knew it was all over. Just a few seconds later, a branch broke off the nearest tree, crashing to the ground beside him! The cardinal opened one eye, but the limb had not widened the hole on impact with the ground. The branch was no help to him. But he was wrong! A child had heard the branch fall as she was running home through the storm with drinking water for her family. The limb blocked her path, and as she bent to move it the stranded cardinal caught her eye. He looked up at her, up to his neck in water, and took in the girl’s appearance. She was tall, with deeply tanned skin and a jet-black braid down her back. Her eyes were a liquid brown, kind, yet reserved. She had on moccasins and a deerskin beaded dress. “I am Jessica,” the girl solemnly spoke. “I will help you.” She gently helped free the bird from the earth and rain. Noticing how filthy he was, she sprinted into a nearby cave, lightning flashing all around her. In the cave, she sacrificed her family’s drinking water to clean him. The brown streaks finally gave way and revealed a brilliant red coat of feathers. As he flew away, he seemed to set fire to the trees Jessica stared at the now sleeping bird, transfixed. Huddled in the cave, she waited out the storm. When the cardinal woke up, it did not move. “I will name you Fire, for the wings on your back and the glimmer in your eye,” Jessica said. Worriedly, she gently lifted Fire. He simply perched on her hand, gazing at her steadily, trustingly. She tossed him in the air. He flew around her head, made a loop-de-loop, and sat back down on her shoulder. She giggled. “Show-off.” Together, the improbable pair sat in the cave, and Jessica fed Fire some jerky, until he was comfortable enough to come over again, grab the meat, and eat it sitting right on her head. Even so, the little night of fun was bittersweet, for Jessica knew she would have to let Fire go when the storm let up. As soon as it was over, she murmured a little goodbye to him and set him loose to go back to his family. Jessica watched the sun make dancing rainbows on the wet cardinal’s wings. As he flew away, he seemed to set fire to the trees. Jordan Dunaway-Barlow, 13Houston, Texas Megan Knizak, 13Georgetown, Massachusetts


By

Navy-Blue Cloth— Words and Pain

I hope he’ll never forget, he is Kathryn’s dog. My dog “He was mostly your dog.” The words flew in flurries around my head. I shall never forget them. “He was mostly your dog. Mostly your dog. Your dog. Dog.” Never-ending words, a round of angels whispered in my head. A comfort I drank like I would drink elixir. I found a blanket in those words. A mission. A dream that could never be reached. To find him. For the few of us who have suffered this particular loss, you know how it is worse than a pet dying. Knowing that somewhere out there, he lives. Hickory was a flurry of a pup. His brown and black spots said splatter paint, and his black hole eyes had an overflowing cup of happiness. “I have a home!” they seemed to shout, “I have a home!” But he was afraid of my dad. Hickory was abused as a young dog and was separated from his only friend, his sister. We figured, over time, he must have thought my dad was the one who abused him. In the car, we were shouting out names. We didn’t want the pup to be called Hickory. “Juice Box!” “Bennett!” “Clifford!” “Henry!” “Wags!” “Greg!” “JUICE BOX!” Then we heard the words on the radio, “Mason-Dixon Road Line.” Bing. Ding. Bingo! Dixon. Dixon. Dixon. The words curved on my tongue, the way a flower does when it wilts. They floated like clouds above our heads, in a navy-blue cloth. Then they shimmered, and whoosh! Out the window they went, to tell the newspaper, the state, the country, the world, the universe about our dog. Dixon. But good things never last. Two years later, October 16th, he is taken away. Whooshed out of my world, like those navy-blue words were, two years before. Gone from my life. But this time, the whoosh had great pain in it. My calender became filled. On every Friday it read “eight Dixon weeks,” and so on. It had a hopeful look. All my possessions did. We all were holding our breath, we all longed for Dixon to come home, like that Lassie dog did. I still do dream he will. I know he is out there. I hope he’ll never forget, he is Kathryn’s dog. My dog. If you happen to come into my house one day, October 16th, you will come across six people wearing everyday clothes and doing everyday things. But if you travel upstairs, you shall see a girl with straw-colored hair, wearing dark-colored clothing, and in her hands a black band with three tinkling things on it. You shall be curious, so you shall come closer. You will see in her white-with-anger-and-sadness hands, a collar. Of a dog, who shall always have a home in her heart. And if by chance you go by New Hampshire one day and see a dog that is white and black, with splatter-paint spots and black hole eyes, you know who he is. Make sure his cup is overflowing with happiness. Rub his ears, and tell him these simple words, “I will always love you.” Kathryn Malnight, 11Wayland, Massachusetts Alondra Paredes, 12Bentonville, Arkansas


By

The Highest Football

It’s funny, sometimes some things that are supposed to make perfect sense are actually totally the opposite from the truth. Like the fact that opposites attract. Mike and I met in the good old days. Second grade. The good old days. It was actually the day I came to my first elementary school, Floral Street School. He is this hulking guy at first glance with all this… sort of classic New York look. His look makes you think big bully, football player, and you know… the things you think when the guy is big. Actually, he is a football player. But his eyes and laugh speak the best thing you could hope for when you go to a new school. A friend. Friends are like sisters or brothers. You fight once in a while… or you might fight all the time. People used to see us next to each other with him a head taller than me, and they thought that it was such a weird thing. He always called me Jay for short, but after second and third grade he started calling me by my real name, Jaylen, and I appreciated that. It proved that he actually would take the time to pronounce my name. But some other kids in my class called me after a comedian, Jay Leno, which is a coincidence. I guess I didn’t mind. We always split in recess. So he could play football with the other, I guess you could say, “big” and “popular” kids. While I went with the other kids in my class. But there was one time, I remember, that changed that. “We get Jaylen!” he exclaimed to the rest of the guys I was treading on the blacktop, bored, watching the sun start to peep out of its unreachable fort, wishing I could do something. As the wind slapped my face and pinched my ears, and I rubbed my hands together in a useless attempt at warmth, I glanced at the football field with a fleeting look. Walking over there I could see that they were picking team members. So I sat at the edge of the football field and watched. I saw Michael make a touchdown and I looked to him and smiled and he smiled back. He could have just celebrated or he could have done the thing that saved me from a hundred boring recesses. “Hey Jaylen,” he greeted, and I nodded. “Come on.” He outstretched his calloused hand to my soft piano-playing hand and he hauled me up like a pencil that he had just dropped. “We get Jaylen!” he exclaimed to the rest of the guys and they nodded awkwardly and my face reddened. I am going to die of embarrassment, I thought, looking up into the sky, hoping some spirit would save me from getting trampled and becoming a part of the ground. Mike hollered, “Hike!” While I fled outward, dodging the oncoming army of football players, I made eye connection with Mike and, without warning, he fired. Of course it was coming at me. I ran toward the flying pigskin, scrambling toward the right position. The ball looked like a bird that has just had its wings clipped. Suddenly a bumpy ball was in my arms and I carried it as I saw the professionals do. And I bulleted as fast as I could. I saw one of the kids bolting behind me and he planted his two hands on me. But a little too hard, which was expected because I was like a half of their weight. Plummeting face first, I outstretched my arms in a desperate attempt to weaken the oncoming agony. Instantly I could make out the oohs and ouchies from the crowd of kids enclosed around me. I sprawled on the ground as my leg erupted in flames. I could feel the tears burning through my eyes like the lava oozes out of a volcano. I rolled over on the ground and looked up at somebody branching out their hand to me. I clasped onto it as he boosted me onto my own two feet, toweling off the tears that were spurting from my eyes with my sleeve. I looked at the people hovering around me and no longer was there an awkward “he does not belong here” look. But replaced was a considerate look. “Jaylen! You OK?” Mike asked in worry. “Ye-eah I’m a-a-all right,” I stuttered, dusting the the sand off of my skin. “Do you want to sit out?” he questioned. I widened my eyes in a look that said “are you kidding me!” As I brushed past him out to the field, playing the game of football, I could feel his smile burning my shirt, and I could feel mine forming from my mouth. Every day there forth I never did sit on the curb watching everybody have fun again. Instead, I was the one who was enjoying myself. That goes to show you that if you have a friend you will never stay on the ground defeated. Friendship is a game of football, you get knocked down lots of times but there is always somebody to pick you up… up to keep playing. But now I’m in a new school, one where I know I will have just as many memories. But to tell the truth, Mike will always be the highest football that will soar, everlasting in my mind. Jaylen Wang, 10Wayland, Massachusetts Christine Stevens, 12Newark, California


By

I Cry

I feel tears welling up in my eyes I try to suppress them I don’t want to cry At least not here In front of people But I do I do cry I cry and I cry And I try to push it back But I’ve waited too long I think about it About the mess About my parents My childhood My home My safety And I cry even more The mess is big It overwhelms me It makes me shiver It makes me cry My mother didn’t love my father anymore I can’t take that knowledge I can’t believe it After twenty-three years Of loving You just stop I don’t understand her Confusion makes me cry I love my mother I love my father I don’t see Why they can’t love each other The unknown makes me cry I have to move Even though we just moved I have to pack my clothes My toys So I can leave my father All alone Change makes me cry I cry I cry because I am Sad and Confused and Annoyed I cry because of my Parents’ divorce I cry Isabella Ainsworth, 11Davis, California


By

Reject

Sometimes I sat on my bed, seething, and thinking, Why me? Reject. That’s what I was. My parents claimed that eight children in the house was too much for them to handle, and that they couldn’t support them all, so they sent me away to live with my grandparents. That wouldn’t have been as much of a problem, except that Granny and Gramps lived in Maine, thousands of miles away from my original home in Salem, Oregon. I only ever got to see my family at holidays, birthdays, and one month in the summer. And that wasn’t all that bothered me. It’s just, being sent away by your own parents, rejected from your own home, isn’t very comforting. In fact, it made me downright mad, and sad, and homesick. Even though I’ve been living at my grandparents’ house since I was four (I’m eleven now, almost twelve), and I don’t remember much of my other house, it still hurt to think that I was the one picked to be shipped off. I felt like an outcast. Sometimes I sat on my bed, seething, and thinking, Why me? Why couldn’t it have been one of my brothers, Carl the troublemaker maybe? Why did I have to be the one with the unfortunate fate? Whenever I asked my mother this, she just tersely told me, “Because you’re mature enough to deal with it,” and then changed the subject. But I was only four at the time. How could they have known I would be “mature”? Maybe they just chose me because, being the youngest in my family, I was too young to understand and wouldn’t put up a big fuss. I probably just thought I was going to see Granny and Gramps for a visit, and that in a week or two, my parents would come to pick me up and take me home again. Unfortunately, they never did. So now I was living in a little cottage by the sea and had a tiny bedroom in the attic with a little round porthole window, which I could look out of and see the ocean with its rolling lace-trimmed waves, spraying salty sea foam up into the misty air. And the gulls waddling across the beach and soaring in the ever-cloudy sky, squawking in gull language to each other about some fish they had found. I often sat and stared out that window, across the ocean, wishing I were back home with the rest of my family, and feeling lonely. And that’s what I was doing just then, looking glumly out of the porthole and feeling sorry for myself. I turned away from the window and glanced around my room. The ceiling took the shape of the roof, pointed at the top and slanting steeply down, so that I had to bend down or bump my head on one of the thick beams running down from the tip to the floor. This was also a hazard I had to remember when waking up in the morning. Even though my bed was pushed out slightly, I could still sit up in the morning and hurt myself. On the same wall as the porthole, I had an old mahogany desk that Gramps had given me when I first came here, along with a stack of stationery and writing utensils, though I couldn’t even read yet, much less write anything but a crude and barely recognizable version of my name. Now I used the desk all the time, journaling, drawing, and writing stories. That’s another thing: I loved to write. It was a way for me to escape my troubles and write about someone else’s, or create a world all of my own, one where no one was sent away by their family or forced to live feeling regret and longing all their life. It helped me express the way I felt about the world. When I was feeling angry, resentful, sad or confused, I would sit down and write, and it helped somehow. It was like giving away all of my unwanted emotions, like lifting a load of bricks off my shoulders. I emerged from my daydream when I heard my grandmother calling my name. She was yelling something about a phone. Oh, that’s right, it was time for the daily phone call to my home in Oregon. OK, so it wasn’t always daily, more like every other day, but daily phone call sounded better than every-other-daily phone call. I sighed and started down the rickety old staircase. I reached the bottom and briskly walked through the living room and into the kitchen, where Granny was frying scallops on the stove. My grandmother is younger than most grandmothers, only in her mid-sixties. She always said that was lucky because if she had been any older, she might not have agreed to take me in. I didn’t totally think it was so great because if she and Gramps hadn’t been able to house me, I might have stayed at my own home. But then again, my parents probably would’ve found some cousin to take me. Granny is only a few inches taller than me and has gray hair tied back into a loose bun. She has soft features and a very kind smile. Her skin is pale and slightly flabby in some places, but tough like an elephant’s. She is not hunched over at all and always likes to have her fingers moving, so I usually find her knitting, sewing, finger knitting, typing on her laptop, or just drumming her fingers on the kitchen counter. I said hello to her and she smiled at me and said, “Hello, Cincinnati.” I unhooked the phone from its place on the wall and stared somberly at the keypad. I always felt excited when I called, but a bit dejected too. I stared some more, as if willing the phone to disappear in my hands, but I knew it had to be done. I slowly punched the numbers


By

The Chesapeake Bay Manatee

She watched the water froth and spin, dancing between her toes Adriane slowly opened her bedroom door, glancing down the hallway to make sure no one was awake. Once she was positive, she slipped through the small opening and closed the door. She hurried down the stairs and past the kitchen, wincing at her heavy footsteps, hoping no one would hear. As she reached the back door she slowed, looking for the key her mom kept on the counter. Once she spotted it, she picked it up and felt the sharp edge of the single key jab into her palm. Adriane turned toward the door and yanked it open, then walked into the night. A sharp wind caught her off guard and snaked over her skin. She shivered, tucking her arms across her chest, wishing she had worn something other than the old green shorts and a threadbare T-shirt. The worry faded, though, as soon as she looked up. Stars littered the sky like glitter on black tile, illuminating the moonless night. The glowing orb’s absence only added to the otherworldly experience the sky was performing for Adriane. Looking closely, she could see the small patches of sky covered by gray clouds, swirling like the Milky Way. Glancing back down, Adriane remembered what she had come out here to do and began making her way across the yard. Once she was walking on the road, she quickened, smiling with anticipation. She was risking a lot; if someone was to see Adriane they would tell her parents, or at the least, order her to leave and go home. Finally, she reached it. She walked out onto the boardwalk, listening to the patter of her feet on the old wood and the slap of waves on the metal below. The shore fell away as she made her way out to the front, sliding her hands off her chest. The ocean below bubbled, inviting her in. She smiled, bending down to sit on the edge of the boardwalk. Sharp pricks of cold stabbed at her feet as she slid them into the waves. Kicking slightly, she watched the water froth and spin, dancing between her toes. The cold began to fade as her skin adjusted to the temperature, allowing her to slide more of her legs in, until the water was hitting her calves. Leaning back on her elbows and then her back, she stared up at the sky once again, the boardwalk swaying beneath her. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander, the night scenery seeping into her skin, disguising her beneath the stars. She almost forgot where she was until an unpleasant nudge hit her foot. Adriane’s eyes snapped open, glancing around. She was still on the boardwalk, but it seemed as if quite some time had passed by. There was a bright blue tint to the once black sky, and the stars had faded quite a bit. Just as she was about to stand, something nudged her foot again. Gasping, she pulled her legs out of the water, blinking to shield her eyes from the spray of water that was brought with them. Holding her legs against her chest, she peeked over the edge of the boardwalk. Gray and leathery, a manatee sat just below the surface. Adriane had never seen a real manatee before. Chesapeake Bay wasn’t an uncommon place for them, though. Leaning in closer, she tried to get a better look. The manatee was small for its kind, with heavily creased skin like an elephant. It had two flat plate-like flippers on either side of its gigantic body and one large flat flipper at its back. Its eyes were tiny and beady, staring past Adriane. “Hey there,” she offered, trying to calm the creature. The manatee gazed up at her in response, gently pumping its fins. Adriane raised her head, looking for a fisherman or someone who worked at the docks, but she saw no one. Wondering if she should report the elephant-like creature, she turned back to the water. The manatee was still gazing at her intently, tilting its head as if in pain. “What is it?” Adriane asked, placing both her hands on the edge of the boardwalk. She watched the manatee as it slowly tilted its head again, pleading with its eyes. “What’s wrong?” Adriane’s voice faltered as she stared down at the enormous creature. Calmly, she put her hand in the water, just touching the surface. Almost instantly, the manatee nudged it, sliding its nose up against her palm. That’s when she noticed it. A huge net lay stretched across the manatee’s back. It was tangled up, strangled. Adriane looked back at its face, understanding the pain held in its eyes. It was suffering, and with this net around it, the manatee wouldn’t last long. It was suffering, and with this net around it, the manatee wouldn’t last long “Hold on, little guy, I’ll be right back,” Adriane spoke, hoping the manatee didn’t hear the fear and sadness that came with it. The pounding of her tired, heavy heart matched that of her feet as she ran back up the beach, kicking up sand. Looking at the sky above her, she watched as blues and purples stained the sky like splashes of paint across a canvas; the sun was rising. Switching her eyes forward again, she urged her feet to move faster, hoping to reach her house before it was too late. Adriane turned onto her yard and made her way to the door, practically smashing into the red-paint-coated panels on either side of it. She jammed the single key into the lock, then hurried up the stairs, yelling, “Mom! Dad! Hurry!” She slipped twice on the stairs in her haste, groaning and getting back up each time. When she had finally made it to the hallway, her parents were already there, looking surprised, scared, and tired all at the same time. “Manatee…” she bent down, putting her hands on


By

What Is Laughter?

Water Laughter is like a cool glass of water. Refreshing, enjoyable. A cool trickle going down your throat. When you laugh, you forget the pile of homework, waiting at school for you. You forget about the fact that your mom is in the hospital, and you’re not sure if she’s ever going to come out again. You forget about grades and projects and friends. Your mind goes blank like a blackboard… and you laugh. You laugh to forget, you laugh to enjoy, you laugh to feel free. And as the sweating glass of water empties, you are forced back into the real world… The world where you belong. Zoë Cassinelli, 12San Rafael, California


By

Logs

The morning the oak tree was cut down was dismal and wet The morning the oak tree was cut down was dismal and wet, clouds drooping under the defeated sky. My breath fogged up the school bus window as I strained my eyes for one last look at the tree’s branches; one last look at the way they stretched towards the weak sunlight. I did not feel particularly sad, as I had expected, but then, what was going to happen had not yet fully registered. It was as though I was going to snap my head up in the middle of next day’s math class and say “What!” about twenty-six hours too late. The town council, as they so bravely called themselves, had come to us months before, demanding that we cut down the “safety hazard” in our front yard. My father, never one to respect authority—especially if they were asking him to destroy something he loved, had laughed in their faces and slammed the door. Thinking that they would give up, we had promptly forgotten about the encounter until presented with their lawyer, who listed the laws we were violating until our eyebrows touched our hair. Knowing they had won, the group of committee members had smugly walked down our walkway, smart skirts and pressed pants rippling in the breeze. I had felt a strong urge to yell something at them, but my father’s footsteps drew my attention. He was walking away, toward the kitchen! To my utter disbelief he had picked up the phone and dialed the local tree service company, arranging an appointment for the “soonest time possible.” My father, who loved that old oak as much as I did, had given up. His great grandmother, when her father had built the house, had planted it. His father had taught him to climb in its dependable arms, and he had taught his daughter, me. But he had given up. And then, so had I. And here I was, being pulled away by a cheerful, yellow bus amid drizzling rain and gray skies, wondering if I would hear the crack! of splitting wood all the way in my science room. Then the realization I had been expecting came, and I knew that I wasn’t going to sit around while my favorite part of the neighborhood was destroyed by paranoid monkeys in dress clothes. I was going to try my best, come what may. “Excuse me?” I asked the bus driver, trying not to look at the rolls of fat that cascaded from her stomach, resting on her legs. “Yeah?” “I was—um—wondering if you would let me out. I forgot something at home. I can have my mother drive me to school after I get it, she’s off work today.” This was a lie, but how was she to know? “Sure, hon, get on out. Don’t be late for school!” With a faint hiss like angry snakes hidden inside the dashboard, the doors opened, and I ran down the rain-darkened steps and onto the road. Even though my house was only a few blocks away, I knew I had to sprint to make it there in time. They were coming to cut the oak down at eight-thirty, in less than five minutes. Panting, I reached the back gate of my yard and yanked it open. Hidden by leaves, I put my foot in the familiar knothole and hoisted myself up into the tree’s branches. They stood, immobile and confident under my feet, while their delicate leaves filtered sunlight like stained glass. I climbed from branch to branch, farther than I had ever dared to climb before, so far up that when I peeked down, the whole town seemed unfolded below me like a giant Monopoly board. Suddenly I felt a little scared, as if I might be doing the wrong thing. But I couldn’t turn back now, could I? The rain had started to come down harder by the time the green truck pulled up into our driveway. Scrawled across the side in mud-brown print was Fitch & Thompson’s Tree Service: Providing Help for Trees for Minimum Fees since 2007. I didn’t really see what there was to brag about, but then I wasn’t in the tree service industry. Three men wearing atrocious orange shirts bearing Fitch & Thompson across the back walked the length of the yard and up onto our front step. Before they could knock on the door it opened, and my father and three committee members walked out. When had they gotten here? One of the men walked over to the base of the oak and started to take notes, while the other two pulled the truck out of the driveway and parked it parallel to the edge of the yard, where their soon-to-be victim gallantly stood. They began to prepare their chainsaws, and I knew it was time to announce my presence. However, I didn’t get the chance. “What are you doing up there?” The man who had been taking notes had evidently looked up, and everyone else followed suit. “I’m passively resisting,” I stated bluntly. “You can’t cut her down now. That would be murder.” I said the last bit triumphantly, directing my words at the people who had condemned my friend to die. They sputtered a bit, and the tree man’s jaw fell open, but my attention was now focused on my father. He had a sad, slightly disappointed look on his face, as if he had expected better of me. “Caroline. Come down, now. This is going to do nothing but disrupt things. You can’t stay here forever, and then they’ll just come back tomorrow.” I hadn’t thought about that in my race to figure out what to do, and suddenly the plan seemed much less ingenious. But I would stand my ground. “No. I’m staying up here.” The rain was pouring by now, sticking my hair to my neck and soaking through my clothes. My teeth chattered of their


By

Noire

A crow or raven against the black night. A cry from a lone child. A smooth dark rock thrown at you. A dot, sweet, warm, and black on your tongue. A musty smell, revolting at first, sweet afterwards, though too quick to catch. Scented like a black horse. At first sight, A child tattered, crying, and though silent makes the loudest sound. It is a whinny heard in the distance. It’s something or someone you love Who Dies. That’s Negro. Jonah O’Hara David, 10Norman, Oklahoma