Everyone said it was haunted, but we never listened We always loved going to that old house on the hill. Everyone said it was haunted, but we never listened. Michael, Emma, and me, Summer. Why did we always go there? I guess we were interested. We didn’t believe in ghosts. Not then. Now we know better. But even more than that, we were attracted to the house. That old wreck of a building, with shutters hanging loose and boards half ripped off. But it was majestic, too. Big, with a tower on each side. It must have been beautiful, once upon a time. Emma loved leafing through the old, blurred, black-and-white photographs. She especially loved one of a girl about our age, whose face, despite being blurred, Emma insisted was very like her own. Michael liked fiddling around with the old toys. There must have been children living in that house when it was abandoned. Why was it abandoned? No one knew. And we certainly never stopped to wonder. We didn’t want anyone coming to claim our special hideout. But anyway, there were lots of toys scattered around, old teddy bears and crayons, even an Erector Set, a metal, motor-powered set that almost anything could be built out of. Kind of like Tinker Toys, you know? For older kids, though. Michael really liked fiddling around with that thing. Why? I don’t know. Maybe he felt drawn to it the way Emma felt drawn to that old photograph. The way I felt drawn to the old clothes. * * * I just loved leafing through the old dresses, trousers, and shirts. Somehow, some of them fit me, and there was nothing I liked better than modeling my favorite frilly creations. I fantasized that I lived in the twentieth century, around the time people would’ve lived in this house. Sometimes I felt as though I was born into the wrong century. I had this absurd fascination with the early twentieth century. Maybe it came from the old house. It would’ve been built around that time. I don’t know. We loved that old house. Whenever we could, we’d go up the hill and hang out there, exploring the three floors and the attic, or just sit on the porch steps and talk. Today was one such day. “I’ll race you up the hill!” I called to Emma and Michael. I was already running and reached the porch steps first, followed by a breathless Emma and a panting Michael. “No fair!” Emma pouted. “You had a head start.” “Don’t be so whiny, Emma, let’s just go inside,” said easygoing Michael. We barged through the door. As usual, I went immediately to the old dresses, Emma to the photographs, and Michael to the toys. But after a while of trying on the old dresses, I realized I felt bored. “Hey, guys,” I said, “let’s do something else for once. Let’s go down to the basement. We never explored down there before.” Emma jerked her head up, eyes wide. “But that’s the part they say is haunted!” Although we had thoroughly explored every inch of the three floors and the attic, we had never set foot in the basement. “Don’t be such a scaredy-cat,” I said encouragingly. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you? The parents probably started those rumors to keep kids from coming up here.” Michael’s eyes were troubled. I knew that if he said no, Emma would agree, so I started working on him, getting him to crack. “Come on, Michael,” I encouraged. “Are you scared? There’s nothing to be afraid of. We should really go down there. I mean, why not? Please, Michael. Pretty please?” Michael looked away for a moment. I silently prayed that he would say yes. I really wanted to see what was down there, but if thirteen-year-old Michael said no, eleven-year-old Emma would go along with him, and, although I hardly dared admit it, even to myself, I was too chicken to go down by myself. “OK,” Michael finally agreed. I let out a mental whoop. Out loud, I thanked him seriously and, grabbing my flashlight, led the way downstairs. Cobwebs draped the mantelpiece of a fireplace and hung from the corners. I swung my flashlight around, peering everywhere. I accidentally kicked up some dust, and we all sneezed and choked on it. I could see why we hadn’t gone down there before. Behind me, Emma shivered and said, “Oooh, Summer, this is spooky. Let’s go back upstairs.” I’ll admit it, I did consider that. But twelve years old was too old to believe in ghosts, so I just said, “Let’s stay a little longer. I want to see what’s down here.” Although I was afraid, I looked into each corner, only to meet disappointment. The cobwebs I had seen before seemed to be the only ornament that graced the basement with their presence. But then I strode to the fireplace, the others close behind. There was no fire in the fireplace, and, by the looks of things, there hadn’t been one since the house was abandoned. I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. There. That proved it. The place wasn’t haunted. Ghosts would’ve built a fire, right? Or wouldn’t they? Did ghosts get cold, anyway? I swung my flashlight to the mantelpiece. The basement wasn’t devoid of any possessions after all. Three framed photographs adorned the mantelpiece. I took them down and blew the thick layer of dust and cobwebs off before handing one each to Emma and Michael. “Let’s take these upstairs into the light,” I said. The other two were only too happy to obey and raced up the stairs as if they were being chased. I followed more slowly, looking back and swinging my flashlight to make sure no unearthly presence was following us up the stairs. For after I found the photographs, the peaceful old house seemed almost… well, menacing. We all crowded around the old couch in the living room to
Camp Conflict
To my amazement, Chris just set up the pieces and started playing! My name is Jake. I have brown hair and green eyes, and I’m eleven years old, but most importantly, I’ve always wanted to go to summer camp. Every year I beg my parents to let me go, but they always insist that it’s too expensive. It was the end of the year and I was about to confront my parents about summer camp, when they walked into my room with huge smiles glued to their faces. “This year we’re sending you and your brother off to summer camp!” my mom exclaimed. “Hoora…” I started. “Wait, did you say me and my brother?” I inquired. I looked over at my brother, Chris. He had pale skin, sad brown eyes, and was nine years old. He had given up on the puzzle he was doing because he wasn’t able to assemble the pieces in neat rows. We both looked at my dad anxiously. “Yes, his therapist said it could help him deal with his autism,” my dad replied. Around other people my brother does all kinds of weird things. Going to the same summer camp as him would be a nightmare. “I won’t go!” I insisted. “We’ll see,” said my dad. Six days later I found myself on the bus to Sherman Hill Camp, headed straight for my doom. As soon as we got there, we were given our cabin assignments. “Due to the fact that your brother, Chris, has autism, you will both be sleeping in Cabin D, even though he’s younger than you,” one of the counselors told me. I sighed and trudged off to my cabin. Despite my doubts, I had a great time at camp, but for my brother it was a different story. The first day he spilled some of the water he was drinking and shrieked so loudly that, even though I was sitting on the other side of the dining hall, my ears rang for two minutes afterward. The second day I glimpsed him sobbing because the nature hike began ten minutes late. My brother didn’t utter a single word for the first two days, much less talk to anyone, and even if he did, I could tell no one would have listened. These things were all worrisome, but they were nothing compared to what happened when a boy in my bunk started bullying him. The bullying started when a burly kid named Ned realized how important it was to my brother that his bedspread was flat. Ned was twice Chris’s size and had messy red hair. Every morning Chris would spend half an hour straightening his covers, and if anyone even touched his bed, he would get upset. One night when I got back from the evening activity I heard Chris scream. When I looked over to see what was wrong, I saw that not only were Chris’s sheets completely disheveled, but it looked like someone had poured mud all over his bed. When I scanned the room to figure out who was the culprit, I noticed that Ned’s smile was a mile wide. All week Ned messed up Chris’s bed. The next week he asked him trivia questions and teased him when he got the answers wrong. I called Ned names and insisted I’d tell one of the counselors if he kept bullying my brother, but Ned refused to reconcile with Chris. I could hardly wait for camp to be over. Chris had always been good at board games, so naturally he decided to participate in the chess tournament. I watched in awe as Chris beat player after player, until he finally made it to the final round. “Chris Marlow will play Ned Baker tomorrow,” said one of the counselors, and we all went back to our cabins. The next morning at the tournament, Ned and Chris sat next to each other on the stage. Chris opened the chess board box, and water spilled all over him. Ned grinned with a sinister look on his face. I braced myself for the screams, but to my amazement, Chris just set up the pieces and started playing! Two hours later, Chris checkmated Ned’s king and won the game. “I hate you all!” shouted Ned, then kicked my brother as hard as he could and stomped off the stage. “Get back here!” the camp director yelled, and by the tone of his voice, I could tell that Ned wouldn’t be coming back to Sherman Hill Summer Camp. I looked over at Chris, expecting him to be paralyzed with shock. My brother was chatting with one of the kids from the semifinals. A smile lit up my face, and there was only one thought in my head: “This is going to be the best summer ever!” David Agosto-Ginsburg, 11Cherry Hill, New Jersey Madeleine Gates, 13La Jolla, California
My Life with the Lincolns
My Life with the Lincolns, by Gayle Brandeis; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2010; $16.99 Wilhelmina Edelman has three goals for the summer: to get through age twelve without dying, to keep her mom from becoming insane and going to a “nuthouse,” and to stop her dad from getting shot. As you might know, normal twelve-year-olds don’t usually have these types of summer goals. But Mina isn’t a normal twelve-year-old. She is Willie Lincoln reincarnated. Actually, her whole family used to be the Lincolns. Her dad’s initials are ABE, and Mina and her sisters have girl versions of the names of the Lincoln boys. But being in a reincarnated family has its drawbacks. Mina has to keep her family from coming to the same sticky end as the Lincolns. The book is set in 1966, and the Civil Rights Movement is well under way. Mina, being a girl from a white family, offers an interesting perspective on all the conflict going on. Mina’s father is a strong supporter of black rights and takes her on protest marches in secret. Once, they even went to an overnight vigil. At the vigil, the protesters kneeled on the ground until very late, even though people were crowded around them, taunting them and yelling offensive things. But the protesters persevered. This shows just how determined they were to get the rights they deserved, rights that should have been theirs at birth. Another event that was occurring during that time was the Vietnam War. Mina and her sister sometimes played Vietnam with the boys next door, screaming gibberish and throwing fake grenades in imitation of their idea of the Vietnamese people. Also, her neighbor’s father is sent to Vietnam but comes back after losing one of his arms. I felt so bad for him, and I could only imagine the pain and hardship the man was going through. A section of the book that really caught my attention was when Mina’s older sister, Roberta, falls in love with a young black man named Thomas. When they run away together and are found again, Mina’s mother is absolutely livid. She calls Thomas a predator and a menace and accuses him of having terrible intentions. I think she was being very prejudiced and racist because Thomas was a fine young man, and she surely would have not have been as enraged if he had been white. When Mina’s father fires their black cleaning woman (he says he is “emancipating” her), Mina’s mom becomes vastly angry with him, like a spewing cauldron. When she finds out her husband has been lying to her and taking Mina to dangerous protest marches, the cauldron begins foaming and seething. Then, when Roberta runs away with Thomas, the cauldron churns and froths, and all the contents gush out. This shows Mina’s parents’ deteriorating relationship, and eventually it gets so bad that Mina’s dad moves out. This book was truly excellent. It provided a different approach to the Civil Rights Movement and still described in detail all the events that were occurring. It also showed a child’s point of view to everything going on. People, some even from Mina’s own neighborhood, come to the protest marches just to throw rocks, bricks, and even Molotov cocktails at the protesters and to shout in their faces about White Power and other awful things. But back to the ongoing Lincoln problem. Will Mina die an early death like Willie Lincoln? Or will she be able to keep history from repeating itself? Ana Sofía Uzsoy, 12Cary, North Carolina
My Dog
I look at him My dog Head on tiny white paws, Breathing heavily. He looks back at me His eyes sad As if to say, “Come to me,” So I do. Then I Stroke his head quietly And he closes his eyes, His breathing deep Raspy And tired. He is small, sick, and old But right now he is with me. So I give him a kiss And let him snore. Abby Shaffer, 12Riverside, California
My Chicken
With curious eyes The inquisitive bird Struts slowly towards its new discovery. What could it be, That strange creature, with fur; and nose placed so queerly? It just jumped down from my lap, And is now rounding the coop. Its tail twists all around, Like a long, coily snake. But it’s fuzzy, not smooth, And has long hairs on its face. The fowl now stretches its feathered neck, Blinking as she cautiously reaches. And quick as a wink, My young chicken’s beak Is through the wire— And pecks the cat’s left ear. Abigail D’Agosta, 12Waxahachie, Texas
Remembering
INTRODUCTION The important people in my story are my grandparents. They have greatly impacted my life. My grandfather and I were very close and he taught me many things. He loved writing, music, and trains, the same as I do. He died November 8, 2011, on my brother’s birthday. One of the last times I spent with him was when we went to a train station. That place is very important to me. I found, after he died, a story that was one of his many pieces of writing. It was a story about a soldier leaving out of that train station. I believe my grandfather took the train to heaven. * * * TRAIN STATION Wind rushed out as I walked into the station. It was relieving. I looked around to gather my surroundings. There was an endless supply overhead of stained-glass windows. The vibrant colors changed the mood of the place depending on the changes in the sky. The floor was marble, untouched, unharmed. People were rushing from place to place. Even when people were waiting and sitting, their thoughts took up their eyes. Everyone seemed to be blind to the marvelous surroundings, blind to the fact that they were at Union Station. People made mindless chatter. Most of their questions were rhetorical too. They were always just trying to be polite. My grandma and papa told me many things There was a smoke-filled room just left of the entrance. It was locked and vacant. But I pictured how it probably used to be with men in their suits walking out with a trail of smoke to follow them. I looked back at my grandmother and grandfather. I let out a smile. My grandma and papa told me many things. Papa pointed to the chairs and told me, “At least one famous person has sat in all of those chairs, and many people had their weddings here.” I turned to the right and saw a big woven wall, more like a separator. I peered through the cracks to see many people with dresses and suits on. There was a camera crew. It was a celebration. Papa told me a lot of times they will rent a part of the station for movies and commercials. I kept walking till I was on the other side. The back led to a garden. There were lilies, bottlebrush, honeysuckle, and many other flowers. The colors made me incapable of frowning. I saw a fountain with clear water bursting at the top of the highest tier. It sent refreshing droplets up in the air. I closed my eyes and thought about how I will remember this forever. * * * OLVERA STREET Olvera Street is a famous Mexican street in California across from the train station. I got to see it with my grandparents that same day that I visited the station. Smells filled the air, so I was soon breathing in tortillas and beans. Singers were singing on the street with their Spanish guitars. Many signs hung overhead. To my left, flamenco dancers, with bright colored dresses, tapped their feet on stage. The men swung the women high up in the air while the women held the corners of their dresses. After a while of watching, we decided to eat. We saw a big restaurant that had a Spanish name. When we sat down, we had an immediate conversation. Grandpa told me that my great-great-grandfather worked on a railroad track in China. Later, he moved to Mexico where he owned a restaurant. He got married there. I loved hearing about my heritage. That time I spent at Olvera Street and Union Station, I will remember forever. * * * GRANDFATHER’S DEATH I am sitting in my living room. All my senses are amplified. The air conditioning turns on. I can see the dust on the back of my piano. The stillness, quietness of the room, and of myself, make me realize and notice things that I usually don’t. I begin thinking about how great it’s going to be when I see my grandfather again. I have learned a song for him. But now, I only hear one sound, silence… sometimes the prettiest sound. It is like that right now as I write this. Whenever I sang with the radio, Grandpa always used to say, “Your mama taught you to harmonize.” I’m thinking about those memories that will never be lost. Scott, my stepdad, walks in and carefully sits down next to me, trying not to disturb me in my thoughts. He hands me a phone and my mom is on the line. Her voice is shaky. She talks, but it is hard to pay attention, until she says, “He isn’t going to make it.” All I can think about is the horror of losing him. I had thought about it a lot, but never thought it would be so soon. He is leaving when I need him the most. All I can say to her is, “When can I see him?” She replies, “I don’t want you to remember him this way.” I just want to see my grandpa. Anger takes over for my sadness. But then she tells me that I can go to California where he is. For the next week I act fine. The drive feels longer than usual. When I get to my grandma’s, as usual she has food waiting for us. When I see my mom, it seems that stress takes over for her grief. She hugs me. I had missed her. Sometimes when she puts me to bed, I tell her, “Don’t leave.” She hugs me and says, “I’m not going anywhere.” The next day, I go to the hospital early. The place is huge, not welcoming, and it smells like rubber gloves. For two days, I can’t see him. The third day, they take every tube off of him and he is ready to pass on. So, I go into the room and my
Otherworld Chronicles: The Invisible Tower
Otherworld Chronicles: The Invisible Tower, by Nils Johnson-Shelton; HarperCollins: New York, 2012; $16.99 Nils Johnson-Shelton’s The Invisible Tower brings the legend of King Arthur and his sorcerer, Merlin, into the modern world through fantasy adventure. This book has all the connections necessary to keep the interest of its readers: video games, dragon slaying, acts of valor, a great relationship between a brother and sister, and mystical creatures. The main characters, Arty and his sister, Kay, embark on adventures in a video-game world called the Otherworld. The Xbox games Arty and Kay play make an easy connection for those readers who are gamers themselves. If Otherworld were a real video game, I’d love to try its full 3D version, and I’m sure it would be a top seller as it’s packed with adventure. It might even top my favorites, Ghost Recon and Call of Duty. In the adventures, Arty learns his fate is intertwined with that of Merlin, King Arthur, and the Otherworld. When faced with the challenge to free Merlin and the Otherworld, Arty and Kay hesitate, only to be warned by Merlin that their denial will result in Merlin remaining imprisoned, Earth and the Otherworld would be destroyed, and both Arty and Kay never knowing their true destiny. Arty and Kay are scared because of the intensity of the challenge but bravely accept it. In that situation, I would be scared also but I would like to think that I would willingly accept the call. Arty and Kay have the kind of relationship every brother and sister should have. They are always willing to help each other out in any situation and share an uncanny connection. For example, Kay tries to sneak up on Arty and Arty always knows she is there before she can scare him. I have a similar but different connection with my sister. I love to scare her. The difference is that she never knows I’m there! My sister and I do have that bond though. Even though we have our differences, we’d do anything for one another. Arty and Kay’s bond reminded me of that of the Knights of the Round Table. Their bond is necessary for their success as they come up against the numerous monsters of the Otherworld. The author’s use of unique characters helps keep the reader’s interest. Unusual creatures, such as mini-dragons, as well as a girl who appears young but is actually very old, appear in Arty’s quests throughout the Otherworld. Some of the characters assist Arty in his adventures. Mr. Thumb, a thumb-sized man who is one of Merlin’s good friends and servants, is a constant companion for Arty on his adventures, serving as a guide to the Otherworld. A large green dragon with red ruby teeth, curled golden horns, and black eyes with rainbow-colored pupils shaped like a cat’s plays the role of Arty’s greatest combatant, awakening in him abilities he didn’t realize he had. This book is comparable to Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson series in that it uses mythological monsters who fight for good and evil. However, in my opinion, the Percy Jackson series was more interesting because the action and mysteries were more intense and detailed, making it harder to set down. That said, I would still recommend The Invisible Tower as it was easy to read and an interesting story. It also creates a desire to learn more about King Arthur for those readers who might not be familiar with the legend. Nick Ehrhardt, 12Winchester, Virginia
Katie’s League
“This is no place for a girl,” he said. “Go home and play with your dollies” I stood in my backyard, wearing the clothes that I hid from my mama. A T-shirt and jeans, with a baseball cap atop my head. Boy, would Mama scream if she saw me wearing this. But I hate itchy blouses, skirts that are impossible to run in, and dresses that are like both of those combined. I threw my baseball up and caught it in my mitt—both of which I didn’t bother to hide from Mama because she would find out I had them, anyway. My late daddy gave me my baseball. I miss him. He knew about my jeans and T-shirt, but he didn’t tell Mama. He kept all my secrets. I looked at the writing on the baseball, so lovingly and carefully written on. It read: For my Katie. Love you forever. Daddy, 1940 Those few words made this my most prized possession. I was winding up to throw the pitch, when I heard from a few feet away: “Hey Parker, you throw like a girl!” I whirled around to see Billy Archer. Billy Archer had his arms folded across his chest with, I noticed, his baseball mitt on. I didn’t panic when he saw me wearing my clothes I kept secret from Mama. He already knew, but he didn’t tell because he knew I could beat him up. I crossed my arms. “Is that supposed to be an insult?” I asked. “Does it sound like one?” Archer asked. “No,” I told him honestly. “Well, it is one, Parker. I’m heading to baseball tryouts. I would bring you along but they don’t let girls in the league!” Archer teased. “Shut up, Archer. You better get out of here before I give you a bloody nose,” I said. “Oh, all right… but what is that?!” Archer exclaimed, pointing at something behind me. “What?” I asked, turning around. As I turned, I made the foolish mistake of letting my hand with my baseball in it fall to my side. Archer grabbed the ball from my exposed hand. He looked at the inscription. “Aw… you miss your daddy?” he teased. My cheeks burned. “Give it back, you jerk,” I said. “No,” he said, “I’ll take it to the baseball tryouts.” He sprinted off. “Billy Archer, you get back here!” I hopped onto my bike and pedaled after him as fast as I could. He ran a long time, then finally arrived at the shabby baseball field. He ran in. I hopped off my bike and ran after him. I tackled him the minute I got the chance. “Billy Archer, you give me my baseball right now…” I looked up. All the boys trying out for the league were staring at us. The coach, who was in the dugout, watching the boys try out, looked at us. He walked over to us very slowly. It seemed like an hour passed before he got over to us. He took no notice of Archer. He said, “What is a girl”—he scoffed out the word girl, like girls were the most repulsive things he had ever heard of—“doing here?” The way he said girl made me want to spit on his over-shined shoes, but I controlled myself. I stood up with a hand on my hip. I lowered the brim of my baseball cap. “I, sir,” I said, “am here to try out for the baseball team.” While I was here, I figured, why not? The coach laughed as if it was a joke. “I’m serious.” I snapped. That was enough to stop him from laughing, but it couldn’t wipe the stupid grin from his face. “This is no place for a girl,” he said. “Go home and play with your dollies.” Now that crossed the line. I grabbed my ball out of Billy Archer’s limp hand, then stepped on the coach’s toe. Hard. As he reached for his toe, I walked away to my bike. “By the way, I hate dolls,” I informed him, “and this won’t be the last you’ll be hearing from me.” I mounted my bike and rode home. Then I took off my baseball cap and changed into a dress before Mama got home from work at five. She’s a saleswoman at Big Al’s Convenience Store, two blocks from here. It makes a meager salary, but at least we’re still eating three meals a day and keeping all our old luxuries, that’s what Mama says. Mama has blond hair frayed with stress, and blue eyes that aren’t as happy as they used to be when Daddy was alive. “Hi, honey,” said Mama, bending over to kiss me as she walked in. I stood up. “Hi, Mama,” I said, “how was work today?” Mama hesitated, then slowly said, “It was all right.” But I know Mama too well. “Mrs. Archer came to shop today, didn’t she?” I asked. “Yes,” Mama admitted. Mrs. Archer thinks that she is the best person in the world, except maybe her son, Billy. “She came and talked about how her son was going to do great at baseball tryouts, and how she would come to every one of his games because, apparently, she had decided that he had already made it onto the baseball team,” Mama said. “I’m sorry,” I said, “Mrs. Archer’s just… just…” I tried to think of the right insult to describe Mrs. Archer, but I decided that no words could express what she was like. “Just horrible, terrible, and self-centered!” Mama raged. Mama was usually calm, but if one thing could make her mad, it was Jane Archer. “Exactly,” I said, “but the good news is that she probably won’t come to shop again for at least a week.” Mama smiled. “You’re right,” she said, giving me a hug. “Where would I be without you?” The next day, after school, I walked down to the baseball field and looked at the team list for the
The Scarlet King
Now, Cocky was a big, kingly rooster It was an icy cold morning. I struggled to wake from the blissful sleep I had enjoyed all night. I stretched luxuriously and half smiled, but then, glancing at my clock, I abruptly jumped up into the frigid air our clumsy black woodstove was desperately trying to warm. “Oh…” I moaned, suddenly remembering it was Saturday. Oh, well, I was already up. I pulled my flannel shirt and overalls on over my long johns and tugged thick wool socks onto my bare feet. Then I trudged out into our living room. No one else was up yet, except my toddler brother, Josiah. His big, dark eyes watched me curiously as I donned my coat and snow pants. “Hey, Jo,” I grunted as I yanked on my hot-pink winter boots. “Hi, Becky,” Josiah yawned. I stepped outside into the cold air, which stung my nose and bit at my ears. The sun shone dazzlingly on the crunchy snow. I grabbed an old, red Folgers can and filled it with chicken food for our three chickens, Johnny, Lacey, and Cocky, my rooster. They were the results of a homeschooling project a few years back. We had bought eight eggs and borrowed an incubator from a nearby farm. Every single day we turned the eggs over evenly, the way a hen would, and once a week we candled them. This was when we held a flashlight up to the eggs to see the chicks inside. In three of the milky brown eggs, we could actually see the chicks growing and developing. The rest were all duds. Finally, on the twenty-first day, the chicks hatched. I could remember that morning well. We woke to a strange peeping sound, like a cuckoo clock gone wrong. There, nestled deep in the incubator, was a little chick, my Cocky. I reached my chubby six-year-old hand into the incubator and stroked him. Cocky pecked my finger. Then there was Johnny, a coal-black chicken we’d named Johnny Cash after the Man in Black. She turned out to be a hen, but the name stuck. Finally came Lacey, my mom’s chicken. In the beginning, she’d been weak and sickly, but after a short time she bounced back and grew to be a huge, fat chicken who proved to be our best layer. Now, Cocky was a big, kingly rooster. His beautiful feathers were a mix of orange, scarlet, and auburn, his long tail feathers an iridescent green. Like a king, he herded his ladies around, showing them to the choicest bits of grain and juiciest grubs. Cocky also defended his wives from intruding humans. I smiled a little as I recalled the day Cocky had attacked my dad, who had been cutting firewood at the time. All of a sudden, Cocky came hurtling out of the brush (“Like a football,” my dad winced) and spurred my father. I was lucky Cocky hadn’t ended up in the stewpot that night, but my father took pity on me, seeing how much I loved Cocky. There was only one person Cocky was never mean to. Me. Maybe it was because I fed him, or maybe, I liked to think, because we had a special bond, but Cocky loved me. He rode on my shoulder or in the basket on my bike and hustled me around like one of his hens. I loved him to bits. Now, as I hurried over the short trail to the chicken coop, I noticed a small set of tracks in the thin layer of powdery snow that had descended during the night. Mouse, I thought, or maybe squirrel. Far inside my head, tiny warning bells clanged, but the thought of a cup of hot cocoa and a plate of steaming pancakes filled my mind and covered over the bells like a cloak of snow covering the ground. The chicken coop looked strangely desolate in the frozen gray air. A few snowflakes floated lazily through the air and rested on the high banks. A soft clucking came from the chicken coop, but it was so quiet I knew it could only be one of the hens. Where was Cocky? He was normally crowing, proudly proclaiming his rule of the roost, but now he was silent. I unconsciously began to run, tripping in the softer snow. In front of the chicken coop lay a dark lump, partly covered by frost and blood. It was Lacey, our beautiful Golden Laced Wyandotte. “Lacey.” I half fell to my knees. “Cocky!” I ran to the chicken coop and threw open the door. Only Johnny stood there, alive. I looked quickly past her. In a corner lay Cocky. He was dead. Gone. My rooster. I took a long, hard look and, feeling weak, ran into the house screaming. My mother looked grumpily at me when I burst in the door. “What?…” she groaned, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “Cocky,” I sobbed. “Oh…” Mom looked upset. She reached out to me. “OK, you got me, buddy, I love you” “Lacey, Cocky,” I sniffed. “A weasel, I think.” Tears dripped down my cold cheeks. “Oh, sweet baby.” Mom grabbed my snowy form and held me close, the frost on my coat dripping down her robe. “Oh, Becky, I’m sorry.” * * * For a lot of people, it might seem, well, strange to love a chicken, but I raised Cocky. Now, I sit on our front porch. It’s May, and Mom is getting a new shipment of chicks from the Lewiston Chicken Hatchery out in Idaho. The post office called this morning to say they had a peeping parcel waiting for us. Mom was so excited that she stuffed poor little Josey in his car seat and roared off. She wanted me to come, too, but I said no. I think she’s trying to make me forget about Cocky, but I won’t, ever. And I will never get a new chicken. I gaze up at the bright,
I See Only Beauty
Liquid glass shatters on the sidewalk from the angry sky Scattering all the pedestrians like ants They hurry home to the comfort Of their TV dinners and their television sets While I walk the streets— A garbage bag as my raincoat, my heart light I find Picasso in a puddle And stories in the sky Orpheus is playing his lyre tonight While gentle Chiron nurses his wound The sky is my storybook And as I settle myself under a peeling park bench I see only beauty Jeremy Long, 13Mission Viejo, California
Finding Keeper
“A loss, no matter the size, hurts” It was late October on the verge of November and the sky had lost all of its brightness, taking on the stark, ink-black tone of night. On and on it stretched, broken only by occasional clusters of stars. It was cold, too. A cold that seeped all the way to the bone, turned exposed skin to marble. Overhead, the stars, unaffected by the cold, winked down at you, and you could almost hear their laughter. The car came to a gentle stop, and my father turned and looked at me. Bracing myself, I leaped into the cold and dashed to the front of the school. The light inside was a beacon, calling me to its warmth. I pulled open the doors and hurried through them. In the center of the atrium stood a woman. She spotted me, her face spreading into a wide grin. Her layered auburn hair stretched just beyond her shoulders, framing her face and jade-green eyes. Her shirt hung in folds around her and read Hayden Co-op. She wore frayed jeans. “Hi,” she greeted me, “I’m Maggie. Are you here for GT?” I nodded. “Great! I think we’re waiting on just a couple people now,” Maggie told me. She waved me over and ushered me into the gymnasium, where metal chairs were arranged in a circle right in front of the stage. Some were filled, the others empty. Everyone there went to my school. We weren’t all in the same grade, but I had seen most of them around. “All right, here we go… You just sit down, get settled in, OK?” Maggie said. “I’ll be back in a jiffy.” She hurried back out. I smiled and said hi as I looked around for an empty chair. I took a seat beside a girl who was in my grade. Keeper. I didn’t know her well. We hung out with different people, didn’t have classes together, that sort of thing. Keeper looked about as glad to be there as I did: lips pursed into a thin white line, widened eyes, and fingers wrapped tightly around the edge of the chair. Her recently washed hair was damp. There were many small braids starting at the scalp and continuing to the back of her head, held in place with clips. She wore a gray shirt under a sweater and a vibrant red skirt with tights. Her feet, in Converse, moved up and down, nervously. Her face and eyes were blotchy, as if she had rubbed them after crying. She was like a mouse, with her shoulders hunched up to her ears, cowering against her chair. Soon, Maggie came back in with a couple more kids, who reluctantly edged their way toward the chairs, and the meeting began. “Welcome,” Maggie said from the stage, “to Grieving Together, or GT.” She wrote the words out at the top of a large piece of paper clipped to an easel. “I know,” she continued, “that you have lost a loved one. A loss, no matter the size, hurts. It’s natural to be feeling this, but none of us want to go through that alone. In this group, you can talk about your experiences with others, and my hope is that this will help lessen your pain. “Every meeting, we will have a focus word. Today, that word is ‘who.’ Who are you missing? You are going to team up with a partner, and when I say go, person one, you are going to tell person two anything and everything about who you’re missing. Don’t leave out any detail, big or small. Got that? Ready! Person one, go!” Keeper and I were together. Right away, I began talking about my Aunt Kay. How her house was my second home, how she would call just to hear the sound of my voice, how she did such nice things nobody else thought to do, and how she smelled of fresh-baked bread. Then I grabbed a piece of paper and sketched a drawing of her. I was putting on the finishing touches just as Maggie called, “Time! Person two, you’re up!” I handed the paper to Keeper, sat back, and looked at her, ready. But Keeper just stared at the ground, and swallowed. Then she whispered, “Be right back,” and slipped out of her chair. I watched as she went up and spoke with Maggie. Maggie put her arm around Keeper and said something in her ear. Keeper nodded. I thought she would come back and tell me about who she was missing, but she didn’t. Keeper stayed with Maggie for the rest of the evening. Afterwards, when I was waiting for my dad to pick me up, I pressed my face up against the cold glass of the front doors of the school, watching. I saw Keeper and her father pulling away. And, not for the first time that night, I wondered who Keeper was missing. The weeks came and went, and at each meeting, we covered a new word—“when,” “how,” along those lines, sharing more about who we were grieving for each time. But still, Keeper had yet to open up. Even so, I came to look forward to GT. I got to know some of the other kids, and I felt it was helping me. Our fifth meeting was near the end of November. We were just starting our session on the word “reaction,” and Keeper seemed to be having a particularly hard time. She kept sniffing and swallowing. Her eyes welled with tears frequently, and each time she blinked them away, they reappeared. I was trying to think of what I should do when all at once the lights went out. There were some cries and yells as the gym plunged into darkness. “Stay calm!” Maggie’s voice broke through the noise. “I’m going to find the switch. It must have been bumped.” We all listened to her shuffle her way across the room and feel the
An Indescribable Feeling
The finest time to go fishing is at dusk. A hazy fog is settling over the lake, and the sun sits perched just above the crown of the tree line, casting a multitude of soft colors. I prepare myself, sliding slowly into the canoe, balancing myself and making sure not to fall into the crisp dusk waters. Row after row, my paddle breaks the water’s surface and pushes me along. I look to the rear and a long line of small waves glide off the canoe like a halo on an angel. I look to the left and then the right, and all is quiet on the lake. Far off in the woods I can hear twigs being broken under the pressure of another animal’s weight. I look back to the water and spy a tree that has fallen weak and into the water, marking my fishing spot. Foot by foot I steady the canoe closer to the shore. I can see the weed beds through the clear water now, and I know I’m in my territory. I stop for a second and let my head fall back as I admire the beautiful sky. The stars are timidly peeking out from behind the clouds. Soon enough their bodies will glow with light, but not now. I turn my head back to my main intentions: fishing. I slowly reach for my pole, lying parallel on the canoe, and I gently raise the lure to my eye’s level. The knot seems good. I unhook the taut bait for the pole. I hold the pole lower now towards the reel and lift it slowly over my head. I look behind me and the bait dangles on the thin fishing string perpendicular to the pole. I take a deep breath. The finest time to go fishing is at dusk I gently toss my bait towards the shore just before the weed line. I have a popper which floats delicately on the surface of the water until, with a swift pull of my reel, it pops, imitating a frog. I slowly jig the lure closer to the boat. Back to the boat and nothing, but fishing takes patience. Cast. Nothing. Cast. Nothing. Again and again this pattern repeats. This cast is different though, it floats in the air and then lands precisely where I want it, right above the weeds. I start to jig the bait in… nothing bites. I take a breath of frustration. I watch the line calmly sit on the lake, and BAM! The once calm line becomes taut with a gentle pull and there is no doubt that a fish is on. All the patience has now paid off, and there is an almost bubbly feeling deep inside me. Panic sets in. Set the hook, my mind screams. I jerk my pole up and the fish is on. The whole world is spinning now as I reel in the fish. The fish is near the boat and just as tired as I am. One last battle to go. Instinct sets in and my hand plunges into the ice-cold water. I can feel the fish struggling with all its might as my hand wraps around it. I lift the fish and take control of the battle. One final surge and the fish is out of the water. It’s a keeper. This is my favorite feeling in the world. Nothing, absolutely nothing, surpasses this feeling. Ben Hayes, 13Fox Point, Wisconsin Soyi Sarkar, 13Short Hills, New Jersey
