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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


By

Mouse

Roey looked sulkily into her bedroom mirror. She turned around, scrutinizing her nose from every angle, but whichever direction she faced her nose, slightly resembling a ski slope, looked the same to her. It wasn’t that Roey actively disliked the way she looked; just her nose. When you got down to it, she was actually quite pretty, and she knew it. Her flowing, fiery red hair could not match her personality better. Next came her favorite feature: her eyes. Dark brown, nearly black, and combined with her hair, they gave her an almost magical look. But, being human, she always saw the worst in herself and could only focus on her nose, her other features becoming unimportant and of no consolation. Roey sighed in frustration, feeling a little guilty. How could she be so shallow? She had much bigger problems to deal with than her looks. She made her way over to her bed. Out from under her white bed with pink trim, which she was about seven years too old for, she pulled a large book. It was thick and heavy, bound with leather. The pages inside were yellow with age, but being no expert, she could put no number on its years. The writing was not from a computer or a typewriter, but written by hand, with ink and quill, she imagined. There was no name, no one to take credit for all the work they had done. Strangest of all, though, Roey thought, was that there was no title. She had checked over and over through the whole book, but no miraculous change occurred. The cover was that of the type of book Roey would have expected to be engraved with gold letters, but that was not the case. The writing was not from a computer or a typewriter, but written by hand, with ink and quill Roey climbed into her bed and pulled the covers up. She opened the book and could hear the stiff binding crackle as a small trickle of dust came down on her. The discovery of the nameless book had been exciting. There was a minimal amount of books in Paristile. People referred to them as books, but in Roey’s mind they barely qualified. Pamphlets, a historic account of the formation of Paristile, a book of laws, dictionaries, and thesauruses—they weren’t books, though, merely resources. Roey’s definition of a book was something that made you think, made you question, made you wonder. None of these could even begin to make your mind work in the way that her new-found treasure did. Although she loved to read, this was a rare opportunity. It was usually herself and her writing she had to rely on for a bit of creativity. Roey had no idea how she could have overlooked the book so many times, but perhaps it had not always been there. Two nights ago, as she had been climbing into bed, she saw its unfamiliar spine mixed in with a pile of a few other so-called books on her bedside table. How it got there was beyond her. For some reason she decided not to tell her family. Mainly this was because she didn’t want to deal with the inevitable questions from her parents that would follow her vague explanation. “How old is it?” and “Where did it come from?” She felt strange answering questions on a topic she hardly knew anything about. But maybe the questions were what she longed for, what she wanted so desperately to hear. Her sister, Mouse, had been born with insatiable curiosity. You could see in her eyes the longing to explore the world around her the day she was born. Her name was actually Marguerite, but Roey had started calling her by the pet name she’d come up with years ago. When Marguerite was little she always wanted to know what was in cupboards or on counters, and so she would poke her head in like a mouse. Now the bedroom in which the seven-year-old should be sleeping was empty. Instead of her cozy bed, Mouse slept deeply in a hospital bed, with no certainty of waking again. Roey couldn’t bare to face her absence, and mentioning the book to her parents and not being immediately flooded by questions from Mouse would be too much. She would have to truly acknowledge the fact that her little sister may never come home. Roey could never forget a particular day, about two years ago. The memory of Mouse brought a smile to her face, in spite of everything. It had been Mouse’s fifth birthday. Roey could see pure delight on Mouse’s face as Mom brought in a beagle puppy She had never expected such an amazing surprise, and Roey, looking at the huge grin on the little girl’s face, was ecstatic seeing her sister so happy. Mouse had always been grateful for what she had, Roey knew. The littlest things, Mouse had always acknowledged, and it didn’t take much to earn her trust, her love, her gratitude. She had always admired how open Mouse was, never judgmental; Roey wished she could accept everyone that way. But Roey realized that all this happy memory meant now was that Mouse may never smile again. Roey had pushed these thoughts out of her head many times already, and once again attempted to shake them from her mind. She tried to tell herself that it wasn’t an issue, everything would be fine; the book was here now, that was the important thing. Roey replaced her dreadful feelings with the words of the book-with-no-name as she began to read. She was able to make out most of the handwritten words without difficulty. As the setting was described, Roey painted a picture of it in her mind. It seemed no different from her own world of Paristile, with nothing particularly distinguishable from any other place. Roey must have dozed off at some point. As she was reading, she was engrossed in the words,


By

The Chicken Coop

It was a hot day when he came home. Our farm was sweating under the Mississippi sun, even though it was only May, and I was out feeding the chickens. It’s my job, being ten and the youngest of three. The war was over, I’d heard. All the newspapers were proclaiming that the Nazis were defeated. Of course, I was happy, but after a while the effect wore off. Mama was cleaning the house and singing. That’s what she does when she is glad. I could guess why, having been told joyfully something about my father coming home. Still, it was such a surprise when he actually did. I had only vague memories of him, having been six when he got drafted. My last image of him, before he drove away, was of him standing on our porch, staring blankly at a photo of Mama. I remember it had always been his favorite picture. In it my mother is standing in our overgrown garden, holding a tomato. He said she looked beautiful standing there. I remember when we took the picture with the family camera. My father was so happy that day. He was always happy. That was the main thing I remembered of him. I also could picture him, when I thought really hard. He had short, curly, black hair, a rosy face, and dark green eyes. He always used to say that we were alike as two peas in a pod, so I supposed we were, but our mirror had been shattered a year ago and somehow we still hadn’t replaced it. “Maggie!” an excited shriek sounded, “Maggie, he’s here!” The meaning of those words took a moment to register, but then I dashed inside the house. My sisters, Kathy and Linda, were already there. “Come on, we have to get washed up!” tittered Kathy. We all tore upstairs. I washed my face and hands, brushed my hair and put on a clean dress. Kathy and Linda were already scurrying downstairs, so I hastened after them. We all met at the landing. Kathy, one year older, and Linda, two, did not remember our father much better than I and we all exchanged fearful glances before walking out to meet him. We hurried down the driveway and there he was. He was hugging Mama and Mama was crying and laughing. We all slowed our pace. Kathy was chewing her tongue, a habit she had when she was anxious. Just then Mama spotted us. “Maggie, Kathy, Linda, it’s your father, it’s your papa come home!” she cried. “Maggie, Kathy, Linda, it’s your father it’s your papa come home!” she cried Papa—the word sounded strange. “Papa” looked our way with a grin; he was a changed man. As we got closer we could see that, despite his grin, his eyes were haunted and sad, his face taut, his body thin. We smiled uncertainly back. He opened his arms wide and we ran to them, not knowing what to say. He hugged us tight, as if to anchor himself to something. At last Papa let us go. He held us at arm’s length and scanned our faces. “Maggie, Kathy, Linda,” he murmured, and then his face grew glad once more, “is there anything to eat? I must say, I can’t recommend army food. I got some pork and potatoes for 20 cents when we arrived, but otherwise I haven’t had anything.” My mother, glowing, hustled us all into the house. “Maggie, Kathy, get some coffee ready and Linda, will you be a dear and get out the canned peas, the fresh ones aren’t ripe yet . . . oh, and see if there is any sugar left. When will this rationing stop?” Mama, Linda and Kathy sat down in their customary seats, but Papa was sitting in mine! Didn’t he remember that he sat to the right of me? I glared at his back, but sat down in his seat instead. The meal was a quiet one. Mama tried to keep the conversation going, but after a while, talk withered. Soon, silence presided at the table. Papa ate hungrily, his manners cruder than I remembered, and then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Mama immediately jumped to her feet. “Oh William, what was I thinking? You must be tired after such a long journey. Come, the bed is made up, I’ll awaken you for dinner.” Papa opened his eyes and allowed himself to be led upstairs, without saying a word. Kathy, Linda and I were holding a conference in the pigsty. “He seems so changed,” said Linda. “I know—I don’t know what to say to him anymore,” whispered Kathy. “He’s a stranger,” I said under my breath. No one heard. “But Mama’s happy, so we must be kind to him—and he is our papa,” proclaimed Linda dutifully. We all nodded, and that signified the end of our meeting because Linda was the oldest and usually got the last word. The next day, I woke up at three o’clock in the morning. I had a vague feeling that something exciting had happened the day before, but it took me a moment before I realized what it was. I shot up and got out of bed, careful not to wake my sisters, slumbering beside me. All I knew was I wanted to get outside, away from the stranger who was boarding free in our house. “I know where I’ll go,” I said to myself, “to the chicken coop!” The chicken coop was where I always went when I was upset. The quiet breathing and clucking of the birds soothed me. I slipped swiftly down the stairs and out the door, still in my nightgown. It was still dark outside and the fresh air greeted my nostrils with a pleasant tang. I walked down the path to the coop, glad to be alone, when out of the blue there formed a shape. As I got closer I could see it was


By

A Friend

“Remember when we were eating yellow popsicles in the park and there was a wind and the yellow melted popsicle blew on us?” “Yes,” I responded, “your mum asked where we’d gotten mustard stains.” We both broke down laughing, until I managed to gasp, “Remember when I took the shortcut behind the school and rode through the mud and my pants got all dotted with mud flecks?” “I remember,” Chris chuckled, “and when we went home, I stalled your mum while you snuck upstairs to change.” We both laughed again for a long while. Chris started again. “Remember when . . .” Ah, those were the days. It was always like this, on Saturday evenings in the purply-dim dusk, recalling things from the past. We were lying in our favorite spot, a tall hill in the park with a huge oak tree on top; it was great to just sprawl out in the shade on your stomach with the breeze tickling you; that was exactly what we were doing. I giggled as Chris recounted that memorable incident in the school cafeteria. Then I remember-whenned him about the time I was laughing so hard at the dinner table that pop came out of my nose. And that had to be the night when we had company. “Remember when . . .” After the usual bout of giggling, I turned expectantly to Chris, waiting for a nice funny remember-when. He always told them instantly and they were always perfectly detailed and good. This time, however, he was silent, staring away into space with a wistful look. I was about to nudge him gently when he said, in a whisper, “Heather . . . do you remember when you and I became friends?” *          *          * Third grade. I was friendless, shy, not pretty or popular. I had no best pals, as other people did. I had already been branded as Heather the Loner. I was miserable. But lo and behold! As I was counting up an addition problem in my head before lunch, here came the most popular girl in my class, Kirsten . . . straight toward me. She had a load of friends, and they always seemed to avoid me. I didn’t know why; but there she was, surrounded by her usual crowd of pals, clearly making for me! Her light gray eyes friendly, Kirsten reached my desk and grinned a hello at me. I smiled back, not believing my eyes. “Hi, Heather,” Kirsten said, “Wanna play this recess?” I was flabbergasted. “Uh . . . I guess . . . I mean . . . sure!” Kirsten smiled and started to go back to her seat. “See you then,” she called over her shoulder. From then on, I played with her; but Kirsten and her friends made fun of me, played tricks on me, forced me to hold the rope all the time when they were skipping and made up new rules so I could get captured in Cops and Robbers. My life in school was more miserable than ever, until the new kid came. His name was Christopher, and he wasn’t too tall, with white-blond hair and light, playful blue eyes. However, his eyes weren’t too playful in our class; they were downcast and shy. He didn’t have any friends either, and nobody seemed to want to play with him, even though he was a fast runner and pretty nice. I was among them. He was a stranger, after all; a new kid. Still, I felt sorry for him. I knew how he felt. But I didn’t dare come forward and talk to him; I was very shy, and after all, there was Kirsten. For some reason, I was desperately loyal to her; I tried to please her and make her laugh and win her approval. And she’d been treating me like dirt through a mask of friendship. But I was terrified of being cast out; I would be the loner again, wandering aimlessly at recesses, friendless and alone. No, I wouldn’t do that. At least with Kirsten I had somebody. One fateful day, everything changed. It was a pizza day; everybody had ordered pizza and we were in the middle of lunch, munching away, laughing and talking. Kirsten and her friends had pulled up their chairs to my desk; we were all having lunch at my group, and I was having an OK time. Christopher was in my group; he sat alone with his pizza, eating in silence. Nobody was bothering him, until Nick, coming in from the water fountain, zipped into the classroom past his desk. At the time I was reluctantly joining in on the discussion of clothes which I didn’t really care about, but Kirsten had opposite feelings—when there was a yelp and a bang. “Hey! You, c’mere, I’ll teach you!” I spun around in my seat. There was Christopher, glaring at Nick. His pizza was on the floor. Nick was howling across the room. “Hah, I’d like to see you try!” Kirsten chose this moment to laugh a cruel little laugh, pointing at Christopher; the class joined in instantly I didn’t. I still had one pizza left. Instantly, like a subconscious reflex to this, I took my remaining pizza, summoned up all my courage, and slid it toward Christopher, ignoring the incredulous “What are you doing Heather?” from Kirsten. The pizza slid into place on Christopher’s napkin, and he looked at me with wide eyes. “Thanks,” he whispered. I met his eyes, and smiled. *          *          * Chris and I became instant friends; best friends, in fact. I shrugged off Kirsten, who had earlier branded Chris as “uncool,” and the rest of her friends; and I played with Chris. I did everything with Chris. I ignored the jeers of kids when I played with him because I was a girl and he was a boy. I ignored the “sitting in a tree” verse they howled at Chris and me at recesses. I


By

Silver Blue

Tick. Tick. Tick. I lay on my bed on Saturday morning, flat on my back with my watch pressed to my ear. I listened to the patient, steady ticks. Tick. Tick. Tick. The house was empty except for my dad and me, and he was down in the basement, working in his studio. Mom was out on one of her short trips from the house, grocery shopping. Dylan, my older brother, was hanging out at the mall with some of his more distasteful friends. I was glad he was out of the house—he could be incredibly annoying at times—but without Mom and with Dad practically nonexistent in his studio, I was all alone except for Emilia. Emilia was my new baby sister that was just born a few weeks ago. I had been frequently assigned to watch over her. I wasn’t used to a baby in the house. She made me nervous and cried at night so that I hardly got any sleep, and I hardly got any sleep already. That was because of Silver Blue. I stooped and rubbed behind Silver Blue’s ear with the tip of my finger; she liked that Silver Blue had been my cat, my beautiful Siamese cat with her big blue eyes and delicate wedge-shaped face. She had started out as just Blue in the beginning; her brilliant blue eyes deserved a name, my whole family agreed, but I decided she would be Silver Blue. Silver Blue’s eyes were special. They were blue, of course, and big and curious; but they had odd little flecks of silvery here and there. I had loved her. I still loved her. Silver Blue had been a house cat. She almost never went outside, but Dylan had opened the door . . . that morning was emblazoned in my mind. Unwillingly, in my mind’s eye, I saw it happen again. *          *          * I stepped down the stairs in just my nightgown, tousle-haired and yawning. The carpet felt rough under my bare feet. It was early, almost five o’clock in the morning, an especially cold, brisk morning in the middle of winter. The house felt icy; I was going to make some hot chocolate for myself before going back to bed. A flash of creamy white fur materialized at my feet, and a familiar mewling filled the heavy, morning-like silence. I stooped and rubbed behind Silver Blue’s ear with the tip of my finger; she liked that. Purring, she nipped my toes lovingly and wove around my cold feet, warming them up. And asking for food. Smiling, I made my way past the door and to the kitchen, talking to her as I went. “Sorry, Sil, not this early. Better luck later.” Silver Blue mewed again and trotted beside me hopefully as I entered the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk. Her empty food bowl was on the opposite wall, but I walked purposefully away from it. Clearly she did not understand, but Silver Blue the Siamese had a reputation for being patient. She sat on her haunches, watching unblinkingly with those big, silver-flecked eyes, and mewled. Then she sauntered over, butted her head against my ankles, set her claws into my nightgown and stared up at me. I looked right back at her until it got unbearable. I laughed as quietly as I could and tossed her a cat treat. “Here you go, Sil, I think you could weasel a treat out of a hungry fox.” Silver Blue wolfed down the treat and was back at it again, her odd eyes just shouting for another. “Krista!” Someone thundered down the stairs, calling my name in surprise. Silver Blue’s creamy, dark-tipped ear twitched around toward the noise and back again. She did not turn, but kept watching me. I detached her claws and coolly started to work, getting the chocolate syrup from the pantry and squeezing it into my glass of milk. It was Dylan, not my mother or father; I wasn’t in trouble. I pretended to ignore him as he raced partway into the kitchen, causing Silver Blue to leap out of the way, mewling. “What,” Dylan burst out, “are you doing up so—oh, well, I don’t care anyway. I have to be up early!” “Why?” I asked, mixing my milk with the chocolate syrup. “The newspaper, of course!” I hid my surprise; Dylan wasn’t one to read the newspaper. In fact, he almost never read at all of his own free will. “Why?” I repeated, taking up my glass and turning to the microwave. “The hockey game, stupid!” Dylan sneered, “Mom and Dad didn’t let me stay up to watch it because I have a science test tomorrow and they said I need my sleep. Ha! Well anyway, I need to see the results in the newspaper! I bet it’s front-page!” He leapt for the door and wrenched it open; a flurry of snow blew in as he sprang outside. “Don’t let Silver Blue . . .” Still holding the not-so-hot chocolate, I hurried over just in time to see Silver Blue bounding out. “Silver Blue! Come back, Sil!” I leapt over to catch her, spilling milk and chocolate on the tiles, staring out the door and not caring. What I witnessed next made my heart nearly stop. Silver Blue, looking exultant and mewling excitedly, the sound I knew so well, was in the middle of the road. “Silver Blue!” Heartbeats, that was all, and then a car careened straight into my cat, my faithful companion for years that I loved so much; and then she was gone. The glass slipped from my numbed fingers and crashed to the floor; I didn’t notice my alarmed father rushing down the stairs because of the noise, or Emilia wailing upstairs. Still barefoot and in my nightgown, I raced out the door and onto the street, ignoring cars screeching to a halt as I came running. The car who had hit Silver Blue had stopped, sideways


By

The Mother’s Day Gift

By Mathew Thompson, age 11, Dallas, Oregon IT WAS MOTHER’S DAY, 1993. My friend Adam had come over to spend the night on Saturday. We watched old movies until about eleven p.m. and then camped out on the living room floor. Sunday morning Adam and I got up early and made pancakes. After breakfast we went outside to play cops and robbers and ride bikes. Dad came home from work for lunch at noon and we ate with him. After Dad left, Adam and I decided to go out and play ball. We live on top of a hill, and the only field nearby is behind a big metal water tower. The city uses a little building beside that for a pump station, so everyone up here will have good water pressure. We pitched the ball back and forth to each other and took turns batting. Beginning to tire of this, Adam went in the house to get my Super Soaker Fifty squirt guns and I stayed outside, bouncing the ball off the water tower to practice my pitching. Pitch–THUNK–catch it. Pitch–THUNK–catch it. Then, bouncing the ball, I threw it extra hard against the water tower. What a mistake! The ball bounced back off the water tower, almost hitting me, then flew through the window of the water pump station. CRASH!!! Did I mention that the window was not open? Well, it was now! My stomach immediately pole-vaulted into my throat! Just then Adam came around the corner. Seeing my pale stare he said, “Close your mouth or you will catch bugs. Hey, what’s wrong?” My stomach in a knot, I blurted out, “I accidentally broke the window.” I pointed to the water shed. The ball had made a perfect round hole through the glass, with rays shattered around it. “Uh-oh,” Adam said. “Just walk away and nobody will ever notice. You’re gonna get in trouble if you tell!” I pushed Adam aside and walked to the front yard where Mom was working. I could feel my body beginning to sweat and I felt sick. Swallowing hard, I told Mom about the window. Mom said, “Let’s go take a look.” I felt like a doomed man walking back toward that building. Mom looked at the window. Nothing magic had happened–that window still had a big hole in it. “Well,” asked Mom, “have you learned anything from this?” We talked about angles and glass strength and throwing things against the water tower. (My mom can make a math lesson out of almost anything!) I could feel my eyes beginning to burn, and two big tears snuck out and dripped down my cheeks. I’m telling you, I felt just awful! I leaned my head against Mom’s shoulder and she put her arms around me. “Son,” she said, “everyone has accidents, but it is how you deal with those accidents that makes the difference between honesty and dishonesty. I know that telling me about this wasn’t easy, especially when your friend said he thought you shouldn’t, so that makes me very proud of you.” She gave me a big hug and Adam reached out and touched my arm. “The only time you’d be in trouble with me over something like this is if you didn’t tell me, or if you lied to me about it. And besides that, if you lie or try to hide these things, you get black, ugly-feeling places inside because you still know what really happened. You cannot cover up the truth of your actions from yourself.” I sniffed and tried to clear my throat. “I will pay for the window,” I said, even though a picture of the tent I had been saving for floated through my mind. . . . On Monday morning, before school, I went down to the city shops and told the water people about my accident. I told them I wanted to pay for my mistake. I said to fix the window and send me the bill. They did. It cost me forty-eight dollars and sixty-two cents. It certainly wasn’t a very fun way to spend my money! So my pockets are empty, but my conscience is clear. The funny thing is that my mom says telling her was the best Mother’s Day present I could have ever given her.


By

The Clay Pot

Illustration by Lilly Bee Pierce, 13 By Naomi Wendland, 12, Lusaka, Zambia Illustrated by Lilly Bee Pierce, 13, Fallbrook, California It was a cool, dusky morning in a village by a river bank. A mother and her daughter sat and watched the sky above the horizon change colors–from blue to purple to pink to orange-red. It was a good start to a new day. It was only when the sun peaked over the horizon that the other people of the village emerged. Sashi knew then that her mother would have to start the fire. Sashi and her mother, Betra, had sat and watched the sun every morning since Sashi could remember, but once the families started to awaken, the chores would have to be started. Her mother would usually start up a hot fire for the porridge to be cooked. Once she had done that, the task of feeding the family would be under way. It was Sashi’s job to make sure there was enough wood for the fire and that her two younger sisters and younger brother were ready and awake for the new day ahead of them. Sashi and her mother had a special relationship between them–unlike any other relationship between a mother and daughter in the village. They could always share feelings and jobs. But there was something that they never did together–pot making. Her mother was a well-known potter. She specialized in her pots. Betra’s pots were sold in the city, and the money from the pots was used to support the family, for the father of Sashi had gone away and not returned. There was a strange feeling and look about Betra’s pots that lured people to them. Sashi thought it was partially because Betra spent so much time on them, but mostly because Betra would talk to the pots and the pot would talk to her. While Betra would be making the pot, she would have to be alone. Not even the little child, Chachala, could talk to her. Betra would make sure that she didn’t spend too much time on the pot instead of being outside with her family. Out of all the pots Betra made, there was one that Sashi had seen all her life. It was the only one that Betra ever kept. It was a big pot with many small designs on it. This pot was not as pretty as the pots that were sold in the city, but it was said that it was Betra’s first pot that she had made with her mother. It wasn’t the beauty of the pot, it was that it was a part of her mother. It sat to the right of the doorway of the small hut and had never been moved. Betra had told the children since they were babies that they were never to touch it. Soon the porridge had been eaten. Two of the three older children ran off screaming with laughter to go play with the other children of the village. Chachala, the youngest, who hadn’t learned to walk yet, started to play in the dirt. Her dark skin had been lightened by the tan dirt from the earth. Betra and Sashi both knew it was time for bathing her, but Betra needed to make her pots, so it was obvious that Sashi would be stuck with it. Betra staggered away behind some bushes with the heavy bag of clay on her head to do her pot. Sashi and Chachala were left alone. Sashi went to fetch the big tin tub from inside the hut. She dragged it out beside the ashes left from the fire. She looked around for the bucket that was used to haul water, but it was nowhere in sight. She checked inside the hut. Then she remembered that Mrs. Tembo from the western side of the village had borrowed it to water her garden. She looked around her. The only other things to carry water were a small dried gourd and the old pot. It was logical, the pot was bigger so it could carry more water. If she used the pot, it would take a much shorter time. She went over to the pot and held it in her hands. Then she remembered what her mother had said. She was just going to put it down when she remembered that she wanted to play with Lyan. Illustration by Lilly Bee Pierce, 13 At first on her way to the river bank, she held the pot tightly in her hands. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip with her hands, one hand on each side of the pot. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip on it with both hands. However, both hands soon reduced to one; then she slowly let go and balanced it on her head. It wobbled a bit, but it was a light pot for its size. Finally, she reached the cool water. The water was soothing to her hard dry hand, and when she sipped the water, she could feel it go down her throat. Sashi dipped the pot in the water and the water filled to the brim. She found the pot surprisingly heavy and had great difficulty lifting it out of the river. Once she had placed it on her head, it felt as if a ton of bricks swayed down on her. Her steps were slow strides. The water splashed over the sides and got Sashi wet. Slowly the pot started to slip off her head. She felt it when it was too late. As her hand went up to catch it, it slipped, plummeting to the ground, smashing into hundreds of pieces. She cupped her mouth as she stared at the scattered pot pieces. Sashi fell on her knees and started to cry. She held a few broken pieces in her hands and


By

Lindy

I used to cringe each time our doorbell rang. Nine times out of ten the person on the other side of the door was Lindy, the girl from a few houses down the street. “Can you play today?” she’d ask. “No, I’m doing homework,” I’d say, even if I wasn’t. “Can I help your mom with the baby?” she would ask next. Before I could say no, there was my mom inviting her inside again. “Where’s the baby?” Lindy asked. She asked that same question every time she walked inside the house. And the answer was always the same. “He’s in the family room,” my mom would say, smiling as she watched me silently mouthing the words along with her. My baby brother, Kelly, liked Lindy. He liked her a little too much, if you asked me. He’d squeal and laugh when she made silly faces at him or tickled his feet. To make matters worse, whenever Lindy played with Kelly, she’d take out every one of his toys. You can guess who would have to put them away later on. While she was busy with Kelly and my mom, I’d sneak out of the room. But no matter where I went, Lindy soon found me. It was as though she had radar. “I’m bored,” she’d say. Why don’t you go home then? I thought to myself, but I never could say it out loud. Most of the time she would just stand there and stare at me until I asked her to play Nintendo. She would talk and talk all through the game, especially when it was my turn to play. She talked so much that it ruined my concentration. I lost a lot of lives that way. If she had not been such a pest, I might have liked her visits. After all, she was quite pretty. And she always let me be the first person to sign her casts. Usually ten-year-old girls like flowers and silly stuff like that, but Lindy thought my pictures of black widow spiders were pretty cool. I remember drawing my first spider. That was the day I met Lindy. I had wanted to bring some interesting insects to school the next day but found only two sow bugs in my own yard, and one of them was dead. I put both of them in a shoebox. I decided the pickings had to be better around the neighborhood. Instead, I was the one who got picked. “Hey, boy with the glasses, what are you doing?” Lindy yelled. “Looking for bugs. Got any good ones?” I answered even before I spotted her sitting on her front step. “I don’t know. We just moved here last week,” said Lindy. “I’ll help you find some bugs, but first you have to sign my leg cast.” Since I was getting quite desperate for bugs, I agreed. Neither of us had anything to write with, so I went home to get a marker. My mom said I could borrow her red and black pens as long as I returned them and didn’t get the ink on my clothes. I decided to make a drawing of a black widow spider because it was the only thing I could think of that is red and black and pretty easy to draw. Lindy liked it. She said it looked almost real. (When Lindy broke her arm a couple months later, I drew two black widows. And the time she broke her finger, I made an itsy-bitsy spider.) Then she asked if she could see my bugs, so I opened the lid of the shoe box. When I looked inside, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Next to my two sow bugs, Lindy had placed two stink bugs, a ladybug, and a couple tasty-looking leaves for all of them to eat. “We do have some good bugs here after all,” laughed Lindy. I thanked her for the surprise. It was almost dinner time, so I said goodbye to Lindy and told her to come over to my house sometime. The problem was Lindy wanted to be at my house all the time. She was always hanging around my house. I used to ask my mom, “Why doesn’t she stay at her own house?” “Maybe she likes you,” my mom would say. Then she laughed when I scrunched my nose. That would get me madder. Sometimes Lindy wouldn’t even have to ring the doorbell for me to know she was around. One time I got a strange feeling and looked out the window. Guess what I saw. Yes, it was Lindy. She was helping my dad wash his car. I liked helping my dad wash the car, but I didn’t want to do it with Lindy there. “She has a family. Why does she also need ours?” I asked my dad when he finally came in the house. “Now, be nice,” my dad said. I didn’t like that answer. One day, not so long ago, I went outside to get the mail from the mailbox. I saw two patrol cars parked outside Lindy’s house. I was curious, so I sneaked around some bushes and waited. Two policemen came out of the house. Lindy was with them. Her mother came out of the house. She was crying. Then two more policemen came out of the house. They had her stepfather in handcuffs. “He didn’t mean to hit her that hard,” yelled Lindy’s mother. Lindy wasn’t crying, though. She was just talking (as usual) to the cops. They opened the police car and she started to get in. Then she spotted me. “He’s my best friend,” she told one of the officers as she pointed directly at me. Then she smiled and waved. I waved back. And I kept on waving as the patrol cars sped away and out of view. The doorbell doesn’t ring too much anymore. But when it does, I run to get there first. I am always hoping it will be


By

The Bear

By Lena Boesser-Koschmann, age 11 Illustrated by Jathan Brubaker, 13 The morning was cool. It wasn’t cold, but not warm enough to go without a jacket. Sandy and I were walking toward the field where Chipper, my seven-year-old pony, was staked. I was swinging the reins, and Sandy was walking beside me. We didn’t talk to each other, and it was quiet. A bird chirped, singing out a strange melody. When we arrived, I softly called to Chipper. He lifted his head and walked slowly over to me. He nuzzled my pocket to see if I had any treats for him. I laughed and slipped the bit into his mouth. He jerked his head a little at the coldness of the bit. I unhooked the rope from his halter and, grabbing the reins in my hand, jumped up onto his back. Since Sandy was taking the road, I decided to canter Chipper in the field. As I neared the road that separates Chipper’s field and Timer’s field (Timer is Chipper’s brother), I noticed a guest from the Goldhill Inn. He was taking a video of the inn. He nodded a friendly hello to me, and I decided to show off a little. Maybe he’d videotape me. I clicked Chipper again and gave him a little kick. He loped faster. When he came to the edge of the field where Timer was staked, I stopped him and let him walk. Timer was going crazy. He was running around in circles, bucking and kicking his legs. I thought his unusual behavior was just in his excitement to see Chipper. I let Chipper walk up to him, and Timer kicked him. Timer was acting really weird. It was then that I noticed the bear. He was sitting in the berry patch no more than sixty yards away. I gasped. Chipper jumped. Quickly, I leapt off Chipper and tried to pull him away from Timer. It was impossible. The Bear, illustration by Jathan Brubaker, 13 Just then Sandy called, “What’s wrong?” “Bear.” I spoke that one simple word. “What?” “Bear,” I repeated. “Where?” “In the berry patch, right over there!” I pointed over toward the raspberries that were around one side of the garden. I was talking fast and calmly to Chipper, pulling at his head a little at a time. Finally, we were walking away from Timer, who was as wild as ever. All the time I have had Chipper, I have never actually come within sight of a bear while riding (unless you count the time I heard snuffling in the woods and saw fresh droppings). Chipper was getting excited by now. He was hard to control from the ground. I ran him to the nearest tree and tied him quickly to it. It was only then that I relaxed and looked closely at the bear. It wasn’t a big bear, but I’m not too good at telling what age animals are. Maybe he was the one year old that had been hanging around the town. “He’s so cute,” I said to Sandy, who was looking at the small bear also. “I know. That might be the one we saw in our yard the other day.” Just then Mrs. Hall shouted out her window at us, “There’s a bear right there, ya know.” “We know,” I shouted back and then untied the reins and started walking back toward my house. Once we were out on the road, I leapt up onto Chipper once again. “What are you doing?” Sandy asked. “I’m going to put Chipper back in the pasture. Then we can come back to see the bear some more.” “Thank you for your permission, oh great one,” she said. I giggled. Then I loped Chipper down the short path way to our house. He seemed to know where we were going. He automatically went to the gate of the big pasture. I opened the gate and he trotted inside. I slipped off his reins, and he loped across the pasture to scratch on a stake. Then I ran to tell my mom about the bear. When I reached the porch, I didn’t bother to use the steps–I never did–but vaulted up onto the porch. When I opened the door, Carrie, my sister, greeted me with a questioning look. “I thought you were going riding,” my mom said. “We were, but the horses are all hyped up because there’s a bear in Mrs. Hall’s berry patch,” I answered. And at the same time Sandy said, “There’s a bear over at Mrs. Hall’s.” I laughed. “I think it’s the same one that was in our yard the other day, I said. “Sandy and I are going over to see what it does.” “Well, Carrie and I are going down to the school in about fifteen minutes. I have some work I need to do before tomorrow. Tell me about the bear when I get back.” “Sure.” Then Sandy and I walked back across the road to Mrs. Hall’s place. She was yelling and screaming and banging pans at the bear. “She’s mad,” I said matter-of-factly. “Very good,” Sandy said sarcastically. “I can’t see the bear,” I said, standing on my toes and trying to see it. “Let’s go over where we were before.” But we didn’t get a chance to because just then we saw Bill slowly walking, gun in hand, toward the bear. “No!n I gasped. Why would anyone shoot a baby bear? A bear without its mother. A bear with nowhere to go. Bill aimed. Then a shot rang out. “God,” Sandy said, obviously mad. I couldn’t speak. I was boiling over with anger–a steam pot that can’t stop boiling, even when the burner beneath it is off. Maybe it wasn’t dead. Maybe he had just shot to scare it. Then why had he aimed the gun? I argued with myself. “I am never speaking to him again,” I said under my breath. “What?” “Nothing. I just feel sorry for


By

Doll Shop Magic

Doll Shop Magic By Joanna Calogero, 13 Illustrated by Lee Bee Pierce, 12 The mail I got was usually no more than a few coupon booklets, but today there was a business-like white envelope mixed in. Hmmmm, how odd, I thought. I waited until I was in my small doll shop before looking more closely at the envelope. “Alan J. Murphy,” read the first line of the return address. Alan J. Murphy was the man who I leased my small doll shop and upstairs apartment from, and Alan J. Murphy was not a nice man. This letter could only mean one thing, Alan J. Murphy caught up with my bills, or better put, he found out my bills weren’t caught up with him. I opened the letter. “Dear Sam Donalds, I am afraid your lease has not been paid ….” A nice man would not toss an old man into the streets. But, as I said, Alan J. Murphy was not a nice man. What was I going to do? Where would I go? I would have had enough to pay the lease if my shop was located in a better part of town. Twenty years ago, when I bought my shop, the whole town was a nice town, all over. But a lot can happen in twenty years, and a lot did, including a new owner of the building, too, that owner being Alan J. Murphy. I’ve held on to the shop, hoping that someday the town would return to how it was before. But that hasn’t happened yet. Anyway, people didn’t come to this side of town looking for a doll. “…if your lease is not paid within twelve days, I’m afraid you cannot remain on the premises.” Twelve days! That was all I had? Could I sell enough dolls in twelve days to pay the lease? Not likely. I went to my workroom and finished sewing the eyes on a small doll. But my heart was not in it. How could I get little girls to come and buy my dolls in this part of town? I couldn’t afford any advertising, so what could I do? I finished the doll’s face and started working on a small dress for her. I studied her face. She seemed like she was happy, so I looked around and found some pink material to make her a light, bouncy dress. Wait a second, I didn’t remember buying any pink material lately, where did that come from? Oh, well. I decided to use it anyway. “You could make a little girl very happy,” I said to either the doll or the air. I worked into the night, thinking all the time about my unpaid lease. Twenty years ago, if I had an unpaid lease, the owner would say, “Pay it as soon as you get it, and don’t worry about it.” Now, it’s “Pay it now, or get tossed in the street.” Many times in the night, I got so deep into my thoughts I didn’t even realize that I was making a doll. When the small dress was nearly done, I still had no solutions. I decided to sleep on it and turned in for the night. I awoke the next morning to the soft singing of a child’s voice. At first I thought it was a bird, but then I heard the sweet words, clear and simple. The singer was definitely young, which puzzled me. What was such a young child doing in this part of town this early in the morning? I decided to find out. I put on my warm bathrobe and went down the stairs to my shop. From the back of the shop I saw a small girl outside the window, completely alone. She had brown hair which curled at the end around her shoulders. She had huge brown eyes, which were too big for her face. She wore a thin, tattered jacket, which was buttoned around her face tightly because she was obviously very cold. She was looking slowly and longingly at each doll in my shop window. And she seemed to like what she saw. I continued from the bottom step and went to the door, picking up the keys on my way. I opened up the door softly so I wouldn’t frighten the little girl. She looked at me with her huge brown eyes. “Hi, would you like to come inside?” I asked her. She nodded in reply. “I’m Sam,” I told her. “What’s your name?” “Heidi,” she said in a voice as sweet as the singing which woke me up. “Were you singing earlier? It sounded beautiful!” I said cheerfully. I got another nod. By now, we were in the shop, and Heidi was looking around at all the dolls. “Do you like dolls?” I asked her. “Yes, they’re my friends,” Heidi said, a little more interested. “Do you know them well?” I asked her curiously. “I come and look at them every day. They like me, and I like them,” she said. “I can see that. They’re my friends, too. I make them,” I said. “Would you like something to eat?” Heidi nodded her head. “O.K., sit down at the table and I’ll fix something. How does French toast sound?” “Yummy!” Heidi replied. “Where do you live?” I asked nicely. Heidi hesitated a little. “We lived in an apartment until last year. My daddy lost his job, though, and we got kicked out. We live in an abandoned car, near 52nd Street, now. My mommy, and my daddy, and I all live there,” Heidi said sadly. “I’m sorry, Heidi. How old are you?” I asked. “Six years old. But my birthday is in two weeks.” I served Heidi her French toast and we ate breakfast together. Heidi ate a lot, and she ate it quickly. “This is soooooooooo good. We haven’t eaten in a while,” Heidi said solemnly. I didn’t know what to say again. “I’m terribly sorry.”And to change


By

The Ice Cream Man

The Ice Cream Man By Joanna Calogero, 12 Illustrated by Hilary Carere, 10 The familiar song of “The Entertainer” is heard coming down the street. But it’s not the song that makes you run to find money wherever you can, it’s because the song means–the ice cream man! You must know the round, jolly man, who’s obviously eating more of his product than he’s sell­ing, who sells you cheap ice cream while he’s playing the same song over, and over, and over. Or don’t you? I’m thirteen years old now, and it’s five summers since Chuck was the ice cream man. In the three years that Chuck was our ice cream man, when I was four to seven, we had become great friends. Chuck was very funny and friendly. He was on the short side, and on the fat side. And on the lovable side. He always looked the same, with short, regu­larly cut hair and a pudgy face. And he was always laughing and smiling. “That one?” he’d ask, pretending to be confused and pointing to the wrong one. “No,” we’d giggle, “that one!” “Oh!” he’d say, as if he’d just understood. He’d hesitate, then say, “You don’t want that one.” “Uh huh, it’s the best kind, I always get that kind,” we’d say innocently. “O.K.,” he’d finally agree, but still a little reluc­tantly, and get it for us.   Once when I was seven I ran after Chuck for three blocks, following his song. When I finally got my ice cream, Chuck said, “Well, Sally, that’s forty-five cents.” Sally wasn’t really my name. It’s really Molly, but he called me Sally anyway. I gave him the change my mom had given me, like I always had done, and ran off with my ice cream. “Watch out!” I heard from the truck, too late, since I had already tripped over a branch on the sidewalk and fallen. I looked down, saw my scraped knee, and started crying. I heard footsteps behind me, and when I turned around to see who it was, I saw my dirty, melty ice cream on the sidewalk. “Come on, let’s get you home,” Chuck said and picked me up. Once we got to the truck, he put me in the passenger seat and went around to the back of the truck. He came back to the driver seat with another ice cream bar, which he handed to me. He then started the truck and drove me back the three blocks to my house, trying to cheer me up the whole way, which he did. “Now when you get inside, wash that off and put a bandaid on, O.K. ?” Chuck told me. “O.K.,” I said. “Thank you.” “You’re welcome, Sally!” Chuck said, smiling. “And be careful next time,” he warned me. “Goodbye,” I said after he had lifted me down from the seat, which had seemed very high at the time. “‘Bye, Sally!” Chuck said. The next day, when I heard Chuck’s song, I ran out to meet him. “Hi!” I shouted before reaching the truck. “What do you want?” I heard a deep voice say. That isn’t Chuck, I thought. When I got to the truck, I saw a bearded man who seemed very scary to me at the time. “You’re not Chuck,” I said, confused. “Chuck was fired, for driving kids around on work­ing hours,” said the new ice cream man. “But Chuck was my friend! I’m never buying ice cream from you!” I shouted and ran back home. When I got home, I told my mom all about what had happened. “Well, why don’t you write a letter to Chuck,” my mom suggested. “O.K.” So, in my messy handwriting with most of the letters backwards, I wrote this note to Chuck. Dear Chuck, I miss you. I had lots of fun, and your ice cream was good. Please come back, the new man is mean. From, Molly (Sally) A week later I got a letter back from Chuck. Dear Sally, Are you better now? I hope so. They didn’t like me to give rides I guess. But now I’ve got a job as a mailman, on your street! That’s all year, too. You’ll see me soon, I’m sure. Bye! Your friend, Chuck And now I have to go because the mailman will be here soon! Joanna Calogero, 12Manlius, NY Hilary Carere, 10East Aurora, NY


By

How I Got Over My Dream

One warm sunny afternoon in November I was sitting at my desk reading a library book about gorillas. I was looking at the gorillas when Kathleen, my cousin-sister, said, “Diane, why are you looking at that picture?” I said, “I’m just looking at it.” Then I said, “That gorilla looks big and scary. I only like orangutans and chimpanzees. They are small and they’re not mean.” It was three-thirty, time to go to the dorm. The students walked down the hallway heading for Dorm Two. That is where I live Monday through Friday because I am a Navajo girl and I live way out on the Navajo Reservation. I live out too far to go to a public school so I go to a boarding school. I started going to boarding school when I was very young and I don’t really like it. I miss my family and I look forward to going home every Friday afternoon. I said happily, “Kathleen, let’s go to the canteen after we eat supper.” Kathleen said, “O.K.” I looked up and I thought that I saw a giant hairy gorilla in front of me. It was like a dream but I was awake. I was scared and I ran behind Kathleen. Kathleen just started laughing. I think she thought that I was playing with her. I peeked from behind Kathleen’s shoulder and the terrible gorilla was showing his teeth and beating on his broad chest. My heart was racing and my hands began to sweat. Suddenly I felt a chill and I shuddered in panic. Kathleen, feeling my hands tremble on her shoulders, said, “What’s wrong?” I answered, “I’m scared.” She said, “What are you scared of? There is no one in front of us.” Then I looked up again and the gorilla was gone. I thought to myself, It was there! Kathleen was looking at me funny. She said, “What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?” I didn’t want her to think that I was crazy so I said, “Let’s hurry and go to the dorm.” After a few hours it was shower time. There were about twelve of us girls in the shower. Their being there didn’t bother me because I was used to it. At home I used to take showers with my sisters. The girls were laughing and giggling. They were throwing the soap and washcloths around. I just smiled at them because I thought they were just being silly. Then I joined in and laughed and giggled. I forgot all about seeing the gorilla. I got out of the shower after I washed. I got my clean clothes and put them on. I felt a lot better. That night at eight-fifteen the dorm aid, Mrs. Capitan, came and said, “It’s time to go to bed.” She turned the lights off and I got scared. I remembered seeing the gorilla. I was suddenly scared to go to bed. I tried to go to sleep but I kept getting up. I kept feeling that someone was watching me. I was shaking and my eyes were wide open. I kept looking around in the dark but I didn’t see anything. I drew the blanket up under my chin and I finally went to sleep. When I went to sleep it was almost morning. I kept dreaming about the angry gorilla. The next day was a fine day. The night was scary and I was happy that it was daylight again. It was Thursday and I would be going home Friday and everything would be O.K. I went to class. The kids were working so I went to Miss Dorsett, my fifth grade teacher, and whispered to her, “I keep having dreams about gorillas.” Miss Dorsett said, “When you go home tell your mother about it. You may need to have a ceremony.” I felt better after that and I smiled. I knew Miss Dorsett would understand and help me. She always had time to listen to me and help me. After school I was back in the dorm. I was watching cartoons on TV in the living room. Mrs. Capitan was calling me. I got up and went to her. When I was standing by Mrs. Capitan I thought a gorilla started to hit me. I jerked back but nothing happened. I looked at Mrs. Capitan. She didn’t see anything so I thought I was dreaming. I felt like I was going to cry. Mrs. Capitan said, “Do you still have a headache?” I said, “Yes.” She gave me two aspirins and I took them. I thought that the aspirins might help me stop thinking about the gorilla. I went to bed but the aspirins didn’t help. Every time I slept the gorilla came back to me. I would just wake up shaking. I lay in my bed feeling alone. I kept thinking, Tomorrow is Friday. I’ll go home and I’ll tell my mom. Maybe I do need a ceremony. It was Friday morning and time for class. When I was going down to class with the rest of the noisy students I saw some orangutans in front of me. They were smiling at me and waving their furry little hands at me. I thought, The kind and nice orangutans are coming to say hello. I smiled at them and I felt really happy because I really like orangutans. Then suddenly a giant snarling gorilla flashed in front of me. He got between me and the friendly orangutans. With one gigantic paw he grabbed the orangutans and hit them with his other closed fist. The poor helpless orangutans were screaming and hollering. The gorilla killed them in a few seconds. I almost started to cry. I looked around to see if anyone else had seen me. The other kids were running around laughing and chattering as they walked to school. They had not seen anything. I was so scared. I struggled to hold the tears back and a little voice inside me said,


By

The Bear Paw

One wonderful Saturday afternoon I was sitting on the bench daydreaming. It was peaceful and quiet, when suddenly the quietness was broken by a truck coming toward my grandma’s house. It was my mom coming. Tom Smith, 12, Tohatchi, New Mexico My mom and dad stepped out of the truck. They glanced at me and went in my grandma’s house. I followed to see why my mom looked unhappy. She said to my grandpa in Navajo, “My hands are hurting. When I put them in the water that’s when they hurt the worst!” She showed my grandpa her hands. When I saw them I got worried and wondered what would happen. Her hands were peeling and swollen. She told my grandpa because he was a medicine man. My grandpa told my mother to go in the Hogan beside his house which faced east that he only used for peyote meetings and to work on people who didn’t know why parts of their bodies were aching. He told my mother to sit on the blanket beside him. My grandma made the medicine by crushing the peyote plant with the grinder and took the fresh water and it into the hogan. My grandpa took the charcoal out of the woodstove that stood in the center of the hogan. He put some brown and green medicine on the charcoal. Smoke came out and the sweet smell of peyote filled the hogan. After that he prayed: “Mother Earth gives the medicine. The air gives clean breath. We combined the two to ask for healing. Mother of all things help cleanse our sister. Restore the roundness of life. Restore beauty before her. Restore beauty behind her. Restore beauty above her. Restore beauty below her.” My grandma came in and placed the water by my grandpa’s side. After that he chanted using sounds instead of words. Then he put some medicine that my grandma made and mixed it with water. My mom drank the holy medicine. He looked into the charcoal. Then he put his hawk feather in the water and sprinkled it on my mother. He looked back at my mom and said that an old man came by our house and buried a bear’s paw by our house. The cruel old man had witchcrafted my mother. Tom Smith, 12, Tohatchi, New Mexico My grandpa put his gloves on and took a paper sack. He went by our house and dug up a large brown bear paw with sharp white claws. He put it in the paper sack. He went back in the Hogan and burned the paper sack in the big black woodstove. I closed my nose at the terrible odor. After that my grandpa prayed again: “Evil will leave you. From here you will walk with beauty. Things will be as they were before. Clean breath will flow through you. Evil will leave. It is finished.” My grandpa asked my mom, “Are you working today?” My mom replied, “No, I’m off all week.” My grandpa said, “Rest a lot.” Then my mother and father went back home. That night I couldn’t sleep because I was thinking about the old man. Harvey Plummer, 12, Tohatchi, New Mexico The next day I went back to the boarding school. I am a Navajo girl. I have two names: an Indian name that is secret; it’s known only to the members of my family. I go by Corina. When I am in a public place I go the white man’s way. When I am at home I go the Navajo way. I knew I had to go back. I lived too far out on the Navajo Reservation in New Mexico to attend a public school. My grandma checked me back into the dorm. I was scared that the old man might witchcraft one of my relatives and me. I couldn’t sleep at night because I was worried. Even if I dropped off to sleep I would get nightmares of the old man. I got behind in my work. I told my best friend about it. I didn’t do anything all week. I couldn’t stop thinking about the old man. Finally it was Friday. When I got home I heard my grandpa say, “The old man died after he witchcrafted your mother.” I was relieved that the old man died because he wouldn’t go around at night and witchcraft people because he didn’t like them.     Written by Corina Castillo, 12 Chuska/Tohatchi Consolidated School, Tohatchi, New Mexico (Bureau of Indian Affairs) Illustrated by Tom Smith, 12 Tohatchi, New Mexico and Harvey Plummer, 12 Tohatchi, New Mexico