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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Autumn

Autumn is colorful, like the bright rainbow after a rainy day, the tall oak trees, each with a different shade. Autumn is flavorful, like the warm pumpkin seeds fresh out of the oven, the sweet crisp apples with gooey gold honey descending slowly down. Autumn is joy, like sprinting around the towering oak trees, showered by the crunchy, colorful leaves, the glowing sun slowly peeking through the trees, playing hide-and-seek with the clouds.


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Me and 349 Other Girls

The narrator pushes through self-doubt at the cross-country Junior Olympics I am standing on an open field with Anna, Bea, and Eva, and I am seriously wondering how I got here. If someone had told me a few months ago that my cross-country running season would end this way, I don’t think I would have believed them. Not only because we are in Texas, not only because this is national ranking, but because I never would have thought that I could accomplish so much in one season. I should be more confident, but really I am just nervous. “It’s not that big of a deal,” Katie had said after her race. Oh sure, there’s only 347 other girls with us, all either 11 or 12, all preparing to run 3 km. If that’s not a big deal, I don’t know what is. But then again, all I’m doing is putting one foot in front of another, for at most thirteen minutes. So why am I so anxious? I haven’t always had nerves. Maybe it’s because it’s important to me. Maybe it’s because there has been so much talk about this race. It is Junior Olympics, after all: I’ve had to make it through two qualifying races to get here. Maybe it’s because I know it will be hard. There’s no pressure, I tell myself. All I have to do is try my best. This does not reassure me. Because trying my best means starting as fast as everybody else— which is definitely faster than I’d like—and finishing even harder. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know that I’ve done all the training I needed to to get here, that I’m fit enough. But I still wonder, can I get myself to do it? We start our warm-up strides, one foot in front of the other, arms from ear to hip, ear to hip. We jog back. Do it again. Anna continues to repeat the same three words she’s been saying ever since we got to the airport yesterday: “This is it!” On the sidelines, hundreds of parents, coaches, grandparents, siblings, and volunteers are making a general ruckus. The sky is cloudy but the air is humid. Personally, I do not find this pleasant weather for cross-country. It’s so muggy I’m already sweating a little. As we are coming back from one of our strides, another team of racers from our section comes and takes our place on the line. Darn. Now I have to stand behind a racer from Mount Diablo Heat. Eva is the only one to stand firmly on the line and claim her territory. Of all the people I couldn’t be less surprised—she is easily the fastest runner on Oakland Cubs, as well as one of the fastest in our section, and people know it. That’s another thing I didn’t think I could accomplish: I can run with someone who can run an eleven-minute 3K. Two race officials come past us with a camera to wave to. I have to stand on tippy toes so that my mom, who is watching from home, will be able to see me. We finish one last set of strides before the official tells us to step up to the line (or in my case, runner-who-stole-my-spot-on-the-line’s shoe). Anna says “This is it!” one last time before everything goes quiet. All I can think is, Oh gosh. This really is it. The race official speaks into a megaphone: “Racers on your marks” (as if anybody else should be on their marks). I hunch my back a little and put one arm by my waist and the other by my chin. The next command will be the pow! of the gun, and it is only mere seconds away. The suspense is terrible. My nerves stay with me until the very last moment, but as the anticipated pow! goes off they all disappear, replaced by a thought: all I can do now is to focus and keep an eye on Anna and Bea. If I can stay with them, I’ll know I’ve started fast enough. I am presently lost in a sea of multicolored singlets. The ponytails of the racers in front of me swing from side to side, showing off shiny ribbons. We have ribbons in our ponytails as well, blue and silver ones. The loud pound of footsteps mixes with the uproar of the crowd. Focus. Relax. Those are the two magic words, I’ve found. The rest will do itself. It’s a fast start, one of the things I’ve been working on this season. It’s quicker than I’m comfortable with, but this is better than having to make up for it later, Andrea says. The challenge now is, can I keep it up? We come to the end of the first stretch and turn right as the noise from the crowd dies away. I’m doing my best not to go too close to the inside, where I could be trampled to death, or to the outside and having to make up those extra meters later. The amount of people doesn’t make this easy, though, because everybody is trying to do the Exact. Same. Thing. This is a pretty flat course, all grass. They must not have had very much space to work with, because we go back and forth a lot. There are a lot of bushes and some small trees. Fences mark the course on some stretches, and there are occasional pillars indicating the distance. The grass is damp and the air is still as muggy as ever, but I don’t really seem to mind the heat. As a matter of fact, not very many things seem to bother me, and I am surprised at how alert I am. We come to a stretch that goes in the opposite direction of the field we started on. On the side, a bunch of excited parents are yelling, all trying to be heard by their kids. If it wasn’t for


By

My Universe

In my universe I’m at school with my friends laughing but you’re all alone with nothing but your almost finished ice cream. Over the bush through the window above the clouds, there I am. Past the birds tweeting in the distance. We are opposites but yet the same. You are lonely and I am happy. We are humans but in a different life.


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The Paper

Black leaking out of the pen Elegant lines of different shapes Ink soaking into the paper Black slowly consuming the page You have forgotten the world Silence creeping up The leftovers from a storm dripping on your windowsill Lights flickering Tick tock from the grandfather clock Look up.


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Thunderstorm

Standing in the pouring Cold rain BANG BANG, The clouds let their fury out on me Will it ever end My breath turned into a cloud of whiteness My nose stinging with every wave of lightning A thunderstorm is anger, sadness, and a chilling breeze Will it ever end All the animals are safe in their homes But I am here Lights flashing Voices echoing in my head Whistles all around have I gone mad Will it ever end BANG BANG Then silence like I have never heard before The voices have ended The whistles have stopped But still will it ever end


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The Wind

The wind wreaks havoc in the forest The green forest trees swayed with the force of the wind as it whistled through their branches, tearing leaves from tender twigs. “The spirits are fighting again!” the wind shouted, as he grabbed at the earth- brown branches and grass-green leaves. “My children, my children,” wept the wild willow, reaching after her leaves. The wind snapped the most tender twigs, bellowing, “Beware! The spirits are fighting again!” “My hands, my hands,” creaked the snow-white birch as she watched her tender twigs whirl in the wind. “Look out, the spirits are fighting again!” the wind roared. Twister “My brothers, my brothers,” the reeds whispered by the battered swamp as they bent in the gusts. The wind darted away in disgust, and started to torment other forests. Weeping, the willow examined her battered branches and counted the missing leaves. Straightening, the birch looked at her remaining hands, sobbing to see the delicate fingers so broken. The reeds cried softly for their brothers, the plants the wind had buried and overwhelmed in mud.


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Editor’s Note

In this issue, we greet my favorite season, fall, which holds within it many moments to celebrate and reflect. It’s a season of transition, as the leaves change color and the wind moves us from summer toward winter—as reflected in our first two pieces, a very short fiction piece called “The Wind” and a play entitled The Storm. It’s also back-to-school time, and we have two funny poems about that. Oct. 14 is Indigenous Peoples’ Day, and we include two paintings by Leticia Cheng in celebration And, of course, October means Halloween, and the weeks leading up to it are sometimes called “spooky season.” If you like scary stories, this is your time! We end this issue with a truly chilling story by Anushka Trivedi called “Tired Wounds.” In this piece, the author turns an ordinary object—you’ll have to read it to find out what!—into something terrifying. I challenge you to write a story featuring an ordinary object or situation that somehow becomes scary. Boo!