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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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Spring Flowers

As I look around I can see The whole world looking back at me The rain is coming down On all the petals The colors all around Remind me of when I was small The sun is trying to shine I feel the raindrops on my shoulders When I walk


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The World Above

High above The world above us Needs your help There is so much you can do Just take a little peek And you can tell How much you can do to help Just take a little look around At the whole world Looking back at you


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In the Woods

In the woods You can see The smile of the trees The leaves are swaying The wind is blowing While we walk There’s a whole world ahead of you Come on You can see more when you walk in the woods


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Strings and a Purple Pick

A new friend inspires Alani to face her stage fright When I wake up on the morning of the performance, I’m fine. For about three seconds. Then I remember what day it is, and my stomach plunges up and down at the same time, going weightless. “Oh no,” I mumble to myself. “It’s Sunday.” “Heck yeah it is!” I look up to see my older sister, Kaulana, marching into my room, grinning at me. She tosses her long black hair over one shoulder and meets my gaze. “Time to own the stage, Alani!” My fingertips tingle, and I can feel my face going pale; her enthusiasm only makes me more stressed. Kaulana’s grin drops. She recognizes the symptoms of my nerves just as well as I do. She opens and closes her mouth, then stops trying to reassure me with a frown. She has never had enough patience to comfort someone as hyped up as I am. “There’s bacon in the kitchen,” she finally mumbles. She walks towards the door, hesitates, then turns back. “You’re going to shine today, haku. I know it.” I stare at her as though she is speaking a foreign language. Before I can express my complete and total doubt in myself, however, she’s gone and I have to get ready before Dad eats all of my breakfast. I run a hand through my short, curly black hair, press the other over my dark gray eyes, and groan softly. My stomach dissolves into butterflies. “You can do this,” I lie to myself, standing up and walking into the bathroom. *          *          * An hour later, I’m cramped into the backseat of our Jeep with my guitar slung over my lap. My eyes are squeezed shut. I run my fingertips over the six strings, comforted by the hum of each one, like the laugh of an old friend. I mentally go through the song I will play in my mind: G, then Am7, then B, back to G. The fingerpicking is like plucking… I quietly hum the first verse, but in the background of my mind is a steady chant of I’m going to throw up just like last time. I pluck out the fingerpicking pattern on the guitar strings, trying to drown out that voice. “You’ll do great, honey,” Mom promises me on my way out of the car. She wraps me in a hug that smells like plumeria. I breathe in deeply, reluctant to let go. “You are an amazing musician, and the only thing in your way . . . is you. What have I told you about obstacles?” Finally, I step away. “Make us proud, haku!” Kaulana yells after me. I stumble shakily into the building. My balance always seems to be thrown off beforeaperformance. But this isn’t just any performance; it will be the performance that puts me out into the world, the one that will determine my future. That thought doesn’t help with my queasiness. I push everything out of my head but the song, and clench my guitar case harder as I march to meet my fate. The Atacama Desert is supposed to be the driest place in the world, but I think it might be rivaled by my mouth, even though I’m on the coast of humid, ocean-y Kaui 6,842 miles away. My knees quake, and I literally look down at the ground to check if it isn’t an earthquake that is causing the floor to move. “Get it together, Alani,” I mutter to myself, adjusting my guitar strap. I strum a D. It sounds good, and perfectly in tune. Then they call my name and I forget to breathe as I peel myself off of the wall and walk out onto the stage. Eyes. I stare into a sea of faces turned towards me, locked onto my shaking teenage body like missiles. One wrong step and they will all launch straight at me. I take an involuntary step back, clinging to my guitar. I forget what chord I have to play. The announcer speaks, probably asking me to start. I gulp. My voice will crack, my fingers will falter. Too many eyes. I arrange my fingers into a G, not even caring if that is the right chord. “Blackbirds singing in the dead of night,” I croak. Then my stomach drops as a warning, and I run off the stage in a panic, straight for the bathroom. *          *          * “You did fine.” I shake my head, clutching my stomach as the nausea slowly subsides. “I threw up and botched the whole thing,” I say miserably. Kaulana sets a hand on my shoulder and offers me a cup of my favorite dessert ever, mango shaved ice. I don’t even look at it. I’m too dejected for sweets. “Alani,” Dad tries. “Look at me.” When I don’t, he tips my chin up and stares me in the eyes. Dad was the one who taught me guitar in the first place and bought me my first capo. We have a special connection over that. If Mom and Kaulana can’t get through my funk, he’s the only one who can. He waits until he’s sure he has my attention, then says firmly, “You are an amazing musician, and the only thing in your way . . . is you. What have I told you about obstacles?” “In the middle of every difficulty lies an opportunity,” I say automatically. It doesn’t matter that Dad technically stole that quote from Albert Einstein—it’s become our mantra. Dad smiles. “Exactly. So the question is, what are you going to do?” Try again, like I always have. His smile widens; he sees the answer in my eyes. I smile back, tentatively. I’ll work harder and practice more. I’ll fight my insecurities and silence the voice in my mind. I’ll learn every groove in the strings, every chip in the


By

Coins

Viewing her great-grandpa’s coin collection, the narrator realizes the power of keepsakes I looked up at my great-grandpa’s picture. “Dad,” I asked, “what coins did my great-grandpa have?” A little while back, my dad told me a story about my great-grandpa Toby. My dad said that he used to collect golden mint coins. “I’ll show you,” my dad replied. My dad left me staring at the picture of Toby. It was a black-and-white picture of Toby in his war uniform. In addition to the black—and—white, there were hints of gray. Tiny bits of color in the light and dark canvas. He fought in the Korean War. It saddened me that people started wars. Started violence. Suddenly, Dad came back with a big, heavy bag. “Let’s go to my room,” I said. As we walked down the wooden hallway, I wondered what could be inside that bag. When we got to my room, we sat the bag down onto my spotted carpet. Slowly, we opened it up. Opening it felt like opening a treasure chest. But not a chest of gold and silver. It was a chest of much more. It was a chest of memories. First, we found a big thing of small, tiny coins, still in mint condition. All of them were in a flat kind of paper. The paper showed how much each coin was worth. It’s funny how one coin, not of much value, can be worth so much more later. Once we dug a little deeper, we found all kinds of small and big coins. Some in mint condition and some that were not. The ones that were not in mint condition were the ones that my dad, when he was a kid, had opened because he couldn’t resist. I looked deeper and found a brown knife-coin. It was a memory from a war of great misery, yet the coin still gave me a happy feeling. It was as if the memory wanted to be happy. After admiring the coin, I found some medals. Those medals were from the same war but a happier part. It’s amazing how two memories, arising from the same place, can be so different. About a year later, my parents and I went to Paso Robles. We decided that we wanted to go to Hearst Castle. It was a long drive to the castle. As I watched the ancient, brown trunks and lush, green leaves of trees pass, I wondered what I was going to see and do—besides touring the giant castle, of course. When we finally arrived, I looked around the waiting area. I saw a restaurant, a ticket area, and a shop. Inside the shop were a bunch of Hearst Castle souvenirs. I was curious if I wanted to buy anything, so I took a look. Suddenly, I was surrounded by magnets, postcards, and clothing of all shapes and sizes. It was like stepping into a Hearst Castle wonderland! Everything looked buyable, but a golden bowl of mint coins caught my attention. Suddenly the memory from a year ago flooded my brain like a single drop of water suddenly multiplying. “Can I buy this?” I asked. So, I bought it in honor of my great-grandpa Toby. Suddenly, the coin slipped out of my hand and fell to the ground. The plastic that was keeping it in mint condition broke! I bent down to pick up the shiny coin. The coin felt hard and cold; touching it was like touching a brand new tablet. I looked at the coin and realized that it didn’t matter whether it was in mint condition or not; it still was a coin of my own. My great-grandpa was a very important part of my dad’s life, and now a very important part of mine. It was really magical going on that journey through my history. Based on the stories I hear, my great-grandpa was funny and kind. Those stories are the memories the coins have in them. The memories that need to be treasured. As someone who loves reading and writing, I love collecting stories. And memories are parts of a story. A tiny part of an even bigger picture.