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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


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On an Equestrian Farm [2]

The Old Water Wheel There was a day on the farm that was not like the others. Because the orange cat (we named her Claire) had finally come up to us, and she was ready to flirt with us. She meowed at us, begged us for attention with mischievous eyes, but when we tried to pet her, oh, the sight! She scurried away as if we were hurting her. She told us she thought our hands were dirty, and if we were a self-conscious family we would have looked at our hands, and we would have run inside and washed them and glared at the cat out the window, who would be licking herself like nothing had happened. This was the day that we learned a funny thing, that Trevor was a girl and that Claire and the black-and-white cat (Patricia, Pat for short) were boys, through and through. And yet, as we learned their real names, we forgot them all the same, and the only cat’s name we could remember was Trevor’s. Trevor’s name was Fern, and my parents called her that, but I was so used to Trevor that I continued to mix up the cats, girl for boy, boy for girl. And then we met another miracle! A miracle that only nature herself could have given us. Another cat, who did not belong to the people on the farm but came and ate all the food anyway. And this cat’s name was a name that I remembered: Lint. Like the stuff that sticks to clothes. This cat stuck to the farm, with its grassy hills and beautiful skies, and the high grass that my dad led my mom and me into, despite my warnings of tick territory (it did turn out to be tick territory), and so we squelched through mud, only to find that the forest did not have a trail, as my dad had hoped, so we squelched back to the house, and we took showers and glared at my dad. And onwards our adventures stretched throughout the week we stayed, so many I cannot tell you about all of them, and they were too perfect and beautiful to be written down in words anyway, and it will exhaust me to tell the tale out loud, so I am content the way things are. I know nobody likes cliffhangers. But hold onto the cliff and climb up onto it and you will see the farm, and everything we did there. Emma Hoff, 9Bronx, NY Lucas Hinds, 13Lenoir City, TN


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Two Paintings

1. Girls under Trees (after August Macke) Faces of the faceless. What does she see now? Blank and yet perfect. Where does she go now? Is there somewhere she can go? Faces of the faceless. The other girl, what does she see? Blank and yet perfect. Does she have a face? Or not? Faces of the faceless. Clutch that bag of grain! It is also full yet clear. Blank and yet perfect. Just run, with your eyes glued to darkness. Faces of the faceless. Blank and yet perfect. 2. Girl with Sheep (after Georg Schrimpf) Rise above the ground, head above the sky giantess, hold your sheep. Yes, lie down on your blanket of moss and hold your miniature sheep and rise above the ground. Look into the baby’s eyes, he is not scared like the others. Giantess, hold your sheep. Your island, floating toward the harbor. Rise above the ground. Last hope. Last chance of joining. Giantess, hold your sheep. Let your river skirts flow. Let your braid sing to the grass. Rise above the ground, giantess, hold your sheep. Emma Hoff, 9Bronx, NY


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On a Painting by Henri Rousseau

In the savanna a tiger prowls, but once tamed it can’t ever regain its power. It will sit behind the man, whose eyes will be glued to his paper, his blank paper with no writing, because his hand does not move. A child will stand there for eternity, not growing, eyeing the man and his tiger, with a puppet, which she wanted to bring to her special spot that is taken forever, her flower crown dangling in sadness, unable to take another step. If the hot sun beats down, the motionless people will not feel it. If its rays blind them, they will be blinded like they already are. The plants should grow or wilt, but they do neither. They have decided on their size, they have decided to be immortal, to not move, to not dangle, to not fall. If there is no wind, the hot-air balloons are not floating. If there is wind, it is not real, in an already unreal clear blue sky. The animals? They just stare, and even that they don’t do. If you touched the lion it would not roar, if you write something it will vanish, if you take a step you’re stuck. Everything is frozen, yet moving. Emma Hoff, 9Bronx, NY


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Anita’s Second World

Cory’s feet are firmly planted on the ground—until she befriends her mysterious, fanciful neighbor Once, underneath the beautiful London sky, there was a little back lane called Quinton Lane. The lane was made of cobblestone, and cherry trees lined the edges. Fog usually hung around. The fog seemed to say, “Ha! I’m not going anywhere. It’s too much fun to make this lane and everyone in it all grumpy!” And it was true. The fog, and the frequent rain, and the dreariness and gloominess of spring just not coming, made the few houses of the lane seem to groan. Though you could have made the argument that spring was already there, for it was mid-April. And the weather was rather warm. But the nights still grew very cold, making it impossible for a few small patches of snow to melt. Usually, the little children who lived on the lane loved snow! You could build snowmen, and have snowball fights, and catch snowflakes on your tongue! But this snow was not fun snow. It was not fresh snow, because it had not snowed in weeks. This was just dirty, leftover snow. Sometimes, the children would go out for hours trying to stomp away the last few piles. “Let spring come!” they would cry as they stomped. But Quinton Lane remained dreary, wet, and foggy. One old woman sat peacefully on a small bench by the side of the street, feeding the pigeons. She was glancing up at a window in one of the tall, gray houses. It was the nursery window, and in it you could just see the shape of a perfect little girl making up her bed. Meet Cory Hanmay: Cory is what people would call a perfect little girl. She’s polite, pretty, graceful, simple, amusing, and helpful. And does it all without getting her dress dirty. Now, she was making up her bed in her own beloved nursery. She was of the age of nine, but never wanted to go out and stomp on that dirty snow with the other children. “Spring will come when it comes, and I’ll leave it up to the cherry blossoms’ own determined wills to decide when they want to bloom,” she had said once. It was something that her grandmother had said, except not about cherry trees blooming, but about a runaway dog coming home. Cory was always quoting grownups— her grandmother, her mother and father, her aunt, and even the old pigeon woman. Cory was never being “childish and foolish”, as she called it. She was too focused on becoming grown up and mature. She wanted to be the mother of five, when married. And she practiced constantly with her dolls. When her bed was neatly made up, Cory went out onto her tiny balcony. The balcony had only enough room for one person and had strong metal bars, and was the same as every other house’s nursery balcony on Quinton Lane. It was not quite raining, though it was certainly foggy, and leftover drops plopped down from the roof onto the balcony. All the houses on the lane were almost identical and very close together. If Cory had a stick, she would have been able to reach out and poke the next house simply by leaning over the railing a little. The next house had a small window across from Cory’s balcony. And Cory could not help but peering inside, for she saw a little girl around her age rummaging about. She had seen this girl a few times before: on the street, in the park, talking mysteriously to the old pigeon woman, and now, looking into her window. Cory did not mean to spy—she really didn’t. But it was only spying for a little while, for soon the other girl spotted her, and walked over to her window. She opened it and leaned out. “Hello, Cory Hanmay!” she called. “How do you know my name?” Cory asked. “Are ya kidding? We’re neighbors! I’ve seen you ’round,” the girl replied. “Well, I don’t know your name,” Cory replied. The other girl thought for a moment. “I’m Princess Carolina of the North,” she said proudly. Cory examined her. She had long, jet-black hair and pale skin. Her eyes were a deep navy blue, and her eyelashes were the longest Cory had ever seen! And though the girl was rather pretty, Cory did not believe she was a princess. “What’s your real name?” Cory asked. “Why, that is my real name! Well, in my Second World it is,” the girl replied. “Your Second World?” Cory questioned. “Yes. My Second World. In it, I’m Princess Carolina of the North. And no, I’m not in the least embarrassed to admit that my Second World is . . . in my imagination. But in the imagination is the best place for something to be! Because there, you are always the queen, or king, or princess! Because you created it! So nothing can happen unless you happen it. Cory then realized that she didn’t know much about imagining things. She was too busy focusing on reality. “Did you know? I live in a castle made of pink stone. It has thousands of windows and balconies, and very tall towers. And I have a garden of lollipops! There’s a pond of melted chocolate, and the leaves on the many trees are edible! They taste like gummies.” Cory looked at her in awe, wide-eyed. “But—but what’s your name in . . . this world?” Cory asked. “Oh. Well, I suppose you can know that my name is Anita Blakely,” the girl—Anita—answered. “Now, want to  go stomp on some snow?” “Oh, no, thank you. I don’t stomp on snow. I let it melt when it pleases.” “Aw! It’s awful fun! How old are ya, anyway?” Anita said, pointing with her chin toward Cory. “I’m nine. What about you?” “Guess!” Anita demanded. “Hmm . . . seven? I think you’re seven or eight.” Cory shrugged. “Humph. No, I’m nine.


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Growing

A sprout is breaking through the ground. Adding beauty to the world around. A bright green plant barely a stem. Its stitching as perfect as a dress’s hem. A closed bud, a young bloom. That will blossom with colors better than any room. A beautiful flower growing in the sun. Now the growing is all done. Sophia Famolari, 9Columbia, SC


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The Squirrels, the Rabbits, and the Birds

Teresa observes the animal and plant life from the window of her home From the main window of our rented house in Wheaton, Illinois, we can clearly see the big tree by the sidewalk. It was a tree that stood sad and leafless in the winter, but we know that when summer comes around we will again see the tree shaking its neon-green leaves happily at us, as if in greeting. Over the course of three years, we learned that the tree isn’t only a beauty, but also a home. Sometimes I could see two squirrels on the tree’s upper branches, hopping playfully. The tree is obviously where they live. It awed me to know that the big tree in front of our yard housed squirrels. Sprinkle of Dew One time when we walked a nature trail, my mother picked up some acorns scattered all over the ground and put them in a bag. I knew what she had in mind. The next day, when we were walking out of the house, we saw that the acorns we placed on the ground the previous day were gone. A smile lit up my face as I imagined a squirrel lifting an acorn with its small hands, using its molars to nibble on it like a rabbit would. They were truly adorable, these squirrels. They weren’t always on the tree. Many times, we would see them doing their squirrel gallop across the sidewalk, sometimes suddenly stopping as if they had sensed danger, with their head cocked to one side. The rabbits were other visitors. Seeing a rabbit in front of our house was rare, but it happened once or twice. Just below our main window there was a patch of soil that my mother used as her garden. She planted tulips there, but there was one area off to one side where tall, green grasses grew; she did not plant those. One morning I looked out the window overlooking the small garden. Suddenly, a grey rabbit hopped out of the green grass. It was the cutest rabbit I had ever seen, and even plumper than usual. I wondered how it got so plump in the wild. I supposed it had made a home for itself in the tall grass, but that wouldn’t be so enchanting because it meant the rabbit would turn to my mother’s tulips as its main food. But I guess the grass was just a temporary home, because by the time I got back from school, it was gone. I kept wanting to see the rabbit in front of our house, but it never appeared again. My mother hung a bird feeder from the roof of our house so that it was visible through the dining room window. We often viewed the birds eating while we ate our breakfast. It was simple, but its simplicity was its beauty. The visitors were mostly robins and sparrows, but an occasional northern cardinal also came to visit. Some birds would sit perched on the cable near the bird feeder, as if waiting for their turn. The sparrows were the pickiest ones. They would pick out the yummiest of the grains from the feeder, leaving little of those grains for the other birds. The birds only came in the morning, never at night. That’s what I call an “early bird”! The birdfeeder was handcrafted by my mother. She cut off two sides of a large plastic bottle and perched two chopsticks on the remaining two sides so the birds could stand. She filled the bottom of the bottle with bird food and hung it where we could see. It was simple, but its simplicity was its beauty. These sights were shared with the squirrels, the rabbit, and the birds. Even though they are far away from me now, as I have returned to China, I need to remember them, so that is why I wrote it all down. Teresa He, 11Beijing, China Miya Nambiar, 13Los Angeles, CA


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Secrets

I hear a secret, whispering to me. The secret chooses me. Only me, I am the only one. Over the valley, past the frosty hilltops Who knows this untold? Though tempted to tell, not I. I will keep this secret, Till the end of the world Till the animals go extinct Till the sun is too hot for snow to hit the ground I will keep my unrevealed As far as the Earth is an ocean of trash No green to be seen In my heart it will stay Stay till the world withers away Forever you will stay. Analise Braddock, 10Katonah, NY


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What the World Is

The stars hold only one mind The mind has a thousand eyes The world will die down Before the heart stops beating For love Clocks will wind and eventually stop ticking Before hearts give out The sky only has one world The world has a thousand hearts The stars Analise Braddock, 10Katonah, NY


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Eyes

I see the world Has a path Through the safety Of my damp Deep ditch Overgrown with The wild Like a snake Coiling around me My body long gone My eyes are intact I see the Sun blazing High I wonder Could I ever reach The sky? I have no body I know My clan and I Settled in a ditch With grass as an itchy floor, ladybugs All over Counting their dots So red so alive I see the world Through my ditch So lively So thrilling Analise Braddock, 10Katonah, NY