Subscribe Donate

100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13


By

Name

Tessa sounds like clear blue streams, as the water flows peacefully and silently away, Like a piece of sheet music just lying there, waiting for someone to finally play. It sounds like an echo through the mountaintops, Or a beautiful dress sitting in the shop. Like the soft flutter of a butterfly’s wings, As the young girl reads and the sparrow sings. It is a shy tiger waiting to roar— My name is always there, deep inside my core. Tessa is the base, the courage in me, Venturing through life and seeing the trees. Tessa is unique and special and my own, It is a beautiful artifact. It is my gemstone. Tessa Hsieh Schumacher, 10Los Angeles, CA


By

Gentle Hands

It’s Michelle’s first day of school, and all she wants is to be in bed at home, with the familiar sound of Chinese filling the air All I could see was the dark blue carpet beneath my feet, blurring and clearing as I held back the tears in my eyes. My hand, cold and frail from the lashing winds outside, latched on tightly to the corner of my mom’s winter jacket, afraid to let go. I dug my nails into the soft, velvety fabric so hard I was afraid it was going to rip into shreds. I felt the stitches, one by one, as I pressed my other hand down deep in my pocket. My eyes stung, as if someone had squirted fresh lemon juice straight into them, as I barely managed to hold back my tears from pouring out like an endless waterfall. I just wanted to go home. I wanted to go back to the comfort of my bed awaiting me and welcoming me into its affectionate arms. I wanted to go home, where someone, anyone, would wrap their strong arms around me as they comforted me and told me that everything was going to be fine. Suddenly, a woman walked into the room and bent down to me. “Hi! Welcome to first grade! I’m your teacher, Ms. Muzyka,” she greeted me cheerfully. “Can you understand me?” she asked, speaking slowly. Love Sculpture I turned my head slightly and stared back at the bare ground. She was unlike any teacher I had ever seen before, with her chocolate-colored brown hair and bright caramel highlights. She had big round eyes, the color of the sky on a bright summer day. Her smile was so sweet and sincere, it felt misleading. Maybe it was like a needle inside a chocolate bar, gaining your trust, then stabbing you right back. Maybe seconds later, she would jump into reprimanding and screaming at me, like most teachers I’d had. But this time, I could not convince myself to believe so. I wished she could just flash out the mean side all teachers are supposed to have and scold and yell in the way I was used to, but she didn’t. To my surprise, she took me by the hand and led me across the room. Her hands were warm and soft, like freshly washed towels, cradling me in warmness. She dragged me to the opposite corner of the room, where the floor was lined with a rug filled with all the colors of the rainbow. There were baskets of stuffed animals with black beady eyes and soft bodies sitting by a shelf of books. On the walls were pictures of characters, from colorful, spiky dinosaurs to striped cats wearing giant red hats. I trotted toward the shelves of books to see even more characters woven between letters and words I could not make sense of. When I glanced at the windows, I saw messy drawings of all kinds of people. Some with black eyes and brown hair like me, others with strawberry-blonde hair and rosy red lips. Nothing seemed familiar. I glanced back down at the floor as I felt another tear roll slowly down my cheeks. The bright colors of the rugs seemed to have lost their luminous glow, and I descended into a world of darkness. “I’m sure she’ll do just fine,” the teacher reassured my mom, followed by another perfect smile. No! I will not be fine, I thought stubbornly. All I wanted to do was go back home. Home, where I could understand everything and everyone. Home, where the familiar sounds of Chinese rang happily in the air. Home, where everything is all settled. Another unintentional tear rolled slowly and heavily down my cheek. All I wanted to do was go back home. Home, where I could understand everything and everyone. Suddenly, the back door opened and I was hit with a wave of the cold, winter air, sending chills down my arms. The sound of ripping Velcro boots and shrieks and laughter filled the room. There was the loud chatter of words, some I could not wrap my head around. I felt the whooshing air pass by my ears whenever someone walked past me. I could feel the eyes staring and burning straight into my skin. I quickly looked at the ground and slouched into my winter coat, my face flushed red with embarrassment. Then, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned my head around nervously to see a girl with bright-red cheeks and a pink, fluffy sweater. She had straight, dark hair and light brown eyes like marbles, glistening with every look. She smiled at me and asked, “What’s your name?” “Mi-Michelle,” I replied with a tremble in my voice as I wiped the last tear off my face. “Do you wanna come play with us?” she asked, eyes filled with curiosity as she pointed toward another group of kids sitting by the bookshelf. I slowly but surely nodded my head as she pulled me away. Strangely, I felt warm as her icy cold, yet gentle, hands latched onto mine. A feeling of comfort and happiness surrounded me, as if I had just opened a pot of freshly steamed rice. I glanced back at my mother and she smiled at me. It was almost as if she was saying, “I believe in you.” I watched her step confidently out of the door, her eyes glittering with hope, as I managed to squeeze out a slight smile and sat down with the others. Michelle Wang, 12Lexington, MA Penny Gottesman, 10Arlington, MA


By

My Eyes Stretch

North, south, east, west My eyes stretch into different directions Regions are divided before my eyes Separate places I’m taught But my compass rose must be broken All I can see is one region Aren’t we all living together Instead of being separated by the paths of the wind Or by all the people of the regions Why can’t we all fit into one place Where we’ll accept each face No one will win No one will lose No one will even have to choose over people What region am I in now Avery Lakomy, 12Chicago, IL


By

The Secret Society

Twenty years in the future, an orphan boy tries to find his place in a world permanently altered by COVID-19 The boy dragged his metal wagon down the crumbled pavement. Thump, thump, thump. The cart wobbled every time it hit a piece of loose asphalt. Each package in it was wrapped securely in plastic to keep the contents from sliding out during the unstable journey. Each week, the boy distributed such parcels, often to the rich. Pulling the wagon to a stop at his next destination, the boy rapped on the metal structure at the edge of the road. The structure had lines splitting it into thirty boxes. Immediately, the small camera installed on the top of the structure swiveled down to look at the boy, and after a minute, the boxes swung open. He took out his list, which had names and numbers, then stuffed the packages into their corresponding boxes. He repeated these actions at each stop until the wagon was empty. *          *          * When the boy reached his city, he saw people milling around: shopkeepers, shoppers, and a few security guards to make sure everyone was wearing their mask and that they were at least six feet apart to avoid infection from close contact. There were guidelines along the sidewalks and on posters to keep everyone “distanced and safe.” The boy hauled the wagon to a large building. This building was owned by the government, his employer. He left the wagon at the entrance to be refilled with packages for the next day. These packages were from all over the world. Sometimes, the packages clinked with toys or shifted with clothes from China. Other times, rich scents wafted from the packages, like cinnamon from Sri Lanka or coffee from Colombia. Strolling down the smooth, paved city streets, the boy glanced at the shops that he passed. Every shop had notices tacked to its wooden doors. One said, “No mask? No entry!” Another read “Limit of 4 persons.” Everyone was touching—holding hands, knees knocking together when they moved, elbows bumping, backs pressed against each other. No masks. As he walked, the boy thought of the thing that had brought him into this situation. COVID-19, named after the year it had first infected the human race, was a virus that had never stopped terrorizing the world. Ever since he could remember, the cardinal rule was to wear his mask everywhere. As time passed, social-distancing guidelines became more strict. People started avoiding going out until certain times in the day, and they slowly fell into a routine. A curfew was enforced to make sure nobody snuck out of their homes to meet secretly. There was also a time limit for how long the boy was allowed to spend on deliveries. He had to be back at a certain time and couldn’t leave the city after that. The boy was born in 2026, a year after the Split happened. The Split was a plan, contrived by Congress, to separate the rich and the poor. As the pandemic had grown worse, tensions had risen between the middle and lower classes over race, politics, medical care, and money. The elite sat idly by, watching with contented smiles as their “inferiors” tore each other apart. They felt no need to help them. The boy was lucky he wasn’t alive during those fights. He had heard about how gruesome they were. His parents probably had had to face that, but it didn’t matter: they were dead now anyway. He had never met them and only knew the orphanage in which he grew up. Because of his low status, he had ended up in an unimportant city and was essentially stuck at the bottom of the societal food chain. The boy had no significance, so he was given the menial job of delivering goods to close cities. Since no one else could work with the boy because of safety regulations, he was always isolated, day and night, with no friends or even acquaintances. *          *          * The next day found the boy up and running before the sun. After dropping off the packages, the boy delivered his wagon back to his city and left to take his evening stroll. The city sat by the edge of a forest that eventually gave way to a highway. No one used it anymore, save for the occasional little critter. The boy had always wondered what was on the other side, but he had never had the courage to break the rules and leave the city unless it was for his job. But now he was in his adolescent years, reaching a state of rebellious attitude and independence. When the boy crossed the highway, he could see an old city that had been abandoned. That city had once been populated by rich businessmen and their families, who would travel there to their winter or summer homes. They had been transported to safer cities during the Split. Amidst the buildings on the outskirts of the city was a large box with an opening on one side. It led to a series of steps. The boy descended the steps carefully. He did not realize how deep underground he was until he became aware of the chilliness and wetness of his surroundings. The passage the boy was walking along had flickering lights that hung from the high ceiling. Everything, including the walls and the graffiti on them, looked old. The boy didn’t know how long he had been walking through various winding passages when he began to hear voices. They sounded different than the occasional voice he would hear in the city, although he couldn’t place what made them so different. Curious about why people were out this far from a city, the boy decided to investigate. As he walked down a final set of stairs, the space around him opened up into a big


By

The Day the Sky was Orange

When will our world go back to normal?” the narrator wondered, as smoke blanketed the California sky during the pandemic I knew something was wrong when I saw bright orange light peeking through the cracks in my blinds. Quietly, I slipped out of bed and opened one shutter. What I saw was appalling: a yucky yellow hue tainting everything outside. The world outside is cloaked in a haze, yellowish-orange in color. The sun is completely obscured by the thick substance, giving off minimal light and making our whole world dimmer than normal. Looking Up I’d heard stories from my classmates about the yellow sky that was outside their homes, with a bright orange sun suspended in it. One of my best friends, with whom I had a Google Doc in the times of quarantine, put a photo there of the exact thing that my classmates were describing. It can’t be true, I thought. These fires are so far away—how can the smoke drift all the way over here? And obscure the sun? Impossible. And then it happened to us. It’s a little bit past noon now. The sky has passed its yellow phase—now it’s a deep orange, the color of a ripe pumpkin. It’s as if giant streetlights are shining on us from the sky, flooding California in amber light. It’s actually not all smoke. There’s some fog too. But the smoke is high up and is ultimately what is covering the sun, filtering out all but the orange light. The mountains, usually so proud and defined, have blurred and softened edges. Their color is unclear, a hazy greenish-gray. Through the orange sky, sweeps of gray smoke smudge it. Our hummingbirds are going crazy. Just today, they’ve drunk at least two feeders’ worth of sugar water. Maybe more. While normally we would be able to see their beautiful red throats and iridescent green backs, now they are simply dark silhouettes flitting in and out of the eaves of our deck. As I stare out the window at the pumpkin-colored expanse outside, I wonder the same something that I’ve wondered for a while now: when will our world go back to normal? Please let it be soon, I think, and go back to staring at the surreal orange sky. Raya Ilieva, 10Belmont, CA Anna Weinberg, 11Washington, DC


By

Dear Friend

They are dressed as if they just went to a funeral. Which they have. But only I know. They went to mourn In Los Angeles, And are staying at a hotel now. They are probably taking off Dresses and ties. They’re coming home tomorrow. I begged to go But Mom asked me what funeral I was talking about. Yesterday I got a letter. It said, “Dear friend, We miss you. We are coming home soon. The funeral was sad. Wish you could be there. Love, Your friends.” Today My friends Came back. While I helped them Take off their coats, One of them asked, “Did you get our letter?” I felt happy Even though the handwriting on the letter Was mine. Emma Catherine Hoff, 8Bronx, New York


By

How to Share an Apricot

I shared My apricot With a bird. It said, “Thank you.” I don’t know when the bird started talking. It wrapped me in its arms. It had a gentle grip. Such a gentle grip. Too gentle of a grip, I thought. Supernatural. I don’t know When the bird grew arms. All I know Are my thoughts. Right then I was thinking this was not a good way to show gratitude. I didn’t know Where it was taking me. But then the bird vanished. Its gentle grip was gone. And I was falling. I landed In a queer place. Above me Stood a human with a beak. And I knew at once That it was Carry, The animal I shared my apricot with. All I could think was the Sweet, sweet fact That above me there were several apricots. And I wanted to have one. For I had shared mine earlier today With a bird. Emma Catherine Hoff, 8Bronx, New York