Emily Collins, 12 (Morgantown, WV) Music to the Ears Emily Collins, 12 One year, two months, and eight days. Is that really how long it’s been? Amber wondered, slipping her slender right foot into the early morning grass. Wet with dew and blowing in the wind, the grass felt like the ocean. She glided her left foot into the grass beside her other. One year, two months, and eight days, echoed in her head again. It had been one year, two months, and eight days since March 11, 2020. But it hadn’t been one year, two months, and eight days since her family’s 2019 Christmas Eve party. She replayed the Christmas Eve dinner in her head, an action which she had done time and time again since. She remembered the crowded dining room, full of children chasing each other or whining for food, and adults gossiping and setting the bowls and plates on the table for later. And there stood herself, little Amber, (or what seemed like little Amber, though she was not much younger at the time) amidst the strong smell of turkey and the loud, delighted screams of children. Amber’s mother was quite busy finishing the stuffing and Amber’s noisy, younger brother seemed too occupied with chasing down their grandparents’ old dog, so no one seemed to notice her. She paid no attention to these minor but important details at the time, and decided to make the most of it by secretly snatching a piece of bread before dinner. She ate it happily as she walked into the family room with the blazing fireplace and her smaller cousins, children whom she knew couldn’t yet grasp the concept of the no-eating-before-dinner rule. “Amber! Amber!” little Lindsay cries, jumping up from the large brown and green carpet that is covering almost every inch of the room. Lindsay, one of Amber’s youngest cousins, is 5-years-old (well, five and a half, which she is always reminding them) and has enough energy to beat a cheetah in a race. Her curly pigtails bounce as she attempts to jump up to Amber’s height, but, with disappointment, fails. Amber swallows the remainder of her bread and scoops Lindsay up into her hands. Lindsay laughs gleefully as Amber carries her around the room. “Aw, are you having fun, Lindsay?” Not being able to tell which adult spoke, Amber turns, still holding a giggling Lindsay. The long auburn hair, dimpled cheeks, and sharp, bright eyes tell her exactly which aunt she’s facing. “Hi, Aunt Velvet,” Amber says, but doesn’t continue because that’s when Lindsay hops out of her grip and yells, “Mommy, hi! I’m having a great time! Amber just picked me up and helped me fly!” “Is that so?” says Aunt Velvet, smiling and hugging her daughter’s shoulder. Amber grins, appreciative of their mother-daughter bond. Aunt Velvet then looks up at Amber and exclaims, “Oh my, Amber, you’re getting so tall!” If Amber still had that bread in her mouth, she would have choked on it. Aunt Velvet never talked about how grown up you were unless you were Justin or Olivia, her older cousins who were almost fifteen. Yet, here she was, Amber, not yet a teenager, being praised for her maturity. She blushes. “And your hair! It’s getting so long!” her aunt continues. “Have you ever thought of dying it? I know it’s already a beautiful color, but I’ve met a handful of girls your age who have.” “Oh, yes,” Amber lies. “I’ve been begging my mother to let me dye it, but you know how protective mothers get of their children at my age.” Amber tries to sound the most interesting and sophisticated that she can. Aunt Velvet laughs. “Oh, yes! I may be old, but I know what you mean!” “Do you have a boyfriend?” Lindsay suddenly joins the conversation. “Lindsay!” Aunt Velvet scolds her. She looks back at Amber and adds, “I’m sorry if that was embarrassing, I believe Lindsay has been secretly listening to Justin and Olivia’s conversations.” Amber had secretly smiled at the thought that Lindsay thought she was mature enough to have a boyfriend. But now, remembering the Christmas Eve party for what felt like the millionth time, she wasn’t smiling. Now, she thought to herself, Is that all growing up is? Dying your hair, getting a boyfriend? She shook her head. No, that can’t be all there is to it. She realized, a little guiltily, that these questions would have never entered her mind if the Pandemic had never happened. For if it had not happened, she would have never had the time to look over her life over and over again, to use her imagination as much as she had, to learn, sadly, of the terrible ache in the world. The Pandemic had allowed her the time to recall shameful memories of joining in the teasing of a girl with a crush, and of laughing along with others at the boy who always sat alone. She had the time to look the memories over and understand how they were wrong. And this led to more thinking. Not just about herself, but the about world around her. Not only of the sadness of the world, and the mistakes people made, but the beauty of it all. Soon she began to enjoy the time when she sat down to think. It changed her perspective tremendously. It was a bit like swinging on a swing set. For a moment, it’s a bit hard to adjust from the sudden change of going from the ground to the air, but soon it becomes a thrilling experience. You notice your change in perspective and surroundings as you swing through the air. It seems like everything around you is changing, but really the only one who’s changing is you. Yes, the passage of time is a good thing. It can open doors. It can heal wounds. And, everyone’s favorite, it can bring things back to… Normal. A familiar word, used everywhere these
Stories
Spring Will Not Die: a short play
Characters The King: A dictator, angry, cold, insensitive Thaer: The revolutionary, a young driven, impatient dreamer of freedom. Passionate with his people, tough with his enemies. Khaled: a young man, hesitant but quietly driven. Maria: A very strong young woman, who impacts the people around her in a powerful way. Lara: Hesitant, always afraid. Rama: Adamant, insisting on her way, strong and passionate. Lana: A young woman who loved modern conveniences and the advantages of modern life. She has drive and passion but is soft. Fatima: Always hides her feelings. The revolution engaged her after she realized its essence. Then embraced its meaning. Welcome to all our guests. Revolutions, and especially the revolutions in the Arab lands today, aren’t simple events that can be conveyed in a play of less than half and hour. The reality is the blood of the people. It’s not easy to fully portray their pain and suffering. This play may not be 100% accurate or an exact mirror of reality, but it seeks to present the way in which the demonstrations brought to the streets the youth who were driven by their passion for freedom. Thank you for attending. Scene One – A procession through the kingdom as the King and his entourage pass through. Sitting on his throne, he exudes power. Next to him are his courtiers. The poor people in tattered clothes walk by, cursing the procession. Thaer (quiet and afraid) : Oh, people, we need to start the movement now. Enough of silence and fear. We’re fed up. We should no longer tolerate the oppression. Don’t you see the transgressions of this ruler? Maria (in a very soft voice): What are you doing, Thaer? Do you want to get us all killed? This is forbidden in the realm. The king has forbidden us to even think about democracy. Stop this. You don’t know what will happen to us. Fatima: You may tempt fate and survive but what about the millions of people who will be implicated and caught up in what you do? If you’re killed what about all those who see you as their hero – what about them? Do you know what will happen? Lana (fearful): Stop this! This only creates fear, and if someone hears this talk, it will be the end of us. Scene Two – An alley in the kingdom. From afar, someone speaks. A suspicious gathering. In a secret location, young people come together and then disperse. Thaer: Friends, enough of fear. Let’s prepare to claim our rights. Lara: You’re going to get us killed! Khaled: This is not our business. Let’s talk about something we can actually accomplish, something realistic. Thaer: My loved ones, my friends, my family – what’s wrong with you? You hear and see and don’t speak out. Is it worth it for you to lose the dignity which you only claim to have? Or your honor and pride which you are burying with your own hands? Your conscience is drugged while you sleep. Answer me, for the sake of this life that you dream of. Is it for you to applaud empty idols and worship gangsters and obey ignorant thugs. Don’t you believe in yourselves? I swear to God who is generous of spirit and who makes all things right that you will be shunned by his mercy. I want you as I knew you – free and with self-respect – revolutionary. Don’t be like animals, without a sense of purpose and destiny. Silence. Scene Three – The King’s minions collecting taxes by force from the poor merchants. Rama: With all this oppression and aggression, I’m beginning to understand Thaer’s words. Khaled: Me, too. I can’t tolerate this stealing from the people while they are in their palace, surrounded by flatterers and covered in gold. Fatima: We need to work together hand in hand and not let each other down. We need to regain the balance of our lives. This is our mandate. Lana: I completely agree with you. Maria: I’m with you, too, and I will stay with you until my last breath. And this will be the pin of the grenade – we will rekindle the conscience of the people. Thaer: What about you, Lara? Lara (waiting for everyone, speaking hesitantly): I’ll be with you. Rama (stepping forward and speaking): Tomorrow will be our first outcry against their arrogance. Scene Four – In front of the King’s palace. Everyone is approaching the throne and glancing at each other. Then Thaer speaks. Thaer: Who are we and who are you? We are the hidden voice of justice and you are the voice of oppression. We are the driving force and you are steering us without knowing where you’re going. We are the light and you are extinguishing us. Let’s all repeat: This kingdom is ours and not the possession of the sycophants and minions of the king. We are the owners of the kingdom, not the bootlickers like you. More and more people pick up the chant. While the crowd is shouting, the throne begins to quake and the king gives the order to his minions to attack. Lara is killed and everyone withdraws from the square where they were assembling. The curtain closes. Scene Five – The curtain opens on the same hiding place. There are new members of the group but all are downcast over the death of Lara. Rama stands in the center and cries out “What’s wrong with this ruler? Does he want to kill the people for simply asking for their basic rights.? What would he do if we went further – to demand his removal? Thaer (after thinking): I think this is our new slogan. Everyone now prepare the movement to instruct the people to demand their rights. The curtain closes. The curtain opens on the square. Rama starts by claiming power for the people and an end to the tyranny and oppression and the oppressor. Everyone begins to chant the slogan and then spears start
Climate Change stories from our 2019 Podcast Contest: “No Longer Blue,” by Olivia Park, 12
https://soundcloud.com/user-28081890/no-longer-blue/s-3Ks0r I walked back and forth in my room, looking out at skies that were no longer blue. The television droned on. “Oxygen levels are steadily decreasing, and oxygen costs are higher than ever. On to today’s weather, in New Delhi, 679 micrograms of PM 2.5 and high temperatures of . . .” I laughed, the sound becoming louder and louder, and I knew I had to stop. I couldn’t. I rolled around on the cold blankets. I could become rich. All I had to do was tell the people that oxygen was running out. Raise the prices. The world would believe that I was diligently handing out oxygen to the poor people of India. Everyone was overreacting, talking about how people needed more oxygen, blah blah blah, but I didn’t believe them How bad could conditions be? I laughed and laughed, until my throat was hoarse, and then laughed some more. I jumped on my bed, onto my couch, trying to touch the ceiling. Someone pounded on the door and yelled, “Stop screaming!” I looked up and sighed. No one could stop me. I skipped outside and yelled at the buildings, “Take THAT!” I stretched luxuriously, and walked up to my car. I drove to my factories in my family mountain, where we produced oxygen. I got out of my car to remove the heavy metal fences that were filled with stickers like “Private Property” or “No Trespassing.” I stopped by the factory to get a bottle of water. One of the only clean places in India, Mt. Kodachadri was perfect for hiking. I payed no attention to the road as I walked, watching concerts of my favorite artist. A few minutes later, I was hopelessly lost. It was dark and foggy, and I thought I could hear a tiger in the distance. I shivered. It was getting colder by the minute. My battery was running out, and I kept tripping over roots. I kept walking for who knows how long, faulting my neighbor. Stupid neighbor. If she hadn’t yelled at me, I wouldn’t have had to walk around my mountain. I wouldn’t be here, lost and hungry and cold. Worse, it started to rain. Soaked to the bones, I walked and walked until I stumbled upon a small tent. A small fire remained near the foot of the tent. There was light inside. The whole mountain was surrounded by signs; it was impossible not to run into one, especially this deep inside, not that I knew where I was, but I just had this feeling I was near the heart of the mountain. Anyhow, it was their fault for trespassing. I unzipped the entrance and crawled in. A man, maybe in his mid-forties, looked up, surprised to see someone crawl into his tent. In his lap was a 4-ish looking little girl, with her dark hair in a braid. The girl was tiny, and had sallow, sunken skin. Her lips were tinged blue, and her big eyes stared at me. An intruder. She lifted her head, and as soon as she did, she started coughing. It was a while before she stopped, and even then, she was wheezing, She hugged her little teddy bear tight and coughed, as if it was her lifeline. I stared at her, a small lump forming in the pit of my stomach. “Natasha has asthma. It’s a result of the pollution.” I looked up. I had forgotten he was there. I cleared my throat. “This is private property.” He nodded, and said, “I only stay here for a day. Once a month.” As if that made up for trespassing. He pointed his chin to his daughter. “She. . . has trouble breathing in the city. But both my wife and my work are there, so. . .” Thunder tumbled, and I flinched. “Would you like Bee-Bee?” She caught me cringing, and offered her tattered old teddy bear, its once-polished eyes dulled from all the times she had rubbed it. I slowly took it from her. Our hands touched, and she smiled at me, eyes sparkling. And then she started coughing. She hacked. She coughed. Her lips took a shallow blue hue, and I thought I could see blood on the edges. Her father put a cloth to her mouth, and patted her on the back. I could only look on, horrified, as red blossomed onto the white cloth. The stone became heavier. It dropped lower into my stomach, and I realized what the dirty feeling was: guilt. Why was I feeling guilty? I held the teddy bear, thinking. Strangely enough, I didn’t feel the need to chase these strangers away. I sat thinking for some more. Soon, I stood and left without a word. Now, three years later. I am walking around, looking at the kids covered in dirt. I help a child struggling to depot a sapling. Brushing dirt off my shorts, I walk into the building. Avoiding various tents, I check the oxygen income, and straighten the sign that reads: “Free to Those in Need.” Glancing at the capsules full of oxygen, and within them, children, I smile. I breathe deeply, a feeling of accomplishment creeping through me. I open my eyes, only to see a blur of pink running towards me. Natasha flies up into my arms. Her eyes sparkle even more than the first time I met her, and she looks healthier than ever. Her cheeks are rosy, and her face is no longer blue. Sources: New York Times: Choking in New Delhi https://www.vox.com/energy-and-environment/2018/11/8/18075340/delhi-pollution-diwali-india
