Fiction
I have always been an early bird. I love to wake around 5:45 AM every morning, even on weekends. Mom says my early-birdness comes from Nanna Mary, but I'm not sure about that. I felt so alive this morning, energy climbed and slipped all throughout me, like a bird waiting to be let out of its cage. Normally I just end up standing by the window looking at the street lights, watching the different-colored cars pass with yawning drivers blinking at the rising sun. This morning was different for me. I crept downstairs, keeping myself on tiptoes and taking river steps (Momma's name for big steps) until I reached the doorknob of the back door. I twisted it very slowly, sucking in my breath. I didn't want anyone to hear me leave. The door opened and cool morning air hit me. I was only in my nightie and it grabbed me like an unknown stranger. I could almost taste the dew in the grass, and I could feel the flowers opening to the rising sun. I slid my old sneakers on and started walking to my secret berry patch. Leaves brushed against my face, whispering to me playfully. The berry patch is my thinking spot. I first discovered it when I moved here from Florida. I think the berries represent me. When we moved here the berries were all tiny, hard, and green, innocent, not knowing what life had to offer, just like I was, stiff and tense from the move. As the months passed, the berries developed to become big, black and juicy, full of life, full of knowing. That's how I felt, I had opened up and met friends. I was no longer hard and green, I was soft and juicy. I can feel a row of ants march across my leg, and I can hear the birds begin their song. The sun is up now; it's dancing on my face. I know it's time for me to get up and go to school. Mom is probably in the kitchen by now, cooking pancakes in her chewed-up moccasins, and my sister is probably skipping around her begging if she can help pour the batter into the pan. I start to walk home and as I look back I see a big black berry. I smile to myself and, of course, I pick it . . . Lia C, 13, author British Columbia, Canada
Fiction
Andrea pressed her nose against the frosted windowpane to get a better look outside. Not a drop of snow fell from the gray, overcast sky on this gloomy Christmas afternoon. Fidgety with anticipation, she wriggled in her seat. She could hear the adults in the parlor, talking and laughing away. She got up to go see if they were having more fun than she was, sitting by the window and waiting for the snow to come. She listened as they reminisced about old times long gone by. A girl of ten, she was curious about everything. She spoke up in a tiny voice from the back of the room, "Mommy, is it going to snow?" "Honey, it's going to take a miracle for it to snow. They call for rain today," her mother said from across the table. "Oh, I think it'll snow," her grandmother said. "I can think of bigger miracles." "Like what?" Andrea asked. "Did you ever have a Christmas miracle?" Her grandmother stroked Andrea's hair awhile before she began. "Well, when I was small, I lived in a tiny country house in a rural farming community in Minnesota. The weather was real bad in winter, but we managed. My father farmed the land we owned with the help of Uncle Jack and Uncle Jim. My mother worked as a seamstress. My older brother Sam was fifteen. At the time, I was about your age, nine or ten. "We had a small vegetable garden in the back of our tiny house and in the summertime Sam used to take me down to the farmers' market in town. We would split the money we got for a few dozen cucumbers, carrots and potatoes. I had saved all of my money until Christmas, when I wanted to buy a special gift for my mother. "I had passed by Sherry's Specialty Store and in the large store window saw the most beautiful watch for sale. It just so happened that my mother's old watch had stopped ticking a couple of days ago and she needed a new one. So one cold day in late December, right before Christmas, while my parents were at work, I got out the $21.95 that I had saved from the summer, which I hid under the loose floorboard of our back porch, along with the key to my diary. I begged Sam to take me down to town. Reluctantly, he gave in and got his coat. I ran down to Sherry's, Sam at my side and money in hand. "I opened the door to a brightly lit store and heard the cowbell attached to the door jingle. Jars filled to the top with candy lined the counter's shelves. Yards of colorful ribbons and fabric dripped from their cubbyholes. Dress-up dolls with blinky eyes stared down at me. I resisted all of the temptations to snatch them up and then remembered why I was here. "That gleaming watch shined from under the counter. A single ray of light sparkled against its face as it slowly ticked away the time I had spent saving up for this glorious day. I put my hand on the warm glass counter and said, 'I think I want this one, right here.' The clerk unlocked the counter with a small gold key, lifted it out and showed it to me. Then placing it in a satin box, he tied a small bow around it and rang up the price on the register: $21.90 exactly. "I was beaming so hard that my jaw ached when I left the store. I held tight to my mother's gift. I can still feel its rough crushed-velvet exterior rubbing against my sweaty palm. I looked up at the sky, which was gray and overcast, just like today . . ." "Did it snow?" an anxious Andrea interrupted her story. "Oh, yes, it snowed. I looked down and saw a single snowflake fall to the dusty soil. Then another and another until they were falling so quickly I could barely keep track of them. My feet were soon crunching through a thin layer of powdery light snow. Gusts of wind blew the snow up in my face as I marched on. Sam didn't want to admit it, but we were in the middle of a full-fledged genuine blizzard. I clasped Sam's hand as if my life depended on it, for his face was no longer visible through the thick layer of falling flakes. "We needed to find shelter, so I yelled to Sam above the roar of the wind. 'What do we do now?' "Just follow me, I know the way!' he shouted back. Later on, he confided to me that he didn't know where we were going, but after an hour of wandering, my faith in Sam withered. We trudged on endlessly through the rough weather. "Soon, Sam grasped some sort of handle. He pulled it open with all of his strength, revealing a barn. Like most of the barns in the area, there were a few work animals and chickens. Nothing that different. With much struggle, Sam and I pushed against the wide doors, huge gusts of wind stinging our faces. A sudden click brought silence. I opened my eyes and saw that the big red doors were closed. I had never heard a more beautiful sound in my life than the click of those doors. I slid down into the hay, tired and cold. "Sam paced in front of the large barn doors. He tried to find some clue to where we were, but he only got frustrated without his compass. It all looked so familiar, but I was too exhausted to concentrate on anything. Finally, hungry and worn out, he nestled into the hay next to me. I closed my eyes and slept. "When I awoke, I didn't know how long I had been asleep. All I could hear was the rhythmic sound of Sam's breathing. I headed toward the door and cautiously
Fiction
My earliest memory is of being trapped in a box. It was a large cardboard shoebox with a few holes punched into the side for air. Light glowed through the holes, but I couldn't see through them; I could only feel myself sliding from side to side as the box was tossed around. I didn't understand what was going on, and I was terrified. Then, I remember, the movement suddenly stopped. The lid of the box was lifted and I was bathed in blinding light. I blinked. I fluttered my almost featherless little wings. I squeaked pitifully. Then I saw her. I suppose for a human she was a little girl, but to me she was gigantic. Still, I wasn't afraid. She looked so gentle. I stared into her deep brown eyes and squeaked again. Her face, a dark tan color, broke into a delighted smile. "A bird?" she said. "For me?" "Happy seventh birthday, Catalina," said one of the huge people surrounding me. "This loro, this parrot, marks the one year we have been living in America." "Como se llama?" the girl asked. "What is his name?" "We thought you could be naming it yourself. Is your bird," said someone. "Mr. Allen, nice man next door, he gives him to you for free, because his big parrots is having too many little parrots. He says this is boy bird." "Let's put him in his cage," said someone else. "He still is baby, Catalina, so you need to be feeding him special food with a spoon." Suddenly I felt myself being lifted out of the box. I felt warm hands cupped around me. At first I struggled, but Catalina's hands were so gentle I soon nestled against them. "I will call him Paco," she said. "Why Paco?" asked one of the others. Catalina shrugged. "I like the name Paco. Is good name for loro." Another person, a large man, beamed at Catalina. "Now let us celebrate! Today is Catalina's birthday, and one year since we have come here from Cuba!" Everybody cheered. Catalina stroked my head, and I knew I was safe with her. * * * Months passed. S00n I was an almost fully grown scarlet macaw, with glossy, bright red feathers; red, yellow, and blue wings that were strong for flying; an enormous sharp beak for cracking nuts and chewing wood; and a long tail of pointed red feathers. I would fly free around the house, singing along with the radio, inspecting the food in the kitchen, and chewing everything I could get my beak on. Catalina fed me and talked to me in a soft voice and cuddled me in her hands, so as I grew I learned to trust and love humans. This was a good thing, for there were many humans in the house. There was Mama, Catalina's mother, who always had something delicious in the kitchen, though I was not always allowed to sample it. There was Papa, Catalina's father, who bought me my food and toys. He played music on the radio that I enjoyed singing along with. Arturo was Catalina's brother, sixteen years old; he was noisy and a little bit frightening to me. He also played music on the radio, but I didn't like it as much as Papa's music. Then there was Mariana, Catalina's sister. She was nineteen years old and did not pay very much attention to me; she was usually in her room or with her boyfriend. But she was very beautiful, and I always wanted to chew her long black hair, or pull off her shiny gold earrings. Unfortunately, she didn't let me do either. This was Catalina's family, and everyone was mostly kind to me; but I always liked Catalina best of all. She was my mother, my sister, my best friend, and everything else to me. We did everything together. I thought we would be together forever. Then came hurricane season. We had had hurricane seasons before, living in Florida as we did. But this one was more severe than most. From what I understood, a huge hurricane was in South America and coming our way. Hurricane Andrew, it was called. Catalina's mother was clearly nervous, frequently listening to the radio and saying things like, "I hope the hurricane is to be staying in Panama. We are having already enough of troubles." Or, "Arturo, please keep inside the house today. The sky is too many clouds." She would often glance out the window and then return to her work with a sigh of relief. I didn't understand why she was so afraid, but I was beginning to get nervous, too. Then something else happened to make the tension in the house double: Mariana became pregnant. Of course everyone was happy that she would have a baby. It would be the first member of the family born in America. But there were some huge problems. Catalina's family was definitely not rich; they had a hard enough time already with five people and a bird in the house. A baby would cost more money than Papa could earn as a cook in a local restaurant. There was talk of Mama, Mariana, and Arturo getting jobs. They considered selling some furniture, though there wasn't much to sell. There was no room or money for a baby, and though Mama and Papa said we should move, everyone knew we did not have enough money. So with the hurricane and the baby, there was a lot of fear in the household. Then, one wet, cloudy, windy day, I heard the music on the radio stop with a long, shrill beeping sound, and a voice said, "Hurricane Andrew has taken a surprise turn to the west. Now predicted to pass through the Keys, up north to Fort Lauderdale. Do not attempt to leave your home for any reason until further notice. Repeat: Hurricane Andrew . . ." "Catalina," said Mama in a tight, breathless voice, "take Paco to the basement
Fiction
I love storms. Especially electrical storms. The only downside is that I can't use the computer. I still love storms. This was a big one. I watched the lightning reach down with long, slim fingers. I counted the seconds until the thunder came. It was still far away. I was sitting on the back of the couch with my hands pressed up against the window. My breath fogged the glass. It was so dark outside. I'm glad we live in the country, so the streetlights could not take away from the glory of the storms. There was a flash, and my crude shadow was cast back into the living room. In the brief light the sky seemed purple. It was gone so quickly, leaving the image jumping on my retina. The darkness was all the blacker for the brief illumination. It was coming closer with every strike. The wind raged around the old house and drove the rain hard against the window. One . . . two . . . three . . . fo- . . . the thunder rattled the windows. Soon it would be directly over the house. I was waiting for it. I could not have waited more than twenty seconds, but each second was an hour. And then it came, bright and blinding. The purple light filled the house, pouring in the windows. I savored the adrenaline that washed downward to my feet. The crash deafened me. Then the lights went out. I got a flashlight from the closet. It was dim, but I couldn't find any new batteries. I checked the woodstove, and added some old two-by-fours. I like power outages. It's kind of a love-hate relationship, power outages and me. They prevent me from using the computer, the so-called "love of my life." An accurate description. There is something about the loss of electricity that appeals to me. I have heard it is that way with many people. Lightning lit up the house like a strobe light. Thunder made my teeth rattle. It rang in my ears and made me dizzy. The storm was stationary. I wondered why. The human mind can become accustomed to almost anything it encounters, if exposed to it long enough. The thunder and rain became background noise. I walked down the hall, thinking about my computer game. Only twelve levels to go until I entered the chamber of the warlord Zanegus. I had been thinking to try a new strategy tonight. But my plans were overthrown by the forces of nature. I pushed open the door to the computer room, aka "Raquel's lair." Nero, the white cat my mother named, shot out the door. I wondered how he got in. The computer was on. Its bluish glow filled the room. It was on screen-saver. The one called "Mystify Your Mind." I flicked the light switch on and off. Nothing happened. Too weird. I sat down at the keyboard and clicked the mouse. The screen showed that I was online. An instant message filled the screen. It was blank. I typed, "Hello? Anyone there?" "Yes." There was no screen name. "Who is that there?" "Not who, why." "OK, why, then?" "To show you." "Elaborate." There was a roll of images on the screen. A spiderweb laced with dew. A drop of water falling on a still pool. Sunlight through green leaves. "I don't understand." "The world is old. It dies. See?" "No." "It is like yourself. It can only live for so long. It will die, like you." "When?" "Eventually." "When exactly?" "Long after you die." "So why do I matter?" "Everyone matters." "Why are you telling me?" "Because you have a job to do." "And what is that?" "Learn. Learn about the moon and the stars and the breath of the earth. Know the parasite and the host." "The parasite. What is . . . ?" "The human race is the parasite to the earth. The galaxy is the host to the earth. The universe is the parasite of something much grander." "What?" "That is not for you to know." "Then what am I to know?" "The earth." "Everything about it?" "Yes." "I can't. It's too much." "You will find it is not." "Why?" "Somebody has to know." "But why me? I have a life. I go to school and play computer games and watch TV. I can't just become a recluse and cram my head with facts day and night. It won't work." "Just try. It will come." "Who are you? How is the computer on when there is no power? I don't understand." "I am the sun and the moon and the planets, and I am you." "Wait a sec." "You are looking in a mirror. You are speaking to an echo. You know me very well." "And how?" "That is not for you to know." "Why not?" "As the human brain cannot comprehend infinity, so you cannot understand certain facts. I am the host of the universe and the parasite of a quark and the soul of your body. Good-bye." The computer had kicked me off the Internet. I sat in the darkness and stared at the screen. The thunder moved off, becoming a distant growl. The rain slackened. Nero meandered into the room and jumped into my lap. The power came back on.
Fiction
Dust twirled up into the sky as the mother cheetah chased after the young gazelle. Like all cheetahs, she had a flexible spine, enabling her to cover the ground quickly by taking huge strides. Using her speed as a weapon she took a leap and brought the young animal down, then, taking it by the throat and piercing its windpipe, she suffocated it. Then she gulped down the bloody flesh quickly, for fresh meat soon attracts scavengers; a vulture, a jackal, a marabou stork, it seemed everyone had a share in her well-earned prize. After pulling most of the red bloody flesh off her dead animal she lifted her graceful strong head and raced off toward her den, which was holding two cubs. As she came to a halt at the den, a huge flash of lightning struck the ground, and the sound of thunder cracked in the dark sky. A hyena screamed and ran from its hiding place, and a small herd of gazelles stood shivering, like a shimmering water hole on the grassy plain. The first drops of cold rain splattered onto the cheetah's nose and descended slowly onto the bloody scruff. She stood with her head up, sniffing the gusty air; for a second she stood frozen, then backed slowly down the passage to her screaming cubs. Slowly, slowly until she hit the tunnel end and found her pups. They lifted their tiny noses to her mouth and made worrying noises up to her. The regurgitated food dropped onto the sandy floor. The pups exploded with excitement and pushed their way toward it; their eyes were already open, and the stronger cub had dominance over the smaller, weaker one. Their mother lay down and started grooming her sandy brown fur. A bolt of lightning flashed down to the ground just near enough for them to see the sparks of fire, but with their eyes closed in pleasure they saw nothing. Suddenly the grass was a licking amber flame. In an instant the frightened cheetah picked up the stronger cub and rushed to the entrance. The fire licked into the den as they proceeded up to it. Her strong back legs bunched under her and the rows of well-built muscle that had been developed for sprinting at ninety kilometers per hour were now all used to jump high into the air with the cub. The flames engulfed her like a lion jumping through a hoop of fire. They made it with ease and ran off through the golden grass. The tiny cub screamed and dragged herself up to the entrance of the earth. The flames were too intense for her and they burnt her little whiskers and quivering wet nose. The frightened creature scampered helplessly back down to the chamber, her tail between her scrawny legs. The earth fell away as she scratched at the soil. Every time her paws hit the solid wall she whimpered painfully. Where was the emergency exit? She tried in vain to cast her mind back to when the lioness had attacked them; her mother had saved them by blocking up the entrance. Now the soil that for so long had been her friend held her back. There must be a way out. She was sure of it! Glancing back to the entrance of the earth she saw, to her horror, one of the longer roots had burst into glowing flames. Frantically she started to dig. Her baby paws scrabbled at the sides of the tunnel, sending sheets of earth flying behind her. She battered at it with her head, desperate to force a way through. Earth clogged her eyes and nostrils. The large root had glowed dangerously for some time, now it burst with light and golden colors—flames! The cub's paws broke through the sidewall. She slid halfway down a sooty tunnel and stopped. Behind her the bedding had caught fire. Breathing hard she kicked at the soft earth; the air was full of drifting dust. Her long pink tongue and throat were coated in sticky sand, and as she broke out of the tunnel a fine drizzle started, wetting her face. Bedraggled, disheveled and soaking wet, she struggled on, following the telltale scent of her mother. She screamed in triumph as the dark silhouette of her parent came into view. She scampered happily up to her, wagging her tail and purring in delight. They curled up with the older cub and closed their eyes in pleasure. Outside the wind howled round and the rain pelted down, while lightning lit up the sky. They were cozy and warm in their new-found den; it was small but comfortable with the small amount of bedding they found. The dawning was wet, but with happiness for all animals that gathered. Herds of hundreds grazed on the grassfilled plains. Wildebeest, gazelles and large families of warthogs—they all scurried around a fallen tree finding food, and so did the cheetahs. Silently the two cubs and the long-legged female perched on the top of a warm, gray rock. The youngsters were too interested in the family of wobbly quail that were pecking at the long grass seeds. They never noticed the small herd of gazelle. The mother cheetah, although young, was too wise to be distracted by such a small meal. The pickings she was focusing on were larger, stronger and faster; also, they were much more nutritious and rich in goodness and would help her produce better milk, so her cubs would grow stronger. Taking no notice of the noisy creatures, she padded down the rock onto the grass. She crept along on her tummy until within three meters, then sprang forward. It was a good take-off, and she was catching up with the young buck that she had being observing for some time. Her speed was tremendous, like a blurred object—faster than the eye could follow; she gripped the hard ground with her claws and pushed herself forward. The buck was slowing, and had tried
Fiction
The Ultimate Challenge: To Come Home Alive
Peter Bradbury stepped outside into the ten-degrees-below-zero Canadian air. The winter would get much colder. The bundled-up, seventeen-year-old boy was not cold. He had grown up in this weather. He was tall, lean, dirty, unshaven, strong, and tough. He had been born in the woods. With much difficulty, he trudged through the three-foot-deep snow over to a rack that his snowshoes were on. The frame was made from wood and the webbing was made from animal skin. They had to be kept outside the whole winter. The temperature change of bringing them in the house was not good for them. Wearing the snowshoes, he walked on top of the snow with ease over to a small doghouse. Curled up inside was a young malamute. He was a grayish brown with black ears and patches of white on his face. "Come on, Chocolate. We're going to check the trapline." The dog got up. Peter was wearing many layers to stay warm. He had a pack on his back. Chocolate had a thick coat of hair; he was always dressed for the weather. Peter put another pack on Chocolate's back. "We're ready to go." The dog followed Peter into the woods. Peter Bradbury's trapline was fifteen miles long. At the other end there was a cabin where he would sleep. The next day he would come back home. It was usually easy for Peter and Chocolate to travel the ten miles in a day. When they traveled down the trail, through the pines, Chocolate ran ahead and then turned around and came bounding back to Peter. Both dog and boy squinted. The light from the sun reflected on the white snow caused their eyes pain. Sometimes Chocolate would run off to the side to chase a squirrel for a while. Peter was quite amused when he dashed into the forest in a frenzy, in mad pursuit of some small animal, barking nonstop. Finally he would give up and come back to Peter. At each trap that they came to, Peter would put in fresh bait, reset the trap, and if there was an animal in it, take it out. The bait came from Chocolate's pack. Peter whistled cheerfully as he went along. He and Chocolate knew the route well. The first three traps were empty. At the fourth, there was a jackrabbit which he took. He tied the rabbit's legs together and attached it to the outside of his pack. When he got home, Peter and his mother would skin the animals and sell the pelts at the closest trading post at the end of the season. Peter's father had died long ago, so Peter was the man of the house. His mother did odd jobs in town. During the winter, Peter's trapline was their main income. They desperately needed the money. The fifth trap he disappointedly found empty. At the sixth he found an arctic fox. He cheerfully whistled as they moved on. The seventh and eighth traps were empty. Peter started to notice a change in the weather. It was getting colder and dark clouds filled the sky. It had gotten extremely windy. The cold bit at Peter's pink nose. It was snowing lightly. At the ninth trap there was an ermine. Ermine fur was very much in demand. Very happily, Peter took it out. They were headed toward the tenth trap when there were some very sudden gusts of wind. The snow was much heavier now, coming down in sheets. Peter could barely see. "It's a blizzard! We'd better stop awhile, Chocolate. Let's look for some shelter." About seventy meters to the left of the trail, there was a small rock outcropping. The roof sloped down and met the floor at the very back. Slabs of rock held it up. It could not have been more than fifteen feet by ten feet. Once sitting inside the dry shelter, Peter began to go to work. He brushed the snow off of himself and the dog. "We'll just stay here awhile, Chocolate." The dog barked. "I'm going to build a fire. You stay here while I try to find something dry to burn." The dog stayed in the shelter while Peter pushed his way through the heavy snow, not being able to see where he was going, in search of something to burn. He found some tree branches, felled from the blizzard. Gathering as much as he could possible carry, he tried to make his way back to the shelter. "Oh, no!" Peter groaned aloud. "How will I find my way back? OK, OK. Don't panic. I can't be more than fifty feet away. I'll call Chocolate. I'll hear his bark and follow the sound back. Chocolate! Chocolate!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the wind. He continued to shout and kept moving toward where he thought the shelter was. He did not hear an answer. Then he saw something coming toward him. It was an animal covered with snow, about the size of a wolf. Peter started to back away but the animal kept coming closer. Peter tried to remain calm. It was unlike wolves to attack people. The animal kept advancing toward Peter. Peter was still not sure what it was. He kept backing away. Then the wolf-like animal jumped on him. "Chocolate!" Peter cried in relief. Chocolate led him back to the shelter. Once inside, Peter set to work. His hands and feet were numb from cold. His ears were almost frozen. His top layer of clothes was soaking. Peter cut up the wet wood and made a tepee. He stuck the leaves underneath it to use as the kindling. "Now," Peter said to Chocolate, "all I have to do is get the fire going and then we will defrost." Peter hesitated a moment and then said, "Oh no. Oh no. Oh boy." He sighed and then said in a grim voice, "I forgot to pack the matches." Chocolate cocked his head and gave Peter
Fiction
When I look back now, eighteen months later, at our horrendous car crash, it seems so far away, so surreal. But the harsh reminders are suddenly there. My older brother's scars, jagged lines across his muscled chest and stomach, and also running down his spine. Still my hero, so brave in his suffering, never a word of complaint during his long healing process. My mother's stiff neck and hole marks on her brow from her "halo" brace, used to heal her broken neck (what a nice name for such a painful contraption!). One moment my parents and two older brothers, Scott and Tyler, and I were carefree and traveling along a remote country road on the second-to-last day of our family vacation in Australia, my stepdad cracking a joke, hilarious as usual. Everyone relaxed from just playing tennis. The next moment, we're violently hit head-on by a speeding car. The sound of crashing metal, then everything is still, my family all moaning in pain, smoke in the air, no one seems to be able to move. In a haze, I try to open the van's side door but can't. My stepdad groans and rolls out, blood is everywhere, my mom is not moving, shouts to get out of the van, my eldest brother Scott whimpers in agony that he can't move (broken pelvis and nose), but Tyler, thirteen, an incredible athlete, miraculously moves to the front seat and crawls out, now lying in a fetal position by the side of the hot, dirt shoulder of the road, moaning in intense pain (back broken in three places, severed stomach and severe intestinal injuries, severed leg arteries). Finally I jump out of the driver's door and see the smoking car that hit us and it seems to be on fire, with an older man trapped inside. What to do? My parents are now both shouting for me to get help, I am the only one who can move. Me, the kid brother, the out-of-it one, suddenly called upon. I have no choice. A lonely country road, I can see no one and no houses. The van is demolished, the other car is crushed, with smoke coming from it. Suddenly I run, yelling "Help, help" until I find a house. Part of me wants to rest and make it go away. Two men and a woman come outside. They are kind and phone for help (they visit me later in the hospital). Fortunately, an ambulance arrives from close by, and soon a helicopter comes for Tyler, who is in serious trouble. Another courageous man, luckily just driving by, rescues the trapped and injured man with a crowbar. My mother's neck is broken, so close to paralysis, but she is going to be OK and is taken by helicopter to Brisbane, three hours' drive away. Tyler and the rest of us are in the Lismore Base Hospital. He is in critical condition. They stabilize his broken back and work on his insides, removing thirty percent of his intestines. His leg circulation is bad, and many skilled doctors work to save his foot and toe. My aunt and uncle fly in from Singapore. My aunt talks endlessly to a semi-conscious Tyler and holds his hand. He thinks she is my mother, their voices so similar. It is wonderful to have healthy family looking out for us. The doctors and police say we are lucky to be alive; seat belts and air bags saved us. I say a few awkward prayers for Tyler, he is the cool, free-spirited one, now lying powerless in his hospital bed, linked up to all sorts of monitors, while I play endless video games. My bruises and headaches heal quickly. I try hard not to think of the natural athlete, the graceful snowboarder, triple-long-jumper and effortless back-flip diver, without a foot or his toes. I run from room to room telling each person how the other is doing. It is a strange feeling when your "together" parents and brothers are helpless and you're fine. I imagine my mother lonely and frantic with worry about Tyler, and away from us. She is the one who insisted that we buckle up, immediately, after each of the many stops of our three-week trip, and now she is separated from us. Later, my dad arrives from Canada to be by Tyler's side. My mom, heavily sedated, is mistakenly put in the overcrowded female "dementia" ward of a public hospital with one woman named Ivy, who is over 90, who never stops talking and thinks she is having a baby. Yes, there is some humor, even in tragic moments. All I can say to anyone who has been in a car crash is that my heart goes out to you. It is a numbing and mind-boggling experience. It is best to focus on the positive things. There are many, and we're grateful to be alive, and that my baby sister Caleigh wasn't with us. She was left home with my grandmother, because she was too young to really enjoy what my mom called a more macho trip. And yes, Australia is a wonderful country for a family vacation. We combined my interest in nature and my older brothers' interest in sports and adventure. We started in beautiful Sydney, saw its impressive aquarium and zoo, and then on to the Blue Mountains, where we hired a biologist for a nature tour, saw wild kangaroos and leaned over the steep cliffs looking down into the ancient forest. We went to an ecological mountain retreat in the rain forest— no phones or TV—and night-time nature walks to see the fascinating animal life. We absailed down a beautiful cliff and explored remote nature caves and trails. We drove up the Gold Coast. My brothers went bungee-jumping. We took a huge ferry over to an island near the Great Barrier Reef, and went scuba diving and snorkeling. We all learned so much and enjoyed Australian hospitality, including on a macadamia
Fiction
I am writing this story to tell you about a little orphan boy. His name was Jack and he was my foster brother for two years. When Jack first came to live at our house, he was small. He carried his belongings in a laundry basket and wore jeans with holes in them. He had a scraggly mushroom haircut. When Jack was nervous and scared, he stuttered. He also was confused. One time, we went to my violin lesson at a church; he asked, "Is this my new home?" He would get mad a lot. He'd have temper tantrums and yell. I think he was mad because he felt that nobody wanted him. When Jack first came, I was worried that Jack might have to go live somewhere else, because he had lots of problems. I was afraid that he might hurt somebody. He broke many of my toys. I didn't know what was going to happen to Jack. I didn't think he would be adopted. I reassured myself, "Miracles can happen." One Mother's Day we were eating a big dinner. I looked over and Jack was hunched in his chair. My mom asked what he was doing. He looked up with tears in his eyes and said "I . . . I lost my mudder . . . I lost my mudder . . . I'll never see her again." His face was pale and he was crying softly. After that, none of us felt like eating. I never had a foster brother before. All I could do was be a big brother to him by teaching him and helping him, by playing with him, and by reading books to him. At first when we played trucks he would pull his truck off the ground and make a whooshing sound. He didn't know how to play with trucks. I just played the way I knew how to play and he copied me. I showed him the real way to play. I made real truck noises—I pretended to make roads. With the bulldozer we made ditches near the road and put sticks in for pipes. Jack and I pretended to go on trips and go to houses. We dug holes with trucks. One time we wanted to dig to water so we could have our own swimming pool. We dug and we dug until it was up to Jack's waist and then we gave up. We were pretty mad. In the summer, we'd go swimming at a little pond about two miles down the road. We liked to play an imaginary game called Dragon. Jack and I would get in the shallow water and we'd splash water on each other. If somebody got splashed more than five times he would die. I often let Jack win. Over the months, Jack started to get better. His speech got better, his imagination improved, he learned to draw, and he didn't have as many temper tantrums. One day an adoption worker came and talked to Jack about adoption. They looked all over Maine and found some nice people who liked kids. When Jack met his new parents, it was a happy day. They introduced themselves and gave big hugs. His new parents were cheerful and bouncy. His dad had a big laugh, curly hair, and small glasses that sat on the end of his nose. His new mother had big brown gentle eyes, laughed softly, and had a flashing white smile. They talked, gave presents, and looked at Jack's photo album. Jack played Legos on the rug with his new dad. That night when we were going to bed, Jack walked over to my bed and said, "Peter, I'm going to miss you and I don't want to leave. I'm scared of moving." Then he started to cry. He gave me a hug. I said, "They're really nice people and they'll be your real parents." I think that made him feel better. He cried a little and went to sleep. We went on a visit to Jack's new house. It was a big farmhouse with lots of windows which made a bright feeling. They kept a little turtle in a tank and pottery on tables around the house. I went up to Jack's room and saw his comfy-looking bed with lots of covers. The house was near the ocean. The day Jack left, his parents arrived in a pickup truck. We had juice and doughnuts. Jack gave me a hug. I looked down and saw my trucks where we used to play. I walked up to Jack and put all my trucks into his bag. Jack jumped into the truck and drove down the driveway. I had my eyes fixed on the truck as it disappeared behind the trees. I kept looking where it had disappeared. There was a long silence. That night in bed I thought about all the good things we did together. I thought of trucks. I thought of swimming. When Jack first came he was just a kid to play with, but after two years living with him, he was my real little brother.
Poem
You were loved, sweet, Always smiling When I needed you, You left. You gave me the name orphan, You gave me a black shadow, Life without you has no sense. Now, in your best years, Black soil covers you. O my Daddy On your grave There are roses It's me who put them there Your orphan My Daddy A life without you. The poem and drawing on these two pages were created in 1999 by young ethnic Albanians from western Kosovo. Many of these young people witnessed mass murder and the systematic destruction of their family homes. They were forced to march over the mountains to refugee camps in neighboring Albania and Montenegro. An international relief agency called Concern Worldwide organized classes for the young refugees and compiled their work in a book called Drawing Lessons. To learn more about Concern Worldwide, go to their Web site at www.concernusa.org.
Book Reviews
Our Only May Amelia by Jennifer Holm; HarperCollins Books: New York, 1999; $15.95 Close your eyes and imagine that you're the only girl on the Nasel River in the state of Washington, you have seven brothers to deal with, you have a very mean grandmother, and on top of everything, your birthday wish which seems to go right, is instead hindered. That is the exact same scenario that May Amelia Jackson deals with. But she's not your ordinary everyday girl. She loves to go on exciting adventures in the woods and in town with her favorite brother Wilbert, but sometimes these adventures could lead to disasters. May Amelia Jackson is sometimes called a "no-good girl" by her father. That is because she is always getting into mischief. She has six-and-a-half brothers, the half being Kaarlo, her cousin, who was given to her parents when Kaarlo was only ten years old. When I started to read the book, I felt sorry for May Amelia because she was the only girl in a town, and I thought that she would be very lonesome, for there was no other girl to play with her. Then, as I read further into the book, I learned that she would always play with her brother Wilbert because they both liked to go exploring. I didn't really like her cousin Kaarlo because he was always teasing her and Wilbert. One time, when May Amelia accidentally let go of a board Kaarlo was fixing, the push of the board sent Kaarlo flying into the muck that the pigs played in. May Amelia tried to say it was an accident, but Kaarlo didn't listen to her. He picked her up and intentionally threw her into the muck. He gave a snicker and walked away. I felt happy when Wilbert came over and helped May Amelia out and then he told Kaarlo never to do it again. Kaarlo just shrugged his shoulders and went inside to get cleaned off. One part of the book made me literally sit on the edge of my seat because it was so exciting. When Lonny Petersen, their next-door neighbor, asked May Amelia, Kaarlo, and Wilbert if they wanted to go collect cranberries at his Cousin Thymei's bogs, they all agreed and started on their journey. As they moved ahead, the fog began to kick in. It was so thick that they couldn't even see their own hands in front of them! Luckily, Lonny said that he knew the way and he would lead everybody. As they approached a big old bridge, Lonny told them to be careful because the bridge might collapse any minute. Suddenly Lonny stopped. He asked the three if they heard a baby crying. Lonny was known to hear things, but this time, everybody heard it. Then suddenly, out of nowhere, a huge cougar jumped out. They all started running until they got to the other side of the bridge. The bridge all of a sudden gave in and the cougar fell into the river. Before it went down, it gave a roar that startled everyone. I was very glad that none of them had been hurt by the attack. The saddest part in the story was when May Amelia's mother was having a baby. May Amelia had always wished that the baby would be a girl, so she could have a girl to talk to and not always a boy. Then, after the baby came out, it turned out to be a girl. May Amelia was so excited. She then decided to name the baby Amy Alice Jackson, since "Amy" was MAY scrambled up and "Alice" after one of her aunts. Her mother immediately became ill after the childbirth so May had to take care of her. She fed Amy and made sure that she slept well. Then, on Christmas Eve, May noticed that baby Amy had not cried all night. She put her ear to Amy's chest and did not hear anything. She screamed so loud that everyone rushed up. They asked what had happened and she cried that the baby was dead. Baby Amy was buried on Smith Island, which is an island in the middle of the Nasel. At the funeral, evil Grandmother Patience said that if only the baby had been in the care of her real mother and not in the care of that wicked child, then she still might be alive. At that very statement, May Amelia ran as hard as she could until she got to Astoria, where she went to her Uncle Henry and Aunt Feenie's house. She stayed there a couple of weeks until she went back home. Our Only May Amelia is a very good book, with sadness, excitement, adventure, and even a little bit of comedy. After I read this book, I got to thinking. What if I was the only one of my gender in a whole town? Would I have handled the situation as smoothly as May Amelia did? I honestly think that I couldn't have lived through it. I would want to immediately move away from there. I admire how May Amelia took the best of things and did a lot of stuff her own way. Even when everyone in her family wanted her to be a "proper young lady," she continued to go on adventures with her brother Wilbert. You should read the book to learn more about May Amelia's many adventures.
