Fiction
A large hand wiped the tears from Tom's small red eyes. "Don't worry, son," he smiled, "I swear we'll come back." Tom hoped so, with all of his eight-year-old heart. But it still hurt so much to watch his father and brother go off to war. Even though President Lincoln needed soldiers, Tom still puzzled over why it had to be his family. "Why not John or Mary's? Why did my father and sixteen-year-old brother Stephen have to go to war?" he asked himself. This terrible war. Why, thought Tom, why? For three long years Tom believed his father and brother were coming back. He still did but he felt his poor mom was losing hope. He heard it in the way she spoke and the way she acted. But life went on. Tom's mind grew faster than his body. At age nine he was only three-and-a-half feet tall. Now at the young age of eleven he had barely grown a foot from the last measurement. He was pushed and bullied by schoolmates and teachers alike, most likely because of his size but also maybe because he was so smart. So instead of playing outside like everyone else, he dedicated his life to reading and learning just like his biggest heros, his dad and brother. He thought about them more than ever as the years went on. The old pages crinkled as the wind blew the yellow dog-eared book. Tom sighed. Even with his few savings, made from selling wild blackberries, his mother wouldn't let him buy a new book. I'm sorry Tom, but money's too tight. Save it for something useful, yak yak, blah blah, Tom thought scornfully. To him, reading was very important. Though he knew he had to help support his mother, sometimes be wanted to be like his other hero: Lewis Carroll. Almost no one around there ever heard of him. It made Tom crazy to think that Carroll was unknown. It was an outrage. Don't they know who's creating modern literature? he angrily thought. All that mattered to everyone else was strength and appearance. But now he barely had time to read. He had to do chores like go into town on errands, feed the animals and so much more. His days were full. As much as he wanted, his reading time was becoming shorter and shorter. How come no one believed in being smart? Tom shut his book. He took a deep shaky breath. Inhale, he thought, careful now, exhale. He was bored and grouchy as he thought about his life. His mom had stopped his schooling, which was the only thing that made him happy (apart from learning in books and thinking about the old times with his dad and brother). She made him chop wood or hunt or feed the animals or harvest the crops. Tom knew she missed his dad and brother as much as he did but she tried not to show it. She was a strong brave woman, like a mom should be, but was very stern. And when she got angry, you did not want to be there . . . Every week Tom would go into town with her. They would go to the general store and, every week, Tom would ask Mr. Cameron, the owner, if any letters had come. None ever did! Where can his father and brother be? he thought. Tom puzzled over this question as he had a hundred times before. He knew that joining the army was the right thing to do but a war was very scary. Now the idea of them dead was circling in his mind, getting closer and closer to his believing it. "Get out," he silently screamed at the horrible thought, "out! out!" He clenched his teeth and balled his hand. "OUT!!" he screamed out. His shout even surprised himself. In an instant his mom raced through the door. "What happened, Tom?" she yelled, her small face slowly turning white. "Are you hurt?" Tom silently looked up at his mom, her small figure layered with patched and ragged clothes. Tom wiped his black hair from his eyes. "Nothing," he muttered in sadness, "nothing." Her face relaxed. She understood how he felt. She took a seat at the fire while Tom looked out the window, slowly watching the snowfall. "No letters came?" she nervously asked. "None at all," he sighed. "None at all." She adjusted her dirty bonnet. "It's time to go home," she said. Life on the farm without Father and Stephen was hard and stressful. Aside from the extra work he now had to do, he missed their friendship. While his mother was kind and loved him very much, there was something special that connected his father and brother to him. Maybe because they were all men. Plus there was no one around to help, or teach him many of the chores. Tom was now forced to do, like how to shoot or how to cut down trees. No man could ever support a family or just a mother without learning these skills. It was impossible! Although Tom was not that big or strong he believed that with enough practice, skill and knowledge would come. Every day, with his spare time, he practiced everything he needed to know. It might take time but he was convinced he could be like his father and brother. But even when they had been there, the family barely got along with so little money. Between the bad crop seasons and the poor game, they were forced to stop buying many of the things they wanted. Tom thought this was unfair. All his other friends were as poor as him, but at least they had their whole family. Worst of all, after his dad left, his mom asked Tom to quit schooling so he could work. Tom missed it terribly. As a young child, he was already eager to go to school and learn. His parents thought that this phase
Fiction
I remember the days before Ms. Brown. That was all before everything, with the snow, the stories, and the grove on Grady Hill. Those were the times when school was the hardest, and the days stretched on like counting down the minutes till New Year's. But as I flip through film reels reading things like "Mattie's First Birthday-1945" and "Christmas—1952" those times seem like just yesterday. The winter of 1957 was dragging by just like the last twelve winters of my life had. The boarding house my parents ran was slowly emptying out for the winter, for no one liked spending the holidays in a cold place like Jefferson, Ohio. But just because it was cold, it didn't mean it was snowing. In fact, it hadn't snowed in Jefferson for over twenty years. Little did we all know, that was about to change. On a cold day in late November, I was rocking back and forth on the creaky swing on our front porch. All of a sudden, an old lady dressed in a deerskin coat and carrying a beaten-up suitcase appeared out of nowhere. She came up to me and asked in a small, soft voice if there were any rooms for rent. I told her, cautiously, that there were. Then I ran inside to get my parents. As it turned out, the lady's name was Johanna Brown, and she was going to stay with us till late spring. Ms. Brown slid into our normal routine with ease, and we didn't see her from breakfast till dinner. No one knew where she went, and no one worried. In school, things went the same way they had since my best friend, Sophie, moved to Chicago. I went to school, got teased before the bell, had spitballs blown at me throughout the first half of the day, and then went to lunch to sit by myself. Afterwards, I'd go to the swings and play there. Alone. Why everyone suddenly resented me, I can't figure out. But sometimes it just felt like no one cared. So a few weeks after Ms. Brown arrived, I was on the swing and all of a sudden, the swing broke. I landed on my arm with a crunch. I looked up and between the stars flying around my head saw Johnny Revere grinning at me from atop the swing set. That grin was enough to bring all the pain shooting through my body to a reality. I heard laughing and turned to see my classmates standing in a huddle, pointing at my now grapefruit-sized arm. I decided it wasn't worth the pain and humiliation to stay the rest of the day. So I ran away. Not home, but to my secret spot on top of Grady Hill. Ever since Sophie moved away, I'd needed a place of my own. I went on a hunt and discovered this beautiful grove surrounded by firs and pine overlooking Jefferson. I thought I never had to worry about anyone finding it, but this time I sensed someone else was there. Slowly, I stepped out of the trees. "Excuse me?" I asked. "Hello? What are you doing?" I couldn't tell who it was, but the person was leaning over a fire, throwing stuff in the air and murmuring chants. She turned around—it was Ms. Brown! I had hardly recognized her! I stepped closer. "Hi, sweetie," she said in that soft voice of hers. I glanced at her face and noticed something I had never seen before. Blended into her gray wisps of hair were strands of solid black. I stared, and between her hair, her high cheekbones, and her solid black eyes, I realized what I should have guessed—Ms. Brown was actually an Indian! Ms. Brown, as it turned out, was performing an old Cherokee ritual. She wouldn't tell me what it was; she said it was a surprise. But that afternoon, I was introduced to a side of Ms. Brown, originally Daughter of the Snow, I thought I would never get to know. I soon discovered that when she was talking about her Cherokee beliefs and stories, Ms. Brown went from her disguised self to her true form, a lady I began to know as the Snowflake Lady. We developed an amazing friendship, and every day after school we would meet in the grove and she would tell me stories of her childhood on the Cherokee Indian reservation. Sometimes she would make a remedy or do a ritual. One of my favorite memories was when she called a dozen white doves to the grove, and while the Snowflake Lady did a dance and chant, the doves rested on my arms and shoulders. One day, after a particularly bad day at school, I went to the grove crying. Ms. Brown was already there, sitting on a fallen fir overlooking Jefferson. She noticed my tears and said softly, "Look at the sky." Absentmindedly, I glanced up and let out a small gasp. Hundreds of small, delicate snowflakes were slowly drifting down from the cloudy sky "Snow," I whispered, "it's snowing!" The Snowflake Lady whispered back, "There's an old Cherokee legend that says for every snowflake that chooses you as its resting place, someone out there," she gestured over the valley, "is making a wish for you." And as she spoke these kind words, a tiny, perfect snowflake landed gracefully on my arm. The snow continued to fall throughout the night, and the next day school was cancelled for the first time in my life. Next door to the boarding house, a new family trudged back and forth through the snow, carrying odds and ends. My mom stood next to me in the door and suggested we invite them over for dinner. I jumped at the chance for a new friend, and agreed. What I didn't count on was getting two new friends. The Jacksons had twin daughters, Alice and Helen. We seemed to get along well, and when I introduced them
Fiction
Mae Trillian has always lived a fairly simple life. Nothing brought her more pleasure than perfect, small simplicities—a tall glass of cold, crystalline water full of chinking ice cubes, the noise of a lead pencil as it scratched the surface of a crisp sheet of paper. The sound of the wind amongst a forest of stately trees and the perfect poise of a single flower as it makes its incredible journey from tiny seed to glorious blossom brought the greatest joy to Mae's heart. That, and of course the delightful thing called writing where one can pour out one's soul onto a piece of paper. Where intricate worlds are created by the touch of a pencil's tip, and characters' lives unfold into brilliant stories of intrigue and romance. Sighing, Mae sat quietly on a wooden stool that stood before the large bay window dominating the eastern wall of her minute kitchen. Her delicate image was reflected in the window's translucent pane; her thin lips were slightly parted and moved as though she were speaking, although no noise escaped her mouth. Tawny curls spilled down across a pale forehead, where slender brows arched above eyes of the deepest emerald. She silently watched the street before her quaint home, where children played; their shouts of joyous laughter filtered in with golden rays of luminescent sun. And to be but a child,. Their cares light as motes of dust Drifting silently, only to filter out of All existence The poem escaped the young woman's lips; her bright eyes softened as her mouth slowly formed a tender smile. A salty breeze drifted in through the partially opened window; the sea's crested waves crashed onto the pebbly beach merely a ten-minute walk from Mae's diminutive home. Still smiling slightly, she stood and moved across the kitchen's tiled floor to her countertop: a beauteous mosaic of aquamarine, turquoise, and cerulean pieces forming the image of a rising wave. She ran one hand over the magnificent icon and brushed a stray ringlet from her eyes with the other. The morning light brought the fabulous colors to life; Mae could almost taste the salty ocean water and hear the crash of the waves as they broke onto the jagged rocks with a powerful grace. Morning had always fascinated Mae. The watery sunlight slanting across her scrubbed kitchen tabletop and the dappled patterns it made as it shone through the trees. She adored the birds' joyous songs, exulting in the beginning of another splendid day. No matter how divine the moon's silver gleam could be, or how perfect the glistening stars, morning was a time of birth and renewal. Reaching for the kettle, Mae ran the water from her creaky, silver faucet. Her favorite mug, a saffron-colored dish splashed with shapes and patterns of every color of the rainbow's spectrum, stood beside a battered, corduroy knapsack, festooned with key chains and bright patches. That bag was Mae's pride and joy, a collection of souvenirs that painted a picture of her rich, young life. Moving away from the sink, Mae carefully sliced two pieces of freshly-baked cheese-bread, buttering them with cream held in her great-grandmother's cut-glass butter tray. Taking a quick glance at the violet clock that hung above the fridge, Mae speechlessly willed the water to boil quickly It was already ten o'clock, and now that she was shaken from her early morning reverie, she wanted to leave as quickly as she possibly could. The beach would become crowded around noon, when young families, happy couples, and noisy groups of friends would break the morning tranquility with their shouting and laughter. Not, Mae thought, as she carefully wrapped her breakfast in wax paper, that laughter is a bad thing. It is in fact a thing of great beauty and delight! But peace and quiet is a rare gift these days, and one must learn to take advantage of it when they can. As the kettle began to shriek, Mae pulled herself away from her rambling thoughts and unplugged it as quickly as she could, pouring the steaming liquid into her mug. Dropping an Earl Grey tea bag into the water, she slipped her feet into a pair of worn leather sandals and grabbed her breakfast, a notebook, and a sharpened pencil, jamming all but her mug into the corduroy bag. Slinging it over her shoulders, she stepped out of her kitchen's side door and strolled across her lawn. Waving at Mrs. Winkleby, who smiled at her from her rocker perched on the woman's large, wrap-around veranda, Mae turned left and continued to walk towards the beach, sipping her tea as she went. Arriving there, she noticed that few others had pulled in—ten o'clock was still early for those who spent their summer in these parts. Kicking off her sandals, Mae proceeded to walk the beach barefoot, as she headed towards her usual spot down the west end. There, the dunes were plentiful, and their dips and crests provided shade and a pleasant seating area. Settling down at the foot of a mighty dune, Mae leaned against a bleached piece of driftwood and languidly stretched out, wiggling her toes amongst the millions of tiny, golden grains. The air smelled pleasantly of salt and the gulls' raucous cries somehow pleased her, as they circled over top the water, hunting for their breakfast. Taking another sip of tea, Mae carefully slid her leather-bound notebook from the bag, and held the pencil carefully between three fingers, poised just above the blank page. The day was young and bright, and full of potential. Taking a deep breath, Mae settled back and looked at her page. And she began to write.
Fiction
We were lying in a circle, curled up on a den of sleeping bags, pillows and blankets. Popcorn and candy wrappers were scattered all around, remnants of that night's feeding fest, while we had, oblivious to all else, watched our movie selection, comprised mostly of films featuring Orlando Bloom. But now the TV was silent, and most of us had migrated off the couch and living room chairs to our sleeping bags. We lounged around, nonchalant, waiting for the quietest part of night when the hostess's brother was sure to be asleep. Some of us had iPod headphones screwed into their ears, the other end handed obligingly to the person next to them, heads bobbing in unison, looking in the almost-darkness like some sort of musically inclined two-headed animal. Some of us were eating the last remainders of candy, salvaged from the hostess's dog when the coffee table had been tipped over during a particularly dramatic reenactment of Pirates of the Caribbean. The said dog was snuffling inconspicuously in the corner, nosing hopefully in an empty pizza box, looking for that last overlooked piece of pizza. We were quiet for some time, except for the occasional whispered conversation. We looked at the clock perched on top of the TV. 10:47 PM. The hostess nodded, and, in the long-continued tradition of sleepovers, we rearranged our sleeping bags into the designated circle for a game of Truth or Dare, for our first one had been more or less decimated, as we had all branched off into our own little sub-circles, centered on the lucky one with the iPod or in current possession of the candy bag. But, irresistibly, the sleeping-bag planets being orbited by frizzy-haired, tired-eyed (but of course no one would admit it) moons, were being drawn by gravity into a larger circle focused on the last precious remains of popcorn, serving as our sun in our own personal galaxy. "So . . ." someone said, balanced precariously on top of a small Mount Everest made of sleeping bags and pillows. So. We all knew what that one little syllable meant. It was Circle Time, where, as most of the girls in the world who have ever partaken in a slumber party knew, it was the time for us all to spill our guts or suffer the wrath of a Dare. Of course, now that we were at the (we thought) great age of thirteen, we rather scaled back on the Dare. First of all, there just weren't very many sufficiently mortifying things left to set for each other to do. Most of us had friends who were boys now, some of us even had boyfriends, so getting dared to call so-and-so wasn't such a big deal anymore. And, since we were virtually locked in the living room, running outside at two o'clock in the morning in one's underwear singing "Row, Row, Row Your Boat" at the top of one's lungs was not particularly practical either. We had also almost entirely abandoned the age-old question, "Who do you like?" as well. Sure, it was always interesting to know, but in our tight circle of friends, most of us knew already, and those who didn't were probably going to get around to asking about it one of these days, but for the most part it was not such a tantalizing question as it had been when we were seven. Instead, we started off with a round of "What do you fear most?" and had to resort to using the Magic Manatee somewhat earlier than intended, (usually we bring the manatee out when we get to Most Embarrassing Moment) to stop us all from interrupting each other and waking the parents. (In case you have never heard of the Magic Manatee, it is a stuffed manatee attained at Sea World nearly eight years ago, which serves as a method to acquire some semblance of order. The basic principle is this: You can't talk unless you are holding the manatee, and if someone would like to add something to the discussion, then they must wave their hand wildly in the air, frantically mouth "manatee," and be able to catch the marine mammal when it is tossed in their general direction. If one fails to subscribe to this rule, and interrupts anyway, that unlucky soul will be barred from our circle and made to go to bed before seven o'clock in the morning.) We whispered late into the night. Dragging in sea anemones, basic principals of philosophy, theology, and physics, that math teacher from sixth grade, that incident regarding the ice cream, the so-called scandal from fifth grade, in which he pushed her from the swings when it was widely believed that she had a crush on him, where we are, and where we want to end up, government conspiracies involving Area 51 and where we go when we die, we all managed to weave it into our own story, between the trivial and terrific, we told the tale of our friendship, our hopes and dreams and fears from the past years, knowing that it would last for many more, but when the first rays of dawn shown on the horizon, even the most steadfast "I'm-staying- up-all-night-"ers fell asleep. And the last question we asked was indeed, "Who do you like?" After all, we were not as grown up as we thought we were.
Fiction
“It's going to be cold," laughed Riley. "I'm warning you, when I took the swim test, I almost froze. They had to defrost me." "Thank you for sharing that wonderful piece of moral support with me," I snapped. Riley had been coming to Camp Walton's Grizzly Lodge for seven years now, since she was five. It was my first year. All the first-year campers had to take the swim test, to be able to swim outside the four-feet line and to go waterskiing and wakeboarding. I definitely had to take that swim test. I had no worries about the test until I met Riley (actually, only twenty minutes ago). I was on the swim team at my school, so the four laps would be a piece of cake. (So I'm in the slowest lane; I can still swim, can't I?) And treading water for thirty seconds would be no problem, since I was a goalie for my school's water polo team. (It was my first year, making me the worst goalie, so I had to have more training, but everyone at Walton's doesn't know that, do they?) We walked down to the edge of the lake, along with Riley's little sister, Quinn. Riley was silent because she knew she'd scared me about the whole swim test thing. Pools were heated. Lakes weren't. Finally, as we neared the opening to the sandy beach near the lake's edge, I said, "Riley, it can't be that bad. I mean, they wouldn't make us swim in forty-degree water. Your memory must be malfunctioning." "Then take it from me," said Quinn, talking for Riley "I only took it four years ago. The lake is cold. You'll die as soon as . . ." "Quinn, we are here for moral support," interrupted Riley, shushing her sister. "Do not frighten her to death." "No, that's what you're here for," grumbled Quinn irritably, but Riley didn't answer as we entered through the small gate between the overgrown bushes. Everything looked normal; the sand was fine-grained, yellow, and easily got between your flip-flop and your foot. The lifeguard, Brian, and another bored-looking boy of about fifteen were manning the swim area. Brian was sitting cross-legged on the diving board. And beyond him, the water looked anything but deadly. It was deep azure and sparkling as the sun's rays danced on it. Everything looked fine to me. Upon seeing us, Brian jumped up and exclaimed, "Finally, people are here! What are your names?" I said, "Samantha, or Sam." Riley answered, "We are here to hold Sam's towel and attempt to save her when she dies of hypothermia." "Moral support?" muttered Quinn. Brian smiled. "Don't listen to them. Just swim four laps, there, back, there, back," he indicated with his clipboard, "and then tread water for thirty seconds." "Good luck!" said Riley. "We'll cheer you on if you start to develop swimming difficulties." "I told you, I was on swim team, and a water polo goalie," I said, stepping out of my shorts and T-shirt to reveal a blue bathing suit with hibiscuses all over it. "How hard can this be?" If only I knew. My first step into the water wasn't that bad. My toes kind of curled back, like when you step into the shower and the water isn't quite warm yet. Then my next step brought me underwater to my knees. My calves tensed. That was kind of cold. A shiver ran up my spine. Then I stepped further, up to my waist. My legs were cold. Oh, they were cold. The next step brought me considerable shock and pain. I was all the way up to my collar. It was as if a giant eel wrapped around me and shocked cold waves all through my body. I was frozen. My breath came out short and ragged. I could feel my blood temperature dropping rapidly. I turned around and mouthed soundlessly to Riley and Quinn. What I meant to say is, "How did you survive this? I'm going to freeze! Pull me out now, before it's too late!" but I guess my voice box wasn't connected to my lips. "I can't help you now," said Riley, as if she understood me perfectly. "Just get it over with is the best advice I can give you. Go on." I nodded, turned around, kicked my feet out from the muck I was standing in, and was off. I have swum in swim meets before. You dive off a diving board and keep your head underwater. You move your arms and legs as fast as you can to get to the other side. That was not how I swam in the lake. I kept my head above water, swinging my arms in front of me as if to grab the water and pull myself along. I tried kicking like in freestyle, but it ended up being a cross between a scissor kick and a breaststroke kick, a sort of jab at the water that I repeated again and again to get myself to the other side. When I reached the other side, I was shivering uncontrollably. I was afraid to go back across, but it seemed I had no other alternative. Halfway across the second lap, my chest started to seize. I felt like the giant eel was back again, squeezing my ribs together and allowing no air to come out. I had to stop dead. I gasped for air. Panic was filling me, taking the place of all my energy. It weighed in my stomach like a cold lump of steel, dragging down not only my physical body but my sanity and chances to get to the other side. Fear was coining in now, filling my mind with horrible possibilities, and taking over that part of my brain that makes decisions. Fear was the blackness growing at the edges of my brain, eating me away. My body was growing numb. The world started to spin. Vaguely, I heard girls'
Fiction
Loud, excited barking came from the front yard. He must be home, I thought. I opened the front door and walked outside. I took in the group at a glance. "Where are Swiftfoot and Mak?" I asked, suddenly afraid. "It's no matter," he said dismissively, and continued to lead the dogs to their kennels around the back of the house. "Dad?" I called, my voice rising. He didn't stop. He just said gruffly, without looking at me, "They could not stand up to the Iditarod, but it does not matter—because I won again." I felt still and cold. Those dogs had been my friends for years—faithful, cheerful, always glad to see me, always -willing to run in any weather in order to please. Now I had lost them to the Iditarod, the thing I hated most in the entire world! I still had enough sense to realize I couldn't confront my father. There had been so many fights about the Iditarod and the dogs throughout the years, and I knew he would just get mad and say I had to "Harden up!" and "Get used to it," in order to "Follow in his footsteps." "Here, let me do that," I said, taking the leather leashes out of his hands. He jerked them back. "I may be fifty, but I can still take care of business myself!" he snapped. "And I have a new trophy to prove it!" That did it. I couldn't stand it any longer. "How can you act so . . . so . . . normal?" I shouted. "How can you care about the stupid trophy when two dogs died so you could have it?!" "Why don't you grow up?!" he retorted. "Lots of dogs die in the race; dogs die every year, it's not as if it's just mine." "That just makes it worse!" I cried, and my voice was suddenly high and shrill and I was afraid I was going to cry. There was so much I could have said, but I couldn't trust myself. And I had said it all so many times before. Dad turned around and stood squarely in front of me. His face was now an ugly red color, but he spoke in a deadly quiet voice. "I'm sick of this!" he said. "You happen to be all I have. You've always known you'd be taking over from me in the race some day, so you'd better start getting used to it!" * * * I was still for a moment. My lower lip shook trying to hold back tears. I turned and ran into the backyard where the older, retired dogs and the puppies were housed. I went straight to two special kennels. Bluemoon scampered out of the first; Icewalker stepped quietly out of the second. I knew they would help me calm down, these two dear companions who were so different. I loved them both so much—Bluemoon because she always made me laugh, and Icewalker because she was so peaceful and serious. As I knelt in the rough grass, stroking them, I was struck by how much my father had changed. When had this coldhearted person replaced my caring dad? Almost before I finished the question though, I knew the answer. It was when I was still very young. My mother had been a veterinarian who took time off from her practice to work during the Iditarod race each year, even though she hated it. She thought she was needed there, because it was so brutal. The last time I saw her, she said she was just going to look for a runaway dog that had been lost. It had torn loose from its harness and escaped just before its team started off to the next checkpoint. Not wanting to lose time, the musher had used a replacement dog and left. They found my mother the next morning, frozen to death. The lost dog turned up later and was fine. When I was old enough to realize what had happened, I blamed the Iditarod—unlike my dad, who blamed the dog, and had taken it out on our own dogs ever since. I suddenly realized how much better it would have been if my father had given way to his grief, rather than keeping it inside and turning it into anger. I returned to the present, if anything more upset than before, to find Ice and Blue looking at me, obviously worried. Seeing them reminded me I had just lost two more of the dearest beings in my life, Mak and Swiftfoot. Suddenly I had an idea. I had had enough. I would run away with Blue and Ice. I admit I didn't think very far ahead. In fact, I acted on impulse. Quietly, I went inside the house and got some light snow gear, and returned to the yard where the dogs were waiting. Leaving the yard through the gate at the back, we went into the woods behind our property. * * * We walked for a long time. I was still so upset I didn't bother to check my compass or pay much attention at all to where we were going. After what seemed like hours, I realized we hadn't seen any houses, so I finally checked the compass—to find we had been heading not east, as I had assumed, but north. I suddenly felt tired, so tired I could barely think. I decided to have a quick rest before we moved on. I pulled off my backpack to use as a pillow, curled up in a hollow on the ground with the dogs next to me, and was immediately asleep. * * * Several hours later, I opened my eyes to a world of white and a changed landscape. I was shivering in my thin jacket, and night had fallen. I sat up, shaking snow from my hair and eyes, and realized we were in the middle of a blizzard. "Bluemoon!" I called, seeing no
Fiction
oey looked sulkily into her bedroom mirror. She turned around, scrutinizing her nose from every angle, but whichever direction she faced her nose, slightly resembling a ski slope, looked the same to her. It wasn't that Roey actively disliked the way she looked; just her nose. When you got down to it, she was actually quite pretty, and she knew it. Her flowing, fiery red hair could not match her personality better. Next came her favorite feature: her eyes. Dark brown, nearly black, and combined with her hair, they gave her an almost magical look. But, being human, she always saw the worst in herself and could only focus on her nose, her other features becoming unimportant and of no consolation. Roey sighed in frustration, feeling a little guilty. How could she be so shallow? She had much bigger problems to deal with than her looks. She made her way over to her bed. Out from under her white bed with pink trim, which she was about seven years too old for, she pulled a large book. It was thick and heavy, bound with leather. The pages inside were yellow with age, but being no expert, she could put no number on its years. The writing was not from a computer or a typewriter, but written by hand, with ink and quill, she imagined. There was no name, no one to take credit for all the work they had done. Strangest of all, though, Roey thought, was that there was no title. She had checked over and over through the whole book, but no miraculous change occurred. The cover was that of the type of book Roey would have expected to be engraved with gold letters, but that was not the case. Roey climbed into her bed and pulled the covers up. She opened the book and could hear the stiff binding crackle as a small trickle of dust came down on her. The discovery of the nameless book had been exciting. There was a minimal amount of books in Paristile. People referred to them as books, but in Roey's mind they barely qualified. Pamphlets, a historic account of the formation of Paristile, a book of laws, dictionaries, and thesauruses—they weren't books, though, merely resources. Roey's definition of a book was something that made you think, made you question, made you wonder. None of these could even begin to make your mind work in the way that her new-found treasure did. Although she loved to read, this was a rare opportunity. It was usually herself and her writing she had to rely on for a bit of creativity. Roey had no idea how she could have overlooked the book so many times, but perhaps it had not always been there. Two nights ago, as she had been climbing into bed, she saw its unfamiliar spine mixed in with a pile of a few other so-called books on her bedside table. How it got there was beyond her. For some reason she decided not to tell her family. Mainly this was because she didn't want to deal with the inevitable questions from her parents that would follow her vague explanation. "How old is it?" and "Where did it come from?" She felt strange answering questions on a topic she hardly knew anything about. But maybe the questions were what she longed for, what she wanted so desperately to hear. Her sister, Mouse, had been born with insatiable curiosity. You could see in her eyes the longing to explore the world around her the day she was born. Her name was actually Marguerite, but Roey had started calling her by the pet name she'd come up with years ago. When Marguerite was little she always wanted to know what was in cupboards or on counters, and so she would poke her head in like a mouse. Now the bedroom in which the seven-year-old should be sleeping was empty. Instead of her cozy bed, Mouse slept deeply in a hospital bed, with no certainty of waking again. Roey couldn't bare to face her absence, and mentioning the book to her parents and not being immediately flooded by questions from Mouse would be too much. She would have to truly acknowledge the fact that her little sister may never come home. Roey could never forget a particular day, about two years ago. The memory of Mouse brought a smile to her face, in spite of everything. It had been Mouse's fifth birthday. Roey could see pure delight on Mouse's face as Mom brought in a beagle puppy She had never expected such an amazing surprise, and Roey, looking at the huge grin on the little girl's face, was ecstatic seeing her sister so happy. Mouse had always been grateful for what she had, Roey knew. The littlest things, Mouse had always acknowledged, and it didn't take much to earn her trust, her love, her gratitude. She had always admired how open Mouse was, never judgmental; Roey wished she could accept everyone that way. But Roey realized that all this happy memory meant now was that Mouse may never smile again. Roey had pushed these thoughts out of her head many times already, and once again attempted to shake them from her mind. She tried to tell herself that it wasn't an issue, everything would be fine; the book was here now, that was the important thing. Roey replaced her dreadful feelings with the words of the book-with-no-name as she began to read. She was able to make out most of the handwritten words without difficulty. As the setting was described, Roey painted a picture of it in her mind. It seemed no different from her own world of Paristile, with nothing particularly distinguishable from any other place. Roey must have dozed off at some point. As she was reading, she was engrossed in the words, the only words she could really lose herself in, but at the same time a part of her
Fiction
They came one day, their green army trucks all in one winding line, rumbling down the nearby road. I'd heard the noise, running to the balcony to look across the familiar swaying fields of sugar cane in our family's plantation, palm fronds bowing gently to the humid breeze. Lazy mosquitoes flicked in and out of the courtyards of the large house, a solid white against the tropical background. Yet there was a difference; at the normally deserted road I could make out a line of trucks with their fluttering white flags and blood-red circles. Soon I heard the rush of running footsteps to find my mom tugging me away from the open balcony to the sheltered curtains within. She was joined by all the other women—the maids, my nanny and my older sister. I looked questioningly at their pinched faces, eyes revealing a fear they dared not voice. "Whose trucks are those, Mommy? The ones with the flags? Why can't I look?" I was shushed by looks from the rest, all of them craning their necks to peek at the line. "Th- they're the Japanese and that is their flag," my mother answered hesitantly, adding bitterly, "probably bringing reinforcements for the cities." The trucks were only a distant rumble now, like the thunder before a storm. I looked up at her, my ten-year-old braids swinging, wondering if this was about that word I'd heard whispered during meals. What was it? Occupation. One never said it out loud, as though to do so would be to accept defeat, but even I knew it existed, a looming storm cloud not yet bursting to rain. It meant long famished months of food shortages and foreign soldiers who destroyed our government, all the while claiming the Philippines as their own. It was 1942 and somehow, that storm cloud seemed so much closer to raining after I first saw the Japanese trucks. Somehow I knew our lives were about to change. How, I did not know. Somehow. * * * I'd heard my mom say often that change was slow on the islands. If it ever came at all, it came slowly. And even if it did creep up on us unsuspected, it was met with such determined opposition it usually ran away. She said all this with pride, as though change was something to be feared. Maybe there was more truth to her statements than anyone realized, for after that first day the Japanese came my world did change, and it was every bit as awful as Mom made it sound. Except it wasn't slow; this change arrived overnight and no matter how hated I knew it wasn't going to run away. Change was evident at school, where our class was taught about bomb raids. Once a week a shrill siren would sound and like scared cats in water at once we all jumped and huddled under our desks, glancing at each other. It was almost a game—who could remain the quietest and most still until the imminent all clear. Then, at home ugly black curtains were put up on all the windows every night, dark shadows next to the familiar flowered frills. When I asked why these were needed, Mom pursed her lips, while Daddy muttered something about needing to be "invisible" and "safety" against "bombs." The following day Mom placed all her jewelry in one big metal box. The pearls I'd longed to play dress-up with, heavy gold chains and even the sparkling diamonds were all put in, never to twinkle again for a very long time. She gave this box to Daddy, who dug a hole one night and dropped it in, burying everything. My older sister finally admitted that it was to hide them in case of war. War? Who ever said anything about war? That was a long forgotten remnant of the past, remembered only in dusty school textbooks. The Japanese may be occupying the Philippines, yet they weren't causing war. Really, they didn't do much that we could tell, not yet at least. The bomb drills were a precaution, nothing more. But if all that was true, why was my sister talking about war? And suddenly it came to me. This change was war. “You’re the Japanese and I'm the Americans," my sister announced one afternoon, weeks after the Japanese had arrived. We were playing a familiar game of Bad Guys versus Good Guys, except now the Japanese were bad and the Americans were good. Our plantation was a bubble, and though we might catch rare glimpses of the war outside, that bubble had yet to pop. Without any chance of seeing real battles, my sister and I had to be content with our own fake ones. And as usual, I was the bad guy. "Not fair! I was the Japanese last time!" "Fine . . . but only this once," my sister conceded surprisingly Sometimes being the older, better, smarter sister wasn't the unbeatable weapon it appeared. Satisfied, she started running down the lawn, whizzing past green-fronded plants and a menagerie of jewel-like flowers or even the odd bird, the scorching afternoon sun beating down relentlessly. Shaded by the cluster of trees, I waited. I was still too little to win if I tried to beat her running, so I listened to her feet pounding, bouncing, skipping, until finally my chance came. She stopped, gasping for breath, and I darted into the hot sun, tapping her back and declaring, "I win!" "You can't win . . . The Japanese always win!" "Yeah well . . . the Americans are the good guys and the good guys have to win." "If the Americans are so good, the Japanese wouldn't even be here now!" "Shhh . . ." I was hissing at the sound of wheels on gravel breaking the tense silence. "What, it's just a stupid truck." All the same, she peered around the bush with me. Craning my neck, I could just make out one of
Poem
The first shaft of luminous light travels, its speed unthinkable Over the horizon, through the trees, And into my open eyes. Birds hop about, like people, Trying to find a good Perch, branch, position In life. Satisfied, they begin their Throaty chorusing, declaring only the best. Window open, the maple and oak Scent drifts like it has done For millions of years, a crisp Beginning to the significance Of the day, three hundred and Sixty-five rotations a year, Time's luck which decides so much. As after a rainstorm, Water has never smelled so sweet. During the time between dreams And reality, air has never Tasted so good.
Poem
A winter walk— My dog barking by My side, Leafless trees Piled with snow, Rotten cornstalks Golden brown, Cows with frosted fur Chomping dead grass, Squirrels feast on Stored acorns, Frozen water under A rusted bridge, Snow piled in drifts, As I whistle Trucks pass.
Book Reviews
Mountain Solo, by Jeanette Ingold; Harcourt, Inc.: New York, 2003; $17 When I first read the back cover of the book, I was so thrilled. Since I began playing the cello seriously, I have been looking for a book that describes the life and feelings of an instrumental soloist. Jeanette Ingold's main character does not play the cello, but violin was close enough to get me excited. The author wove such an interesting and emotional story of a girl that I read the book in one sitting. I remember not budging for several hours to finish that 3oo-page book that I just could not put down. Tess Thaler has lived as a virtuoso-to-be since she first picked up the violin at age three. When she is twelve, Tess moves, with her mom, from her hometown in Montana to New York City to attend a prestigious music school for even more vigorous training. When I read that part, I thought of how hard it must be to be separated from your dad. Like Tess, I'm as close to my dad as I am to my mom. When Tess is sixteen, her mom encourages her to participate in a contest for the chance to perform with one of Germany's finest orchestras. After winning the competition, she makes a debut in front of thousands in Germany. Unfortunately, Tess was not ready; it was her mom's idea, not hers. Her first note comes out wrong, and that one mistake leads to many others throughout the piece. I think that any person who ever performed on any kind of stage knows how Tess felt at that debut. It reminds me of my audition for a special music school; how I was so nervous my hands were turning all numb and blue, how I could hardly play my cello, and how, like Tess, my first mistake led to another, and another. After her would-be debut, Tess throws away all the glamour, practice, and years of hard work and returns to her dad and stepfamily in Montana without her mom. I would think that many people would not be able to understand why Tess would have done this, but I know. Sometimes, after a bad concert or audition, I feel so frustrated and disappointed in myself that I want to renounce the cello. Even though the absence of violin had left Tess with time to spare, her days were soon filled with finding the lost homestead of a pioneer named Frederick Bottner who, like Tess, played the violin. With her archaeologist stepmother, Tess visits Frederick's surviving daughter in the hospital and quickly gets entangled in searching for the key to the pioneer's life. Tess draws the inspiration to pick up the violin again through this mysterious pioneer who lived more than a century ago. She finds out that the people who came to her concert had not wanted to hear her play; they just wanted to hear the music. She also figures out that her mother didn't force her to do anything. Tess just wanted someone to blame. She denied that she had made mistakes, which everyone does. But by admitting to her mistakes, Tess eventually matures to show us that we shouldn't be afraid to try again after we slip. Through this book, I learned that the greatness of a musician is never determined by their technical ability or how many competitions they win, but how much love for music that person has. Mountain Solo by Jeanette Ingold is a highly entertaining book that I think everyone would enjoy, musician or not.
Book Reviews
The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight
The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight, by Gerald Morris; Houghton Mifflin Company: New York, zo04; $16 Medieval times are full of knights in shining armor rescuing damsels in distress from gruesome fates and bringing them back to glorious kingdoms. Almost unheard of are medieval tales with women as saviors. However, Gerald Morris puts a spin on the ordinary Arthurian legend in The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight. Unlike most stories in medieval times, The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight features a girl, Sarah, a poor orphan who, with the help of a few familiar characters like Sir Lancelot, and a few unfamiliar like Ariel the faerie, rescues Queen Guinevere and Sir Kai from the clutches of the evil Lord Meliagant. What I love about Sarah's general personality is her zeal for fighting until the end and her thirst to prove she is more than "just a girl." Besides her determination, Sarah's character has everything that makes for a thrilling story. She is smart enough to outwit those much bigger and stronger than she and has the bravery within her to fight even the most skilled swordsmen. Sarah also comes through for Ariel and Sir Lancelot countless times. As soon as Sarah came to the rescue when anybody was in danger, relief would flood through me for I knew everything would be all right. Sarah gives off a sense of individuality; she is probably the only girl in the land to carry a sword that she has used against innumerable enemies. In fact, many characters think that Sarah's swordsmanship is what makes her special. The sword itself turns out to be special, which was the one aspect of this story that constantly nagged at the back of my mind as I read the book. Sarah's sword was actually a magical weapon crafted by faeries. You may wonder how this could be a bad thing. The fact that Sarah possessed a sword that crushes anything it connects with takes away from her heroism. This point aggravated me because, if the weapon was the reason for all of Sarah's talent in swordsmanship, it would mean she didn't do anything at all. If you ask me, in a way, Sarah had far too much help from the sword for this to be considered a book about the strength of women. I tend to find that books are more absorbing when you can connect with the characters. This is one reason I couldn't put this book down. Sarah was frustrated with the world for being so centered on the power of men. She saw no reason for men to be considered stronger than women, and I agree. I, too, am irritated when people treat others like inferior beings for no real reason. Like Sarah, I feel it just doesn't make sense. I realize now that Sarah probably had an even harder time fighting her way to the top because in her time, a girl saving the day was simply unheard of. Today, it is easier for women to be important, although people who believe women are the weaker sex are not gone from the world. Even though it is better for women now than in Sarah's lifetime, there still hasn't been a woman President or Vice President in the United States, a sign that women are still not considered completely equal to men. The Princess, the Crone, and the Dung-Cart Knight is a page-turner that receives my highest recommendation. It’s intriguing plotline, beautifully chosen words, and thoroughly satisfying closure make this a necessity on every bookshelf.
