Fiction
Shira felt a thumping on her bedroom floor. She got up from her desk and ran into the living room. Sure enough, Dad was home. Shira watched him lug his bulky cello case through the door and over to the corner by the piano where it was stored. Her father taught cello at a nearby university and had an hour’s drive to work. He always got home later than the family wished. Now he went over to the kitchen doorway where her mother was wiping her soapy hands on a towel. Shira saw her mom say something to her dad, and then he hugged her. Seeing his daughter, Dad walked back into the living room and did the same to Shira. “How’s my little songbird?” Shira read his smiling lips. Shira. The name meant song, which was ironic for a girl who had been deaf since she was seven years old. The last sound she remembered as she lay in the hospital bed was her mother saying, “It’s getting worse.” That night had been a sleepless one. When morning came, Shira was frightened when she watched her mother greet her but could not hear what she was saying. She’d watched her brother, Nolan, go off to school in the days that followed, disappointed that she had to stay home to be taught by her mother, who was struggling to learn signs herself. These days, however, Shira didn’t regret staying home since Maxwell Junior High kept Nolan on an undesirably busy schedule. There were better things to be doing than sitting in a class at seven-thirty am—like sleeping! A few hours of extra rest, though, could hardly make up for the discouragement she felt in being so different and difficult to talk with. She was grateful for the group of faithful friends who saw past the speech barrier, but at times it could be frustrating when others were afraid to talk to her. She also longed to hear again the warm tones of her father’s cello. She cherished the memories of when he used to take it out and play for her after suppers long ago. In those days she’d had a cello of her own, and many a happy lesson she had spent scratching blissfully away as he patiently instructed her. Now she turned to him and asked, “How was teaching today, Dad?” “Not too bad,” she read his lips in answer. “Only, the kids are so worn out from their lessons with Mrs. Etterson. Their technique is so stiff and they have a hard time playing relaxed. I’ve tried talking to her about it, but she seems to be set in her ways.” Mrs. Etterson was the other cello teacher at the school. Her lessons were always unpleasant and her practice requirements always unrealistic and unhealthy. Shira had gone to school with her dad several times and admired the way he not only demonstrated passages with skill but encouraged the students to experiment and figure things out for themselves. Mrs. Etterson did not. With her, everything was “my way or the highway.” “I’m sorry about that. You should really talk to the board. They need a different teacher.” “You’re probably right, but for now I’m just happy to be home. Howdy, Nolan!” Nolan came down the stairs, having just emerged from the shower after a vigorous basketball practice. His short, towel-dried hair stood up in wet spikes on his head. “Hey, Dad,” Shira read his reply. Dad went on with something like “How was practice,” to which Nolan, looking very tired, gave a short answer and plopped down on the old, overstuffed couch. After a while in which Dad read the paper, Nolan did homework, and Shira doodled a picture of their old collie dog, Whetford, who was curled up in front of her rocking chair, Mom called them in for dinner. There was a steaming pot of broccoli with a basket of warmly buttered rolls, and Nolan devoured a heaping portion of mashed potatoes. Staring at her forkful of broccoli, Shira remembered the family dinners of long before, which had been full of chatter. Nolan had been a talkative little six-year-old then, and Mom and Dad used to laugh at the disappointed faces their little ones made when there was broccoli on their plates. Laugh. How long ago that memory was. Sure, she still saw Dad’s eyes squint and twinkle and his whole frame shake at times, and Mom throw her head back at one of Nolan’s jokes, but even those soundless occasions were getting much rarer. Nolan frequently came to the table looking tired and sat in a silent stare through most of the meal. Dad appeared similar, though he sometimes tried to liven things up with a joke. Shira sighed and looked around the table. Even with Dad’s busy teaching schedule and Nolan’s long school days, she was thankful that they could all be together at the end of the day. Her friend Amy, though she lived in a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood, was less fortunate in this respect because her father was frequently away for weeks at a time with his consulting job. Shira sighed once more and popped the bite of broccoli in her mouth. After dinner they all sat down in the living room, and Nolan turned on a football game. Even though football had never really interested her, Shira was secretly glad that they were watching a game because her family never watched with the sound on or, if they did, hardly paid attention to the commentary. In this way Shira didn’t feel left out. She was curled up on the couch, coloring in the drawing of Whetford, when her mom leaned over from her magazine in the rocking chair. “That’s a very good drawing,” she signed. “It’s just like his soft little doggie eyes are looking at me.” “Thanks. Really?” replied Shira. “I was just doodling.” * * * The next morning dawned gray and rainy.
Fiction
I sit at the computer, trying to think of memories to write about. I stare out the window. Then I hear “Crazy Baby,” a techno song by Nightcore II. It comes from our iMac computer upstairs. I start to think about Elliot, about the things he used to do with me when he finished his homework to entertain ourselves. We used to play together with my collection of stuffed animals. He made up the Animal Galaxy, an entire galaxy inhabited by only animals. They had tons of weird, science-fictiony gadgets like The Royal Chair, a chair that could play movies and serve food. He drew awesome spaceships and designed all the spaceships in the Animal Galaxy. I remember how he could turn anything I owned into a machine. He turned my toy golf club into a ray gun and my gel pen case into a keyboard. I remember we used to pretend that my bunk bed was a spaceship. Elliot played the captain, I played the first officer, and our toy bunnies played the pilot and the other officers. Once, Elliot and I pretended that our ship crashed into an abandoned spaceship and our ship became stuck to it. “Board the abandoned ship and self-destruct it,” commanded Elliot. “But, captain,” I objected, “if we blow up the other ship and the ships are connected, won’t we blow up in the process?” Captain Elliot saw my reasoning and canceled the order. We’d have sleepovers on my bunk bed and we’d stay up almost all night talking. One night there was a thunderstorm. A thunderclap shook the house and rattled the radiator. Both of us woke up, extremely scared. “When I count to three, we call for Mom,” Elliot said quietly. “1, 2, 3… MOM!!!!!!!!!!!!” That made us feel better, but we still ran to our parents’ bedroom. I remember one night, before Christmas, we tried to stay up till midnight. We tried sneaking downstairs to get playing cards, with our bathrobes draped over us like invisibility cloaks from Harry Potter. We said Merry Christmas to each other at midnight, then talked a bit. Five minutes after midnight, our parents came in and said Merry Christmas to us. We reminded them that they were a bit late. We laughed. Nowadays, Elliot doesn’t play with me as much, one reason being that we both have lots of homework, the other being that we’ve both grown up now. I’m eleven years old, in my first year of middle school. Elliot is fifteen years old, in his freshman year at high school. Usually, he’s at the computer, chatting on Facebook, playing computer games, maybe doing his homework. He always uses the iMac, which means I usually have to type up reports on our old, slow, Microsoft computer. Most weekdays, after school, he stays at the high school to talk with friends until around six-thirty pm. Also, during dinner, he usually gets a plate, fills it up with a good amount of food, then takes it to the computer either to talk to friends on Facebook or watch Bleach, a Japanese anime. When I’m around him, I feel scared, scared that he’ll lash out at me and yell. When I look at old pictures of him when he was younger, I’m reminded of the carefree, happy, playful kid he once was. Mom says he’s going through a stage. She says that we have to live with it, to get through it. However, I know that deep inside of him, he is still happy and playful, like before. It may seem like he doesn’t care about me anymore, but he’s my brother and siblings love each other. Even if he accidentally told a friend’s dad that I was ten and he said he doesn’t keep track of how old I am, I know that, inside, he cares for me and loves me. I feel like I’m a Pokemon trainer and Elliot is one of my Pokemon. Pokemon change their personality when they evolve. I feel that after Elliot “evolved,” his personality changed, too. I know what I should do about Elliot: don’t annoy him, let him rest a bit before I start talking to him, and wait for him to evolve again. When he evolves, hopefully we’ll become a great team. After thinking back, I found a notebook lying next to the computer. I opened it and found a map of the Animal Galaxy. I looked at the various planets: Bonar, Meoin, Cheezta, Squeakerain, Dragonia, Velveteen… I turned the page and found various drawings of spaceships, like a Bomber, Royal Transport, O-wings, E-wings… So many memories and only one memoir to write… Which one should I write about? I thought. I had an idea, why not write about every one I can remember? With that, I sat down and began to type.
Fiction
I slipped the headphones onto my head, glancing out of the window at the big airplanes in red and white. The huge hunks of metal reflected the dim sunshine of the afternoon, with a special surprise, a rainbow. The thin colored stripes seemed as if they were painted across the sky. They sparkled a little, twinkling in the evening light. I slipped out of my shoes, locking my knees to my chest, and rocked back and forth. What if... what if... my thoughts trailed off and I locked my eyes on the rainbow. The sun illumined the pane of the window and I felt the warmth on my face as I shut my eyes. “A good omen, we can all see it,” I imagined my mother’s voice. “I can see it too,” I would have replied excitedly. I looked over to my right, expecting to see my mother or father, but it was a stranger. I bit my lip, looking away quickly, back to the window, back to the rainbow, and back to the terminal where I knew my family stood. They were waiting for me take off, probably staring through a glass pane like I was. Looking away, I remembered I was flying solo, like an adventurer, like a hero. Yeah, right. It was like something I read in a book. What was that book called? I frantically racked my memory for distractions. I knew I was doing anything to get away from my bad thoughts, but they won. Suddenly my brain was filled with images of myself at home with my family, curled up on my bed with a book. The image made the fact I was all alone too clear. All alone, for two whole weeks, I thought again. Nervous butter-flies swarmed in my stomach. Two whole weeks was a long time. Since it was summer, every day contained around twelve whole hours to spend with family. And twelve hours times fourteen days equals... When I realized it was more than a hundred and forty-four hours I stopped calculating. That was too long. Every day I would miss the joyful shouts of my curly-haired brother, the perfect advice from my mother’s mouth, and the feeling of family my father created. My chest burned and I realized I was holding my breath. I exhaled and watched travelers zoom around in the faraway terminal. They moved with such urgency, their miniscule legs going a mile a minute. Two whole weeks, two whole weeks, two whole weeks, my brain chanted. I broke my gaze on the terminal and focused my attention to my iPod that was resting on my lap. I pictured my mother looking through the glass, but it just wasn’t, wasn’t… enough. I tried to hear the comforting words she would use to soothe me. What would she say? My mind wandered, searching for the sounds that would form her words. I was tired, my eyelids started to droop. I shook my head and looked down. With a sudden surge of energy I scrolled through my files quickly until I found a playlist. The playlist was my reinforcement, my solution. The playlist was titled Mama y Papa and filled with messages my Papa had taken so long to record… just for me. Blinking a few times to clear the tears that invaded my eyes, I pressed play. I jammed the play button down hard. Instantaneously, my Papa’s voice, loud and gentle, but promising and strong, filled my ears. I let my breath out and listened. “Hola, domicella.” I felt relief wash over me as I heard him say my name, in that special Spanish way. I listened harder as bits and pieces imprinted in my mind… “Recuerdate de yo y mama siempre estamos con tigo y te amamos mucho.” Remember that me and your mama are always with you and love you a lot. Both eyes filled with tears. I hung onto every word of his message. Every sound filled me with warmth, but then the last line came. Too soon, too soon, I thought frantically. “Nos veremos y ahhh… cuidate y te amamo mucho, te amo, ciao, tu papa.” See you soon and ahhh… take care of yourself and I love you a lot, I love you, bye, your papa. The tears showed no mercy, streaming down my face. Wanting what was over, I reached to replay the message, to stay strong. The tears had already taken over though. Mixed emotions of sadness, nervousness, pride and anger all making rivers down my cheek. Why did they make me do this? I thought, Why? I was proud, my heart swelled, my mother and father are proud, they think I can do it, they believe in me... but what if I fail, what if I have an awful flight and I cry the night away and… I let it go. The butterflies in my stomach, my choked-up throat, I let it all go. I trusted in my papa’s deep, soothing voice. And suddenly I wasn’t afraid; the rivers of tears swelled but then receded because I felt brave. My whole family was urging me on, hoping, wishing, and thinking of me. They were urging me on, in the stands, telling me I could do it, and rooting for me. I knew they would always be there, so I took my adventure… The stranger sitting next to me saw my tears and looked up, alarmed. But he was too late. I had already been comforted. “Are you OK?” he asked, smiling sympathetically at me. I nodded as the tears reappeared with joy. I had overcome my fear. “I’m just happy,” I choked and sputtered, sounding like an old engine. “Well, if you need me, I’ll be over there. I’m changing seats,” he explained and then indicated where his friend stood, beckoning him. Barely hearing him, I smiled and nodded so he walked off. Why would a stranger even care about me? Why was I important to him? I looked
Fiction
It had been years since Kimbabwe had run. He lazily draped a paw over the edge of his rock, letting the warm sun shine in his eyes. His cage at the zoo was much too small to get up the kind of speed cheetahs were famous for. He had his food practically delivered to him, and he had long since forsaken the idea of pretending to hunt it as he had when he was young. It was, after all, just scraps of raw meat. No amount of pretending could turn it into the kind of challenge he needed. A good long chase after an antelope, maybe. Or perhaps just a jog for fun, he thought wistfully. He could barely remember the days when his territory had stretched across the entire African savannah. His father had been the leader of the most powerful band of cheetahs, and their territory had stretched farther than the eye could see. He had been a very young pup, still with his mother, watching the males he would someday join as they flew gracefully by. Then the Men came. Creeping through the long grass, their fire sticks could shoot faster than the pack could run, and before long the pack was gone. Then they came for Kimbabwe and his mother. She ran from them for miles, but eventually the sticks caught up with her and she was gone too. Kimbabwe surely would have been next had not the people from the zoo found him and saved him. Ever since then he lived in a cage with two of his brothers. Each day, many people would come and peer at them through the glass, commenting in awed voices at their incredible grace and beauty. Kimbabwe was always disgusted by their shallowness. You think I’m beautiful when I’m sleeping. You should see me run! You think I’m mighty when I yawn and show you my teeth. Give me an antelope and watch me kill it myself! Sometimes he would jog around the enclosure as a special treat for the viewers, or sometimes he would play with his food and make a big deal out of “killing” it just to see the children laugh. His two brothers, Jawjue and Kamunji, couldn’t understand him. They lay on the rocks all day, wondering at him. Why are you wasting your time? they would ask. Come and lie with us. The people don’t care. Why do you tire yourself by running when you could lie in the sun and be admired for your beauty? They didn’t understand how he longed for freedom, how he needed to run. He could feel his body tense and stretch sometimes, and the need to run was excruciating to ignore. He would growl and scratch at the ground, tear around the trees, leap and spin, trying to rid himself of the push to just let himself go. Once, when he was still new at the zoo, he had run as fast as he could straight towards the glass. He had thought it would shatter and he would be free. Instead, he was unable to move for weeks. On this particular morning, the people did not come. This meant that the week was over and tomorrow a new week would begin. Kimbabwe sighed and leaped down from his rock. His brothers, as usual, lay stretched out lazily. Where are you going? Jawjue, the curious one, lifted his head. Come and lie down. My side is cold where you were lying, come and warm it up. Kamunji cuffed Jawjue, making him fall off the rock. You have the brains of an antelope, he growled. Get back here and be quiet. Kimbabwe ignored them pointedly and studied the crack in the glass wall where the keeper brought their food. You two are stupid, lying there all day. Why don’t you get up and do something for once? Make yourself useful. They glared at him and lay back down. No, really. Kimbabwe sat down on the rock and prodded Kamunji. Don’t you ever get the urge to run? To just be free, to go back to that place where we were pups? Go somewhere, do something? To eat something real instead of this fake raw meat junk that they bring us? Don’t you want adventure? His fur bristled just thinking about it. Kamunji blinked at him. In a word. No. He sighed and rolled over. Jawjue, however, was staring at Kimbabwe with a look of wonder on his face. You mean there’s more? This isn’t the world right here in front of us? And the food tastes better than this? Kimbabwe was appalled. He motioned for Jawjue to follow him. They sat down together at the edge of the enclosure. Of course there’s more. Picture this place over and over with no walls or ceilings. Jawjue closed his eyes and thought. Kimbabwe went on. Imagine huge pools of water as far as the eye can see. Imagine thousands of cheetahs running at top speed through the grass. Imagine a mother with her pups. Imagine the thrill of the hunt, with cheetahs running and an antelope limping away. Now, look! The lead cheetah jumps up and the antelope is down! Now the pack’s swarming over it… now it’s gone and the birds move in. He shivered and opened his eyes. Jawjue had a glazed look in his eyes and he was staring hungrily off into the distance. I. Want. To. Go. There. Kimbabwe wrapped his tail around Jawjue’s haunches. Someday, I promise you. I’ll take you there. We’ll go and rule Father’s territory, just like we were meant to. They sat together for a long time, each dreaming separately of wide open spaces and antelope. Kamunji growled in disgust. How can you believe we’ll ever get out? Why can’t you just be happy with life here? Warm, never hungry. If you went back you’d have to… He stopped when he saw that they weren’t listening. With a snarl of contempt, he
Fiction
Of course she was going to go. Ally Paulson invited to Mallory Freshman’s birthday bash? It was outrageous. Ally brushed her dirty-blond bangs out of her eyes as she dialed the number Mallory had given her on her phone to RSVP to Mallory’s party. It was just a dream come true. Ally had come from being an unknown nothing to being one of Mallory Freshman’s friends! Mallory Freshman—the most popular girl in the whole school! “I’ll be there!” Ally squealed, finding that was all she could say to the answering machine. She was too nervous to leave a long, thoughtful message. Ally plopped down on her bed, overwhelmed with excitement. She was actually going to be hanging out with the popular crowd! Brrrring!! Brrrring!!!! Ally’s pink polka-dotted, old-fashioned-style telephone rang on her side table. She picked up the phone and merrily squealed, “Hello?” “Ally.” It was Rachel, Ally’s best friend since preschool. She was a really nice person but too dorky to be seen around. “Movie night at the church this Saturday, you in?” Ally wanted to say yes; the church always chose good movies for them to watch, but Saturday would be Mallory’s birthday bash. She had to reject the offer. “Sorry, Rachel, but I already have something planned.” “What?” Rachel asked curiously, always having to be a part of everyone’s business. “Mallory Freshman’s birthday bash.” Ally answered in the most arrogant way she could, as though she’d been invited to dine with the Queen of England. “Mallory Freshman?!” Rachel exclaimed. “Holy smokes!” “Yeah,” Ally replied in an I’m-too-cool-for-you kind of way. She could just imagine Rachel’s jaw dropping, her almond-colored eyes large in surprise. “Well,” Rachel chirped happily, “maybe I’ll be invited next time and we can carpool!” Ally didn’t know what possessed her to be so mean all of a sudden, but all she could think of to reply to that was, “Don’t expect to be invited to a party like this anytime soon.” With that, Ally Paulson, newest popular girl, hung up on her nerdy friend. * * * Friday night, the night before the party, Ally got an instant message from Ruby, one of Mallory’s best friends. It said, “Ally, Mallory told me to inform you to wear pajamas on Saturday. There’s going to be a pajama contest and she didn’t want you to feel left out,” followed by a smiley face. Ally received the message after Ruby had logged out, so she just made a mental note to find some pajamas for Saturday. * * * Finally, Saturday night came. Ally wore her pink polka-dotted button-up silk PJs with matching shorts and a pink robe. She even managed to dig out an old pair of bunny slippers. She thought she might be going too far, but she knew that she’d win the contest now! * * * When Ally arrived at the door to Mallory’s house, she could feel the base from the party music and hear screaming kids. Her heart pounded nervously to the beat of the music. Whatever it takes to fit in with the right people, Ally told herself. When Ally was just about to walk in, she could hear a few girls whisper, “She’s here!” When she opened the door, the room fell quiet except for the loud rap music coming from the basement. Everyone stayed silent for a few more seconds and then began bursting out in laughter, Mallory Freshman among all of them. Ally looked down at herself and realized, right then and there, she was the only one wearing pajamas. She felt her face grow hot and red and then ran out the front door before everyone could see her cry. She remembered her father saying, “Don’t let the bad guys see you sweat.” In this case, she didn’t want the bad guys to see her cry. Ally ran up and down the curb and then finally sat down in a nice place about a quarter of a mile away from the party. She could feel a sharp pain in her stomach, replacing her tingling excitement she felt earlier, and began wishing she could just sprout wings and take off somewhere else—somewhere other than where she was. “Ally!” She heard Mallory’s voice from about 200 feet up the block. “Ally!” Mallory drew closer and closer, accelerating and then slowing down as she neared Ally. Ally hid her tear-stained face in her pajama pants, not letting the bad guy see her cry. “Ally.” Mallory sat down beside the sad, blond-haired girl in the pink PJs. “It was all Ruby’s idea. Seriously. And we all thought it was a joke and you’d laugh about it like us.” “Stop making excuses for yourself,” Ally spat back, fighting back her tears, turning her head away to insure their eyes wouldn’t meet. “Al-ly!” Mallory whined, emphasizing the “ly.” “You’re making me feel like the bad guy here!” “Well then,” Ally looked up and wiped her face with her sleeve, daring herself to look into the eyes of Mallory, “you feel like what you are.” With that, Ally took off down the curb, far enough away to call her mom and be driven home without Mallory trying to come back to make more excuses for herself. Mallory stood there watching. Ally dared not look back, but she could feel Mallory’s ice-blue eyes piercing into the back of her head. “I’m so sorry, Al,” Ally’s mother told her as they rode out of Clear Meadow estates, leaving Mallory’s house far behind them. Mrs. Paulson looked back at Ally through the rearview mirror. Ally didn’t know what to say, so she just kept looking out the window. Then Ally’s mother struck an idea like a miner finding a jackpot of diamonds. “Why don’t you go to the church movie with Rachel?” Ally thought that was a great idea, but Rachel wouldn’t want to see her. She just grunted, “Yeah, I guess so.” Ally and her mom arrived before the previews, when everyone was just
Fiction
Jessica Marstell kicked at a stone as she trudged down the dirt road. She was headed for her uncle’s horse ranch in Country Ridge, Arizona. She didn’t like going to Uncle Jame’s ranch because she didn’t like horses. Jessica had to work at Uncle Jame’s ranch all summer, though, because she wanted a new laptop computer, and Mr. and Mrs. Marstell insisted that, if Jessica wanted a brand new computer at twelve years old, she’d have to pay for it herself. Jessica had asked her parents to buy her many things and she had gotten them, but now they decided it was time for her to learn more responsibility and appreciation by earning them herself. “Hurry up, Jessie! Old Speckles is waiting to be ridden!” Uncle Jame called out as soon as Jessica was in sight. “If Speckles is so old, why does he have to be ridden?” Jessica answered weakly. Uncle Jame frowned at his niece. Jessica turned around and gave the horse a sour look. She put her foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle of the broad Appaloosa. Even though Speckles was wearing a western saddle, Jessica still posted to his trot. Jessica was a pretty good rider because her parents made her take lessons at an early age, but now she didn’t always ride the way she was supposed to. Jessica had become a little bit of a spoiled and careless girl. Jessica urged Speckles into a gallop as soon as they reached the trail that led up the mountain, through some trees. Jessica slowed Speckles when she thought she saw something in the trees. “Whoa, boy,” she told Speckles as she dismounted. When Jessica got a closer look, she realized that the thing was a horse! Jessica shook her head in disgust when she saw how dirty the horse was. “I think I’d call you Mudcake if you were mine—not that I’d want you.” Jessica was surprised when the horse came up to her and sniffed her face. The horse was a gelding, his coat nearly all covered with mud, but under that mud there seemed to be a shiny dark bay color. “Even though I’m not so fond of horses, I guess the right thing to do is bring you back with me.” Jessica smiled when Mudcake nodded his head up and down. She tied a rope around his neck and got back on Speckles and rode back to Uncle Jame’s with Speckles’ reins in one hand and Mudcake’s rope in the other. “Hey, Uncle Jame! Look what I found!” Jessica said as she motioned to Mudcake. Uncle Jame came over to them and ran his hands over the new horse’s body. “Well, he looks like he’s been abandoned. These cuts and bruises are not that bad, though, and he’s a quarter horse.” “So are you going to keep him?” Jessica stroked Mudcake’s neck while she groomed him carefully. “I thought you didn’t like horses,” Uncle Jame said with raised eyebrows. “Well, um—I kinda like them better now… especially Mudcake,” Jessica blushed. “I can’t take another horse, but I think I know who should have him,” Uncle Jame smiled. “Oh.” Jessica felt disappointed at the thought of someone else taking Mudcake. “He’s all yours.” Uncle Jame handed her the lead rope. “What? Me? Mudcake? Mine?” Jessica sputtered. “Yep, your parents have been wanting you to get back into horse riding again, and your Mudcake can stay here for a while. I’ll feed him for you at first, but eventually you’re gonna have to buy him food and other supplies yourself,” Uncle Jame said. “Oh, of course! I can’t believe I’m saying this—but I think I’m starting to like horses!” Jessica hugged her uncle. “And, I’ll take great care of Mudcake—is he really all mine? I mean, why are you giving him to me? I haven’t been all that nice to you or the horses lately…” “I gave him to you because you are good for each other, and I know you’ll take care of him. If he’s not already trained, I’ll help you with that,” Uncle Jame answered. Jessica had never thought that she would ever love horses, but now she loved Mudcake, and the other horses no longer seemed so bad. “I always thought that horses were just big dirty animals that were unfriendly and unuseful, but I was wrong,” Jessica smiled. Jessica began to realize that Mudcake taught her that horses could be a human’s friend, even though he hadn’t done much. Jessica hugged Mudcake, her new horse—her new friend. The next day Jessica and her mom went to the tack shop. “What made you change your mind?” Mrs. Marstell asked. “Mudcake was just so friendly and funny, and he made me feel good. Then I started to realize how awful I’ve been to horses and I decided to change,” Jessica said as she entered the tack shop. She bought grain, a grooming bucket and tools, a feeding bucket and saddle pad. She’d use Uncle Jame’s saddle until she could afford her own—that new laptop didn’t seem to be so important anymore. After shopping, Jessica went to Uncle Jame’s ranch, did her work chores quickly, and then tacked up Mudcake. She climbed carefully into his saddle. She wasn’t sure if Mudcake was trained to ride, but he stood calmly with her on his back, so Jessica was relaxed. I love having my own horse, Jessica thought with a smile. Then she trotted Mudcake out into the field to start their very first ride together.
Fiction
A Million Santas Invade New York City
Black, white and red all over. And no, we are not talking about newspapers here. We are talking about Santas. Hundreds of them. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I boarded my subway train with my mom and my little brother one frosty December Saturday about two weeks before Christmas. They were packed into the uptown No. 4 Lexington Avenue line like a can of red, white and black sardines! I was surrounded by a sea of teenagers and college students dressed up like St. Nick. You could even hear the constant “Ho ho ho” above the deafening noise of the New York City subway. There were all kinds of Santas. They wore red suits lined with white and cinched by black belts. They wore black boots and Santa hats. There were long white beards everywhere. Some of them were carrying sacks of “toys.” Others were dressed up as elves. Some even wore reindeer headbands with felt antlers attached. “What’s going on?” I asked my mom in disbelief. Was I imagining all this? Was I dreaming? Was I going absolutely insane? “Wow!” my mom answered. She was just loving this whole thing! We got to our stop only to find more Santas. They were crowded into the elevator we rode from the subway up to the main street. Some were stomping in through the turnstiles and some were going out through the turnstiles. One of them gave my little brother, Stephen, a candy cane. He is six and his eyes were as big as saucers at this phenomenon. We were able to get away from the chaos for a while because we went to our health club and went swimming. But when we returned to the street the madness wasn’t over by a long shot. We rode another train packed with you-know-who and walked down to the South Street Seaport. My mom had to do some last-minute Christmas shopping and I was anxious to get away from the noisy confusion of the Santas. Unfortunately, things didn’t exactly turn out the way I wanted them to. Take a wild guess at what we found when we got to the seaport. Yup, more Santas! There were Santas eating ice cream at the little outdoor ice cream stand. Others were standing around drinking beer from plastic cups. A couple of older Santas were hanging out down by the docked ships, chatting and smoking cigarettes. My brother was appalled. “I didn’t know Santa smoked!” he said to me. Really, what could I say to him? Mom was still excited about the whole thing and went off to ask one of the Santas what it was all about. When she returned she explained it was some sort of annual tradition that spread through the Internet and all college students dressed as Santa and roamed the city. Then my mom started looking at me strangely. “What?” I asked. “Well, Olivia,” she said, “with your belted red parka jacket and your black boots, all you need is a red fur-trimmed hat and you could be a Santa yourself!” I was horrified to think I could be mistaken for one of these crazy college kids! “Mom!” I scolded, but at the same time I opened my coat to reveal a very un-Santa-like T-shirt. * * * In the late afternoon, we boarded the train still packed with Santas and headed home. The hectic and weird day finally ended when we walked through our front door. I still felt dizzy from all those Santa costumes. Mom was still giddy as a teenager herself about the whole event. (I might add that she referred to me as her “little Santa” all the way home!) I’m kind of worried about Easter. Will my city be invaded my millions of bunnies? I’ve got to remember not to wear anything pink or any kind of floppy hat as Easter nears. You never know what is going to happen in the Big Apple!
Poems
Dark clouds gather, looming huge and gray, Rain cold-needles my face, The wind whips me into exhilaration. A rumbling starts down the track. Thunder? No, not thunder. It’s flint-and-steel hooves, striking out a lightning rhythm. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Heads high, ears back— The rain stings them, too. Yet I see them charge undaunted, For they know the storm is theirs. The track is a dance floor, With the wind for music. They know the steps. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap. Flecked with sweat and rain, Hot and cold. The voice of the whip drives them on. They stretch out, bodies glistening. My heartbeat joins with theirs, As they speed straight under the wire, Singing the song of the harness horse. Tap tap, Tap tap, Tap tap.
Poems
Do you love to hear sweet songs? Go outside and listen for All kinds of birds chirping. Go to your local park Sit on a swing and look around See that you’re free There are no wars or fights going on. Look and see that you’re safe from evil. The snow is melting Time is ticking Why don’t you go outside Turn the hose on Play with your neighbors Say to yourself that you Are very lucky. Don’t worry About people who brag. Just think to yourself that You are truly one of the luckiest People in the whole world.
Book Reviews
Tortilla Sun, by Jennifer Cervantes; Chronicle Books: San Francisco, 2010; $16.99 The thing that first hooked me onto Tortilla Sun was the word “magic.” In the first few sentences of Chapter One, Izzy Roybal is introduced as a discontented, lonely character, unhappy with her frequent moves all over San Diego and wanting to discover the secret of her long-dead father. Finding the old baseball in the bottom of a packing box enables her to take her first steps towards that. The words “because magic” are written on the baseball, with a small space between them as if something was missing. Izzy quickly figures out, from her mother’s confusion and annoyance at seeing the ball, that it was her father’s. Already, clouds of questions are beginning to roll through her mind… and mine. What is the secret of Izzy’s father that her mother has kept to herself for so long? Could the baseball be magic? And what are those missing words? The second thing to grab my attention was the fact that Izzy writes stories… or tries to. Like me, she is always eager to start a story but almost never has the impetus to finish it. The only thing that keeps her writing are the story cards that her fifth-grade teacher gave her. “Small cards aren’t so intimidating for budding writers,” she had said. The final touch, that kept me reading for the rest of the book, was Izzy’s surprise and anger when her mother tells her she must go to New Mexico for the next two months of summer. I had mixed feelings about this. As I live in New Mexico myself, part of me wanted to defend my home state. The other part, however, sympathized with Izzy. Her shock that she is being sent off alone to her grandmother’s—without being told why—reminded me of myself. Even in the beginning, Izzy’s search for the truth is made clear. Izzy’s grandmother—or Nana, as she calls her—is bright and twinkly but very religious and obviously capable of bearing great burdens, as I realized when I first met her. When Izzy is taken aback by how colorful her room is, Nana responds with, “But of course it’s colorful. Life is color, isn’t it?” My admiration for Izzy’s grandmother grew at her first tortilla-making lesson. When she tells Izzy that they must say the Hail Mary three times before starting, Izzy is embarrassed to say she doesn’t know it. But Nana does not say a single derisive word or even show much surprise. This came as a pleasant shock to me, for making fun of someone’s religion—or lack of it—is something almost no one will hesitate to do. Exploring the village, Izzy begins to hear words on the wind. “Come,” they say, and later, the name Bella. Another mystery begins to take shape. Could the wind have the right person, if it is the wind talking at all? How could an Isadora hear the word “Bella” on the breeze, as if it were calling to her? The rest of Izzy’s story cannot be told without revealing the end; however, it can be hinted at. The end of Izzy Roybal’s search for truth includes a talk with Socorro, the village storyteller, and a golden glass “truth catcher”; the shattering story of her father’s death; a near-fatal accident; and a name that is almost new. Does it end happily? To find out, you’ll have to read the enchanting story of Tortilla Sun for yourself.
Book Reviews
The London Eye Mystery, by Siobhan Dowd; David Fickling Books: New York, 2008; $15.99 The London Eye Mystery is perfect for any reader who is looking for a spectacular book with an even balance of suspense, warmth, and mystery. Told from the perspective of Ted Sparks, a unique preteen with Asperger’s Syndrome, a kind of autism, it is moderately fast-paced, and Siobhan Dowd brings settings and characters to life. Because Ted’s brain runs on “a different operating system,” as he puts it, his thoughts are quite unusual for someone his age, which tends to be challenging for people around him, since he struggles to connect with people and their interests. His intense fascination with weather and numbers makes his family members a little exasperated! But when a visit from his Aunt Gloria and her teenage son, Salim, suddenly becomes suspenseful when Salim disappears off the London Eye (a popular Ferris wheel in London), it will take all of Ted’s unusual brainpower and his older sister Kat’s determination to solve the who, what, where, when, why, and how of this breathtaking mystery. One of the most compelling elements of this novel was the sense of familiarity with the characters. By the second or third chapter, the reader feels as though he or she could easily know the Sparks family in person. Every chapter had me wishing for more, and I wanted to make sure Kat and Ted don’t get in too much trouble trying to find Salim. Kat and Ted are probably the most humorous of the characters. Kat is reckless, impulsive, and frequently in motion. Ted is proper, straightforward, and unknowingly funny. He calls himself a “neek”—halfway between a nerd and a geek. But both his sharp memory and Kat’s wild instincts are needed to find Salim and restore peace to the family. Only they can really think straight about Salim’s disappearance because Aunt Gloria and her ex-husband are in hysterics and Kat and Ted’s mother and father are really too frightened and worked up to think strategically in terms of where Salim might be. Kat and Ted make a good, determined, mystery-solving team. As the story goes on, they learn to understand each other better and be more tolerant of one another. I liked this book not only because of its strong plot but because I could relate to autism, since my older brother has it. Also, it helps spread awareness among young people about the disorder. In some ways my brother is different from Ted; he is less interested in mathematics, facts, and numbers; however, like Ted, my brother likes weather. Also like Ted, he sometimes takes things a little too literally. For example, when a sportscaster once stated that a certain athlete had “baseball in his blood,” my brother grew upset because he thought it meant that the man had a disease. When Mrs. Sparks says that Kat has Mr. Sparks wrapped around his finger, Ted imagines “…Kat wrapped round and round, over and over again, around Dad’s finger.” This problem of taking things literally can be both humorous and frustrating. My brother and I are similar to Kat and Ted in that, even though we get on each other’s nerves, we are close. This novel helped me realize that I wasn’t the only person who had a sibling with autism. Overall, I recommend this compelling, funny, and fast-paced mystery for young people ages nine and up. It is a wonderful mixture of humor and reality, and the wonky but loving relationship between siblings.
