Fiction
“Octavia, do not hold your threads so clumsily; you are not an animal,” Cassia said. Her young mistress frowned and then suddenly threw the ball of dyed yarn on the floor. “Cassia, you may be my slave but I cannot weave even to a quarter of your abilities,” Octavia said with derision. “Weaving is useless; why must women get all the dull jobs?” Cassia clucked her tongue reprovingly and handed Octavia the yarn. “Try harder,” she suggested. Octavia’s temper flared. “How dare you tell me to try harder! I work like a horse and weaving is so dull! How dare you!” Angrily she threw the ball of yarn at Cassia and stormed out of the weaving room. Outside the breeze ruffled the olive trees and clouds raced across the blue sky. The marble courtyard was surrounded by pillars and a center fountain. A statue of the Roman goddess Venus releasing doves was the centerpiece of the fountain and water streamed from the birds’ beaks. Venus was smiling wistfully and she seemed so real, even as the centerpiece of a fountain. The courtyard was spacious and the ground was marble, with images of the Roman gods. Ivy curled around the intricately carved pillars, and plants were arranged in a pattern around the fountain. Three sides of the courtyard were edged with pillars and led to the house. The fourth side opened up into the road and forest. Birds sang and Octavia had never felt so lonely. Her mother and father were too insistent upon her marriage and the servants didn’t care the least bit about their stubborn mistress. Octavia had always been headstrong and that itself was a lady’s crime. “Aaa-choo!” the loud sneeze rang across the quiet courtyard. Eyes wide, Octavia whirled around and crept towards the moving bush… “Aaaaakkkkk!” Octavia screamed as a young boy her age sprung out of the bush. Octavia fell backwards, landed hard on the bricks, and promptly tore her new linen tunic. “Shh, I’m sorry to scare you. I’m Julius and you are Octavia,” the boy declared. He had an easy, commanding manner that pleased Octavia instantly. “Where are you from?” she asked, as she shook Julius’s hand. He was treating her like an ordinary boy and she was thoroughly enjoying it. No more curtseying and bowing and proper manners to clog up a good conversation. “Oh, just next door. But I detest practicing arithmetic so I… escaped the slave,” Julius admitted. He reddened a little and grinned embarrassedly. “I love doing that!” Octavia agreed. “But you know what I really love is poetry. It’s so rhythmic and flows beautifully.” “You are fortunate you can read. I have never been taught,” Octavia sighed. She had always longed to read; it seemed like such an intelligent yet exciting pastime. “I could teach you,” Julius suggested, his dark eyes twinkling mischievously. Octavia gasped. Surely he knew no girls or women were allowed to be educated in that way? “I could meet you every day after lessons at this olive tree,” the young boy continued, his voice steady. Octavia glanced across the sunny courtyard and then crept further into the shadows. Nobody was around, but the idea of defying Roman custom was frightening as well as exciting. “So what do you say?” Julius pressured. He grinned at Octavia. “Why do you trust me?” the girl finally asked. Her companion’s face reddened as he averted his gaze. “I’ve been… watching you and you don’t seem like the type to just go along with whatever is expected of you,” Julius muttered. He bit his lip embarrassingly and looked up at Octavia. “You’ve been watching me? How can I trust you not to turn me in?” Octavia demanded. “My word is the only thing you have and that should be enough,” Julius said firmly. Lowering her voice, Octavia finally whispered, “All right.” * * * Over the next few weeks, Octavia learned the Roman alphabet and began to read simple words. Julius scratched the symbols in the dirt and slowly Octavia began to read. “I’m going to bring you scrolls when you get good enough. Right now they’re too complicated for you,” Julius said eagerly. Octavia was too cheerful to be offended and agreed that scrolls would be too challenging. So in just a simple courtyard under a tree a boy taught a girl his age how to read. These secret lessons became little pockets of joy to Octavia, whose life had steadily gotten worse. Her parents were becoming insistent upon her marriage, and her weaving lessons were becoming more and more difficult. One day Julius managed to sneak a simple poetry scroll from his home so Octavia could truly begin to read proper material. It had been a lonely day for Octavia, and her mother had gotten truly angry at her stubbornness. “This is your destiny, marriage and women’s work, and yet you still fight against me!” her mother had yelled. But as the breeze ruffled Octavia’s dark hair and she haltingly stumbled through the scroll, her worries of life faded away. “I think you can truly read now!” Julius exclaimed after Octavia managed to read the poem twice. “I’m not so sure… I keep mixing up my letters!” Octavia said in frustration. As she knelt in the dirt, scanning the scroll, she pounded her knee and moaned. Suddenly Julius snatched the scroll and dashed off into the small forest between their houses. Surprised, Octavia started to stand. Then she heard footsteps. “Octavia, my daughter, what are you doing in the dirt? Get up,” her mother commanded. Octavia felt dizzy with fear. Would her secret passion and friend be discovered? “My dear, you look so pale… are you well?” Mother exclaimed. Lifting her long white dress, she leaned forward and touched Octavia’s face. “I’m fine, just getting fresh air, but I dare say I felt a spider on my back,” Octavia lied. Her heart was pounding and she felt clammy as she shakily stood. “There is nothing, but
Fiction
Leaves rustle, a twig snaps. My eyes flash open, two sulfurous spheres wide on my dish-like face. My white feathers are rumpled, awry, and misplaced on my back. I peer out of the tree, gazing out through my window, a round hole in the rough bark. Moonlight glimmers off every surface, landing in shimmering pools, splashed there. The rippling of the nearby brook, lapping at a damp and pebbled bank, singing a sweet, low lullaby, whispers through the night. My nest of twigs, leaves, and grasses fills most of the hollow, providing me and my eggs with a soft and comfortable residence. Beneath me, I feel movement, minute, miniscule movement, so small that I barely feel it. Hatch time is nearing, my chicks will soon emerge into this world, in need of life-giving sustenance, no more than ruffles of fluff. They will break free of their shells, naked of the thick protecting feathers I possess, and cry for food, shrill cries of hunger. They will need that sustenance for survival. I inch my head out of the knothole, finally emerging. The cold midnight wind slices through the air like a claw, and I spread my wings, embracing it, feeling the wind through my feathers. The moonlight casts a pale sheen on my snow-white feathers, glistening and dancing on the stream below. Through my precise eyes, I can glimpse every pebble, pushed along by the gentle current. I glide on the wind, flapping my wings every now and then. Silently, I fly through the trees, dodging askew branches and watching ever so intently for the movement of prey. The trees thin and the undergrowth begins to fall back, replaced by sparse, green grass. My eyes scan relentlessly, searching, ever searching, following the law put down by my ancestors, a law that has reigned above all others for millennia. Eat or be eaten, eat or die. The strongest survive. Those who are weak live for one purpose and one purpose only. To ensure that the strong survive. I search the ground, the trees cleared out completely, so that my vision is acute and free of blemishes. There, there it is. I wheel around towards the movement, focusing in on a quivering patch of rye grass. My talons open wide, eager to grasp the warm, living prey. The small miniscule ears twitch within the grass, with no inclination that I even exist. My silent wings flap steadily, placing me in position to dive and seize my prey. Eagerly, I focus on the minute, camouflaged body shuffling below. I tuck my wings and dive, talons outstretched. The unsuspecting prey moves nary an inch as I swoop in. Talon meets flesh, claw meets fur, and I snap out my wings, catching a drift upwards. The mouse entrapped in my talons wriggles and fights, but fruitless remain its attempts, for my claws hold fast to the rodent. Its fight weakens, its life source seeping away slowly until it hangs limp. The law has been followed, and the strong live on. I soar silently through the night, the moonlight pale and clear on the world. I pass back into the shadow of the trees, gliding back home to my soon-to-be-hatched brood. A shrill cry echoes through the air, I can feel the vibrations, hear its tune. It is a cry of victory in finding a good meal. Its vibrant tone reawakens my mind to the concept that my clutch is never safe without my keen eye watching over them. My wings flap with more force than before, with more urgency in each stroke. My tree appears, but there is something amiss, a feeling, a movement, a sound. A fleeting black shadow approaches the hollow I call home, climbing slowly. Cold realization hits me, akin to a branch in mid-flight. This is no shadow, rather, a predator, with eager lust for the consumption of my brood. Rage washes over me in a boiling hot wave, consuming me in tongues of flame. I drop my catch and streak towards the tree, my feathers catching the wind and propelling faster. Viciously, I slam into the shadow, raking and stabbing with my talons and beak, driven by a fierce, instinctive protectiveness. Midnight’s song plays in my head, an inborn tune that tells me exactly every stab to make. This vicious onslaught is no fight, but a wild, dangerous dance to the song of night, danced by my ancestors. The predator scrabbles desperately on the bark, squealing in pain. Momentarily, I can see its face, two gleaming yellow eyes, framed by a deep black mask. A raccoon, bandits of the dark. Why did I ever leave my nest? I give one last well-aimed stab and the bandit falls to the ground, twisting and wriggling, landing with a puff of dust on the ground below. Stunned, it lies there for a moment, before darting off into the shadows. Victory lifts me into the air, dancing on moonlight. I swoop down and snatch up the mouse I left behind on the leaves, not willing to allow a lowly bandit to ruin my catch. Concerned, I give one last flap of my mighty, speckled wings and soar into the hollow, the musty smell of leaves and bark engulfing me. My eggs are safe, unscathed and whole as ever. All at once, all is silent. In the distance, I hear the stream, singing its song. Footsteps interrupt the lull, and I look out to glimpse a scarlet fox, limping on a front leg, passing by, its tail dragging through the leaves. Beneath me, an egg twitches, stirring the mouse I have set beside me, still warm. I shift around, turning to watch as cracks appear in the thin shells, doorways opening for life. Beaks appear as they thrust themselves into the world, tiny weak chicks, crying out shrilly. My family has arrived. My steely gaze rolls over my chicks. Though they are minute and weak, barely consisting of several bits of fluff, they will learn.
Fiction
“Bye, guys!” Mom called as she shut the door behind her. I looked at my sister. “Can I watch TV?” That was one of the two questions that I asked Nava every time we were home alone. “No,” she said. “Can I have some ice cream?” She looked at me with her I-can’t-believe-what-I-have-to-live-with face and said, “What do you think?” “Humph!” I got up. Usually the answer to both the questions was no, so that didn’t surprise me. But every time, it was the same disappointment. I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, stared into it for a second, and shut it. That was the routine. I walked back into the living room and sat down next to my sister with a thud. “There’s nothing to do!” I whined. “You know what, Bella?” Nava asked me. “What?” I asked. “Figure something out and leave me alone!!” She walked into her room and slammed the door. “Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning,” I said to no one in particular. I sat on the couch for a while, not doing anything. “Ow!” I whispered as our cat Brownie jumped onto my lap, claws first. She rubbed her head against me and purred. We named her Brownie because every inch of her body was the luscious color of the fudgy inside of a brownie. Looking at her, I thought about how much I loved her and how much I loved brownies when a thought went off in my head: I would make brownies. As I got out a pot and the ingredients, I decided that I would make a double batch, which wasn’t that much harder. I was melting the butter and chocolate on the stove, when Nava came out of her bedroom. “Whatcha doin’?” she asked, not looking up from the magazine she was reading. “Making brownies.” She looked up. “What? Bella, you didn’t ask! You know you’re not supposed to use the stove!” “Well, you didn’t say no.” “You didn’t give me the chance!!” “Well, if you hadn’t told me I couldn’t watch TV, I wouldn’t have had to do anything else!” “Oh, so now it’s my fault?” “Yeah, I had nothing to do and you didn’t care, so I had to figure it out on my own and I chose this.” “Well, excuse me, I was doing the best that I could. Would you like to try having the world’s most annoying person in the world as your sister?” “Well, you don’t even know my best friend’s name!” “Oh, I so do!” she yelled back. “Really? Then what’s her name?” “Ah, uh, Lila, she has been your best friend since kindergarten.” “Wrong, guess again,” I said. “Hmm, Mattie, she has always been one of your closest friends!” “See, you don’t even realize that the two people you just said are my two least favorite people at school! You don’t pay any attention to me. It’s all just you and your stupid friends. You have not hugged me since May 2010… It’s been like, what? Three years?!” “I hug you all the time. How about that time that you fell and had to get stitches on your knee, I hugged you then!” “No you didn’t, you stayed in the emergency room with me for two minutes, faking sympathy, and then you called your friends to come pick you up, and you left!” “You’re making that up.” “I am not!” I slammed my hand down on the counter, or I meant to slam it down on the counter, but instead I slammed it down on the only part of the burner that was not covered by the pot. I screamed and screamed so loud that probably everyone in the neighborhood could hear me. My sister freaked. She grabbed me and pulled me toward the sink and poured cold water over my hand. It didn’t help, it was bubbling and turning dark red. “Stay here,” Nava told me. She flew across the room, grabbing ice, turning off the stove, and pulling the plastic wrap out of a drawer. In seconds, before I knew it, she was back by the sink, dumping out all of the ice in the ice tray onto the counter. She grabbed my hand with one of hers and with the other she grabbed as much ice from the counter as she could. Putting all the ice in her hand onto mine, she quickly cut a piece of plastic wrap and wrapped it around my hand, holding the ice in place. This soothed the pain enough for me to stop screaming. Nava grabbed her keys and rushed me out the door. She jumped into the front seat as I slid in the back. Closing the door and quickly buckling up, she took off. She was only sixteen and wasn’t supposed to be driving other people yet, but she could pass for eighteen and this was an emergency. She drove me to the nearest children’s hospital, which was only a few blocks away. She slid into the nearest parking space and jumped out, followed by me, and we ran into the emergency room. A few hours later we came out with Mom and Dad. My hand was newly bandaged with some kind of hospital bandage that felt so good that multiple times I forgot it was even there. I thought of all the questions I was going to get at school and what I was going to say to them. I wasn’t sure if I would tell people that I had gotten into a fight with Nava or I would just say that I had put my hand on a burner. The doctor had said that Nava had done the right thing, making the ice bandage and taking me to the hospital so quickly. Mom and Dad were so proud of how we handled the situation that they were going to ease off on the punishments a little, but there was
Fiction
It was hot, much too hot and stifling for my liking. My long-sleeved wetsuit wasn’t helping, and the zippered ankles weren’t much relief. I sighed and rolled down the window. Soooo much better. The playful wind whispered in my ear, danced around my collarbone, and lifted my hair just slightly off my back. Minutes later, the harsh crying of gulls resonated through my ears, my eyes flew open, and I drew breath tainted with the salty brine smell of the ocean. It stretched out before me, gleaming and glittering in all its glory. The more daring few of the sun’s rays reached out, just barely kissing the surface of the cresting, breaking water. I pulled another long, salty-sweet breath of air into my lungs and grinned. The aquamarine water shone bright, inviting me, calling me toward its glistening depths. The car stopped with a jolt. A heartbeat after the sound of the engine fading to a low purr and finally stopping, I shoved my door open and leapt out, bare feet skimming over the hot, hard asphalt. My friend Annie raced after me, her mom’s calls chasing us there. “Leave our bags in a good spot on the shore!” she instructed. “Got it!” was yelled back to her with one voice. I crashed down a skinny cement path, dashed through some fat green succulents, and sprinted across the burning hot beach. The water was beautifully cold, not to mention welcome. Frothing liquid swirled around my legs as I raced farther out. A huge wave was looming, just cresting and about ready to break. I shook the water out of my eyes and ran to meet it. Its top curled slightly, folding in on itself. Foam gathered on the edge, and its rumbling grew louder and louder until it was all I could hear. I filled my lungs to their bursting point and drifted down to the rough, sandy bottom. I could feel the whitewater booming over my head, and when I could have sworn the last traces of its foam had receded, I straightened my knees and broke the glassy surface. The contrast of the ice-cold water around my long legs and the pleasant warmth of the sun on my upturned face was angelic. I soaked it all in, from the sounds and noises you would expect to be associated with the ocean to the cries of families and their friends, audible all across the beach. A crashing sound was building, growing louder, but I had yet to pay attention to it. Too late. Suddenly another wave slapped me in the face and I fell over. Whoops, I muttered in my head. Pay attention next time, nutso! Caught up in the rinse cycle, I rolled head over heels many times and occasionally whacked a limb or butt against the fast-passing, sandy bottom. Great move, Sophia, I thought. Do it again. My wave seemed to be getting smaller and thinning out. It shook me in a somersault a final time and left, depositing me at Annie’s feet. She stared at me. “Hi,” I said, staring back. Annie remained quiet. Awkward silence… I trilled internally. She didn’t move. “Ya know, double waves are dead sneaky!” I said, slipping a crazy accent into my voice that guaranteed a laugh from Annie. She twitched slightly. I grinned stupidly, and a smile flickered elusively across Annie’s face. I went a step further and stuck my thumb in my eye. Annie cracked up. I joined in and laughed until my stomach hurt and rivers streamed down my cheeks. That night, as I drifted on drowsy waves of happy, I realized I had learned my lesson for that day: always watch for double waves.
Fiction
This story includes some words in Tagalog, the language of the Philippines. See the glossary at the end of the story. Today, Lina didn’t wake up from hunger, thirst, or the heat like she usually did. Today she woke up from the sound of voices. She looked at the rusty alarm clock on the shelf above her: 4:45 A.M. It was too early for voices. Tatay should still be at work. Lina looked over to her little brothers and sisters who lay sleeping on the floor beside her. Standing up, she tiptoed toward the voices, the old bamboo floors creaking with every step. Lina leaned up against the thin wall and listened. “I know, but they wouldn’t listen,” Lina’s father said loudly, not quite shouting, but almost. “But why you? Why did they fire you? You only missed three days! Tatlo!” You were sick!” her mother exclaimed, firmly holding up three fingers. “I know it is not fair, but it’s the way things are. I’ll find a new job, I promise,” her father assured her. “No, Miguel. You need to rest. I will find a job.” Her parents embraced each other. Her mother’s eyes filled with tears. “Mahal kita.” “Mahal kita higit pa. I’ll check on the children. I hope we didn’t wake them,” her mother said. Lina quickly ran back into her room and pretended to be asleep, just as her mother peered in. Lina thought about everything she just heard. She knew that the next few weeks would be even tougher than usual. Her dad had lost his night job as a jeepney driver. He didn’t get paid that much, especially for their family of eight. Most of the money was spent on rent, the rest on food, which usually meant a cup of rice or soup. The food was barely enough to keep them alive. Lina’s family was interminably hungry, like everyone else in their village. Lina never said it aloud, but she always thought about money. She prayed every night that their family would be rich. Then she wouldn’t have to worry about anything. They could move out of the little shack, out of the slums, and into a beautiful house. They would replace all their rags with real clothes. Insufficient meals would become colossal feasts. Life would be easy. * * * Hours later, after the sun rose, Lina heard the door open. It was their father. “Magandang umaga, children. How did you sleep?” “Fine, Tatay,” all six children lied. They didn’t sleep well at all. The noise from the passing jeepneys outside was too loud, it was too hot, and the floor was too hard underneath them. “Nanay is out today. She will be back soon, but I’ll stay with all of you today, OK?” The children nodded and didn’t question their father. He loved them, and Lina knew, whatever decision he made was the best for them. If he said things would get better, they would. Nanay arrived later that evening. “I’m home! I have so much to tell you!” The children ran to the door to welcome their mother with big hugs. She continued, “I got a job as a house-cleaner in the middle of the city. The house is huge, like a castle!” Nanay exclaimed. Lina’s eyes opened wide. She could already imagine it, though she had seen houses like this only in her dreams. “And guess what, Lina? You can help me clean tomorrow and you can see it for yourself!” Lina was ecstatic. She hugged her mother tight and fell asleep to dreams of the house she’d soon see. * * * The next morning, Lina woke early and joined her mother on her commute to the city. Lina looked out the window of the jeepney and caught a glimpse of the huge mansions that lined the road. Wow, Lina thought. She was no longer in her village, that was for sure. Lina and her mother walked up the smooth, paved road until they both turned the corner and found themselves facing the biggest, most beautiful house of all. Lina had to tilt her head up in order to see all of it. The awe-inspiring mansion towered over her and glistened in the sun. It looked like something from the storybooks her mother used to read her. “Just wait until you see what’s inside,” her mother whispered. They ambled down the stone pavement leading to the massive white front door, and her mother pressed a strange button at its side. A loud ringing noise filled the house from the inside and the door swung open. “Hello,” exclaimed a woman with peculiarly light-colored hair as she extended her hand out to both Lina and her mother. She was taller than anyone Lina had seen before. Her skin was so light, not like the usual tanned skin she was so familiar with. Lina didn’t realize how closely she was examining the woman until she started talking once again. “I am Ms. Barker. You must be Lina.” “Yes, ma’am,” Lina replied politely. The woman smiled and led them inside. Lina looked around and found herself in an enormous cream-colored room that seemed to glow in the light that overflowed from the large rectangular windows that dominated the walls. The floor wasn’t hard and creaky like Lina had been so used to; rather this floor was covered in an ancient-looking carpet that welcomed her feet with every step she took. A grand chandelier hung from the ceiling, making the room even more imposing. The room alone was bigger than her entire house. These people must be really rich, Lina thought to herself. She tried not to be, but she couldn’t help but feel jealous. She wanted to live here and have this much money. She wished her life could be like this. She envied it all. “I’ll show you what needs cleaning,” Ms. Barker said, looking over to Lina, who was busy admiring the room. “Yes, of course,” Lina said, trying her
Poem
When I arrive home from school she’s there waiting, in the window. She wags her tail joyfully. Her long slobbery tongue licks me all over. As I open the door to the backyard Bella bolts out into the yard. I grab a bouncy tennis ball and throw it as far as I can. She races across the yard fetching the tennis ball and bringing it back to me covered in slob. We go inside and I give Bella a nice warm bath. When she’s done she shakes, sending water everywhere like a sprinkler! When it’s time for bed I kiss her head and watch her drift off to sleep. I go downstairs for a glass of milk to quench my thirst. I end up finding Bella curled up into a little brown ball. Always after a long stressful day at school I can look forward to seeing Bella.
Poem
I must have been only six at the time, my sister, Poppy, two I must have wondered why Poppy decided to look at the parked cars in the parking lot rather than walk the Stone Arch Bridge. My mom must have stayed behind with Poppy, leaving only my dad, my aunt, and myself to see it fall. We must have walked for a little while, because it happened around the middle of the bridge. It must have been humid that summer, because my feet must have been a little slippery, a little sweaty. I must have stepped up on the brick wall below the handrail and rested my feet between the rail and the bricks. I must have stared up at Saint Anthony Falls in awe and must have heard an ice cream truck calling me. I must have stepped down from that ledge, felt my shoe slide off, and watched it tumble down, an orange falling into a faucet stream, the river. And I must have stretched my hand out, a “No!” from me, a sad yes lingering in my brain. I must have looked at my feet that night, rough and callused from a day without my right shoe. And someone down in Louisiana must have seen an orange Croc oat by on the Mississippi, a bucket full of mystery, and wondered.
Poem
Nothing ever stays the same Family going, Never coming back Tears fall Goodbyes made Why won’t the world stop spinning? Sorrow, joy Blended into one Leaving, For a better place Why can’t we go as well? Tears dry Life moves on Events fade Time blurs Were they ever here at all? A memory A smile A place Smacks me hard Like colliding with a wall. Tears wet my pillow again, Freed by fresh pain. I will never forget completely, Though nothing stays the same.
Book Reviews
The Lucy Variations, by Sara Zarr; Little, Brown Books for Young Readers: New York, 2013; $18 An inspiring tale of a young musician finding her place in this crazy world, The Lucy Variations is a journey about finding yourself and accomplishing your dreams no matter what giant obstacles are blocking your way. Lucy’s little brother’s new music teacher, Will, plays a big part. He helps Lucy find a side of herself she has long forgotten, the musical side, a side that used to bring her happiness. He helps resurrect Lucy in a sense. A major question asked time and time again in the book is, “What do you love?” For Lucy, the answer is music. The Lucy Variations got me thinking—what do I love? Well, I love reading. I tried to narrow down what I loved about reading, like Will had Lucy do. Although narrowing down the reasons proved easy for Lucy, it was a lot harder for me. I just love everything about reading. I love how when I’m reading, I’m no longer myself. I can be anyone, do anything, go anywhere; and that is just one of the best feelings in the world. I love how within one page, a strong author can make you go from laughing to crying. In fact, I don’t think there’s anything I love more than the first pages of a good book. I love endings too though, because there’s always more to the tale, and I’m the one who gets to write it within the pages of my imagination. The reason I love The Lucy Variations so much is the novel allowed me to experience everything I adored in a good book in just 304 pages. As I kept thinking about the question—what do I love?— more things came to mind than just reading. I thought about playing my guitar and singing, spending time with my friends and family, taking pictures on my iPod Touch, stupid funny movies, traveling to new places, and creating lasting memories. Like Lucy, realizing what I truly love opened my eyes to a whole new perspective. So often, people walk around without ever truly knowing what they love. They go through the motions as if each day is a death sentence, like they have no choice about how their day will go. The Lucy Variations is such a good reminder to us that there is so much to love about life. If we just choose to stop cowering away from our fears, and eliminate them like Lucy did, we can finally focus on the good things that bring us joy and peace. One thing I particularly didn’t like about the book is how things ended with Will and Lucy. In the end, we find out Will has been using Lucy to gain fame through her talent. I was a little crushed, well more than a little, because throughout the whole book Will was one of the only people Lucy truly trusted, and then he turned on her too. Although that wasn’t how I anticipated things ending between them, I still think the author did the right thing. The conclusion demonstrated to Lucy that, even though people might hurt her, the good memories stored in her heart would fuel her to keep persevering. The incident made Lucy stronger and gave her the will to excel at her goals. Overall, The Lucy Variations was an amazing book, one that I will read over and over again for years to come. I recommend this book to readers ages twelve and up who enjoy contemporary coming-of-age fiction.
Book Reviews
The Blackhope Enigma, by Teresa Flavin; Templar Publishing: United Kingdom, 2011; $12.70 What? When? Why? These were the thoughts running through my head as I flipped through The Blackhope Enigma. Written by Teresa Flavin, this novel is a perfect example of when reality and fantasy clash and the result is beautiful. What is an enigma? An enigma is something that is puzzling or mystifying that just cannot be explained in any logical way. The title was perfect since enigmas play such a pivotal role in the book. How did Sunni’s brother disappear into the painting? Why have skeletons appeared throughout the centuries only in the Mariner’s chamber of Blackhope Tower, the same room that her brother vanished in? And who is the suspicious stranger who claims that he wants to help her? My favorite part of this book is the fact that the characters are relatable. Sunni Forest is no child of a prophecy or royal princess. Instead, she is simply a regular thirteen-year-old girl who likes to draw. When she and Blaise see her pesky little brother disappear into a painting, she reacts the way any regular thirteen-year-old would react: with fear and wonder. I have found that having a relatable character is what drives a story forward and makes the reader want more, and Teresa Flavin is a master of this. I have never had much of an interest in painting, partly because I am horrible at it, but this book revealed a different side of art that interested me: the centuries of slightly insane artists and their eccentric life stories. It has made me think further than a painting when I see one and more towards who painted it. The story is set in Blackhope Tower, a centuries-old manor in Scotland. Unlike some readers, I’ve been to Scotland before, and after visiting Holyrood Palace I could vividly imagine the mist and mystery surrounding Blackhope Tower. I think the setting enhanced the story because castles are often associated with inexplicable mysteries and strange events. Certainly, Blackhope Tower is no stranger to odd events. From the underground labyrinth to the ancient skeletons that appeared every few centuries, this castle might even be the strangest of all castles. Be warned, just because I enjoyed this book doesn’t mean that I am without complaints. The antagonist, Angus Bellini, felt rather cliched and underdeveloped, as if the author hadn’t taken the time to plot him out fully. I personally prefer stories in which the villains have motives other than being bent on one certain thing. Angus has only one goal: finding Corvio’s lost paintings and selling them for money. Overall though, I truly love this book. It has many of the key elements that I want in a book: mystery, intriguing and realistic characters, an interesting plot, as well as the thread of fantasy running through it. I would recommend this book to anyone who enjoys creative characters and unexpected plot twists in fantasy books. I certainly do. That’s why I am going to pick up the second book in the series right away.
