Fiction
Alex skied down the mountain and breathed in the scent of the pine trees. Everything was peaceful. He spotted a cluster of dark blue puddles of water seeping through the cracked ice. He longed to investigate and decided to stop and take a peek. As he got closer there was a quick flicker in one of the bigger puddles, creating a growing ring of tiny waves. He supposed it was a fish. As he slowed down he pushed his gloves back on his hands and covered his mouth with his neck warmer so his frosty breath would not come out. He quickly skied down but surprisingly skidded on the ice and one of his skis fell off. The screeching of the wind echoed through his ears as he fell on his back and slid down the hill in a tumbling heap of snow. His body was twisted up. He was trying to stop, but it didn’t work. He managed to take a glimpse of the puddles only several yards in front of him. He heard the icy ground crunching beneath him as he plunged into pitch-black water. All his consciousness streamed from him as he felt the deathly chill of the water. He tasted the saltiness of it in his mouth. He was drowning. It would be the end of it all. He couldn’t manage getting his ski off, so he desperately tried swimming upward toward the surface, which already seemed miles overhead. He could feel thick walls of ice on his palms that he could climb up. He slowly climbed it with great difficulty. The coldness threatened to freeze him to the core until his death. Random thoughts arose in Alex’s head, which pushed him away from his life. He remembered all the times he went out to dinner with his mom. And all the times he went out to play sports with his dad and all the times he talked and talked for hours with his brother Lucas and watched his cat play with a toy. He remembered the first time he ate mango frozen yogurt with chocolate shavings and he tasted the creamy deliciousness as it entered his watering mouth. The first time he got a home run in baseball, all the momentum and the crowd roaring. His first time playing Handel’s Water Music, the beautiful tones of the notes humming through his ears. The exciting feeling that he had worked hard and accomplished something. Speeding along through the ocean when he was boogie boarding and when he went crashing and tumbling onto the beach and laughing with excitement. The wind rushing into his face as he went down the steep roller coaster with his dad at Six Flags. His first flip he did off the diving board when he landed on his back. Feeling the feeling of doing something he never thought he could do. His life was flashing before him. All these special times in his life. Life. He wanted it. But he didn’t think he could get it through all the chaos and the freezing blackness. He opened his eyes as much as possible and he saw light. Was it actually light? Could this possibly be it? Right as he took his first gasp of air he fell into a sleep he would probably never have again. He awoke in the hotel room staring with fuzzy vision at a burning fire in front of him. He had fresh clothes on and he could feel the leather of the armchair he was sitting in. His mom brought a steaming dish of spaghetti with his favorite sauce, tomato sauce. He took a long sigh and slowly blinked…
Fiction
THIS IS A TRUE STORY Guang’s stomach grumbled. He sighed, took his bread out of his backpack, and looked at it, trying to control his appetite. “Remember, don’t start eating it as soon as you get off our doorstep!” his mother had said as she placed the bread in a small paper bag with her flour-covered hands. But his stomach growled again and he took a very small bite. It was 1960, and ever since the Communists had taken his parents’ land and business, Guang had been given only a small loaf of bread to eat for lunch at school. His once handsome features were now pale and almost fleshless. There were six children in the family: three boys and three girls. As the fifth child in his family, and the second boy, Guang was not given enough to eat, as Chinese in those times thought that the oldest and youngest children were most important. Being a boy didn’t help (Chinese considered boys superior to girls); he had one older brother and one younger one. The three-year famine between 1958 and 1961 had been caused by Chairman Mao’s Great Leap Forward policy. Chairman Mao had stated that China could catch up with Europe and the U.S. in industry if more steel could be manufactured. The whole population was forced to make steel. Anyone who didn’t comply was considered an enemy of the state and punished. Farmers stopped farming and melted their farm tools for material to use to make steel and cut down scores of trees to make fires. People in the cities melted pots and pans—Guang remembered how his family had only been allowed to keep one pot and one pan. Over the fires they placed a huge stove and threw all their metal in there. But steel-making is a very exact procedure. Metal must be burnt at just the right temperature, and the exact procedure has to be followed. The ordinary people didn’t know the procedure, and a small wood bonfire is definitely not the right temperature. The metal they produced was not steel; it was useless scrap metal molded into shapes. Meanwhile, no one was farming, and even if they were allowed to, all the farm tools had been melted. Food was scarce. There was only bread to eat, and very little of that, too. In the countryside, some people were forced to eat things like tree bark and flowers. Before the Communists took over, Guang’s family was wealthy and well-to-do. It had owned two factories: a soy sauce factory and a biscuit factory. Then the Communists came to power and took away all their land and property because the Communist theory was that money, property, and other possessions should be distributed evenly amongst all citizens. His parents had often muttered about the Communists, and Guang had heard them sometimes. Guang still longed to gorge himself on a bag of biscuits and a plate of well-cooked meat. He missed the life he had once had. Now, standing on the cracked, broken sidewalk, he couldn’t resist his hunger. Even though he knew that by the time he got home after school, ten hours later, he would be starving, the temptation won. He took another bite, savoring the sweet taste of the bread. As he ate he thought of the biscuit factory his family had owned. He remembered the bags of biscuits, with buttery crusts and soft, delicious insides that he had feasted on so often. He remembered how privileged he had felt every time one of the factory’s delivery trucks trundled by, how glad he had been that his family was so well-to-do. But now, whenever he noticed one of those delivery trucks, he remembered the Communists, and now he tried not to walk past the factory, now owned by the country. The loaf was only the size of his fist, so he tried to make it last as long as possible, holding each piece in his mouth until it softened. Taking care not to drop a single crumb, he broke the bread in half, then took one half and broke it again. The aroma of fresh-baked corn bread tantalized him, and he pulled off another piece. He started ripping off large chunks and stuffing them in his mouth, but instead of subsiding, his hunger elevated. When Guang arrived at school, he was just finishing the last piece of bread. Though he had devoured the equivalent of a small meal, he was just as ravenous as he was when he had taken that tiny first bite. Digging into the bag, Guang pulled out a few crumbs and swallowed them as well. The bag was crumpled into a small round brown ball and tossed into a nearby wastebasket. Guang pretended to be a basketball player, flicking his wrist and muttering, “Two points! Score!” in Chinese. He gazed out at his school, a long three-story brick building with long windows that looked out on the grassless field where some children played with a ball. His friend greeted him with a halfhearted “Hello!” as he walked through the gate and into the schoolyard. The bell rang and he trudged up the stairs and along the hall to his classroom, slung his backpack down on the floor, and pulled out his textbook. Another long day, he thought. Guang is my grandfather, and this is his true story.
Fiction
By Molly O’Toole Illustrated by Ravela Smyth Beep! Beep! I spring out of bed when my alarm sounds, but no alarm was needed to wake me up. I have been waiting for this day my whole life. I keep my pajamas on, because I need to wear clothes that aren’t important for cooking. My stomach is doing that all too familiar flip-flop motion that indicates Today is St. Lucia day. Today, I am Lucia. Bella and Matthew are already up and dancing around the kitchen. They look up when I come in. “Elizabeth!” they cry, and Bella runs up and hugs my waist. Bella is only five, but she’s super smart. She’s quiet and only speaks when necessary, but mostly because there’s too much going on inside her head. It must sound like a Lowell mill in there. Matthew’s eight and is a lot louder and more outgoing. He’s kind of a class clown. The stairs creak, followed by loud thumping and groaning. It’s Kathryn. “Shush!” I say. “You’ll wake up the adults!” She gives me her classic touch-me-and-I’ll-kill-you look and grabs the recipe book off the shelf. “OK, everyone knows the drill. Bella and Matthew gather the ingredients for the Lucia buns, I put them in the oven, and Elizabeth makes the coffee. Am I understood?” I glare at Matthew, trying to warn him, but he can’t resist. “Sir yes, sir!” he shouts in a stern voice, then puffs out his chest and salutes Kathryn. I roll my eyes. Matthew has to learn that you can’t joke with her at 6:00 a.m. But Kathryn’s response takes me off guard. “That’s more like it! Everyone, get busy!” I grab the coffee pot and ground coffee and set some water to boil. Since coffee takes the shortest amount of time, I go to the hall closet and fetch the white robes and hats and wreaths. My family is Swedish, so we celebrate St. Lucia Day. The oldest girl in the family wears a wreath with seven candles (fake, or real in my case) and a white robe with a red sash. She walks into the kitchen with St. Lucia buns and coffee, singing the St. Lucia song. Some families sing it in English, but we were always taught the Swedish version. The other kids wear white robes, and the really little ones dress up as tomtar, which are little Swedish mischievous elves, and sing other songs. The boys wear hats decorated with stars. They are stjärngossar, or star boys. Kathryn was always Lucia, and now I’m thirteen and it’s finally my turn. There’s really no way to explain the way I feel. I guess you could say that it’s like waiting in line at the amusement park; waiting for hours and hours. But finally you get to go on the ride, and it’s the most amazing and exhilarating roller coaster that you will ever go on in your whole life. It’s like a breath of fresh air, a rainbow after a thunderstorm, light after darkness. It’s finally my time to be the special one, the one in the light. And I have never been more ready or eager. I smile as I fold the robes and look out the window. It’s the kind of winter day where the sun shines golden light on the ground, melting the early morning frost and creating a warm kind of air to the chilly sky. “Elizabeth! The buns are ready!” shouts Kathryn. I snap out of my daydream and head to the kitchen. Awaiting me is a tray of fresh-out-of-the-oven Lucia buns. They smell like saffron, and small little heat waves are slowly rising towards the ceiling. I love Lucia buns so much that it makes my mouth melt just looking at them. But these aren’t for me. I remind myself that I have to be Lucia, which means bringing the buns to other people and pretending that I’m glad just to watch them eat. But even that burden doesn’t take away the honor and glory that I get when I walk into the dining room. My great-grandmother wore that crown, and my grandmother, and my aunt, and my mother, and my sister. But now I’ll wear it, now I’ll get to share my Lucia story, and I’ll get to be part of that club, that knowing. Me. “Elizabeth, get Matthew and Bella ready, and I’ll finish the coffee. We need to hurry!” Kathryn wipes her forehead and gets out the mugs. I take Matthew and Bella to the living room and pull the robes over their heads. “Here, Matthew—take your hat. Bella—get on your shirt.” I fly around, tying this and adjusting that, and finally the two young ones are ready, and I can get myself tidied up. Myself. Me. Lucia. I shake a little in a feeble attempt to calm myself down. It just can’t be done. It’s almost time. I run to the bathroom and change out of my pajamas and put on my white robe. It flutters just to the floor—but not quite touching it. Below the bustline there are some pleats, which go on for a few inches. It’s simple but elegant. The sash is beautiful. It’s a deep, wondrous color that’s somewhere between scarlet and burgundy. You can’t see this from afar, but it’s embroidered with tiny little flowers—poinsettias. I tie it around my waist and remove the crown wreath from its little box. It sits there while I brush my hair—I’m not really looking at it but I can picture it perfectly. It sits there in its own little glory, sitting on the bathroom cabinet; sitting in my thoughts and tinting them with a St. Lucia evergreen smell. Even though it’s made of artificial pine needles, I can still smell it. Soon it will sit on my head and boast that I’m Lucia, its bright candles illuminating my face and the tiny flames flickering in my eyes. Setting down my brush, I leave the bathroom to see
Fiction
The Galactic Soldier Code To protect the peace of the Milky Way, To fight bravely on land, sea, air, and space, To execute the orders of our superiors, We are the Galactic Soldiers. Jade’s cell was a small, cramped space, with bare white walls and floor, except for a small bed, sink, toilet, and mirror. She paced back and forth, her legs burning and the tattoo of her boots soothing her. I’m running out of time, she thought bitterly. I need to get out of here. Beads of sweat collected on her forehead, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. She sighed and pressed her back against the wall. She stopped to look at her reflection. She was startled by it. Her deep blue eyes were shaken with fear. A hunk of black hair covered the left side of her face. The one blue highlight stood out. She eyed her uniform—tight black shirt and pants, made for ease in slipping in and out of spacesuits. The purple band on her right arm finally caught her attention. The band had two thin letters, GS, and a crude drawing of an eagle circling Earth in orbit. It was the symbol of the Galactic Soldiers. Jade was part of this group, the space combat branch of the military, founded shortly after the discovery of other planetary life. The soldiers were trained to be diplomats and defend the galaxy from harm. They went through intense training and had to understand the ins and outs of astrophysics. Jade excelled through training and rose through the ranks. She and other officers were sent on the spacecraft Athena to travel to the Alpha Centauri solar system. This mission would determine the fate of the Earth. She sighed as tears swelled in her eyes; she buried her face in her hands as the last few hours flooded back into her mind. * * * The sounds of the four people’s boots echoed through the hallway Their faces were grim. The commander had called the meeting; no doubt the news was going to be sour. He grunted and punched ten numbers into the entrance pad and the doors swished open. The moment they stepped in, the door shut behind them. The room they entered was full of strange, colorful machines and glass walls. A rosy nebula shimmered softly. Dominic walked next to Jade. He smiled, his perfect white teeth glittering. “You know what the commander knows?” “Nah, I have no idea,” she replied. Dominic was the same rank as Jade; he had sandy blond hair and navy blue eyes, and a wicked sense of humor. He was a close friend of Jade’s. She knew him better for his valiant acts as a soldier. She craned her neck to stare at the commander. He was a ruthless leader who got his position through public relations and doing political favors. His greasy black hair fell onto his face. An eyepatch covered his right eye, but a scar still peeked out. No one was brave enough to ask where he got it from. “Let’s get started,” he said. They gathered around a long, elegant table with a gridded screen. In the center there was a small lens. The commander pushed a button and a large hologram flickered on. The hologram unfurled a three-dimensional map of the Milky Way galaxy. It was so realistic it didn’t look like a hologram. The nebulae looked like small clumps of clouds you could touch. The stars shined like Christmas lights. The brilliant map of the cosmos was annotated with red markings, showing approximate locations of the sun and other celestial objects. Everyone was in awe of its majesty, except the commander, who cleared his throat loudly. “We have attack strategy to plan,” he said. “This mission will determine the fate of the Earth.” Jade tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. She pointed to a green marble-looking piece of the hologram. “ Commander, this planet is Enyo, is it not?” He nodded. “It’s part of the solar system of Alpha Centauri, one of the stars of the triple star system. It was completely hidden until discovered in 2405. The planet is much like Earth. Its inhabitants are equally as advanced as us.” He sighed. “Planetary warfare between our two planets is ripping the Milky Way apart.” His eye was like a dark pit, darker than space itself. The war of the Milky Way has raged on for so long no one really remembers how it started. Enyo and Earth are locked in battle. As a result, both planets are draining their resources; to be frank they are pretty much destroying each other over something petty. Dominic knit his eyebrows. “Sir, we know all of this. We know Earth is on the verge of economic collapse, we learned this in training. Why are you repeating this?” Veronica chimed in. “Because it’s the last time any of us will hear this.” Jade stared at her. Veronica was a frosty girl, her platinum-blond hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She was the co-commander of the Athena spacecraft. She had a non-negotiable loyalty to the commander, despite his ruthlessness. Her lip was quivering and she was shaking, as if the information she knew was so dreadful it was unbearable to hear. Veronica bit her lip, unable to meet Dominic and Jade’s gaze. “The war has caused horrendous surface damage to both planets. We have developed artillery strong enough to destroy our solar system. If the war goes on we will most likely obliterate each other. Our leaders have come to a decision.” The commander stared directly at Jade and Dominic. “We will annihilate Enyo.” Jade gasped. No one was able to process what the commander had just said. Jade looked at Dominic, who shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet. Finally he broke the silence. “Sir, you can’t be… you can’t be serious.” The commander looked
Fiction
His breathing deepened as he drifted off to sleep. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that comforted his sister sitting next to him. Ellie Harrison wrapped her arms around herself in a hug and closed her eyes. She tried to sleep like her brother, but it was impossible to get comfortable in the hard wooden chairs of the hospital waiting room. After a few minutes, Sleep found her and took her away from the hospital and all the pain of everyone in the waiting room with her. But Sleep had no extra time to spare and was impatient to be rid of this new customer. So Sleep went away, leaving her huddled in the cold chair of the hospital waiting room. She opened her eyes, rubbing them gently to make the grogginess go away. The fluorescent light shone brightly, but there was something oddly fake about it; about the whole room. Everything was a sterile white, and too clean for her liking. She glanced around at the other people in the chairs all around her. Some had stains of recent tears on their cheeks; others sat staring straight ahead of them. A few were asleep like her older brother, Luke, curled up in chairs and even on the floor. One man sat with his head in his hands, sobbing silently into his sleeve. A woman close to the white door spoke softly into her cell phone, reading something off a form in her hand. Some children looked at magazines, and some played video games on iPads or cell phones. There was a big TV mounted on the wall near the door, playing a children’s program on mute. A few people stared blankly at the TV. But no one in the room was really focusing on what they were doing. The waiting room was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. Or even a cotton ball. The silence was not broken for several minutes, until the door opened and a doctor with smeared lipstick and messy hair that had been tied back in a loose ponytail walked in. Her eyes quickly scanned the room, and she called out a name. “Flora O’Connor?” The woman who had been speaking on her cell phone jumped up and dumped her phone and the forms on her lap into a huge purse. She walked over to the doctor uncertainly, tucking her red hair behind her ear and slinging the monstrous purse over her shoulder like it weighed a thousand pounds. The doctor whispered something that made the woman dissolve into tears. She bit her lip and nodded. Slowly she followed the doctor back through the door, still sobbing quietly. The doctor wore a look of almost sympathy as she closed the door, enveloping the waiting room in silence again. Ellie thought that the doctor should try a little harder to comfort the woman. Ellie quite disliked doctors. She hated the blue pajamas they wore. The white hygiene masks and the fake smiles plastered on their faces. And especially the way they pretended to understand your pain, the way they shook their heads; implying that their patient had not made it through the night or that their treatments hadn’t been successful. Now Ellie sighed and sank back into the wooden chair, tapping her foot impatiently. A moment later, the white door swung open again, and this time no doctor walked in, but Ellie’s dad slumped to where Ellie and Luke sat. His eyes were red and puffy, as if he had not slept in many weeks. He was unshaven and his hair stuck up in every which way. He held a cup of coffee from the cafeteria downstairs, on which his name was printed sloppily. Bradley Harrison. “Daddy!” whispered Ellie, “Are you OK? How is Marcella doing? When can I visit?” Ellie’s father sighed. His youngest daughter, Marcella, who was only five, was in the hospital, unconscious. One week ago, Ellie’s mom had been driving Marcella to her school. It was raining. They were stopped at a red light when a big truck came skidding out of nowhere. It collided with their car, and Ellie’s mother had not survived. Marcella was alive, but very hurt. The doctors were still trying to figure out what was wrong with her. She had scans and tests every day. Their father rarely left her bedside, except for nighttime, when they stayed in a hotel across the street from the hospital. Ellie and Luke spent much of their time in the waiting room, because only one visitor was allowed with Marcella at a time. But sometimes Ellie was permitted in with her sister, and she knelt by the bed. It was full of Marcella’s favorite stuffed animals and blankets, and the table beside the bed was overloaded with sweets and cards from friends. Ellie was distraught at losing her mother, but since Marcella was so hurt, she couldn’t think about her mom. She had to focus on Marcella, because she could not lose two members of her family. After Marcella got better, they could properly mourn Mrs. Harrison. Ellie’s dad looked at his shoes, blinking back tears. “Marcella is the same. She’s still unconscious. The doctors hoped to see some improvement after the treatment they gave her yesterday, but there’s been no sign. But there’s still hope. She will pull out of this! No extra visitors are allowed right now. But I was wondering if you were hungry. It’s six thirty, and if you get too tired we can head back to the hotel soon. But I think we should eat first. Come on, wake up your brother and we’ll head to the cafeteria. OK?” Ellie nodded and shook Luke awake. He rubbed his neck, which must have been full of cricks from the uncomfortable chairs. They stood up solemnly and followed their father out a new door, this one also white, and down some stairs. He nodded at the receptionist in the lobby, who smiled and
Fiction
PROLOGUE I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to move to America on July 17, 1956. My life was perfect in Japan. I had good friends. I had finally made the baseball team. Everything was perfect, but then I had to move to the U.S. The same country that fought a war against Japan. The same country where everybody who looks Japanese is an enemy. Learn a new language. Make new friends. So, basically I had to start over when everything had been perfect. “Perfect” was the only word going through my mind as I sat in bed, looking blankly at the darkness, waiting for the alarm clock to ring. * * * Children were practically everywhere, rushing around like ants trying to find their hole. Room 117. I was getting good at reading English, but speaking—not so much. Room 117 would be on the second floor. (I had a tour of the school a few weeks ago.) I headed for the stairs. Once in the classroom, I noticed one thing. I was the only somewhat dark-skinned child in the classroom. I got some stares, a few whispers, and sweat trickled down my neck. The teacher broke the silence. “Class, I would like you to meet Kenta,” she announced, motioning to me. I noticed a group of three in the back, whispering. I didn’t know how, but I knew they were talking about me. I just knew. As I walked past them, I learned that my prediction was right. I heard words like, “What’s a Japanese kid doing here?” “I don’t know about you, but I want to pound him.” “Yeah, he doesn’t belong here.” I gulped and rushed off to my seat, but whoever those kids were, they were right. I didn’t belong here, I belonged in Japan. Japan was where my friends were. Japan is where my language is. Japan is where my father’s grave is, along with the graves of other soldiers who were probably fathers too. The teacher had the students give their names. I tried to pay attention but couldn’t. I couldn’t get my mind out of Japan. When the whisperers got their turn, I shoved my thoughtsout and listened carefully. Tony, Ezra, and Derek. Those were their names. Lunch was the worst and best part of the day. I sat down at a table and everybody else at the table moved. After the commotion, one kid was left sitting right across from me. “Hey, I’m Conrad.” He put out a hand, willing to shake. “Kenta,” I croaked. “Kietta?” “Kennta.” I exaggerated the n. “Kenta,” Conrad responded. I nodded. Lunch ended, recess started. According to Conrad, the big sport was football. “What’s football?” I asked. “Oh yeah, you don’t play football in Japan,” Conrad responded. “OK, here’s how you play. So there’s a quarterback. When he says “Hike!” he throws the ball to… you know what? It’s complicated to explain. You’ll catch on as you play.” “OK,” I said. I regretted saying that as soon as we started playing. First of all, I was picked last. The captains were Tony (the leader of the whisperers) and a kid named Joe, who I didn’t recognize. They had a big argument over who should get me. Tony won. Joe lost. I was on Joe’s team. The game started with a player from Tony’s team punting the odd-shaped ball. Maybe this game is like soccer, I thought, as the ball soared over our heads and landed right in front of me. I started to kick it. “Penalty!” somebody yelled. “Five yards!” Derek (another one of the whisperers) walked the ball five steps and placed it on the ground. “You’re supposed to pick it up, yellow boy,” said Derek in a mocking tone. All the kids laughed. The next thing I knew, Joe (the captain) said, “Hike!” I didn’t know what to do, so I copied all the other kids running like maniacs. Joe threw the oval-shaped ball. It was going right towards me. What was I supposed to do? I thought. Was I supposed to catch it? I had no more time for thinking about it, so I caught it. Now what? I suddenly thought of what Joe did, just a minute ago. “Hike!” I said and I threw the ball to a kid down the field. “Illegal forward pass!” cried out Tony. “Do you have a brain? Or is your head full of empty space? Well, I guess that’s what happens when you live off raw fish. ’Cause you would run with the ball, instead of throwing it.” My ears burned. The whole world was laughing at me. What did Conrad get me into? I wondered. After recess, Conrad walked up to me. “Sorry,” he immediately said, “I thought they would ignore you and you could learn the game by watching, but I was wrong. Sorry, I’m really sorry.” I nodded. It didn’t even occur to me that Conrad could have stood up for me during the game. Recess was bad. But then class started and it was easily the best part of the day, because then all the bullies out to get me couldn’t touch me without the teacher noticing. The rest of the day rushed by: math, science, music, art, and finally, reading. Before I walked home, Conrad passed on to me that there were baseball tryouts next week. Finally, I had something to look forward to besides getting beat up by Tony and his gang. * * * This one week felt a lot more alike a year rather than a week. Everything was going in slow motion, but finally, the week was over. I waited for the bell to ring during reading. To tell the truth, I wasn’t really reading at all. I had my book in front of me, flipped open to a random page. I was—ring!! I flew out of my seat, out
Fiction
Tears filled my eyes as I stared back at my mother. I turned and fled out the door, not caring that it was the middle of the night. The yard was filled with deep shadows, and leaves crackled beneath my feet as I ran over the open expanse of tufty grass and into the forest beyond. I somehow found my way to the shed, sagging wearily in its sheltering copse. Despite its bad condition, it had a fresh new lock on the tightly sealed doors, like a sheet of fresh paint over rotten wood. But I didn’t want to get into the shed: I wanted to get onto it. I grabbed the branch just above my head, well worn from years of use. Hauling myself up onto the familiar knot in the tree, I sidestepped onto the bottom half of the roof of the shed and then scrambled up onto the very top, shingles sliding underneath my soft hands. Brushing aside dry leaves and twigs, I sat down, legs dangling over the edge, and looked up. The sky glittered above, a blue canvas sprinkled with glittering stars. The thin sliver of a moon cast pale moonbeams onto the quiet nighttime forest, dappling the ground with silver puddles of moonlight. My breath puffed out in a white cloud; it was cold, but I didn’t mind. Crossing my arms, my gaze shifted downward, and I gazed out over the rest of the forest, tall, green-needled pines stretching up higher than I cared to look. The tears escaped my dark brown eyes, and I felt them slide silently down my cheeks. I hugged my knees to my chest and gritted my teeth, my face contorting in pain. More tears flooded out, and my lower lip quivered. I let my long brown hair fall into my face; it tickled my cheek and brought back memories of when my mother’s hair would just brush my face as she bent down to embrace me. We had had yet another fight. I knew friction between my mom and me was to be expected as I grew up, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this, was it? I closed my eyes and pulled my knees in closer. My mother was an important figure in my life. She stood six feet tall, solid and muscular like a female football player, with short, curly brown hair and brown eyes. When she smiled, it felt like she could light up the whole world, but when she was angry, even the bravest cowered before her. And recently, we had begun fighting horrifically. It usually happened late at night, after dinner, when we would start discussing school and soccer and other such things. Today had been about my lack of physical fitness. To give her credit, I wasn’t the fittest eighth-grader there ever was, but in my defense the past few years had been a struggle. I had broken both ankles, dislocated and broken my shoulder, broken my femur, popped my knee out of place, broken my index finger, injured my wrist, and had a bone contusion on the back of my femur, all within the last four years. Despite multiple sessions of physical therapy, I was having great difficulty returning to my previous physical state. Slap eighth-grade tests, quizzes, and homework on top of that, and I didn’t exactly have the time or energy to work out, either. None of that mattered to my mother. She wanted me fit, and she wanted me to attend a run-a-mile-a-day fitness program at my school, which I was definitely not up to in my current physical state. It had led to a yelling match on both sides, with my dad’s eyes nervously flitting back and forth between us like a bystander watching a tennis match. Eventually, my mother, as always, in her higher mindset and household superiority, had beaten me down to nearly nothing, and I had fled the scene before greater damage could be done. Now, sobbing silently in the still winter air, head throbbing from my tears, I wished bitterly for anything that could make my mother love me. Deep down, I knew that she did, but right now my heart was broken by her harsh words, and I wanted something, anything, to hold onto—including a dream of her never yelling at me again. I longed for the comfort and solitude of writing, although I had nothing to write on or with. So, in my head, I asked myself: What would my book character (currently named Aspen Simber) do in this situation? I turned the question over and over in my mind, inspecting it and testing it. I had tried to make Aspen realistic, so she would cry, of course, like I was. Then, maybe, she would push through it and tell herself that words don’t last forever and that her mother really did love her. I tried to do as she did, but the pain was like a knife: whenever I tried to pull it out, more pain flooded through me. So what, then? What did I do? I couldn’t stay on this rooftop until the pain went away; it would linger with me for many days, and only time could heal the rift. I needed a solution for the now, not the tomorrow. Make a list in your head, Morgan, I thought. This was a helpful way of reminding myself of everything good that I knew to be true about my mother. Number one, my mind continued, your mother really does love you. More tears escaped, but they weren’t as agonizing. Number two, you really aren’t very fit. She just wants to help. I could think of no more after that (though I racked my brains in searching), and my teeth were chattering. Reluctantly, I climbed down from my perch to return to the warmth of the house. Suddenly a thought came to me. There were girls like me in the world who didn’t have a mother. Who would
Poem
Hazy gray-gold light Patterns on the wall. Mystical. Creaking door, A frisky tail, and she pounces Ever so light. She prances, Arches her back, kneads deep into the blanket, And collapses. I curl around her, A snug cocoon. One. Her eyes mere slits A faint meow, Contented. A caressing hand, Smoothing her rumpled fur, Soft and warm like gingerbread. I rest my hand near her heart, Listen to her raspy purr. Close my eyes. And I doze off again. Enveloped, In the gray-gold morning light.
Poem
We stand in the old kitchen On the white rustic floors With cloth draped over the table My tiny hands are ready She gets the flour As I stretch to get eggs At the back of the fridge My fingers slip She saves it from behind We laugh We lower the mixer Add the ingredients I scoop a bit of batter into my mouth She sees me but pretends not to notice It makes me feel warm inside Baking bread with Nana I wait for the loaf to rise We talk about things that we love together Sports, food, and just life The aroma of the perfect bakery fills the room As I embrace the smell And know it was made with love
Poem
The cold air Hits me instantly, spontaneously, As I step out the door. My breath Puffs on the cold air in little white clouds, Forming a quick wisp of silky fog. Snow Soft, white, like winter’s blanket, Spirals from the sky, landing on The creases of my shirt, Landing on my eyelashes, Creating a cold white barrier between my eyes And the world ahead. Ice It covers the water on the street In a cold, hard shell of whiteness Causing my boots To slip and slide over it. The bleak, black skeletons of trees Sway solemnly in the harsh, snowy wind. Cold.
Poem
I am bold but I still have fear Small as a bug on a leaf Step by step to center stage Spiders up my spine Shoulders back Lump in my throat Swallow hard Cloud in my head Think straight Words in a cocoon Make their way out Start to fly In the bright lights I find my voice
Book Reviews
Kira-Kira, by Cynthia Kadohata; Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing: New York, 2006; $6.99 Once in a blue moon, you come upon a book which you believe is the pure embodiment of perfection. You read the novel in what seems like a single breath, and by the time you have read the last perfectly tailored word, you would be just as happy to read the entire thing again, if only to experience the magic another time. This book entraps you, entangles you, enthrals you, makes you smile whenever you touch its spine. If you had your way, you would make everyone in the world read it. A book such as this is Kira-Kira, by Cynthia Kadohata. Kira Kira centers on the life of Katie Takeshima, who moves with her family from their home in Iowa to the Deep South of Georgia. This move is a drastic change for Katie. In her new town, everyone stops and stares at her and her family. Some people marvel at her skin, her hair, and her eyes, but others just sneer at her and her family. Katie just can’t figure it out. The only one who is patient enough to explain their new circumstances to her is her elder sister, Lynn. In Lynn’s eyes, the entire world is an enigma, a shimmery wonderland only to be described by the Japanese word kira-kira, meaning glittery or shiny. Lynn teaches Katie the beauty in every life and the magic that every day brings. However, tragedy strikes, and Lynn, the only one who ever truly understands Katie, falls prey to sickness. Katie has to grow up much too fast and, in doing so, forgets Lynn’s lessons about the world. I connected to this book on a spiritual level. In fact, my perception of the world was inspired very much by Lynn Takeshima. Once upon a time, I was an immigrant in a land of unfamiliar faces. I had no idea what to say, how to say it, when to say it. I was always the odd one out, always alone. My view of the world was a dark one; I thought that life was unfair and unkind and things would never be beautiful for me. All of that changed when I read Kira-Kira. I hung onto every word Lynn said, marveling at how similar our circumstances were yet how much our attitudes differed. Lynn and Katie inspired me to face the world with a smile; they taught me that beauty comes in the most dark places and in the most unexpected ways. The philosophy of kira-kira, of the shimmering wonderland that is our world, has kept me going in times that could’ve broken my spirit. I didn’t really have a single favorite part in the novel; the entire book was peppered with moments that took my breath away. I loved it when Katie stood up to Lynn’s prejudiced friends and put them in their place. It empowered me to stand up for myself and others that I care about. I also loved the ending. I had thought that Katie would forget everything Lynn told her about the world, and she would once again be reduced to the heartbroken and cynical child she once was. However, Katie remembered the things Lynn had told her when her family went to California. She saw how lovely the world was, even through her own saddened eyes. She appreciated the beauty and kira-kira in every facet of the world. She inspired me to do the same. I hope she inspires you too.
Book Reviews
The Silver Donkey, by Sonya Hartnett; Candlewick Press: Somerville, Massachusetts, 2014; $8.99 "As they approached the hollow where the man lay, they were aggrieved to spy him sitting up. Clearly he was not dead. And although they had crept as quietly as they could, and kept themselves hidden behind tree trunks and weeds, the sharp-eared man must have heard—for he looked up from the fallen leaves, and stared directly at them.” This quote from The Silver Donkey starts the amazing adventure of two sisters, little Coco and her older sister, Marcelle, who live in a small town in France. In the middle of a walk in the woods the sisters stumble upon a man they believe is dead, only to find he is a sleeping soldier blinded from war named Lieutenant Shepard. The Silver Donkey is a book beautifully written by Sonya Hartnett. Once I started reading this book, I couldn’t stop. Maybe it was because of all the details she put in the book, which made it seem like I was really there. Or maybe it was because of her use of metaphors. But it was probably because of how meaningful the book was and how much it moved me. I have always been the type of person who wanted to help other people and that is exactly what Coco and Marcelle wanted to do. Coco and Marcelle did whatever they could to take care of the soldier. They snuck him food, drink, and a pillow. In turn, the soldier dazzled the girls with stories and showed them his good luck charm that he carried with him—a little silver donkey. During the days ahead, the sisters nourish Shepard with food and comfort and spend as much time with him as possible. They listen as he tells them about his life and the war and, more importantly, four stories, each about a loyal, humble, forgiving, noble, brave, hard-working creature—the donkey. I have always been an animal lover and I have even adopted an elephant from Kenya, but I never knew anything about the donkey. In the stories the donkey was always the hero. Whether it was to carry Joseph and his pregnant wife Mary to Bethlehem, or to rescue wounded soldiers, or to make the sky rain and save a village from drought, or to be a symbol of hope to Shepard’s ill brother and personify a message to always do your best. Shepard also shares with the girls his hope and dream of going home, to cross the Channel to see his sickly younger brother, John. Even though this is a story about war, I was not scared to read it. What was important to me was the relationship between the soldier and the girls. I love the fact that these girls who are about my age could make such a difference in his life. I think the most important thing in life is to be happy, and I try to make others happy, whether it’s helping a friend who is sad or doing chores for my parents. At the end of the book the girls find someone to take the soldier on a boat to go home. We don’t know if he makes it in time to see his brother, but my imagination tells me he does. Although I am happy for the soldier, I was sad to see him leave, just like the girls were. However, I was excited to read that he left behind his prized possession for Coco to find—the silver donkey. It was a true buried treasure and a reminder to her to always do her best and be trustworthy and brave.
