Fiction
An old minivan slowly grumbled its way up the ugly, concrete driveway, passing an old clump of purple-brown wisteria vines, rumbling by a dingy hedge shielding the moldy garbage can, full of old holes where squirrels and raccoons had once tried to nibble their way in to eat the trash. “Well, here we are!” said a woman in a falsely cheerful voice, dragging an old, moth-eaten suitcase. A girl of about eleven adjusted her hat and coat. She brushed back her dirty-blond hair and said, “Are we really? My, I think I expected it to be a bit grander, didn’t you? But I suppose it’ll have a simply lovely garden to play in, won’t it, Mother?” She said all this very fast, in a bossy-ish sort of English accent. “Yes, I’m sure it will,” her mother replied. She gave a tired smile and seemed to be trying to convince herself as much as her daughter. This girl’s name was Iris Stellar-Lupos. Her mother, Jill Stellar, was a widow. Iris’s dad, Robin Lupos, had died of cancer a few months ago. Before Mr. Lupos had died, he and Iris’s mum had planned to come to Germany for a year, so that Iris could learn a second language. But then Robin had died, and Iris’s mum decided that they should come to Germany anyway. A change of scenery, she thought, might help Iris forget about… well, she didn’t want to think about that. Iris took her small suitcase and followed her mum up the stairs. As they entered the grimy glass doors a robotic female voice said, “Willkommen im Wunderhaus!” Iris looked enquiringly up at her mother. “It’s German for, ‘Welcome to the Wonder-house,’” her mother replied, trying to smile. They walked up five flights of stairs (there was no elevator) until they came to a door saying “Stelar Lupus.” Great! Iris thought. They can’t even spell my last name! Mrs. Stellar opened the door, saying, “Home, sweet home!” She was always too positive. “Now, honey,” Iris’s mother said as they trudged down the hall, staring gloomily at the peeling orange wallpaper, “you go into this room and unpack. Finally you can have your very own bedroom!” Muttering indistinctly, Iris opened the bedroom door and slipped quietly inside. She didn’t want to be disturbed. Iris didn’t bother unpacking. She took out her diary and a stub of pencil, threw herself onto the little cot in the corner, tried to make herself comfortable by pulling the thin, moth-eaten covers up to her chin (but abandoned that quickly as the faded orange wool was itchy), and began to write: I hate it here… I miss my dad… Why did he have to die?… I want to be at home with him, not here… * * * Iris awoke to the sound of shouting. She opened the window and leaned groggily out. “Please! I’m trying to sleep!” Two boys stared at her from the outdoor corridor that ran around the inside of the building. One was roughly Iris’s age. The other looked about six. “Oooooh!” the older one yelled. “She’s trying to sleep! Has the little baby got enough rest? Little ones are very delicate!” he mocked. Iris closed the curtains, hoping they weren’t so faded that they were see-through, pulled on her dress, hat, and coat, and stormed outside. “LEAVE… ME… ALONE… IN… FUTURE!” “Hey, don’t shout!” said the elder of the two. “I’m James Rickmann. But please, dear lady, do call me Jamie.” He made a fake bow. “And this charming young gentleman is Molasses.” “Huh?” Iris stared at him, unable to make sense of what he’d said. She was still very jet-lagged and felt slow and clumsy. “His real name is Milo, but everyone calls him Molasses,” Jamie explained. “We’re from New York. Our family is staying in Germany for a year.” “I,” Iris said, trying to shake off her tiredness, “am Iris. And please don’t shout. It disturbs the magic.” She smiled annoyingly, in the I-know-something-you-don’t kind of way, which is very different from the I-have-forty-three-dollars-in-my- pocket way, or the it’s-my-birthday-and- I’m-getting-a-video-camera way. “Aw, you don’t really believe in magic!” Jamie said, “People only believed in that before there was science and stuff.” “Yes, I do!” Iris retorted. How could they know that she had believed in magic ever since she was nine, when she had first read the Harry Potter series. They had been her favorite books ever since. How could they know about everything that had happened to her in her short, eleven-year- long life? About how her dad got cancer and died? Her head throbbed, but she tried to ignore it. “I’ll prove to you that magic exists! Wait here!” Iris dashed back into her apartment, filled an empty jam jar with water, and grabbed her Hermione Granger wand and some irises from a vase in her room. She ran back outside, dropped the flowers into the jar, and pressed and twisted and squeezed them until she had dyed the water the purple of the flowers. “This,” she said, trying to imitate Hermione’s bossy voice, “is Draught of the Living Death, from Harry Potter. It…” “We know!” Jamie interrupted. “We’ve read Harry Potter.” Iris sighed, then said, “Abracadabra!” and pointed the wand at the “potion.” Nothing happened. Iris tried not to burst into tears as Molasses giggled and Jamie whooped. “I’ll prove to you that magic exists. I’ll prove it to you!” she said. “Meet me here in a few days and I’ll show you!” She stormed off towards the rusty metal apartment door that must once have been painted orange, snatching up her mother’s half-finished tea and some paper from the printer. (She hoped her mother wouldn’t notice; paper was expensive.) Then Iris sat down and began. * * * Of course magic exists!” Iris hissed. It was the next day, and Iris’s first at her new school, Gruene Grundschule. It was made of concrete with peeling white paint, and the slide in the playground was
Fiction
Seeing Over the Side of the Boat
I don’t like my parents. Actually, that’s not true. I love my parents, but they are so stressful. Everything has to be a fight. They fight over who is driving me to baseball practice. They fight over who gets to spend the weekend with me. Like two days ago I missed my baseball game because they were fighting over the mortgage. I don’t know what the mortgage is, but it sounds important. That game was our baseball team’s first loss. I am the starting shortstop and the fastest kid on the team. A few days ago I overheard them fighting over who gets to keep me. That is what I don’t understand. Why would one parent get to keep me? The whole point of being parents is sticking together and taking care of me. So what is this talk of only one parent taking me? I found out yesterday after school. Mom and Dad sat me down in the kitchen. It was the first time they have been in the same room and not been yelling at each other in a long time. Dad’s long, bony fingers were trembling. I had no idea of what was to come. Dad started to speak, but Mom cut him off. It was quite easy to feel the nervousness in the room. The air was stagnant, and nobody was breathing. Mom mumbled, “Tobey, your father and I are getting a divorce.” “A divorce!” I blurted, shocked. I had heard about divorces but I never thought it would happen to this family. It was clearly important because Lucky, my golden retriever, was sitting very still at my feet. She is very good at sensing feelings around her. “Well, your mother and I both agree that it would be best for the two of us to no longer live together. That means we won’t be fighting,” my Dad stated. “I know what a divorce is, but why?” Neither of my parents answered. That was the end of the conversation, and both of my parents got up to do their own separate things. They both love me, but they didn’t know what to do to comfort me. Comforting people wasn’t either of my parents’ strong suit, and this was really hard on them. It was the first time in what feels like forever that they finally agreed on something. But I didn’t agree. I wanted them to stay together no matter what. The last three months finally made sense, like gears clicking into place. I should have seen it coming. My parents fought at every chance they had. I was left alone in the kitchen, just staring out the window. I started to realize that this divorce isn’t a good thing. It means that I won’t be around both my parents at the same time. Lucky came up to me and licked my hand. I felt that she was the only one who cared about me anymore. I got her just last year and she was a rescue. One of her ears is much shorter than the other, and her tail is crooked. Her soft furry ears on her head always gave me comfort. I gave her a pat on the head and whispered to her. I told her that it would all work out in the end. As I sat there, the cold winter air blew through the door as my mom left to go out to dinner. The sun was still just peaking over the horizon. I felt a tear drop onto my lap, when I realized that my dad tried to sugarcoat it by saying that they won’t fight anymore. But I could care less about that; I just wanted my parents to live together. My dad came into my kitchen to get dinner started. Mom went to her friends for dinner and to stay the night. She was doing that more and more now. I asked him, “Will I get to see both you and Mom after you get this divorce?” Dad said, “Well, we will work it out, maybe.” He said it in a way so he was hard to understand. I think he was trying to block out this divorce in his head and move on. The house was shockingly quiet. All that you could hear was the sausage sizzling in the pan and my dad whistling as he cooked dinner. He truly loved to cook. The smell made my mouth water and I could tell that Lucky would much rather have what we were having for dinner, not her dry pellets. After dinner, I bawled in my room. It finally set in: Mom and Dad don’t love each other anymore. Did they ever love each other? Do they still care about and love me? How could they leave me to fend on my own? At least I would have Lucky. She stuck by my side through everything. She licked my hot, red face, and I patted her head. She was the only dog I could ever hope for. Her golden fur kept me warm, and she was always there when I needed her to calm me down. I could hear her breathe deep, as she fell asleep on my lap, and I tickled her under her ear, her favorite spot. “We won’t ever get a divorce, will we, Lucky,” I whispered to her, as I drifted off to sleep. She smiled, as if to say, “No. We won’t.” * * * Last night I had the worst nightmare I’d ever had. Our family was going on a vacation to a tropical island. The boat ride over was pleasant and stunningly gorgeous. I could just barely see the white sand on the picture-perfect beaches over the sides of the boat as we approached. I could never see anything coming, being so short. When we got to the island, we played on the beach with Lucky. The warm sand under my toes was pleasant and soothing. The next morning, I woke
Fiction
In the shadow of a low stone wall on the edge of a forest, two sisters lay sprawled in the grass. The younger one turned to look at her sister. “Lindsey, is this really the last time?” she whispered. Lindsey nodded miserably and continued to look at the sky. She remembered only too well the day her parents announced they were moving. The weeks after that had been a flurry of packing and goodbyes. Now she and Sara had come to their favorite place in the world to say goodbye. They had been coming here ever since Sara was a baby to watch the clouds. They had always wanted to see one shaped like a bird, but they never had. And now we never will, Lindsey thought. “Lindsey, what would happen if we ran away?” Sara asked. “We could hide in the forest until Mom and Dad leave and then we could stay here forever.” “We’d starve to death,” Lindsey answered. “Anyway…” But her words were cut off by the voice of her father. “Sara! Lindsey! Where are you? It’s time to go!” “Coming, Dad,” Lindsey groaned. “Come on, Sara.” Lindsey pulled Sara to her feet and together they climbed over the wall and got into the waiting car. As they drove away, Sara began to cry. “Oh, be quiet,” snapped Lindsey, but she felt like crying too. Three hours later they reached the new house. Lindsey went out on the back porch and watched the sun setting over the ocean. Just as the fiery orb sank below the horizon, Lindsey heard someone else come out onto the porch. A moment later, Sara was standing beside her. “Look,” Sara whispered. Lindsey looked where her sister pointed and saw, just above the place where the sun had gone down, a cloud shaped like a bird, its wings spread wide in the afterglow of the sunset. Lindsey put an arm around Sara. “No wonder we never saw one before,” she whispered. “We were looking in the wrong place.”
Fiction
1928 RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA Akemi was taking a while to adjust. Her father, mother, and sister had made the trip to Japan a few weeks before to finally complete the adoption process and bring her home. She was overwhelmed. There were so many new faces and personalities to learn. Everything was so different here in America. The day-to-day life was nothing like she was used to. Akemi had never known that you could miss your old home so much—even if you were in a new home. She’d owned next to nothing back at the orphanage in Japan, so she didn’t even have anything to remind her of her native land. Her mother, Rachel, understood the way her new daughter was feeling, for she had been adopted herself when she was eleven years old. Her sister, Grace, was fourteen years old and understood that she was simply to comfort her sister. Akemi had definitely taken to Grace. She still wouldn’t speak to anyone but would stand by her sister whenever she could and sit next to her at the dinner table. Her father, Chris, knew that Akemi was still trying to get used to her new surroundings. He was concerned for her, though. All of the adoption guidebooks instructed him to just keep loving her, and he tried to do that as much as he could. He only wished that there was something he could do, even a little something, to make her feel a little more at home. Chris knew he had to return to work the following day but couldn’t even begin to think about that. He was absolutely exhausted from their long journey to Japan and only wanted to rest. He knew that wouldn’t be happening in the next few days, though. Chris worked at the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences, where he set up and removed exhibits. He also assisted with some of the cleaning occasionally. All of this took place before and after museum hours, so Chris had early mornings and—sometimes— late nights. He was usually around to help his daughter with her homework, though. Soon Akemi would be going to school, too, and he could help her with her homework as well. The orphanage that Akemi had lived in for the first twelve years of her life had given her basic schooling and English lessons, as most of the parents looking to adopt from that orphanage spoke English. That made Akemi’s transition much easier, as she would have had much more to learn had she not spoken the country’s language. * * * Chris headed up the stairs to the girls’ bedroom to say good night to them. The family had a three-bedroom home, but Akemi seemed most comfortable sharing a room with Grace for the time being. Before adopting Akemi, the family of three had spent much time and effort putting a room together for her. The beautiful purple and gray designs painstakingly painted on the walls, the desk and dresser all ready to be used. But, if Akemi wanted to share a room with Grace, no one was going to upset her. Chris said good night to his daughters and then headed back to the family room. He pulled out his folder of work assignments and sat down to review. The task summary described a doll to be put on display. “A doll?” thought Chris. “Why on earth would we put a doll in an exhibit?” As he read on, the instructions outlined a bit of the doll’s history. The doll to be put on display has been christened Miss Kagawa. As some will recall, in the early months of last year, our country sent around 12,000 dolls to Japan as a gift of friendship because of the discrimination being placed on Japanese immigrants here. Eiichi Shibusawa from Japan organized a “thank you” gift and led the creation of fifty-eight Japanese “Friendship Dolls” to be sent to the states. The dolls traveled across the U.S., and the North Carolina Museum of Natural Sciences has the opportunity to house one of these dolls. Miss Kagawa has in her possession a ticket for a steamship, a passport, and various accessories and furniture. You will place and position these items as shown in the diagram included. This exhibit will be set up on the morning of October 5th, 1928. Please report to the circulation counter at five-thirty that morning for further details. Thanks, Tom Highton Museum Exhibit Manager October 5th was, unfortunately, the following day. Chris decided to turn in early, for he had a big day ahead of him. * * * Chris woke to his alarm at five o’clock the next morning and, begrudgingly, readied himself for work. He ate a quick breakfast and climbed into the car. The drive to work wasn’t too long, and Chris was there in a matter of minutes. Chris would have walked to work, but the air was surprisingly biting for October. Pulling his key out of his pocket, Chris opened the museum’s side door and proceeded to the circulation desk as the directions instructed. There, the exhibit manager, Tom, stood waiting for him. “Morning, Chris,” Tom boomed. Tom was a very loud man, but he was always smiling. Chris had discovered that no matter how tired he was, Tom’s smile was usually effective in fully waking him up. “Morning, Tom,” Chris replied. “Do you have the details on this doll exhibit?” “That I do,” Tom said as he reached over the counter and grabbed a folder. Tom then showed Chris everything he would need to know to set the exhibit up that morning. There were diagrams, handwritten notes, and photos of exactly how the case was to look when it was completely set up. Chris thanked Tom and went to find the empty display case he was to use. The doll and her accessories would be inside this case, which would be on top of a table. Finding the case in a back room, he
Fiction
I lay on my back, gazing up at the sky above me, a clear aquamarine, disturbed only by small wisps of white, scattered here and there as if the master of the sky had tossed flower petals over his shoulder to give flair to the expanse of endless blue. When I closed my eyes, the soft dappled butter of sunlight oozed over my eyelids, filling me up to the brim with the honey-like warmth. I don’t know how long I would have lain there, letting the sunlight engulf me, if a shadow hadn’t fallen over my golden repose. The sudden cool in the air made me open my eyes and sit up. The shadow belonged to a face full of fear and the air of a gazelle, ready to flee at the first sign of movement. That face belonged to my mother. “Tapiwah,” she began, her voice tight and full of terror, “we need to get into the house. Now. It’s a matter of life and death.” That stunned me. My mother was never one to use her words lightly, so I knew this was not something to be pushed into the back of my mind. Without another word, my mother turned and started toward our small village, not running or walking, but a combination of both. I sat there for another moment or two and then leapt to my feet, dashing toward my mother. “What’s… the… matter?” I asked her, gasping, once I’d finally caught up to her. Her face still bore the resemblance of a gazelle— attentive and on edge. “It is the White Demons. They are here.” I stopped in my tracks. I tried to breathe, but no air filled my lungs. I swallowed once, then twice, trying to rid my throat of the rock that had taken up residence there. “H-here? They’re here?” My voice sounded tinny and frail, even to my own ears, nothing like the courageous and calm image I tried to project to everyone—others in the village, my brothers, even my mom. They needed the strength from someone ever since Father had been taken away. It did them good to have someone to look to for confidence. “Yes. That is why we must hurry to hide. They must not find us.” My heart was pounding so loudly I thought the White Demons must hear it from whatever far-off corner of the universe they came from. I sent a prayer up to that blue, blue African sky and followed my mother into the house. Our small shack consisted of one room. My three brothers were already there, casting worried glances around the room as if the White Demons were hiding in some nook or cranny, ready to jump out at any second. As soon as she closed the door, my mother walked over to our small reed-constructed rug and lifted it, revealing a petite trap door, which she removed. “In you go,” she proclaimed, gently but firmly plopping each of my brothers into the dank hole underneath our floor. She then turned to me, but I stepped away from her. “I’m not going in there.” “Not now, Tapiwah. Not when I need you to stay safe. Staying in there is the sensible thing to do.” “Father wouldn’t have done it.” The words came spilling from my mouth the way a coconut falls from its leafy perch. “No, he wouldn’t have. And look where that got him.” Each word she said was strained and I knew that I had said the wrong thing. “Father was brave.” “This isn’t about Father! This is about…” She froze, and suddenly I knew why. The clack of heels on wood was sounding outside our door. The next few seconds were pandemonium. I was flung into the pit and the trap door was sealed above me. I heard a crash. The clack of metal on wood filled the small room, accompanied with voices that demanded and scolded in a harsh language that sounded like gibberish to me. Then the noises were gone, and I sat with my brothers in the black darkness. I sat there, a statue, until I was prodded in the back by a small fearful hand. I turned around and could just make out my brothers in the darkness. “Where’s Mother?” one of them asked. Instead of answering them, I reached above me and pushed up the trapdoor. I was hit in the face by a ray of blinding white light. Shading my eyes, I blinked until I could understand what I was seeing. The source of the light was a hole in the wall, ragged in form. As I stared at it, I could clearly picture what had happened when I was crammed under the trap door. I saw my mother flinging me into the small hole and slamming it shut, then looking for an escape route and finding none, she had flung herself through the back wall just as the White Demons barreled through the door. There was no saying what had happened to her next. She could be gone forever. A sob of desperation welling up in my throat, I launched myself through the hole in the wall and out onto the African plain. The White Demons were easy to track. The spikes on their shoes left impressions in the earth and there were a fair number of them. I started running, my senses alert, half expecting the White Demons to jump out of the bush and capture me. Long after I had started panting for air, I found the White Demons. They were positioned halfway up a small hill that ended in a cliff sloping down to the sea. I surveyed the scene more closely and, with rising horror, saw that they were advancing on a lone figure with its back to a cliff overlooking the sea. That figure was my mother. She was staring at me with the same look of horror I suspected was on my face. Suddenly, her facial
Fiction
I bend over and finger my key chain, determined to escape into the world of Little Miss Piggy and Mini Kermit the Frog. I try to ignore the teasing around me. I try to ignore Andrea, who is seated across from me, arms over her head, yelling at them to stop. I try to ignore the bus driver, who isn’t paying attention at all. The best thing I can do is ignore, I think. But something makes my eyes turn upward, my ears tune into the cruel words. Andrea is wearing a red coat today. Her eyes roll around inside her huge glasses. She’s an autistic girl. And that automatically makes her a magnet for bullying. Henry, a boy in the back, yells names at Andrea. More kids try to grab her hat and jewelry. Her backpack is in the middle of the aisle. Somebody grabbed it and threw it there. That’s where it’s staying for now. I can see some kids are glad they’re not getting picked on. Like Sean, who can’t keep a friend for more than a week. Some kids tease him behind his back. Others simply ignore him, sending an anti-Sean vibe and signaling to everyone, even the youngest kids, that he’s not cool to be around. So of course he is laughing his head off as Lucas, sitting behind Andrea, pops up and yells, “Freak! Freak! Freak!” over and over in her ear. “Stop it!” she screams. No one listens. Somebody flashes his middle finger up at her. I gasp. Everybody knows what that is. It’s terrible and mean. Andrea is in a hostile atmosphere. Kids go out of their way in an exaggerated fashion to avoid touching her. When she gets off at her stop, everyone forgets her. Like me. When I get off, I run to my house. My room is so quiet, the walls a peaceful shade of blue. I forget that Andrea probably isn’t very happy right now, and I forget that Sam and Lucas are home safe, with no consequences. * * * The next day, I am tense as I climb on the bus. The moment Andrea gets on, she says, “Hi, guys!” in a piercing voice and waves. Sam screams, “Look out, here comes Andrea!” Somebody sticks a kick-me sign on her back as she walks past. When she sits down, someone else grabs her hat and throws it out the window. In a clear, strong voice, I hear someone say, “Mr. Dave, stop the bus.” Everybody’s eyes turn. Melissa, a fifth-grader, rises up. The driver slams on the brakes. Calmly, Melissa walks down the aisle, quietly gets off the bus, picks up the hat from the street, climbs back on, and returns it to Andrea. Then she faces the bullies. “You need to leave Andrea alone. Period!” Her words are loud. Melissa takes Andrea’s arm. “Come here, Andrea,” she says. Andrea gets up. Melissa wraps her arm around her. “Look,” she demands. All of us look. The bus is silent. The driver is staring in the rearview mirror. “This girl deserves respect,” Melissa tells them. “All of you ganging up on her at once is cowardly. It’s malicious. It’s cruel.” Everybody nods. Even Sam. “If I ever see anything like this again,” she says to Sam, Lucas, Richard, and George, who are the leaders of the bullying, “you’ll have me to answer to.” She doesn’t say this violently, but in a quiet voice. “And all of you.” She motions to us. “Did you ever once stand up for her?” We shake our heads. “That goes for you, too. All of you say sorry to her.” “Sorry,” we all chorus. “It doesn’t make any sense to bully people who are afraid of you like she is. I know you think that mercy is for weak people. Think again.” She lets go of Andrea. Then Andrea starts to clap. And then Rochelle, in the last seat, joins in timidly. Her seat partner, Abby, starts in. It’s like one of those waves you do at baseball games. Everybody starts clapping, the ripple going through the whole bus. Everybody claps, even the bullies. Then Rochelle stands. And everyone stands. It’s a standing ovation. Everybody gets to their feet gracefully at the same time and claps. Boys whoop and holler and whistle. Lucas even takes off his baseball cap. The bus driver gets to his feet and claps, too. I’m clapping my hands so hard they’re about to fall off, so I run up the aisle and throw my arms around Melissa, who pulls me to her, and we’re giggling and then laughing as we bounce up and down, hands on each other’s shoulders. Then everybody’s up out of their seats and hugging Melissa, and hugging each other. Everyone’s laughing, light shining from their faces. If this was a movie, there would be happy, up-and-down light fiddle music playing right now. Even the fiddler would be doing a tippy-toe dance and rhythmically making the bow fly up and down. Then Rochelle hugs Andrea. Kids are high-fiving Sam and the other boys. And then we all try to hug Melissa and Andrea at once. They’re squashed in the middle and we’re crowding around them. All of a sudden I realize how backwards we had been thinking. Brave to us was riding a horse through a deep dark woods to rescue a treasure. Brave was risking your life to save princesses from wicked stepmothers. Now I know there is a kind of brave that involves the possibility of a hundred children rising against you. It involves the risk of not being safe from the bullies anymore. It involves, most importantly, you saying one little sentence that could change something forever.
Fiction
Elice was the kind of village that was surrounded by thick and tall trees. The people of Elice were both frightened and relieved that they were surrounded by forest. Predators could come in from all angles; on the other hand, anyone who tried to find them would get lost. This meant that they were lonely. They were so lonely, in fact, that they were desperate for companionship. Angelina was a ten-year-old villager with long and straight blond hair. She always got up early in the morning to see dawn rise. She loved seeing the colors being painted on the sky each morning as she lay on a grassy hilltop. Each day, as she lay there, she saw the same deer and thought to herself, Why do animals live in the woods? Early one morning, as the sun was beaming down on the village of Elice, Angelina’s peace was disturbed by the frightening sound of howling wolves. The wolves that lived in the woods had been curious about the people of Elice. Angelina stood up on the hilltop and turned to see a wolf pup caught in a net. Angelina sprinted as fast as she could over to the wolf pup. She saw two figures where the wolf was. As she got closer, she realized it was her friend’s parents, Julius and Jenna. Tears were running from her eyes like water running from a waterfall as she screamed, “Wolves are meant to be in the woods, not in houses!” This was the third time she had seen wolf pups being captured and she couldn’t stand it anymore. Without thinking, she grabbed the net to free the wolf pup. As she did so, she thought back to a conversation with her mother. Angelina asked her mother, “Why are all of the wolf pups being taken away from their parents?” Her mother replied, “Because everyone has been so lonely lately. The wolf pups are a new member of the family to keep them company.” Julius pulled Angelina back, but she had hold of the net, setting the wolf pup free. Even though she saved one, many more were still being held captive. Angelina noticed that the newly captured pups had sharp and long claws, but the next day she saw them they were short and dull. On the fifth day of wolf pups being captured, the wolves that lived in the woods came to attack. They attacked Julius and Jenna’s house first. Angelina witnessed them circling the house and sniffing the air for a scent of a wolf pup. If they could not smell or see a wolf pup they would move on. But once they found a wolf pup they would use their sharp and pointed claws to break down the door. House by house the wolves attacked. One by one villagers were killed. The wolves were now circling Angelina. Even though she did not have a wolf pup, she carried the scent of one that she had saved. The wolf pup’s scent was newly applied. Before she knew it, the glowing eyes of predators that live in the woods were hovering over Angelina’s face. The colors of the sky flashed before her eyes. Blended in with the orange, red, blue, and light pink was the face of Clementine, the goddess of animals. Clementine wore a robe of white scattered with animal prints. “I have seen what you have done and would like to reward you,” declared Clementine. “You have been granted the powers to be able to speak to wolves.” Angelina smiled with triumph, knowing the wolves would get off of her. “But, with great power comes great responsibility, Angelina. If you succeed in saving your village, then you must have all the wolves understand why the people of Elice are capturing their pups and you must set them wild,” explained Clementine. “Another thing that will happen is you will need to tell your people that the wolves should no longer be disturbed.” After Clementine faded back into the colors of the sky, Angelina could now hear what the wolves were saying. The wolves were discussing why Clementine, the goddess of animals, gave this ten-year-old girl the power to speak to them. Angelina explained what happened earlier that morning, when she saved the wolf pup. The wolf pack leader held a meeting with the lower-ranking wolves, and they decided what would happen next. The leader gave Angelina the guidelines: 1) “All wolf pups must be returned,” boomed the wolf pack leader, 2) “No person of Elice shall ever try to capture one of us again,” and 3) “We must never be disturbed again by any mankind!” exclaimed the wolf pack leader. Angelina always keeps her promises, so for as long as she lived no one in the world went near any wolf pack. Because of her promise, wolves remain in the wild to this day. Every wolf today is living their life in peace with no one to disturb them. They howl at the moon every so often in remembrance of Angelina.
Fiction
Veronica Caisse, age ten, stood in front of the mirror, her arms out to the sides. “What do you think?” she asked her cat, Aphrodite, turning so she could see the full extent of her outfit. Aphrodite gave a tiny, indifferent meow. “Thank you!” Veronica told her. “I do have good fashion sense, don’t I?” She admired herself again. Cute knee-length dress with a black-and-white stripy pattern, sparkly ballet flats, long blond hair pulled back with a flowered white headband. “Ronnie!” Her dad bellowed from downstairs. “Get down here! We’re gonna be late!” With a final glance in the mirror, she walked out of the room with a goodbye to Aphrodite. Veronica found, when she got downstairs, that her family hadn’t taken nearly as much care and time getting dressed as she had. Her mom was looking nice but normal in a maroon turtleneck sweater and black pants. However, Veronica noted the pearl earrings and slight coating of lipstick. Her dad wore jeans, a plain blue jacket, and a lighter blue polo shirt. Hmm, that was what he wore every day. Her older brother, Jared, was attired in a pair of ripped jeans, a faded T-shirt, and a well-worn USC jacket. Disgraceful. Jared burst out laughing. “Ronnie, you are really… wow…” Veronica tried to figure out what his deal was. Did she have a lump in her hair? Or were her shoes on the wrong feet? “Sweetie,” her mom said hesitantly, “do you think you are a little, um, overdressed for an informal family gathering?” Her mom emphasized the “informal,” as if Veronica hadn’t heard that description five million times already. “Ron-Ron,” Veronica’s dad intervened. “There will be games and running around. You can change, or not. It’s your choice.” Veronica pretended to consider, but honestly, it was a no-brainer. “I’ll wear this,” she said decisively. After all, looking good should be everyone’s top priority. “And don’t call me Ron-Ron!” she admonished her dad. “It’s so babyish. I’m ten, you know.” Her mom and dad exchanged what-can- we-do looks but said no more about the matter as the whole Caisse family walked out the door and into the car. As Mr. Caisse revved up the engine and began driving down the street, Veronica arranged herself comfortably on her half of the back seat. Headphones, check. iPod, check. Markers, check. Pad of paper, check. Jared was sprawled out as much as he could in his amount of space, earbuds stuffed in his ears, though Veronica thought she could hear a very soft echo of the pounding heavy metal. Sighing, Veronica put her headphones on and began working through her playlist, humming along as she carefully designed outfits on the outlines of the people she had drawn. About an hour into the drive, as she was mumble-singing the lyrics to “All About That Bass” and filling in the shirt on her newest figure, Jared nudged her. “Look up, Ron,” he said, “we’re nearly there.” Though slightly miffed to be interrupted in the chorus of her favorite song, she pulled off the headphones and looked out the window. Sure enough, there was Aunt Mattie and Uncle Rob’s house. “We’re there!” she nearly squealed. Jared grinned. “We’ll get to see all our cousins! Nina and Josh and Kymmie and Gryffin and Joe…” Veronica and Jared waited impatiently while their dad circled around, looking for parking. “Come on, Daddy!” Veronica urged. “We need, need, need to get in!” Both Jared and Veronica were appropriately excited for their once-every-two-years family gathering with all their cousins and uncles and aunts. The place where it was held varied from year to year. This time, they were lucky, since Aunt Mattie and Uncle Rob lived relatively close to them. However, many of their cousins had to fly in. But the luckiest by far were Lucy and Gryffin, who didn’t have to go anywhere at all this year. Finally, finally, they parked and the kids leapt out of the car. “Race you!” called Jared, sprinting down the block. “I can’t run!” Veronica yelled after him. “My flats…” He didn’t notice, and with a sigh she began to walk with her mother at an annoyingly slow pace. By the time they reached their aunt and uncle’s house, Jared was already leaning coolly against the doorway, with an expression that said, “What took you so long? Awesome people always get places fast.” Rolling her eyes, Veronica reached up and rang the doorbell. Almost instantly, it swung open, and there was Aunt Mattie, a big grin on her face. “Hello hello hello!” She gave them all crushingly warm hugs, and with several more greetings and hugs to other relatives, Jared and Veronica escaped to the backyard where the other kids were all gathered. “ROOOONNNNNIIIIIIIE!” A little pint-sized ball of energy hit Veronica full in the stomach, sending her falling back into the grass. “Hey, Kymmie!” she grinned. Kymmie was seven years old, tiny for her age, with wide, intelligent brown eyes and soft red hair. Veronica had been the big sister Kymmie had never had, as the latter had grown up in a family of boys. While Jared was greeting the other boys ( Josh, Gryffin, Tyler, and Joe) with a series of fist bumps, back slaps, and “Hey, man!”s, Veronica’s other girl cousins had come over: Nina, Lucy, and Emmy. “Hi, Ronnie!” Emmy said, helping her up. Emmy and Lucy were the closest in age to Veronica, the former being eleven and the latter nine. Nina was the same age as Kymmie, and they would’ve looked very much the same except Nina’s eyes were a striking blue, in contrast to Kymmie’s brown. The boys had wandered over. “Hey, girls,” Joe said. Joe’s real name was Sasha, but he thought it was a girly name, so had spontaneously changed his name to Joe. “Pop brought a bunch of potato sacks. Is anyone up for a race?” It was unanimous. As they distributed the sacks, Veronica suddenly remembered. “Oh, my God, I
Poem
I sit here, and I don’t notice the dirty dishes, left lying in the sink I don’t stare at the holes in the wall, strange and unexplained I don’t ponder the fishbowl, tipped over on the floor, or the color the light makes as it bounces off the broken mirror I do not wonder about the skittering in the attic, And I don’t think about the ceiling tiles, slowly chipping down, and gathering in the roots of my hair I sit here, and I don’t notice anything, As the browning shutters bang against the wall like the wings of a caged bird Because I’ve noticed That noticing just makes it feel less like Home
Poem
When I feel peace, it’s like my whole body is on fire, with a dim, yet warm glow. Soft, like moonlight, peace creeps in my open window, sunlight glows. Somewhere, A mountain stream rushes down a cliff. A pool at the bottom sits there, unbroken, Like glass. Somewhere, in a field grass grows, velvet soft, doves coo, sweetly. Somewhere, so peaceful.
Poem
Past the field Through the briar By the breaths of people lingering in the light Past the smoke Into the mill Creeping closer With the stealth of a cat Up the stairs And onto the windowsill Like a hawk in its nest A pencil and paper And a breathtaking view With an idea And new perspectives She put the pencil to the paper And as though the paper was a ballroom And the pencil a dancer She wrote.
Book Reviews
Playing for the Commandant, by Suzy Zail; Candlewick Press: Massachusetts, 2014; $16.99 When Suzy Zail, author of Playing for the Commandant, details how Hanna, our young Jewish protagonist, was shipped with her family to the infamous Auschwitz-Birkenau concentration camp, I couldn’t help but remember Anne Frank, whose life after her diary ended was very similar to Hanna’s. But Hanna, unlike Anne (who later died in a German camp), survives the horrible ordeal. How does she manage to live in such a place, with exhausting labor, barely any food, and brutal captors? She plays piano. Before the war, she had been an accomplished concert pianist. At the camp, she is forced to play for the commandant, the merciless warden. It promises her a break from labor and a few extra morsels of food but is just as dangerous as the camp. The punishment for a wrong note? Losing a finger. Any other offense? Death. Staying alive won’t be easy, but Hanna will make it somehow. Thrown into the mix is the commandant’s moody son, Karl, who spends his time slouched in a chair, secretly admiring Hanna. Talk about unlikely love. Zail’s gruesome descriptions of life in Auschwitz are moving and inspiring. Hanna’s first-person narration is a great choice, because it makes the horrors even more vivid and heart-wrenching. When Hanna smuggles a broken piano key into the camp, it is clear to the reader that the key is a metaphor for her comfortable middle-class life back home in Hungary. A tale of woe is transformed into a tale of resilience when it is narrated by Hanna. Yet even more riveting than the details of the killing, the starvation, and the pain are the stories of friendship at the camp. In Auschwitz, it’s a dog-eat-dog world. But where there is dark, there is love, and hearing about Hanna embracing her older sister, Hanna comforting her ill mother, and Hanna being comforted by a servant girl in the commandant’s house is Zail’s way of promising light at the end of the tunnel. Throughout the book, Hanna gradually finds ways to rebel. First, it’s giving her sister a morsel of extra bread. Then, it’s sneaking stolen food from the commandant’s kitchen into the laundry delivery to Auschwitz. A startling (and to the reader, unsettling) crescendo to this is the secret romance she shares with Karl. Hanna is also unsettled by this, and it is an interesting look at how little we can control our emotions. Although Karl’s father is responsible for the gas chambers, the killings, and the horrific cruelties at the camp, Hanna still loves him, though not without a bit of guilt. This concept of emotions taking over is something that Zail handles deftly, never once stumbling on any aspect. It makes for a very readable, beautifully written, hard to put down book that should be required reading for anyone interested in World War II or Anne Frank, and even for those who have never heard of the Holocaust. It mixes pain with love, romance with suffering, and survival with history in a book where life conquers all.
Book Reviews
Turn Left at the Cow, by Lisa Bullard; Houghton Mifflin Harcourt: New York, 2013; $16.99 When I read this book, I realized right away how it got its name. In the first part of the book, when the main character, Travis, is describing the setting of the book and how rural it is, he says, “I stared out the window, wondering how this place could qualify as a state. How would GPS even work? ‘Turn left at the cow?’” The book never refers to “turn left at the cow” again, but I think the title symbolizes that Travis doesn’t know the environment very well and he thinks that there is not a lot of fun stuff in this boring town. So now, you might be wondering, why would Travis come to this town? It doesn’t seem like he really likes it. I should probably explain a little more. Travis’s mom divorced his dad just before Travis was born because his dad had committed a lot of crimes. So Travis had lived with his mom all his life and had gotten quite used to it. Then, out of the blue, his mom announces that she is going to get married and that she and Travis are going to move to L.A. Travis does not like this plan, so he decides to run away. He uses his mom’s credit card to buy a plane ticket and a bus ticket to his grandma’s (on his dad’s side) house in Minnesota. When he arrives, he calls his grandma and asks her to pick him up. She says yes, but she will have to call Travis’s mom and tell her that he is all right. Have you ever not wanted to tell your parents something, but someone says that you have to? I have. It made me worry that I would be trusted less. That is what Travis feels like. But he says OK. This is where it gets exciting. A boy and a girl who live in town visit the house to welcome Travis. They tell Travis a news story from years ago that he never knew: after leaving Travis, his dad had robbed a bank and the money was probably hidden under a lake. The boy and girl are looking for the money and Travis agrees to help them. But what should Travis and his friends do when there is someone else looking for the money? And the other person looking for the money is… I’ll leave that for you to read. Before sharing my final thoughts about the book, let me tell you something: authors do not need to put any romantic stuff in a story. None. If I were you, I would just skip all the romantic parts of the story. Don’t worry; they are not part of the plot. To conclude, I thought that this book would be like Mr. Lemoncello’s Library, which I didn’t really like, but it is in a class of its own. It is like a mystery, but without a lot of clues. At first, I inferred that this book took place in an old-fashioned city because it had weird games like a chicken pooping on a number to determine the winner of the lottery. But this is actually a weird city in a modern time. This book is funny and a quick read.
