Fiction
Kythia awoke to the sound of trumpets announcing her father's departure. She grunted and sat up abruptly, stretching stiff muscles. She had wished to speak with her father, Sir Farlan, before he and his knights left the castle to assist their fellow countrymen in battle. Kythia knew that if more troops weren't sent to help Queen Jocunda all of their kingdom of Naranth would be overrun by the power-hungry Rylions. Still, she wished her father had had time to plead her cause to her mother, Lady Amaria. Amaria wanted a daughter who would embroider tapestries, regally order servants to do her bidding, and wear elaborate gowns of silk and brocade. Kythia herself wanted to be a hero, someone portrayed in tapestries. She wanted to wear mail and carry a sword, and save all of Naranth. All Sir Farlan wanted was for his family to be content, and therefore it was always easy to enlist his help in halting Amaria's next lecture. Kythia sighed; now there was no prolonging the inevitable tirade. Her mother had caught her on her palfrey, tilting (or trying to) at a quintain. The poor horse was bewildered and jumped at the slightest sound. Amaria had let out such an unladylike war cry as to spook the horse, meant only for pleasure, into throwing its passenger, and the glint in the noble lady's eyes threatened hell to pay. Kythia stood, wincing as her sore limbs stretched, and limped to the five-foot-tall mirror that had been her thirteenth birthday present. She tossed her waist-length hair, admiring the way the auburn tresses caught the light, then, grimacing, reached for the forest-green gown that supposedly brought out the color of her already striking hazel eyes. Although the dress was stunning, she knew she'd look better in armor. * * * That morning (after the lecture at breakfast) Kythia endured dancing lessons, then embroidery—two of her most hated activities. Nothing was worse than what came after the three-course midday meal, though: fittings. She was making her appearance at court in April, as did every other fifteen-year-old of high blood. The only pleasant part of this trip would be meeting with Queen Jocunda. The Queen was everything Kythia wished to be. She was a warrior, yet could be a proper, beautiful lady when she wished. She was a superb horsewoman and the heroine of every ballad. Meeting her would be wondrous. Kythia was suddenly brought back to reality as the beautiful aqua-colored gown, her mother's choice, was draped over her slim shoulders. She sighed and resigned herself to an eternity of measurements and servants' gossip. "Did you hear that there's a chance of the Rylions attacking near here?" "Oh, that's not true. You know that Sir Farlan would never let them past him." "Word has it that battle was just a diversion, and their real motive is to take this castle and the lands around it." Kythia had heard this theory several times, and had yet to believe it. It would be exciting, though—trumpets blaring, banners waving just beyond the window. Oh, glory maybe Queen Jocunda would even lead the rescue . . . That was odd. Kythia was sure she had just heard trumpets, even war cries. She shook her head, trying to clear it of what was obviously her imagination. Then her mother, Amaria, dashed into the room and cried that, yes, there was a Rylion attack and the knights were gone, fighting miles away! This time, the gossip was correct. That was when panic broke loose. Serving women shrieked and ran about. Villagers had already begun to enter the castle, the safest place around. Kythia maneuvered through it all, trying to reach the battlements. Her heart hammered; her hair flew out of place as she, still in her fine gown, scrambled to where she could help defend her people and her home. She couldn't let her mother and servants die or be captured. As she ran, she issued orders for vats of hot oil, bows and arrows, and as many spears as they had. She grabbed a boy about her age and gave him a message to take as quickly as possible to the nearest estate: "We're under attack, and the men are gone. Please, help." * * * Kythia stood at the battlements, clutching a bow expertly in one hand and felling the enemy below as fast as she could fire. She'd secretly learned archery as a child, and was a fair shot. The most stalwart of the servants, men and women, assisted her, and the rest were huddled with Amaria in the most protected rooms. Load. Fire. Watch her victim fall. Load. Fire. Kythia worked herself into a rhythm. She shut her mind to the screams of those she killed in self-defense, although she knew they would haunt her dreams. A pain-filled shriek forced her to look beside her. One of the gossips that had been fitting her dress had fallen, struck by a deadly arrow. Blood spurted from her, showering the cold stone wall. Kythia took a moment to kneel beside her servant and gently close the eyes of the old woman. Kythia's dress was ripped and hanging off one shoulder, the height of impropriety. Her hair was loose and tangled and tinted with soot. Her face was streaked with sweat, blood, and dirt. Yet Kythia was beautiful, wild and willful, standing in the battlements and crying out against all who defied her. She grinned; Lady Amaria would swoon with shock to see her daughter like this. * * * After it was all over Kythia sat in her spacious apartments and thought about the entire incident. They had won; serving women and one noble girl had held their own against a troop from the greatest army in the realm until proper warriors could be summoned. Perhaps an angel was with her, watching over her; perhaps it was just pure luck. Anyhow, she and the servants had done it, and Kythia was proud. A knock
Fiction
It was a hot day when he came home. Our farm was sweating under the Mississippi sun, even though it was only May, and I was out feeding the chickens. It's my job, being ten and the youngest of three. The war was over, I'd heard. All the newspapers were proclaiming that the Nazis were defeated. Of course, I was happy, but after a while the effect wore off. Mama was cleaning the house and singing. That's what she does when she is glad. I could guess why, having been told joyfully something about my father coming home. Still, it was such a surprise when he actually did. I had only vague memories of him, having been six when he got drafted. My last image of him, before he drove away, was of him standing on our porch, staring blankly at a photo of Mama. I remember it had always been his favorite picture. In it my mother is standing in our overgrown garden, holding a tomato. He said she looked beautiful standing there. I remember when we took the picture with the family camera. My father was so happy that day. He was always happy. That was the main thing I remembered of him. I also could picture him, when I thought really hard. He had short, curly, black hair, a rosy face, and dark green eyes. He always used to say that we were alike as two peas in a pod, so I supposed we were, but our mirror had been shattered a year ago and somehow we still hadn't replaced it. "Maggie!" an excited shriek sounded, "Maggie, he's here!" The meaning of those words took a moment to register, but then I dashed inside the house. My sisters, Kathy and Linda, were already there. "Come on, we have to get washed up!" tittered Kathy. We all tore upstairs. I washed my face and hands, brushed my hair and put on a clean dress. Kathy and Linda were already scurrying downstairs, so I hastened after them. We all met at the landing. Kathy, one year older, and Linda, two, did not remember our father much better than I and we all exchanged fearful glances before walking out to meet him. We hurried down the driveway and there he was. He was hugging Mama and Mama was crying and laughing. We all slowed our pace. Kathy was chewing her tongue, a habit she had when she was anxious. Just then Mama spotted us. "Maggie, Kathy, Linda, it's your father, it's your papa come home!" she cried. Papa—the word sounded strange. "Papa" looked our way with a grin; he was a changed man. As we got closer we could see that, despite his grin, his eyes were haunted and sad, his face taut, his body thin. We smiled uncertainly back. He opened his arms wide and we ran to them, not knowing what to say. He hugged us tight, as if to anchor himself to something. At last Papa let us go. He held us at arm's length and scanned our faces. "Maggie, Kathy, Linda," he murmured, and then his face grew glad once more, "is there anything to eat? I must say, I can't recommend army food. I got some pork and potatoes for 20 cents when we arrived, but otherwise I haven't had anything." My mother, glowing, hustled us all into the house. "Maggie, Kathy, get some coffee ready and Linda, will you be a dear and get out the canned peas, the fresh ones aren't ripe yet . . . oh, and see if there is any sugar left. When will this rationing stop?" Mama, Linda and Kathy sat down in their customary seats, but Papa was sitting in mine! Didn't he remember that he sat to the right of me? I glared at his back, but sat down in his seat instead. The meal was a quiet one. Mama tried to keep the conversation going, but after a while, talk withered. Soon, silence presided at the table. Papa ate hungrily, his manners cruder than I remembered, and then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Mama immediately jumped to her feet. "Oh William, what was I thinking? You must be tired after such a long journey. Come, the bed is made up, I'll awaken you for dinner." Papa opened his eyes and allowed himself to be led upstairs, without saying a word. Kathy, Linda and I were holding a conference in the pigsty. "He seems so changed," said Linda. "I know—I don't know what to say to him anymore," whispered Kathy. "He's a stranger," I said under my breath. No one heard. "But Mama's happy, so we must be kind to him—and he is our papa," proclaimed Linda dutifully. We all nodded, and that signified the end of our meeting because Linda was the oldest and usually got the last word. The next day, I woke up at three o'clock in the morning. I had a vague feeling that something exciting had happened the day before, but it took me a moment before I realized what it was. I shot up and got out of bed, careful not to wake my sisters, slumbering beside me. All I knew was I wanted to get outside, away from the stranger who was boarding free in our house. "I know where I'll go," I said to myself, "to the chicken coop!" The chicken coop was where I always went when I was upset. The quiet breathing and clucking of the birds soothed me. I slipped swiftly down the stairs and out the door, still in my nightgown. It was still dark outside and the fresh air greeted my nostrils with a pleasant tang. I walked down the path to the coop, glad to be alone, when out of the blue there formed a shape. As I got closer I could see it was a man. His form looked familiar and suddenly I realized . . .
Fiction
I stare at the flickering candle, the small light throwing echoes onto the flimsy curtain wavering with our movements. That cloth is all that separates us from the audience; they're out there, waiting, waiting for us. I love focusing, letting the director's voice flow around me, dropping into my character's body. There he is! Romeo, staring longingly, lovingly, up at Juliet on her balcony. He doesn't know she adores him yet. That's what's terrific about acting in plays—I know what my character doesn't yet. "Step toward your character and join hands," our director, Anne, says. I let my character develop in my mind until his words spring from my mouth as if he's living inside of me. I'm here to bring Romeo to life in my own world. "Let a line form in your mind and let the character tell you how he would say it. Now come back . . . on the count of six, open your eyes onto the candle," Anne tells us. The reddish-gold fire shimmers in the dark. The line is there in my head, a gift from Romeo—"O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope's ear. Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear." Everyone says his or her line in turn: Rachel, the stately prince, with the play's opening words; Tanya, the boisterous nurse, enjoying a dirty joke; and Sasha, the wise friar, contemplating man and nature. "OK," Anne whispers, "you've prepared so long for this. You're going to be awesome—especially since this is the last performance!" The cast mingles, hugging, wishing good luck, and sharing pre-performance nerves. My Juliet, Holly, throws herself into a chair and sighs. "I'm just so sick of Juliet. Anne isn't letting me do what I want with the character." I turn to face her. "Holly, don't say that. I wanted to be Juliet, don't you remember? I prepared so hard for the tryout—I was miserable when I got immature, rash Romeo instead. At least you got the part you wanted!" I can't believe I just said that to Holly, one of my best friends in the cast. I hold my breath, waiting for her response, hoping she won't be mad. But she stares at me and says, "Well, maybe there was a reason I got Juliet and you didn't. Think about it." She walks away from me. I collapse into the chair Holly just abandoned. What's going to happen to the performance? Holly and I need all the chemistry we can muster to make the audience believe in the play's world. Someone hugs my shoulders. I hope it's Holly, but it isn't. A few minutes later, we line up for the march-in. Anne encourages all the cast members, making her way back to tell me I'll be great. Tears prick at my eyes but I brush them away roughly I know I can't play this part without my heart in it and without closeness to Holly. The lights dim and the audience's chatter fades. The actors' whispers fill the jammed backstage. Tybalt rushes for her forgotten cloak and everyone adjusts hats, swords, vests. I fiddle with my iridescent cloak and the silk ribbons on my velvet tunic as Purcell's Funeral March for Queen Mary swells. Usually it's hard not to laugh when everyone starts clapping and whistling as we proceed down the aisle. Tonight, though, it's easy for me to keep a straight face. The play begins and seems as though it's on fast-forward. The Montagues and Capulets brawl in the streets, Romeo and his friends sneak into their sworn enemies' party, Juliet and Romeo are struck by love. Holly and I aren't acting to our full potential together, and I know it. As the balcony scene begins, I realize what I have to do. I give extra strength to the lines addressing Romeo and Juliet's love, playing them differently from ever before. As I say, "My life were better ended by their hate than death prorogued, wanting of thy love," Juliet smiles at Romeo, but I know it's also Holly smiling at me. The play races on until the "banished" scene. This is the hardest moment for Romeo, finding out he's exiled from Verona for having murdered Tybalt. Every line slips off my tongue so naturally it's as if I am Romeo and this banishment is happening to me. I feel everything: his anguish, despair, and guilt. I can't believe I won't have a chance to do this again. I stumble offstage afterward, amazed by the beauty of the scene. My friends crush me into a hug, and I realize I'm overwhelmed with love. Love for my friends and their love for me. Romeo and Juliet's doomed love. And, most surprising and extraordinary to me, my love for Romeo.
Fiction
I remember the first time we played Periwinkle. I was ten and my sister Lou was eleven. We were just under a year apart, eleven months exactly. It was her birthday and her party had just ended, leaving just the two of us and a pile of presents. I picked one up, a funny little stuffed pig, and leaned it over by Lou. "It's Pig's birthday, too!" I giggled. Lou rolled her eyes in an attempt to look mature but ended up laughing with me. After living together for our entire lives, we were both pretty good at figuring out what the other one was thinking. I glanced at the table set up for the party then at the pig, then at Lou. "Sounds fun, right?" I asked her. She knew what I meant, and we raced through the house, picking up every stuffed animal we could carry and dumping them on the table. "Now the pig can have a party right Lou?" I said. She surveyed the heap. "Sure," she told me with all the authority of being one year older, "but not here. They need a house of their own. Like, oh, somewhere in the woods." So we picked up the animals once again, and started walking through the woods near our house in search of a suitable spot for a party. Finally, Lou paused under a big tree. "This looks like a good spot." It didn't seem any different from any of the other spots under any of the other trees that we had passed, but I didn't want to argue with Lou on her birthday. We laughed as we arranged the animals around an imaginary table, moving their little arms to eat invisible cake. Suddenly, Lou looked up. "What time is it, Jen?" she asked me. I looked at my watch. "Six-forty-five."We both knew what that meant. We were forty-five minutes late for supper, and Mom was not going to be happy with us. Lou took off through the trees, and I followed. * * * A we were lying in our bunk beds that night, almost asleep, I thought of something. "Lou!" "I'm tired, Jen. Go back to sleep.""No, listen! We left all the animals out there! I don't want to leave them out all night; what if it rains?" "Well, what do you want to do about it—go back and get them?" Lou said sarcastically. "Now?" I asked incredulously "Lou, it's the middle of the night." She swung her legs over the side of the top bunk and jumped off. "I was kidding, but I guess we could. It's now or never, if it rains." That was true. "OK, wait for me." We tiptoed barefoot into the kitchen. Lou rummaged around in the drawers, looking for a strong flashlight, then we slid on our shoes and slipped out the door. The forest path looked eerie in the dark. I had second thoughts about our plan, but once Lou made up her mind to do something, there was no stopping her, so we continued until we reached the tree. Looking at the animals reminded me of how much fun we were having. We had never really finished Pig's party so I turned to Lou. "Do you think we could maybe play a little, while we're out here?" She stared at me like I was crazy. "What if Mom and Dad find out?" "We'd be in enough trouble already" I pointed out. She shrugged, always willing for an adventure. "Sounds fine to me!" We sat down in the dark. It wasn't really so scary after all, I noticed. Once we propped up the flashlight in between us, it lit up the surrounding woods well enough so we could be sure that nothing was hiding out there, and the house was pretty close by. We played for almost an hour when Lou decided that we had better start back, but both of us were sad to leave. That was probably what made Lou say, "Jen? Let's try to come out here again tomorrow night." And it was what made me say, "Yes." "This is almost like a little world," Lou said thoughtfully. "Maybe we'd better name it." I thought for a while. "I don't know. Do you have any ideas?" "I'm thinking." We eventually decided on Periwinkle, because as Lou said, "Periwinkle is such a pretty color, but I don't see it very often. When I see it, I think of thousands of possibilities." * * * Two years later, we were still playing Periwinkle. Sometimes during the day, I was embarrassed to think of what some of the kids at school would say about such a "baby" game. But the nighttime always made it seem special, even magical, and I couldn't even think of ending the game. We never really talked about it, but I think Lou felt the same way. We had improved the game since that first night on Lou's birthday. Lou and I made popsicle-stick furniture for the stuffed animals, and walls to separate different rooms. Sometimes the Periwinkle characters would go to school, sometimes they would play, and sometimes they would even go on vacation and take a trip somewhere. We made different cardboard buildings for everywhere they went. One hot August night, Lou and I appeared at our tree to find nothing. Everything was gone. We couldn't think of anything to do but stare in shock. Who or what could have done this? Dog tracks covered the muddy ground. I turned to show Lou and see what she was thinking, but she was not there. She was already running back toward the house, fists clenched. I sighed, blinking away a tear as I looked at the mess, then I followed her. Back in our bedroom, Lou was still angry. I was upset too, but I wanted to try to calm her down. "Listen. It's not the end of the world," I told her. "What did we have when we started
Fiction
The barn was dark, but a warm and welcoming darkness. The hay piled up for the horses smelled sweet and soft. The barn door was slightly ajar, just enough for a small bedraggled traveler. The horses snorted in their sleep, but the hay was inviting and the traveler was soon asleep, breathing in the fresh-cut smell. * * * Molly was homesick. She had been at camp for two days, and really missed her parents. She decided to go to the farm, where she could play with the kittens and wouldn't have to talk to anyone. When the first-period bell rang, she walked down the road to the farm, absorbed in self-pity. Outside the barn was a kitten. Molly bent down to pet her and went inside. There were a few people in the barn, holding kittens. Molly spotted a small black-and-white kitten, who wasn't being held. She scooped him up and looked into blue-gray eyes like her own. She petted the kitten's black ears and he shut his eyes in contentment. She had made a friend. A week later, Molly had made lots of friends in her cabin, but still visited the kitten a lot. He was christened Oreo. She had completely fallen in love with him. Eventually, she called her parents. "Mom, can I pleeeeeease have this kitten?" On the other end of the phone, her mom sighed. "Maybe." Soon, maybe turned to yes, and Molly was very happy. Camp would end soon, and Molly would spend the rest of her summer in Nova Scotia. At the end of the summer, when she came back from her summer house, they would pick Oreo up. She was prepared to wait as long as it took to get Oreo. Camp ended, and Molly hugged Oreo, telling him to wait for her. In their summer house in Nova Scotia, Molly patiently waited for the summer to be over. One night, a week from getting Oreo, she had a dream. Oreo had run away from camp. He had forgotten that she was going to adopt him, so he ran away. In her dream, Molly chased after him for a long time. Finally, he remembered who she was, and he stopped. She caught up, and he jumped into her arms. The following day, a phone call came from camp. "Hi, Molly. Are you still getting this cat?" "Oreo? Yep." "Well, I have some very sad news. Oreo ran away. He's been away for two weeks, but we couldn't find your phone number." "Oreo?" Molly said, her voice faint. "Th- the black-and-white male? Are you sure?" "Yes. Can I talk to a parent?" Numbly, Molly handed the phone to her dad and collapsed onto the couch. * * * A small black-and-white kitten woke up in his bed of hay. He was quite big now, and catching mice. He had just vaguely remembered someone, a girl, who had loved him so much . . . He felt a shadow of remorse at leaving her, but it was soon swallowed up by kitten dreams and thoughts, and he had forgotten it in the morning.
Fiction
Jessica Morgan was ten years old and was already sure she was no good at anything. Her parents were eminent historians who studied the Civil War. They each had written numerous books and articles on the subject of Civil War history. Everyone Jessica knew seemed to admire them, including Jessica herself. To Jessica, her parents appeared to have limitless confidence and skill. She, on the other hand, had never felt successful or competent at anything she tried. Sometimes, Jessica wondered how she could be so different from her parents. One hot summer afternoon as Jessica sat reading, the telephone on the wall beside her rang loudly. She picked it up on the second ring, placing a bookmark in her book. "Hello?" "Jessica, it's Cassie." "Oh, hi." Ten-year-old Cassie Parker had been Jessica's closest friend for six years. The girls chatted for a few minutes, and then Cassie said, "You know my brother's old kayak? Well, we're getting rid of it." "That beat-up one with the wooden paddle? Why?" Jessica was surprised. She knew he loved that old kayak. She herself had seen him using it. "My brother Aaron got a brand-new kayak for his eighth birthday. Now my parents are dying to get the old one out of the garage. I thought because you live right on the creek and you don't have a kayak, maybe you'd like it." Jessica hesitated. She didn't know the first thing about kayaking. What should she do? Suddenly, she heard herself say, "Sure, I'll take it. My parents have always said I could have a kayak if I wanted one, but I've never had the chance to get one." "Now you've got a great chance. So, you want it?" "Yes, I do!" Jessica's heart leapt. She was really getting the kayak! "OK." Even if she couldn't see Cassie's face, Jessica was almost positive her best friend was smiling by her pleased tone. "I'll bring it over Saturday morning at ten. Is that OK?" "Yeah, sure! Bye." "Bye." Jessica hung up the phone again and considered opening her book, but she was too excited to read. Tomorrow she would have her very own kayak. Visions filled her mind—visions of herself moving silently, gracefully through the marsh creeks behind her house, cutting the water smoothly. Visions of racing Cassie time and time again, propelling herself swiftly past Cassie's red kayak, winning dozens of races. Then the dreams were abruptly cut short. What if she was horrible at kayaking . . . just like everything else she'd ever tried? The visions changed to pictures of herself floundering in the water, having tipped over her kayak, of herself running into the banks of the creeks and getting stuck in the mud. Jessica knew she was rarely any good at anything, and, now that she thought about it, was positive that she would be as bad at kayaking as she was at video games and tennis and soccer and everything else she tried to do. All her friends were good at something. Cassie was a straight-A student, Ginny was the best pitcher on the local baseball team, and Lila was always talking about her most recent experiences climbing mountains. They had never been mean to Jessica when she failed to do something as well as they had done it, but she nevertheless felt embarrassed every time they looked at her, smiling kindly, and said, "Come on, Jess, you know you can do it. Just try really hard." Jessica's mind drifted back to last April, when she and her friend Lila had gone to their hometown's annual spring festival. There, among all the usual attractions, was something new—a climbing wall. "Hey, let's give it a try!" Lila had said enthusiastically, stepping forward. Jessica had had a sinking feeling, but she had agreed because she didn't want to appear as though she were afraid to try. As the girls neared the wall, Lila confidently stepped up to the more challenging side, while Jessica uneasily approached the easier one. They were given harnesses to put on, and began climbing. The movements felt unnatural to Jessica. As hard as she tried, she couldn't seem to find any handholds. It seemed that she stayed in one spot forever, awkwardly attempting to move upward. Out of the corner of her eye, she had seen Lila, scrambling steadily higher. As Jessica tentatively pulled herself up another notch, she heard a sound that made her heart sink. It was the ring of the bell from the top of the climbing wall. That meant Lila had already reached the top and was on her way back down. Jessica, convinced she couldn't make it any further, gave up and headed toward the ground. Even now, the memory of that day made her cringe. She was still thinking about that day, and about how she would probably have a similar experience with kayaking, when she went downstairs for supper that night. Only Jessica's mother, Elizabeth, was at the dinner table—presumably her father, James, was still working hard in his study. "Hello, Jessica," said her mother, putting a plate of spaghetti in front of Jessica as she sat down. "Hi. Cassie called. They're giving away Aaron's old kayak." "Oh? Why?" "Aaron got a new one for his birthday Well, anyway, Cassie called me to offer the kayak to me. If it's OK, she's bringing it over tomorrow." Her mom smiled. "I hope you'll like it." The rest of dinner passed in silence—they were both hungry, and felt no need to talk. After eating, Jessica read her book and watched television awhile, and then went to bed, apprehensive about the next morning. * * * Jessica woke abruptly at the insistent ring of the alarm on the clock radio sitting on her nightstand, which read eight o'clock. She got out of bed, showered, and changed into shorts and a T-shirt, and by that time it was eight-thirty. Only an hour and a half until my kayak gets here, she thought nervously.
Poem
When the sky was full of diamonds, We went dancing on the cobblestone streets. The world was filled with laughter and music and whispering couples. The spicy food, The sweet chocolate, And the strong aroma of coffee. The lights on the water. We sat under the massive stone archways, lit with light. We turned around and around beneath the statues of the gods of a past world. We ran over bridges, And cast stones at the wavering reflections of ourselves. We slept on a doorstep. In front of us, the city was alive with color and people. Above us, The sky was full of diamonds And the moon.
Poem
Overtime. Golden Goal. As I place the ball in a circle, I think about where I should place the shot. top left bottom left top right bottom right I wait for the whistle my team is silent but the crowd is roaring pressure is on nerves rush through me suddenly the crowd silences the whistle blows I sprint toward the ball the crowd stands my shot swift quick hard and low right the keeper dives for the ball I turn my head don't even watch I know I won the game.
Book Reviews
Where in the World by Simon French; Peachtree Publishers: Atlanta, 2003; $14.95 Have you ever not wanted to do something, but been forced to do it anyway? Ari, a boy with an extraordinary gift for music, certainly was in Where in the World when Mr. Lee, his music teacher, tried to make him play the violin at an end-of-the-year recital. As I read I thought about how much like me Ari was. I was nervous the first time I played a piano in front of people I didn't know because I was afraid that I would make a mistake and look foolish. Since I got a lot of encouragement from my parents, grandparents and music teacher I got up the courage to try even though I was still scared. As soon as I began to play I forgot that I even had an audience until they started to applaud at the end. Now I look forward to concerts. A similar situation happened to Ari too. Ari enjoyed playing the violin for fun and for his parents' enjoyment but he didn't want to play at the end-of-the-year recital because he was embarrassed about playing the violin. He was afraid that other children would tease him. One day while his friend, Thomas, was over, Ari's grandfather called on the telephone and asked to hear Ari play the violin. After he was done Thomas asked Ari whether he would play some more songs for him because he thought they sounded beautiful. Ari thought Thomas was teasing him and he put the violin away. Several weeks later Ari's stepfather, Jamie, asked Ari whether he would consider playing the violin for his mother's birthday at the café his parents owned. Ari's mother and Jamie always played music to entertain the customers after dinner. Ari said that he would consider it. He didn't know what to do but finally he made up his mind to play at the café because he loved his mother so much and wanted to make her proud. When he did he discovered that he liked playing in front of other people. He and the audience appreciated each other. That was the turning point where he realized that he could play at the recital without any fears. The author, Simon French, can make you feel sad, happy, or even disappointed for Ari. One point where I particularly noticed this was when Ari's grandfather died. Even though none of my grandparents have died I can't imagine life without any of them. After his grandfather died Ari said that he never wanted to play a violin again. This was probably due to the fact that his grandfather had taught him to play the violin. His parents told him how much talent he had and encouraged him to develop that talent and not let it go to waste. He realized that his grandfather would want him to continue playing. Mr. Lee was hired to teach Ari. As I read I realized that it's impossible to go through life always getting your way. Sooner or later someone will make you do something you don't want to. New experiences can be scary but can lead to exciting new opportunities. I strongly recommend this book. It is impossible not to like Ari and sympathize with the difficult situations that he has to overcome. Whether the reader is a musician or not all of us have to face trying new situations as we grow.
Book Reviews
Willow and Twig by Jean Little; Viking: New York, 2000; $15.99 Most people can relate to having an annoying little brother that is "Velcro-ed" to you wherever you go, or to counting on your grandma for love. But Willow doesn't only need to count on her grandma for love, she and her brother, nicknamed Twig, need to count on her to survive! Willow and her four-year-old brother, whom everyone thinks is stupid because he can't talk yet, are living with an elderly caretaker, Maisie, in a cramped one-room apartment. The children's mother, a drug addict, is out in the world seemingly unaware that she has just broken yet another promise that means everything to her kids. This time, the kids know she is never coming back, never. In daycare or kindergarten, most kids worry that their parents won't come to pick them up, but that usually never happens. Only Willow and Twig's mom obviously has no idea how much coming back means to a kid. After about four months, Maisie dies. Willow and Twig are forced to turn to the police for help. After the threat of being sent off to two separate foster homes, Willow decides to call her long-lost grandma who supposedly never wants to see her again, or so her mother has told her. Until that telephone call, Grandma doesn't even know Twig exists! Even though their grandma is happy to take them in, Willow is still scared that she will get angry at disruptive Twig and send them away. Once they seem to be settled in with blind Uncle Hum and kind Gram, other people come along who could spell trouble. Willow is at first happy to discover a neighbor her own age, until Sabrina Marr lies to her and runs off in a huff. And then Aunt Con, her grandmother's wretched sister who absolutely hates children, decides to move in with them. At this point in the book, I didn't know what would happen to Willow and Twig. Would Aunt Con convince Gram and Uncle Hum to get rid of them? Would Twig push too many buttons and get them both in trouble? Willow's only hope now was to pray. Pray that Aunt Con would find love in her heart to let them stay. Pray that she and Twig would be loved. Pray that Sabrina would turn out to be nice. Pray. When I read this book I placed myself in Willow's position and learned how other children might feel. How other children in our world struggle for food and water while we take it for granted. How others long to be loved, to have friends, to just sit down and laugh with their family members, while that is built into our daily lives. This book really made me think about what else is happening in the world while we sit down to play a game or to watch TV. Not everybody has the same privileges, and not everybody's family looks the same. When you read this book you might get the same message I did, or you might have a different point of view. No matter what, though, I will bet you will find Willow and Twig to be a fascinating story about two children who overcome lots of obstacles and help to create a family they can count on to be safe and happy.
