Fiction
A large gray hippo waded in the clear, cool Nile River. His name was Akitomen. Akitomen's wife, Tawret, glided alongside him. The couple both watched their children, Khufem and Maketuman. The kids played happily in the papyrus reeds, Tawret and Akitomen talked while keeping an eye on the kids. Tawret had always been a wonderful hippo mother. Loving, yet stern. During the middle of a discussion about the Nile's flood, Tawret checked on the kids. She saw a papyrus hunting boat off in the distance. Knowing they might be in the mood for hippo, she warned the others. "Khufem! Maketuman! Hunters!" The family rapidly climbed into the sand-mud structure they lived inside. Back at the boat, the Egyptian men were arguing in fierce, fast Egyptian. "They got away, you moron!" the first man yelled. "It's your fault! You should have lowered the net at least five seconds earlier!" the second one exclaimed. There was another person on board. She was a young woman, about seventeen in age. Her name was Cleometrapen. Cleometrapen had dark silky hair that cascaded to her waist. She had dark, smooth skin. At a quick glance, she looked like any other mildly attractive servant girl in a plain blue linen dress. Well, except for the golden flute tucked within the folds of her skirt. If you looked closely enough, you could see her eyes: celery green with thick lashes encircling them. One could look even harder and see the swirling specks of blue and purple within the green. But nobody ever did. She was a simple servant, an accessory to take on hunting trips, a person existing solely to cater to whims. No more. Possibly less, but no more. While the two men were fighting, Cleometrapen took out her flute and put it to her lips, with their perfectly applied red ochre. She began to play. Cleometrapen's fingers flew on the marble-rimmed holes. She played and played, the sweet, woody notes covering the unpleasant noise of the argument. Attracted to the music, the hippo family glided over. Sadly, the men noticed the hippos and threw their weapons randomly in the water. A weapon was headed straight for Khufem. In a split second, Tawret jumped over. She saved Khufem, but the spear punctured her hide. With a cheer from the men, they hauled Tawret out of the water and onto the boat. Cleometrapen cast an apologetic glance at the hippos as the boat sped off. Khufem, Akitomen, and Maketuman mourned. The Egyptians had bread and vegetables. Why did they need Tawret? Every night, after the children fell asleep, Akitomen would pray to the god Osiris, leader of the underworld. He begged for the gods to return his wife. During the second week, Cleometrapen sat in the servant hutch. It was a very modest place, made of mud brick. Against one wall a bed stood, its headrest a simple stone structure. Against the opposite wall, there was a small table with a piece of bread. Pushed neatly under the table was a stool. This room was just like the servant girl who lived in it. At a quick glance it appeared modest, plain, nothing really special. But, also like Cleometrapen, at a second look you found something very interesting. There was a papyrus basket, complete with a delicate golden lock hidden carefully under the bed. A bit unusual (just like the girl's celery-green eyes), yet still nothing really special. If one would actually take the locked basket from beneath the bed and snap the fragile lock, they would find a tiny sparkle of light inside. The same thing would happen if you cared to look deeper into Cleometrapen's eyes. And at this moment, Cleometrapen looked into the sparkle. She saw Ra's face and began to speak to him. "Ra, this is Isis here." Yes, you heard that right. Cleometrapen was Isis, visiting her people in the form of a servant girl. "Greetings," Ra replied in his deep, loud voice. "You must be hushed," Isis replied. "I have another servant girl living near my hutch." "Yes," Ra agreed. "Now why is it you contact me, Isis?" "I have spoken with my husband, Osiris. He has said that river horses of the Nile have begged for their missing family member." Cleometrapen began her story, making sure to include the fact that it was she who was to blame and the part when Tawret saved her child, Khufem. Isis said all this because she knew that the god and goddess council had decided that a goddess of motherhood and home was needed, and preferably in animal form. Many divine creatures had the head of an animal, but none were pure animal. They felt they needed at least one to represent the non-humans on the earth. Ra listened carefully. He was particularly impressed with the part when Tawret saved her children. He too was thinking exactly what Isis was: animal goddess. However, they would have to consult Osiris. He had Tawret in the Valley of Laru. "We will consider giving her goddess power. Isis, you should talk to your husband, Osiris. He should have input." "Thank you." Cleometrapen looked away for a second to hide the basket further, and when she looked back, Ra's face had left and the spark was plain once more. Following his ritual, Akitomen prayed that evening. Cleometrapen stayed up later than usual waiting. She had the basket in her arms, yet this time it was to be used as a communication with common creatures, not with her fellow gods and goddesses. Khufem and Maketuman went to sleep, and Akitomen knelt on the hard-packed dirt floor. He pleaded for his wife, though at this point he had lost hope. "Will my wife be returned to me, Great Ones?" Akitomen asked. Cleometrapen, sitting on her bed, heard the prayer through her spark. She said one sentence: "She may return, yet not in the form you remember." Isis then shut off the connection and climbed into bed. Akitomen was
Fiction
I looked down at my watch; it was already five past six. Where are they? It was starting to annoy me that they were late again. The plan was that we would meet at the bench under the third streetlight at exactly six o'clock to go swimming. The ocean was at low tide at exactly six so every minute that ticked by, the tide came in and the waves became rougher and rougher. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and rolled onto my side. The bench was hard and creaked under my weight. I stared up into the dull light of the old streetlight. Hundreds of mosquitoes swarmed around it. My eyelids drooped and felt ever so heavy. * * * "Hey, Martin! Sorry we're late. Let's go!" Martin's eyes popped open and he sat up with a jolt. A boy was sprinting down the street towards him and was shouting at the top of his lungs. A much smaller boy was trailing behind him, huffing and puffing as he struggled to keep up. "What took you two so long? I've been waiting here for at least fifteen minutes!" Martin said, as he got up and started running alongside them. "It wasn't my fault. Danny couldn't find his dumb flip-flops." The three friends raced all the way up the street, onto the path and right onto the beach. None of them stopped until they were at the water's edge. A dark wave swelled on the rolling ocean and crashed down upon the sandy shore where the three best friends stood and were staring out into the deep blue ocean. The youngest of them, Danny, was only eight years old, with thick layers of dark hair covering half of his face. He was the shortest of the three, no more than four feet tall. His eyes lay hidden beneath the mat of hair, but they were constantly moving. Left, right, left, right, always taking in the surroundings. Next, was his older brother, Steve, who was just over four years older than Danny. If one looked at the pair of them standing right next to each other as they were then, it would be impossible to determine any family relationship. Steve was Danny's exact opposite. He was tall and slender, almost six feet in height, and stood like a giant to the other two kids. Steve also had a short crew cut and deep blue eyes; almost as dark as the ocean they were staring into. Finally, there was Martin. He was Steve's age but was always very dull with a blasé expression on his face. His hair was a wild mess that hadn't been washed or combed for weeks. Martin's eyes never seemed to be able to look at something directly; they were always staring off into the distance. Another wave swelled and crashed down, this one more powerful than the one before, and managed to knock Danny off his feet. This small incident seemed to send a spark of life into the trio. "Let's go in the water!" Steve exclaimed, as he yanked off his shirt and tossed it in the sand at his feet. "I think I'll pass," mumbled Martin with his usual lethargy. "I might have wanted to go in at six, but since you guys were so late, now I don't want to. Besides, the lifeguards left hours ago and it's already starting to get dark." "So what?" Steve kicked off his flipflops and dashed into the dark water. Danny rolled up his pants above his knees and slowly waded out into the shallows. He had to hop over the rolling waves to avoid getting his clothes soaked. Martin lazily flopped down and buried his hands and feet in the cool sand. When Steve got smashed by a wave and fell under water, Danny started to laugh out loud and Martin let a smile slip. But, after a moment, neither of them saw Steve come back up and their shared laughter subsided. With the exception of the usual waves crashing upon the shore, there was no sign of movement in the water. "Steve?" Danny called in a soft voice. He frantically started searching in the water, forgetting about his wet clothes, as he went farther out. "Steve?" Danny called again in a much louder voice. All this while, Martin was still sitting in the sand. He stood up and used his hand as a shield to block the small amount of remaining sunlight as he stared out into the vast ocean, searching for Steve. Then, at the exact spot where Steve had gone under, the ocean changed colors as if someone had just put dye into it. The color of the water in that area had changed from a dark blue to a deep red, the color of fresh blood. Danny was about to let out a scream, when suddenly something that looked like a finned hand from Martin's perspective emerged from the water and wrapped its scaly fingers around Danny's ankle. The thing made one sharp tug and pulled him down. Just before he was yanked under water, he managed to suck in a breath. Martin's eyes were wide with fear and his jaw hung agape as he slowly inched his way from the water. He wasn't able to see Steve or Danny who had both been standing right next to him just moments ago. Suddenly, a small hand shot out of the water, desperately groping for something to grab hold of, something it could not find. But, as another wave rolled by, the hand slipped back under the water, almost as quickly as it had come out. After a brief pause of absolute silence, except the steady lapsing of waves, Danny's head broke the surface. He had a deep gash on his forehead and was rapidly losing blood. He was struggling to get air and was choking on the ocean's water. A monstrous wave crashed over him, sending his body swirling into the
Fiction
I felt like my heart had been hit by a semi truck. I stared at my parents in stunned silence. They sat across from me; their anxious faces looked at me in hesitant anticipation. "What?" I choked out. My throat was tight and my stomach was in knots. "You can't do that!" I said, tears beginning to fill my eyes. My dad leaned forward in his armchair and sympathetically put his hand on my knee. "Listen, Kate. Your mom and I have prayed about this for a long time and we believe this is what God is calling us to do." I shook my head with a sob. "But I'm your kid! I'm your daughter!" "Kate," my mom said, trying to reason with me, "it's going to be OK." I couldn't believe it. Why do we have to adopt a little girl from Romania? Only ten minutes ago I asked them if I could get my ears pierced and they turn around and tell me I'm getting a sister. Talk about a bombshell! Let's face it; I was an only child. I had always been my daddy's little girl. I was always my mom's closest friend. I didn't want that to go away. Now I have to share it with someone else. Of course this was selfish. I was old enough to take this more maturely and calmly. Even if I was twelve, I didn't like my carefree life to suddenly change so drastically like this. I bit my lip to keep it from trembling. A tear crept down my flushed cheek. "I'm sorry, honey," my mom said to me with a sympathetic sigh. "We didn't know you would take it so hard." I forced myself to be more controlled and asked shakily, "When . . . when is she coming?" My dad stole a glance at my mom. "She's coming next month. She is eight years old and her name is Anica." "Her mother died when she was five and her father was a criminal," my mom explained. "She lived with her aunt for one year. Then her older sister died of a serious illness. Anica was sent to an orphanage." "She really had a hard life," my dad said. "But hopefully she's young enough to forget it." "And since we all have dark features, she'll fit right in!" my mom said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. "So you've already signed all the papers and stuff?" I asked. My dad looked straight at me and nodded. "It's official." * * * The day Anica arrived I had made the decision I wasn't going to go down and meet her. From my upstairs window I watched our family minivan roll up the driveway I slipped behind the curtains as my parents got out of the car. After all the fuss I made I didn't want to seem like I was curious. Anica jumped out. She stared around at the manicured lawns and the chalk scrawled all over the sidewalk. Suddenly I realized she was looking at me. Annoyed, I jerked the curtain in front of my face and went back to my book. Days passed. I was still hard and cold inside and I didn't try to hide it. I very seldom talked to Anica and when I did, my words were cutting and sharp. Despite my dad and mom's attempts to reason with me, I avoided her as much as I could. I didn't want to admit to myself that I was being very immature and selfish. I didn't want Anica. Period. My birthday finally arrived. I wasn't going to have a party that year. We were just going to have a celebration at home. My parents tried to make it as nice as possible. Mom made my favorite meal. Dad played my favorite game with me. I got great presents, but I was surprised when I received nothing from Anica. My parents made no comment about it. That night, I was lying on my featherbed, reading a book I got from my dad earlier that day Suddenly, I heard a very soft knock on my closed door. "Come in!" I said, looking up. The door slowly opened and Anica came in, clutching something small in her hand. She was in her pajamas, holding her doll from Romania. "What is it?" I asked shortly. She quickly stepped forward and opened her hand. "This is for you," she said timidly. I stared blankly at the simple gold band held in her cupped hand. I looked up at Anica. "What's that?" She looked down at her old patched doll. "It was my sister's," she said after a pause. "She gave it to me before I was sent to my aunt's. Jenica gave me the ring because she knew that we'd never see each other again. I didn't believe her. I was sure that we would. And then . . . then I heard she died and . . . and . . ." Anica couldn't finish. She began to cry and wiped her eyes with the head of her doll. The memory was too strong for her. I stared at her in disbelief. "Why are you giving it to me?" I asked, feeling suddenly ashamed that I hadn't accepted this little girl who just wanted love and a big sister again. She hesitated and then said, "Because . . . because, even though you don't talk to me very much, you somehow remind me of her. She was my closest friend. When she died, I didn't want anyone to take her place. But then when I saw you . . ." She looked up at me with big, eager eyes and asked, "Can you take the place of Jenica?" I was speechless. Here I was, a thirteen-year-old who had rejected this little girl, and she wanted me, who had treated her terribly, to replace her . . . her only sister? I didn't know what to do. I stared at
Fiction
PROLOGUE he words were like white-hot knives plunging into Tom's skin. His mahogany eyes were flaring at his parents' shouts. "You're banned from GameCube!" "You're grounded!" "No allowance!" All Tom wanted was to run far, far away from here. His two little sisters, Hannah and Beth, huddled in a corner, wide-eyed with fear. Tom could take it no longer. Roaring like an angry lion, he charged out the door and slammed it behind him. Tom was running like a rocket, his fine-tuned sprinter's legs pounding the ground. He didn't care if he had to slam through a brick wall, he just wanted to run. And it was pure coincidence that the first things Tom slammed into were his best friends, Andrew and Henry, CHAPTER ONE Wham! Tom fell to the ground, stunned by the sudden impact. Andrew lost his balance and started pinwheeling his arms. Henry, who had taken the impact full force, flew backwards and fell flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him. After Andrew regained his balance, he walked over to Tom and helped him up. "Are you OK?" "Fine," Tom replied. Tom couldn't help feeling a bit envious of Andrew. After ten years of hard training, starting at age three, Andrew had convinced his father to sign a contract with the WWF stating that Andrew would be a pro wrestler when he graduated from college. Henry staggered over, gasping for breath. "Man, you sure know how to rip a person's shirt." He looked down and added, "And his jeans!" Andrew spoke up. "Why were you running?" Tom shot a look at him. There was a long silence. Both Henry and Andrew knew what Tom meant. Tom had been failing in math for months. After many comments from the teachers, his parents blew a fuse. A sudden noise broke the silence. It was the sound of a car speeding down the road. "It's my mom!" Tom shouted, and they took off down the sidewalk. Henry, who was a little chubby, fell behind the other two. The SUV pulled up alongside Henry. Tom's mother rolled dawn the window. Her pumpkin-colored hair was frazzled with stress, and even though she was wearing shades, Henry could tell there was a lot of anger in her eyes. "Have you seen Tom anywhere?" she asked politely. "Yes, ma'am. I saw him run past the school a minute ago," Henry lied. "Thanks, honey," said Tom's mom, and she sped off down the street. Henry caught up with Andrew and Tom and they decided to hide in the community boathouse. "I stole the keys to our boat," Tom smirked. "There are plenty of islands off the coast. I'll just sail over to one of them and stay for a couple of days." "What about us? You're not getting all the fun!" For the second time in two minutes there was a long silence. The boys' eyes drilled a hole through him as they waited for his reply. "OK! OK!" Tom sighed. "You two can come along, but it's your own lives you're messing with." Andrew beamed, "Thanks, dude!" Grabbing a flashlight from the boathouse floor, Henry smiled, "Be prepared!" CHAPTER TWO The boys pulled the boat out onto the beach. Henry was dripping with sweat, muttering something under his breath, while Andrew was lifting it as if it weighed as much as a puppy. As for Tom, he was doing as well as an average twelve-year-old sprinter should, pretty well, but stumbling now and then. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, they set the boat down with a hollow thud. Henry wiped his forehead. "Man, the only way I could take a step carrying that boat was to say its name over and over. Salmon, Salmon, Salmon! It makes my mouth water!" The Salmon was sleek and smooth, like its namesake. The sail had a picture of a fish leaping up a waterfall. Tom smiled slyly at Henry and said, "You know, Henry, you really should get in shape because not all boats have appetizing names. See that one over there? It's called the Bloody Head." Henry gave a little gasp of horror when he saw the image on the sail. Andrew gave a sharp whistle and shouted, "It's time to cast off." Giving the Salmon a final shove, they scampered onto the boat. Henry went to the navigation room, Andrew to the sails, and Tom to the wheel. Tom smiled as the sea sprayed his face. He knew this was where he belonged. Henry was deep in thought. He was thinking about his social life, as they called it at school. Ever since kindergarten, every kid but Tom and Andrew had made fun of his chubbiness. Here was a chance to earn their respect. He was taking part in an adventure that no one in the history of Ponce de Leon Middle School had ever done before. He and his friends were running away; they were outlaws! CHAPTER THREE Andrew was looking across the water when something caught his eye. It was a huge mass of clouds moving across the sky. Suddenly the wind started to howl and the thunder boomed. The rain poured down and water churned around the Salmon. The Salmon creaked and groaned as she rocked back and forth. Then, out of nowhere there was a sucking sound. The boys looked behind them and saw a fifty-foot wall of water towering above them. Unbelievably, it grew still higher and then with a deafening crash it thundered down upon the Salmon. Tom was flattened against the deck. He felt like he had been body-slammed by a sumo wrestler. With his strength to hold on failing, his last thought was of his fight with his parents. Then everything went black. Tom was now at the mercy of the roaring sea. CHAPTER FOUR "Ohhh!" Moaned Tom. He was in such agony he almost wished he was dead. "Arghhh!" another voice answered. Andrew shouted to Tom and his call
Fiction
I gazed out from the ferry, my eyes growing big as we neared the island. It shone like an emerald in the morning sunlight, green trees waving to me in greeting. I could not help but smile. What a wonderful way to spend our vacation—my first time seeing the ocean and we were going to be right in the middle of it! The ferry docked and my family and I disembarked, all four of us dressed in pastels and dragging bulging suitcases. From the moment I stepped onto the pier I was captivated by the regal splendor of the island. The beaches were carpeted with sand white as sugar and the ocean swelled in a blue rhythm. Clouds began to gather above the water, blocking out the sun every so often. It all seemed so wonderful to me. My family checked into the hotel and dropped off our luggage. The hotel was luxurious, with soft mattresses and royal crimson and gold decorating our rooms. My brother was completely enthralled by the satellite TV, but my favorite part of the room was the floor-to-ceiling window along the west wall. It overlooked the ocean and it thrilled me to think that I could watch the tides come in and go out. I stood by the window, watching the swells rise and sink, finally gaining enough momentum to rise high enough to touch the cloud-heavy sky and then cave in on themselves in a chaos of foam and saltwater. I was hypnotized by it, and as the cold blue caressed the white sand, it seemed to me that the ocean was breathing. In fact, I fancied I saw a figure in the waves as they collapsed into the surf, a figure dancing and moving to the ocean's pulse . . . "Shelia?" I jumped at my mom's call and turned to look at her. The entire family was clustered around the door. "Well, are you coming with us for the tour or what?" "Yeah—I'm coming!" I said, jumping up to join them. My mother shook her head as we left the room, muttering, "I swear— sometimes you just get lost in your own head." * * * "This—as you can all see, I'm sure—is the ocean:" The guide swept his hand across the horizon. We all nodded and smiled, adjusting our hats and sunglasses. My family was just a small part of a group of tourists standing on the pier, who came to see the famous Dancer Island. The air was filled with clicks and flashes of light as people took pictures of the setting sun. Not that it was easy to see the sun, with all the clouds. "Now," said the tour guide, a man named Eddie in his early twenties, "does anyone know why this island is called Dancer Island?" Everyone shook their heads. My brother, recognizing the beginning of a story, groaned, but I leaned against the railing to get more comfortable. I loved stories and this sounded like an especially good one. "Hundreds of years ago there lived a woman here who danced to the ocean. It's said that she could change the ocean's mood—could tame it into a gentle babe or stir it up into a frenzy. She was called the Storm Dancer." The Storm Dancer, I thought, visions of a beautiful woman dancing to the ocean, auburn hair caught up by the wind and eyes blue as the ocean playing through my mind. What a mysterious and exciting name! "The villagers living here at that time, though, were pretty superstitious. They called her a witch and sentenced her to death. Burned her at the stake." The crowd around me gasped. What a terrible thing to do to a person! And all because of a little superstition! Eddie straightened his hat and continued. "That's not all. After her death, this island had the worst hurricane it's ever seen. Wiped out the entire population. Weren't any people living here until about fifty years later, when someone came off the mainland to start a tourist spot here. And even after that, people say they've seen her dancing on the beach when there's a storm—dancing to the beat of the ocean." I was spellbound. I wondered if perhaps the dancer saw the ocean the way I did. I wondered if she felt its breathing and the swells seeming to rise and fall to the beat of her own heart just as I did . . . "Well, folks, you should be getting back to your hotels now—the weather changes fast around here. Looks like rain," said Eddie and as he spoke a drop of rain fell. A light drizzle started, growing heavier with every second. "Come on!" I heard my father yell. "Let's get back to the hotel—fast!" I nodded and began to walk toward the town, but it was raining much harder now. I couldn't see anything in the rain—it was coming down in sheets. I felt for the railing, thinking it would lead me back to the town. The wood was slick and I had to inch my way along. Damp and cold, dripping wet, I found the end of the boardwalk. I took a step forward and slipped, tumbling down in the storm and rain. I landed in something gritty and soft. I opened my eyes and found somehow I had ended up on the beach. I sat up and found myself staring at the ocean—a raging, screaming ocean that lashed out at me. Its rhythm was no longer slow and steady but angry and unpredictable. Waves rose fierce and black, crashing down in a brawl with the wet sand. The spray hit me full in the face, and I gasped at the overwhelming saltwater. I cried out and pulled away from the water, trying to crawl away from it. But it followed me, shoving me underneath with damp fury and wrapping me in a chilling embrace. It dragged me further into the clashing elements. I screamed,
Fiction
Imagine being lost in the New York City train station with people you don't know. Imagine a four-year-old kid in the middle of the stairway, scared and confused. Imagine a crowd all around you, and there's nowhere to go. Who was that four-year-old kid that got lost in the train station? I was that four-year-old, and I was alone and afraid. I went to preschool in Chinatown. I always came home at around six o'clock, so my grandma would pick me up. "Let's go and buy some fruits!" my grandma would say every time she picked me up early. "Look, Grandma! Look at all the fruits we bought!" I said one day. "Yes, we bought so many fruits! Now let's get home and put them away," my grandma said when we got to the train station. Since there were so many bags of fruits, it was hard for my grandma to see if I was beside her or not. Ding-dong! The doors of the train started to close. I looked up and I didn't see my grandma. I looked from one side to another. Every way I turned were more people, but none of them were my grandma. People pushed and shoved me as they passed by I thought I would get bruises soon. I got real scared and slumped to the floor. My heart started pounding and my hands started shaking. I got up and started calling for my grandma. "Grandma!! Where are you?" I yelled. I spoke in all three Chinese languages, but there was no sign of my grandma. I started to feel the urge to throw up, but I continued to call. "Have you seen my grandma? Have you seen my grandma!?" I asked many people, but all of them said, "No," or shook their heads. I started to cry, and the noise filled up the station. I was hoping my grandma would show up, and I would be by her side again. "What is that racket?" the train conductor said. "Huh . . . better open the doors." As the doors opened, I turned around. I saw a familiar figure inside. She had loads of bags. I peered inside and the bags were full of fruits. I looked up at the person. That person was my grandma! She looked at her side and saw no one beside her. She looked up again, shocked to see me outside in tears. I ran inside and held her tight. I started to wipe my tears from my eyes. "Where were you?" my grandma asked. "I was outside!" I answered. "I thought you were beside me." As I held my grandma, I didn't feel fear anymore. I stopped shaking and my heart stopped pounding. All I felt was relief, and I felt safe when my grandma held me. I was glad I got through that, and I was happy to be beside my grandma once again. "See, Grandma, that was exactly what happened," I said as I ended the story. "That's quite a story," my grandma said, "but I don't remember that happening when you were four. I think you were three, no four, no three. Hmm ." "But that's the way I remember it," I said, while my grandma and I entered the subway to go to 34th Street. "Well, I remember it differently. But it's a little hard to remember. I mean, look at you now. You're eleven years old now." She looked at me and smiled. I smiled back. "So what do you remember?" I asked. "I remember you were very little, yes, we were coming home from school. There was a crowd in the elevator down on our apartment lobby. You went in and I didn't. Suddenly, the doors closed and you went up," my grandma answered. "Oh I remember, I went up, you went down, up, down. Then we finally met," I said and giggled. "But I remember that, and I remember getting lost in the subway too," I said. "Maybe you dreamt it," my grandma answered. "But I know it happened," I replied. "Maybe you remember it, but I don't," my grandma answered, and started to laugh. "Maybe it was when I went to the laundromat and you were asleep at home. You woke up and couldn't find me. Heh heh . . . you were so small and you opened the big door!" my grandma said. "Really? I don't remember that," I said. "Heh heh. You see, you don't remember and I do. You were way too young anyway," my grandma replied. "I think it was 34th Street. I saw red poles, and Grand Avenue has blue poles. You know, when I got lost," I said. "Maybe," my grandma said. Ding-dong! The doors opened in front of 34th Street. My grandma and I stepped outside. I looked at the train before we got on the escalator. "Maybe it was a dream . . . but it felt so real," I said to myself. I got on the escalator and it started to go up. That day when I was four was the first time I got scared so badly I looked at my grandma, and felt safe. I looked back one last time, and smiled. Maybe it was a dream, but it sure gave me a story to tell.
Fiction
The Sky, the Water, and the Shell
My damp hair lies strangled on my sweaty shoulders. The air around me covers every bit of me with heat, and continues to close in on me. My hair clings and knots on my swirly tie-dyed top. It swirls along with the oranges, reds and yellows. As we bounce up and down along the dusty gray, brown South African road, pictures of my father and sister far away bounce along with my stomach. Suddenly the car stops, my mind begins to swirl with thoughts: Did we break down? This can't be good. My aunt's smooth voice bounces out of the car with her tall dark body. The dust shines in her eyes. As she gleams in pleasure the wind pulls and pushes her, pulling her into its clutches, as if to smother her with a kiss. The dust is rising into the sky, swirling, taking away all hopes of being able to see. "Calm down, settle back into the ground, dust," my mom whispers to me jokingly. And then, like it knows what she said, the dust gently floats to the ground. From the dust is rising a forest of cactus, rose hips and tiny shrubs. A chorus of sighs rises in the silence. I begin to talk but my mother hushes me. "This place is nothing like the hot busy streets of New York; enjoy it while you have it," she says. The rose hips have tiny green stems protruding from big luscious fruits, each the size of a golf ball, the color of blood. I stick my nose out of the car and take a sniff. I smell something salty. Something not at all like the cruddy, cigarette-butt-covered sidewalks that I always used to wake up to. This something smells like something salty, but with the same sweetness as a newly unwrapped candy. My aunt says that it is the ocean and I think that it is the love that is in this place. We stand there against the wind, looking out onto the ocean before us. The wind dries up all the sandy sweat off our bodies, sweeping it off gently. A big gust of wind brings the gritty sand and harsh salt mist into our eyes, making them tear as we walk blinded into the sand. When the sand finally comes out of our eyes, gray seagulls hit and dive across the sky, chasing tiny bugs. Their young sit in their nests, cawing for their mother or taking their first flight. "Each tiny bird spreads its sticky wings and is gone, just like that," my mother snaps, then stares into her hand as she slowly drops it into the sand. The sun is dipping into its blue blanket, and is making the sky into a fuchsia blob. "An ocean is a mural, of a part of a big idea, the beginning of a memory" My father used to say things like that. "Life is a canvas that goes on forever right above the water and anything can be painted on it," and I would roll my eyes and walk away. But now I know what he meant, and I can see the paintbrush painting. I stand in the sand, my feet slowly sinking, my mind racing with memories, then like a bullet I run splashing into the white foam, my toes numbed. Then I run crashing out of the waves and rush into my mother's arms, burying my face in her shoulder, my knees wobbling and my feet blue. I lift my head to her ear and whisper that the water has frozen icicles in my brain. She laughs and blows in my ear. "I am all better now," I say. "Good," she says and we talk and giggle until I know she's still a kid inside. We stand there for a second under our fuchsia sky, as pale blue clouds lazily roll through the sky, and my mother's baked cookies smell fills the air. I take a deep breath in and smell the sweet, salty ocean, cookies and car sweat—and the corners of the sky seem to lift and say, "I feel the same way." There is only one thing missing: a souvenir, something that I could paint a mural of in the sky when I got home. And then something sparkles, shining like a diamond. I run from my mother's grasp, and into the icy water. But now I do not feel the coldness or see my feet turn blue. My mind is focused on something. The water pulls from the sand and the something goes with it, slowly toppling over itself, and then it is gone. The water pushes towards the sand and it shines like a star. I dash for it and quickly pick it up. I rub it, shining it on my shirt as I walk back up the beach. I move it from hand to hand, massaging it, making it burn my hands. One side has a metallic glaze and the other is just a shiny black shell. The shell seems magical, as it rests in my hand, sending waves through my body. All of a sudden a little hand reaches from behind me and snags the shell. I turn quickly to see my tiny cousin's gold locks swiftly moving down the beach and into my aunt's arms, her pink cheeks flushed and her little body heaving. I want so badly to scream, to run towards her and snatch the shell from her tiny fragile hands. But all I can do is cry. The hot tears stream down my face, making tiny bubbles in my eyes. I rub the tears away and run towards her. Tiny bits of sand fly in the air behind me, making little whirlwinds. I slide across the sand arid kneel before her, pretending to be some humble servant begging for mercy. She smiles but keeps the shell locked in her hand, holding the key in her heart. My eyes are burning and I can
Fiction
Eliza opened her bedroom door a crack and looked through the small slit into the tan-carpeted hallway. It was deserted. Eliza breathed a sigh of relief. She stuck her head out and listened for any noises that would signify that she was not the only person up. To the left, her little sister Emily's room was silent. Eliza cocked her head the other way to listen for her parents. Nothing. She was the only person awake in the whole house. That made sense, though, because it was five-thirty in the morning. The house was dark; only one long beam of moonlight lit the staircase, leaving the rest of the house in pure and complete darkness. Eliza left her room, a light jacket slung over her shoulder, fully dressed in summer shorts and her T-shirt with the blue-and-white stripes. She crept across the black hallway, clutching at her jacket. Feeling her pocket, she made sure that the note she had written yesterday was still there. Just to check it and make sure it was the right one, she took it out for a second and the words Dear Mom, Pop, and Emily shone across the top for a moment in the moonlight, but then she quickly folded it up again and roughly shoved it back into her pocket. Eliza started down the carpeted stairs, holding tightly to the banister as she went. Emily watched through band-aided fingers and her slightly open door as Eliza crept through the silent house. The second- to-last stair creaked as she stepped on it, and the banister shook as she tried to take all of her weight off of the steps. You miscounted, Emily thought gleefully, giggling softly to herself. I never step on the creaky stair. This, of course, was not true. Emily had made a horrible racket as she had come up the stairs just the night before, stepping on that creaky step, and the third one down, which was much, much worse, but of course, her five-year-old mind had already forgotten that. Eliza's head whipped around, hearing Emily's giggle. "Emily!" she hissed, but Emily didn't catch the harshness in her tone. "Hi, Liza," she whispered, though it was so loud that Eliza hurried back up the stairs, counting right this time so that none of the steps creaked and complained, and hurried into her little sister's room so they could talk quietly and not wake up their parents. "Shh, Emmy," she said, gently now. "Don't want to wake Mom and Pop." "Pop." Emily giggled at Eliza's name for her father. To Emily he was always Daddy "Pop," she said again. "Pop. Pop. Poppoppoppoppop." "Emily!" Eliza hurriedly covered her sister's mouth with her hand. Emily strained to see Eliza's painted nails, which were a deep red right now, and had always fascinated the little girl. "You've got to be quiet, 'K?" Eliza looked into her little sister's brown eyes and repeated her demand. "Quiet." Emily nodded and Eliza's hand retreated from her face. "Where was you goin', Liza?" Emily asked immediately, but, true to her word, she was very quiet this time. Eliza looked at her little sister. She thought about when she had been born. She thought about all the times that she had kept the whole family up all night with her relentless wails. She thought about how cute she had been as a toddler, and how much fun she was to play baby games with. And how annoying she was when she cried when she lost. And when she didn't get just what she wanted right when she wanted it. Eliza thought about the green duffel bag that was hidden under the bushes by the mailbox. She thought about the red train tickets that were safely hidden away in the inside pocket. And she thought about the hulking black train that was waiting for her at the station across town. She thought about her little sister, and all of the times that she had wished that she was somewhere far, far away, and all of the good times that she would miss when she was gone. She thought about how her parents loved Emily more than they loved her, and then she remembered the fantastic birthday party they had thrown her when she turned thirteen. She thought about how Emily's present had been a hug and a kiss, and how that had meant much, much more to her than all of her other presents combined. And she thought about Emily right now, standing there in front of her, waiting with bated breath for an answer from her favorite person in the entire world. "Where was I going?" Eliza repeated. "Yeah, Liza, where?" "Nowhere, Emmy, I'm staying right here." Emily never questioned the answer that her sister gave. She leaned forward and hugged her tightly. "Good, Liza. That's super good." Eliza smiled and hugged her tightly back.
Poem
My Landlord on an August Morning
My landlord wakes to a dawn where everything is silent, and even the trees still linger in the unconsciousness of night. Dewy grass dampens his shoes as he strolls out over to his most used patch of land: the garden. The smells are soft and fresh and the rain's clear drops from the night before are a blanket strung with pearls, that drape over the green leaves of lettuce as he walks over to tend them. A cricket sounds in the strawberries, awakening the rustle of wings, but the bird passes over, gliding on an invisible thread through the air. My landlord's hands, rough, yet tender in his work, soften the moist earth at the roots of the unwanted, allowing him to pull them up, and let his green, leafy children live on.
Poem
The sound of silence shatters When a buzzing fly splashes into a cool freshwater lake The water, like liquid tourmalines, ripples to kiss the sun-bleached shore I wait for a delicious, squishy fly to plop into striking range Anxious yet excited Each time is as thrilling as the first I strike like a ravenous eagle WHAM! I clamp the sweet, juicy fly between my jaws like a wrench GULP! What a luscious fly! I descend into the liquid silk water To snooze in my blanket of warm earthy mud
Book Reviews
Once Upon a Marigold, by Jean Ferris; Harcourt, Inc.: New York, 2002; $17 What if you were a princess who lived a perfect, happy life except for one minor problem—your mother kept trying to marry you off to a boring royal suitor so she could become queen? What if you had never met or talked to your best friend except by letter? And what if, after too many boring suitors to count, you fell in love with someone you weren't allowed to marry? Once Upon a Marigold is a riches-to-rags fantasy about a young runaway boy, a plain, unpopular princess, and a four-foot-tall troll. Christian is only a small boy when he runs away from home, tired of living in stiff suits, with too many siblings and too many rules. However, when he is found by Ed, a short, friendly troll, he becomes a young inventor living in a beautiful cave with his troll foster father. Through a small telescope, Christian can watch King Swithbert's castle, and all the goings-on there. He watches the three beautiful, blond princesses grow up, as well as their smaller, dark-haired sister. He is an uninvited guest at the balls and banquets, and even at the weddings of the three triplets. But Christian is especially attracted to the younger, dark-haired princess. When he finally gets the courage to contact her, through p-mail (pigeon mail), he finds out her name is Marigold, and starts a long correspondence between them. Right from the start, I loved reading Once Upon a Marigold. Although I've never run away from home, met princesses or trolls, or lived in crystal caves, I can very much relate to many of the feelings and emotions of the characters. Throughout the story, both Christian and Marigold felt restricted by too many rules, and were trying to break free of them and make their own decisions. Christian succeeded in this when he was only six, by running away from home. However, Marigold's life was much more complicated. Her mother, Queen Olympia, was always forcing her into lessons on ruling, manners, and many other "stiff, proper skills," never leaving Marigold any time for herself, or letting her make her own decisions. Even in my daily and ordinary life, I can relate to these feelings often. Whenever I clean my room, I feel restricted from making my own decisions because, being a naturally messy person, I tend to procrastinate and would rather spend the time on other meaningful activities and leave my room as I'm comfortable with it. Another interesting lesson I was reminded of in Once Upon a Marigold was to respect other people's opinions and feelings. Though Queen Olympia's daughters' ideas about ruling were different from her own, that didn't give her the right to ridicule and disregard their ideas. Many of these fairy-tale crises may seem very different from our world and reality, but they really aren't that far from some of the problems in our world today. Consider the quilt of different cultures, religions, and beliefs. Does that necessarily make any of them wrong? Just because your best friend goes to a temple and you go to a church, does that affect your friendship? Once Upon a Marigold was jammed with many unpredictable turns and surprises so that I never knew where it was going next! The next time you're in need of a good book, I suggest you pick up Once Upon a Marigold, by Jean Ferris.
Book Reviews
Beyond the Dance, by Chan Hon Goh; Tundra Books: New York, 2002; $15.95 When I first saw the cover of Beyond the Dance, I thought it might be a book that was just about dance technique. But, as the saying goes, you can't judge a book by its cover. As I started reading, I found that Chan Hon Goh was writing not just about her dance career, but also about her life growing up in Communist China where the government was very unsupportive of artists. I was sad to learn that Chan's parents, who were both dancers, had to split up for a year while Chan's father sought artistic freedom in Canada. From the moment I started reading, I was rooting for Chan and her family to be successful in their search for freedom. I have read several books before about totalitarian governments, but this book addressed a subject of great interest to me: how artists can be affected by politics. Living in America all my life, I appreciate even more, after reading this book, how fortunate I am to be able to write and dance without opposition from the government. I feel connected to Chan in several ways. We both love to dance, and take it very seriously. When she was eleven, Chan set high goals for herself as a dancer. I have always had a dream of being a principal dancer in Swan Lake or Giselle—two famous ballets that Chan has gone on to perform as an adult. There are things other than dance that Chan and I have in common. One is that we both moved when we were eleven (as I write this review, I am preparing to move). Chan's move from China to Canada was extremely difficult because she spoke no English. My move from Connecticut to Manhattan will involve my getting used to living in an apartment instead of a house, going to a new school, making new friends, and adjusting to life in the big city. But while my move will be only around sixty miles, Chan's move took her halfway around the world. Beyond the Dance offers great advice to everyone, not just to dancers. The author recommends that people who want to become better at what they do should create personal challenges, and try to believe in themselves. My favorite part of the book was when Chan, at seventeen, auditioned to get into The Prix, a dance school that only had a few openings. She had worked so hard, and made it to the semifinals, but assumed she had not been accepted, and left. Later that day, she went back to one of the judges to ask what she could do to become a better dancer. I admired that, even though she was disappointed, she wouldn't let anything stop her. I won't give away what happened, but I was happy and encouraged by the way things turned out for her. Chan's life and career are fascinating, so I strongly suggest that you read Beyond the Dance. I admired the strong descriptions of both the good and difficult times Chan faced in her life, and how she dealt with each. I found myself relating to so many of her experiences, and was able to appreciate the advice given throughout the book about persevering for what you believe in at all costs. Beyond the Dance is a book that truly goes beyond just dancing. It is an autobiography that is great for anyone at any age.
