Fiction
It was a perfect shot. I was standing across the driveway from the basketball hoop—just beyond where the three-point line would have been—and Matt, who was rebounding, gave me a nice crisp bounce pass. I bent my knees and sent the ball arching beautifully towards the basket. Everything about the shot was perfect—the timing, the follow-through, and the soft swish of the ball falling through the net. And for once even Matt didn't have any wisecracks to make. He just caught the ball and turned around to make a lay-up, which was about the highest compliment I could get from my older brother because I knew he would have tried the shot if he thought he had a chance at making it. Just then Carla's dad pulled his silver Saab into the driveway Matt tossed me the ball. "You'll do great," he said. I hopped into the back seat of the car. Carla stopped listening to her MP3 player and said, "Nice shot." "Thanks." I grinned. Carla knew how to give a compliment, how to make a casual remark into the most beautiful music. That was part of the reason I had talked her into trying out for basketball. She was my best friend, and I wanted her at the tryouts even if she didn't make the team. Carla and I were different. I was good at basketball and lacrosse; she was better at field hockey and soccer. I was tall, she was short. My skin was light, hers was tan. My hair was straight, hers was curly. I was the quick one, specializing in steals and fast breaks. But Carla was the ideal team player in every sport. She had a natural instinct for passing and she made any group run smoothly. Our main difference, though, was our personalities. I had friends but I wasn't very outgoing. Carla knew everything about everyone in our grade and she seemed to be friends with all of them. Except . . . "Lindsay Oxman will be there," Carla said. "I hope we don't get put in her group." "Yeah. And I hope we're in the same group." Both of us were nervous —especially me, because I was really passionate about basketball. Carla enjoyed it, but it was just something to do for fun, not a big dream of hers. She didn't shoot baskets in the cold November rain even when the ball slipped into the mud. Sometimes I envied her easygoing nature, her ability to take things so lightly. As it turned out, Lindsay was in our group. Lindsay had hated Carla since preschool. They had been in the same class every year since they were three, and by the time Carla and I met in the first year of middle school, she and Lindsay were well-established enemies. Lindsay seemed to have everything her way She was pretty, athletic, and popular. Logically, she should have been best friends with Carla, who also seemed to have everything her way But while Carla was always herself, Lindsay got her way by stepping over people, by lying, by pushing and shoving her way to the top of the social pyramid. She was the same way in basketball: a show-off and a ball hog. First we warmed up with shooting. I enjoyed shooting— dribbling, turning, releasing, then darting to catch the ball as it fell through the net. Next we did lay-ups. We were in two lines; one person made a lay-up and the other rebounded. When Lindsay passed me the ball, it bounced off my foot. Maybe I was just nervous and distracted, or maybe she did it on purpose, but I could feel the heat rising to my cheeks as I chased after the ball. I couldn't even concentrate enough to make the lay-up. After lay-ups, we did one-on-one. I was good at that— that was how I practiced in the driveway with Matt. Dribble to the right, crossover, dribble left-handed, protect the ball with your body, turn, switch hands, go in for a lay-up. On offense everything was simple. And then on defense, quick little steps, hands out, watching the stomach in case they try to fake with the head, forcing them to their weak side, waiting for them to hesitate, and then reaching out to steal the ball. It was going fine until Lindsay was my defender. I was dribbling around her when she stuck out her foot and tripped me. My knee slammed into the floor and scraped across it. The ball bounced off the wall and rolled to a stop. "Are you all right?" she asked sweetly, reaching to help me up. We both knew that she was putting on an act for the coaches. "Loser," she mouthed at me. At least I think that's what she was trying to say I was too busy glaring at her and trying to pretend that I was perfectly fine to pay attention to the shape her mouth was making. I went to the back of the line. My knee was throbbing painfully Carla caught my eye and shrugged. We finished this part of the tryouts, and the coaches divided us into teams. Most of the tryouts would be small games, three-on-three, so they could see how we played. Lindsay and I were on the same team. We were playing Carla's team first. Lindsay brought the ball up, but wouldn't pass to me even though I was open. She tried to make a three-point shot but it didn't even reach the basket. I jumped, caught the ball, and passed it to the third member of our team, who made a basket. But Lindsay just wouldn't give me the ball. I spent the whole time running to shake off my defender, yelling that I was open, but not getting the ball. The few times I did get the ball I shot. I only missed once. "What a jerk," Carla muttered during our water break. "She could at least pretend to be a team
Fiction
Her name is Kanei Miyamoto. Her father is Japanese, while her mother is Cantonese. She kissed her mother and grandmother goodbye, waved, and stepped out of her two-floored house in Kobe, Japan. Walking down the short road to her school, she slightly shifted her black landoseru or, in other words, leather school bag. She glanced at her watch. Three more minutes — if she didn't make haste, she would be late. Half jogging and half running, Kanei approached the school gates. It was lively, with groups of ecstatic girls and boys scattered everywhere, coming from every direction you can name. Looking around, Kanei shrank down ten inches —it was obvious that everyone here was pure Japanese. I don't know what to do here, and I have no idea where my class is, she told herself. King-kong-kang-kong, king-kong-king-kong . . . the bells rang. Interesting I thought that bells are supposed to have only one sound that rings for five seconds or so. Kanei entered the building. It appeared like a maze to her . . . and it was her first time to ever go inside the school. She wasn't accustomed to the Japanese setting of schools. Back where she used to live, her parents couldn't afford the fees, so she attended a public school taught in English. "Ahem, um, would you please tell me where Mr. Yamanagi's class is? I think I'm lost," she randomly chose a tall, dainty girl to ask. The girl's long hair swung around. "Do you mean Yamanagi sensei?" the girl questioned. Oh yeah, oops! Kanei forgot that she was supposed to call her teachers sensei, for teacher! "Um, yes!" "Oh, well, I'm going there now. Just follow me." "Thanks." "No problem. You're new here?" "Um, yes." "What's your name?" "Kanei Miyamoto. Yours?" "Satsuki Takahara." Kanei felt somewhat relieved and felt like she had found a friend. All her other classmates were already in the class. "Sit down, class, and we will begin." There was a robust man standing in front of the class, and Kanei figured that it was Yamanagi sensei. The giggling and gossiping in the class died down. "All right, welcome class to the start of ichigakki, first term. I am your teacher this year. Let's begin by introducing ourselves to each other. How about we start with you." Yamanagi sensei pointed at a small boy sitting in a corner. He stood up and walked to the front of the class. "Hi. I'm Kenta Nakamu. My birthday is November 5, 1993, and I was born in Osaka. My hobbies are baseball, soccer, video games, and comics. My dream for the future is to be the next Hideki Matsui." The class applauded. One by one, the students took turns. Oh no, I don't want to do this. "Next, please." Kanei knew it was her turn. "Hello, my name is Kanei Miyamoto. I was born in Shen Zhen, China, on May 17, 1993. I like to draw, play tennis, and sing. Someday, I would like to become a singer in a theater. This is the first time I am living in Japan and going to a real Japanese school, so . . . " "Ha ha ha. Phugh!" A bunch of boys burst out laughing, and girls whispered behind cupped hands to each other. Satsuki was one of them. Kanei just gazed, bewildered. Did I do anything wrong? " . . . well, so I hope you will all help me settle here." Silence. Kanei didn't know if she should sit or stay She looked at Yamanagi sensei. He seemed to be troubled. "Uh, um, thank you, Kanei. Let's all help Kanei, right?" Silence. "Right, class?" "Ye-es," murmured the class. "Kanei," inquired Yamanagi sensei, "can you read and write? Do you know kanji, the Japanese characters?" Snickers. "Yes, I can, sensei I was tutored every week in Japanese studies." Kanei felt humiliated. "Oh. Then, good." The rest of the class continued with the self-introducing, and class started. In no time, it was recess. Kanei hunted for Satsuki, but to no avail. Desisting, she spotted a girls' washroom and decided to set foot in it. Just when she was about to open the door, it was yanked out of her hands and flung open. "Oh, Satsuki, there you are! I was looking for you, and . . . " "You were? Well, I'm sor-ry." Kanei sensed some sarcasm in Satsuki's tone. Kanei was taken aback. "Well, I was just wondering if we could spend the recess together, since . . ." "Oh, well. I can't. I'm not going to waste my life caring for a Chinese girl!" With that, Satsuki tossed her hair at Kanei, raised her nose high into the air, and went away. Gee, she sure is in some bad mood. Although feeling much aggrieved, Kanei managed to swallow the pain and went back to class. "Attention, class, attention. I have an important announcement to make. All the shogaku rokunen, primary six students, will be performing a school musical play in two months' time. If you wish to get one of the main vocal roles, you must attend the audition tomorrow after school, enjoy singing and acting, and be free every day for the next two months." Sounds perfect for me. Perhaps it'll help me make some friends here. The following day, Kanei made her way to Nishima sensei's class, her music teacher. There were about fifteen people for the audition, and Nishima sensei recorded everyone's names onto a piece of paper in her hands. "Everyone, please take a seat. We will begin soon. Hashimoto sensei, your art teacher, and Otsuka sensei, your principal, along with me, are the judges. We will judge you by having you all sing the song 'Sukiyaki' today I will accompany you with the melody on piano. Everyone knows the song, right?" Everyone, including Kanei, nodded. This was one of her favorite Japanese songs. The tension in her heart loosened. "We will go by the order
Fiction
The night air was crisp and cool upon Jake's face. Millions of tiny lights filled the sky like a field of fireflies. Like most nights, Jake sat on the old oak stump in the center of the silent woods. But tonight was special; he could feel it, the tension in the air, the stillness of the seemingly nonexistent wildlife. Something was to happen. A warm breeze stirred the trees, their great green leaves shimmering in the moonlight. Jake looked up at the moon, he broke out in a grin and rose to his feet, the air before him shimmered like waves lapping at his bare feet. His ragged jeans hung loosely about his slender frame, his rough crop of midnight-black hair dancing in the breeze, his leather jacket dully reflecting the light from the iridescent moon. It was happening. In the distance a lone wolf released its mournful cry, the forest around seemed to answer. All at once a great clamor arose as out of the trees broke hundreds of birds. Below them on the ground picturesque white-tail deer, along with bears and foxes, ran away from the clearing. As soon as it had begun, it ended, and everything was still once more. They knew it was to happen. The aurora of shimmering air encircled Jake, glittering around him like morning dew in the new sun's light. Jake stood stock still, the grin gone from his face to be replaced by a look of awe, nothing like this had happened before in his lifetime, he knew nothing about what was going on, except that it was part of him, and that it was meant to be. A loud, earsplitting crack broke the silence of the night. Out of nowhere a bluegreen bolt of lightning flew towards the earth at an astounding speed. Jake's body began to change, the smile had returned as he crouched on the ground. The bolt of lightning struck the ground not an inch before Jake's face. Fiery multicolored sparks flew, striking Jake all over. It was happening. The ragged jeans and leather jacket fell away, along with the other articles of clothing, no longer necessary on this body of dense black fur. Jake lifted his new ca- nine head and loosed such a howl that the very air seemed to vibrate with its melodious notes. Jake turned, the shimmering air was gone, his time had come, as it now would for the rest of his life. He was a lycan, a demon, a werewolf. Another call answered his, and he trotted off towards the reply. Above him the clouds parted, revealing a full blue moon. The Jake-wolf sat on his haunches, and howled once more at this sign of power. It had happened.
Fiction
In the meadow everything was silent and untouched. Maria looked over the vast field and the woods beyond and everything was blanketed in a thick layer of velvety snow. The air was cold and crisp, and stung Maria's throat and chest while she panted slightly from the run to this beautiful place. But she didn't see it as beautiful. Maria thought that the snow's glare was too harsh and the bitter cold wind was cruel and merciless. She missed the warm sun from back in Hawaii where she was from. This was her first winter here in Oregon and everything about it made her more and more homesick. Instead of breathing in a gentle breeze filled with the fragrant scent of flowers and a touch of pineapple and coconut, she was breathing in nothing but the strong smells of snow and pine needles. Back at home she would have been lying on a warm, soft beach, feeling all the grains of beautiful white sand underneath her. Now she was standing bundled up in prickly scarves and hats with the rattling, empty crunch of snow and frost underneath her. Maria looked around at the meadow and said quietly to herself, "How I wish I was back home. Or at least with my friends." And then, as if to answer her, a bundle of jackets, scarves, and mittens fell out of the nearby tree, screaming. Maria gasped and ran over just in time to see that there was a girl in the midst of all of them, looking more like she had just won the lottery than fallen out of a fifteen-foot tree. "Whoa! Ha ha ha! That was sooo fun!" she shrieked joyfully. "Are you OK?" Maria inquired anxiously. The girl merely looked at her in surprise as if seeing her for the first time. Her large blue eyes widened with delight. "Oh, who are you? I'm Sophie! I can't believe you're here! Mama told me our neighbors would be arriving soon but I had no idea how soon! Hi!" Sophie looked expectantly at Maria, her eyes fluttering excitedly as if she thought that Maria was about to proclaim that she was a fairy princess from Australia. "Um, I'm Maria. I come from Hawaii. Nice to meet you." "It's not nice, it's spectacular!" exclaimed Sophie, tossing back her curly blond hair with one gloved hand. "It's been so long since I've had a friend! Come with me! I'll show you around." With that Sophie grabbed Maria's arm and led her around the meadow, pointing out different types of trees and winter animals as they went. They walked so far and long that by the time they were done there was hardly a patch of snow that was not covered in small boot tracks. After a while, Maria gasped, "I don't think I can take another step, let alone get home. Please let me stop and rest." "Oh, very well. Hurry, though! I'm going to show you my favorite place in the world." Maria sat down and felt her heart beating heavily inside of her. Thump, thump, thump. Her mind was racing too. Was she actually having fun? Did she really like it here? What about Hawaii? Home? But Sophie was so nice and funny. Would they be friends? And could she ever forget about the warm beaches and swaying palm fronds? "Are you done yet? It's gonna get real cold if we just sit here doing nothing." And with that Sophie burst into a line of cartwheels, finally tumbling into the snow, her hat askew and her freckled face shining with joy and pink from the cold. Maria stood, laughing so hard her cheeks hurt. Sophie stood up too and after a full minute of nonstop laughter she wheezed, "I guess . . . ha ha ha . . . we should carry on. Come on! I'll show you my special place but I'm warning you, it's a secret and I mean to keep it that way Just over this way!" Maria followed and watched as Sophie burrowed through the bushes, disappearing into the other side. And then, rather hesitantly, Maria did the same and was immediately in awe of the sight in front of her. They were in a medium-sized enclosed area and Maria's first impression was that she had somehow journeyed into one of those beautiful sceneries in the movies her older sister, Kami, watched. Taking up most of the space were three cherry-blossom trees, forming a perfectly straight line of strong sturdy trunks and outstretched branches. The branches were almost completely bare but every once in a while Maria could catch a glimpse of a little pink blossom budding and spreading out its delicate petals. In it, it carried the beauty of being so small, serene and tranquil, and outside of it the color was dainty and pastel. "Whoa . . ." "Nice isn't it?" "It's not nice, it's spectacular!" giggled Maria. She never saw sights like this in Hawaii. "Well, that's not all! You won't believe what else there is, right behind the trees, hidden by all those flowers and branches." Maria walked carefully around the trees, not wanting to disturb something so pure and beautiful. And true enough; hidden behind the rest, there was a small pond of crystal ice, the sun's weak light bouncing off of it and the cherry-blossom trees casting spiral shadows over it. Maria looked deeply into it and saw that while the outer layer was ice, beneath that there were a few inches of tinkling water. And almost completely hidden by the ice, there was a faint reflection of two girls looking back up at them. One was blond, fair-skinned, and had huge blue eyes. The other had dark brown eyes surrounded by long eyelashes, a cinnamon- colored complexion, and long black hair. In that reflection Maria saw her days with Sophie ahead of her, and their blooming friendship just like one of the cherry blossoms. She saw spring coming
Fiction
Clouds lollygagged across the sky, carried gently by the occasional half-hearted gust of wind. The sun, giving its all for that clear sunny perfect day we'd been hoping for, was defeated by the humid cloud that seemed to swallow up all of Pinckney, Michigan. We were left sticky and disgusted but somehow satisfied with the green grass that had finally replaced the snow. Sounds like any old April day, right? Ha! That's what I thought too. If I could have predicted the future then, I wouldn't come back to this memory, my last good memory with him, every other night in my dreams. If I could undo everything now and relive it over and over again and never feel anything but the feeling I had then and there, I'd be happy I would be honestly happy for the rest of my life. Yeah, if I could undo everything and erase the unwanted, everything would be fine. But I can't, and it's not. You see, it started as just another one of my trips to Michigan to visit my crazy, gotta-love-'em, family. Mom was hustling around, neatly stuffing all of the essentials into suitcases. Dad was doing what she told him to. Fluffy, our cat, was lying on the suitcases, effectively protesting our departure. And I was going through a mental list of everything I needed and always forgot: alarm clock—check; riding jeans and sneakers—check; underwear—check; hair towel—ooh . . . the hair towel—check. It was all normal. Things still proceeded as normal from the taxi ride, to the plane ride, to the two-hour car ride to my grandparents' house in Pinckney, Michigan. When we finally arrived we were greeted with hugs and kisses from my aunts, cousins and of course my grandma and grandpa. There, and only there, my mother finally relaxed and got prepared for sleeping in and no cooking. I was happy too for I was at my favorite place in the world. What could be better than to be spoiled, loved, always have something to do, and be surrounded by cousins? Days in Michigan were always laid back: sometimes we would go to Screams, a Halloween-themed ice cream store appropriately placed in Hell, Michigan; other times we would ride horses, go to the lake, or just hang out and be with each other. I guess it didn't really matter what we did, as long as it was with the people we loved. The first day started like it always did in Michigan, at 7:30, to the TV news and laughing voices of my grandparents. I tiptoed down the squishy-carpeted steps like I always did and snuggled into my spot in my grandpa's lap. Then after a minute, he started drumming his fingers on my knee, like he always did. As the day proceeded, my newly crowned four-year-old cousin came over and was excited to see me, her magical cousin. After chasing her around for half the day and laughing a lot, I was tired and the humid air got me feeling stickier than a melted popsicle, but no, Katie wasn't tired. At that point I dragged her over to where my grandpa was sitting drinking some ice water on the porch and I gave him a look. He seemed to receive it correctly as "Help me!" because he looked at Katie and asked her if she wanted to go on a picnic. I watched and smiled as her little blue eyes widened and her jaw dropped. I followed her into the kitchen where we packed some crackers and pop in a little wooden basket with a quilt. We then tromped back out and met my grandpa where he was standing, turning off the electric fences that contained the horses. We started walking past the barn—a place filled with happy memories of horseback riding. Inside I could hear hoofs hitting the ground, music playing and my aunt singing along. We kept walking into the pasture where Peaches and Misty, the large, beastly, gorgeous inhabitants, munched on their evening hay, and down the long hill to the back of the pasture, farther and farther away from my grandma who I could still see in the bright kitchen happily making dinner. I had never been that far back in my grandparents' property. I asked him where we were going but he just said, "You'll see." I laughed and looked over at my little cousin who was smiling and looking very excited. We kept walking, past the compost pile and the garden, past the little heap of junk that we never got around to cleaning up, farther and farther into the silence broken only by the occasional chirp of the crickets. We finally ducked under a broken part of the fence and entered a new world, our world. Katie called it the Animal Kingdom. There weren't many inhabitants: just some bunnies, a gopher we expected by the hole, the occasional deer, and some bugs. You might think that it was generous to call it an animal kingdom but that is what it was. In our kingdom we found a broken metal chair that looked like it had been sitting there for years, obviously of a long, royal, mysterious past. That would be the throne. We also found some ducks, a mommy and a daddy, that would be the king and queen. You might say it was nothing special, just a grassy spot on the edge of a secret duck pond, sheltered by trees and high grass. Forgotten and taken over by the bugs. But it wasn't, not to us. We loved it. Katie loved the bramble bushes, which, if you were willing to get scratched a little and push aside the branches, revealed a top-secret hideaway I loved the beautiful spot. Grandpa loved us, and we all loved being there . . . together. We had our picnic on the edge of the hardly-a-pond pond that disappeared in the winter and during droughts. While we were there we laughed, talked,
Fiction
It started out as a clear winter's day, cold enough for a jacket and a scarf but not bitter enough for several layers of clothing. As Zach Fields walked down to the edge of the lake, he could see his breath spiraling away from him into the air. It was a quiet and peaceful afternoon. He was just going skating, as he had done ever since he could remember. He had not bothered telling his parents, for he would only be gone for a little while. With his skates strapped over his shoulder, he approached the lake. The lake was very large, several families besides his lived in scattered places around the water's edge. Some used it for a year-round house, but his family just visited for the holidays. He liked it better here, for the forest was all around him and he could almost feel Mother Nature close by He knew where all the animals lived, and even named a few of them. Of course, all the forest animals were fast asleep now. Even so, he was more at home here than anywhere else in the world. Cautiously, he took his first gentle step onto the ice. Testing it, he slowly shifted all of his weight onto its slippery surface. It seemed strong enough, so he quickly tied on his skates and was off. Zach loved skating. He felt as if he was gliding across the land, without a care in the world. The gentle wind, the ease of movement, he always has and always will love that feeling. Expertly, he did a few flips and turns, stretching his muscles until they felt ready to burst. He etched a few patterns into the ice and twirled around, totally unaware that he was slowly moving away from his house. After a while, he glided to a stop. The wind had picked up, and it had started to snow. He decided to go back. It was harder moving against the wind, so it was slow going. He had at least a mile to go until he reached his house, so he knew he had to keep going. His parents would get worried if he didn't come home soon. The sun was at its lowest point in the horizon, and the temperature had dropped. The air was sharp and brisk. Each breath sent a freezing dagger into his lungs, filling him with pain. The light snow had turned to a frenzy of sleet, pelting him in the face and making his skin raw and numb. An icy wind blew all around Zach, bringing the cold to the core of his body He shivered. He wished he hadn't gone so far out. As he got colder, he slowed down. By about ten minutes he was barely moving. He crouched down, absorbing all of the body heat that he could. Suddenly, he heard a creak behind him. A split second later, a groan, and then a crack appeared on the ice. It grew wider, and branched off into several smaller cracks. Then another crack appeared, and another. He sprang to his feet, and flew off. He could hear the groans of thin ice behind him, and sped up. The cracks raced behind Zach, growing and splitting and staying at his back all the while. The sleet and snow made seeing almost impossible, so he had no idea if he was even going in the right direction. Then it happened. The cracks finally caught up to him, and in a split second had surrounded him. He was frantic. He tried to move, but every time he did the ice creaked, and another crack formed. He was trapped. Even as he stood still, the cracks came closer and closer, and in a flash he was submerged in the water. The freezing temperature hit him like a speeding freight train. The cold penetrated his flesh and went straight to the bone. The water sucked all the strength out of him and left him weak and even colder. As he bobbed back up to the surface, his head hit the ice. Using his remaining strength he pushed with all his might, but the ice wouldn't budge. His skates dragged him down, pulling him toward the murky depths of the lake. His eyelids were stiff and frozen, and no matter what he did they wouldn't open. He screamed in fright, but only bubbles escaped his mouth. Oxygen rapidly escaped his tired body, and his lungs pounded in his chest for air. He frantically searched for an opening in the ice with his hands, but found none. A wave of pain washed over him, and his lungs throbbed faster and faster and faster. Just as he started to sink into a void of darkness, his hands hit air, and he scrambled up onto the ice. He feebly pushed himself onto the frozen water, and collapsed on its surface. He gasped and wheezed, filling his lungs with air. Coughing, water poured out of his mouth, collecting on the ice. Shaking uncontrollably, Zach curled into a ball to find any heat possible, but found nothing. He shivered and blacked out. When Zach woke up, he was still huddled on the ice. His clothes were sopping wet, and his ice skates were a wreck. He knew he had to move to stay alive. Hugging his dripping coat to his body, Zach made his way bit by bit back to his house. Extremely fatigued, he clomped up the steps to the back porch, and shakily removed his jacket, skates, shirt, and socks. His fingers were blue with cold, and numb. Fortunately, a fire was crackling and sizzling in the fireplace. Zach crouched and warmed himself by the fire. He made a cup of hot chocolate, and was walking back to the living room when he noticed a note on the kitchen counter. It read: Zach, we're out looking for you. If you find this note, please get warm and call us. Your father
Fiction
It was the afternoon in the forest. It was a hot and muggy afternoon too, when the air hung heavily between the gnarled and ancient tree trunks, their rough bark creased and lined through the passage of years. The early morning mist had long since disappeared. Spider webs now hung aimlessly between the brownish-green undergrowth, illuminated by the blazing summer sun peering in through the thick canopy of trees. There was a soft crunching and crackling sound of dead leaves and small insects scrambled as quickly as they could to get away as a small patch of bristling ferns parted, and out of it emerged the boy. He pushed his way ruthlessly through the thick undergrowth that covered the forest floor, snapping the sharp, dry branches that stuck out to bar his path, but he did so expertly, making sure to create as little noise as possible. He paused for a moment, panting softly, before turning around to look cautiously over his shoulder. No one. No one but the seemingly endless canopy of tall, majestic trees, surrounded by ferns and bushes, their knotted trunks reaching up to touch the brilliant blue sky that occasionally became visible but was usually too bright for him to look at on days like this. No one but the small brown squirrel that immediately spotted him as he looked, and then scooted off to the other side of the tree it clung to. Well, it almost scooted. On sweltering, stifling days like these, all creatures in the forest were more sluggish than usual, and as for the boy, he became tired and sweaty more easily. Today in particular. The boy sat down slowly on a nearby burnt and jagged tree stump, only after checking for ants' nests of course. He sensed a vague lingering hint of danger in this area of the forest, and he knew he would be slower to react to it now, his senses dulled by heat, thirst, and pure exhaustion. Still, he could not go on for much longer without rest. The boy sniffed the air expertly, he had years of experience, but today all he smelt was the pine needles that covered the forest floor, the dark brown soil, and the muggy, stifling, humid air. Seeing as the air would reveal nothing, the boy pricked up his ears and listened. No luck. Only the distant sound of birds chirruping in the canopy and the low, infuriating hum of mosquitoes. The boy wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and fanned himself unsuccessfully with his hand. His throat was dry and parched, and it would be a long walk to get to any clean liquid to drink. He spotted a nearby almost bare berry bush and grabbed the only visible berry he could see off it. He put it slowly into his mouth. The sour flavor erupted into his tastebuds. He ate it as slowly as possible, trying to savor the moisture. But it was small, and did not last long, doing nothing to satisfy his burning throat. A rustling in the leaves made him jump to his feet. He spun around to see another brown squirrel dashing away through the undergrowth. The boy turned away, and, checking over his shoulder one last time, set off again, walking rapidly through the thick and seemingly impenetrable undergrowth. He had to keep going. This was no time to give up. Suddenly another rustling made him spin around. This one seemed more distant and farther away. The boy eyed it suspiciously and began to slowly back away. The rustling was becoming steadily clearer and sharper as it came closer. From its sound, and years of experience, the boy was able to decipher that it was a much bigger animal that was now coming towards him. The crunching of the leaves from its footsteps seemed to indicate a sort of lumbering, awkward gait. Almost instantly the boy knew what it probably was. A bear. Slowly, his heart thumping against his ribcage, the boy backed away even further. Luckily, he knew how to deal with this sort of problem. Now, all he needed was a tree to climb. The boy scanned the trees, looking for a suitable branch he could pull himself up onto. The rustling, meanwhile, was getting louder. The boy realized in an instant that the bear was too close by for him to have enough time to get onto the higher branches out of its reach. Any minute now, it would enter the patch of forest with the boy. Why oh why hadn't he heard it coming earlier?! The boy backed away even farther, his mind racing furiously. The bear, judging by its gait and size, was probably a grizzly. There was no escape for him now. The bear had left the boy with no choice. His hands quivering slightly, the boy reached down and pulled out one of his most treasured possessions, his spear. Made from the perfect strong tree branch, with a skillfully sharpened stone arrowhead tied to the top, he regarded it with pride. Slowly, the boy lowered his spear so it pointed to the exact direction of the rustling and, with a pounding heart, waited. Meanwhile, the bear, judging again by the sudden increased speed of its footsteps on the leaves, had broken into a charge and now opened its mouth into a terrible, vicious bloodthirsty roar. A roar that shook the canopy and made the boy cringe with fear. "Roger!!! What on earth is this?!! You're supposed to be doing your math homework!! Are you hiding in the forest again?!! You had better not be or there will be trouble!!" * * * The boy quickly turned and dashed away through the undergrowth, clutching his spear in one hand, before disappearing, silent as a shadow, away into the muggy depths of the forest.
Fiction
The trees shook madly as Carmen Gonzalez made her way to a towering oak named El Grande Oak. She sat down on the roots that had managed to break through the ground. It was the only place she could be away from the chaos of her own home and relax in the quiet of the Marongo woods. Wildflowers and thornbushes covered the ground, while oak and birch trees towered overhead. It was the quietest place in the small town of Marongo, a town a little south from Madrid. Nobody chose to vacation to Marongo, but it was not frowned upon. There were no national landmarks, but small miracles were popular. It was not paradise, but it had its own inner beauty. Carmen situated herself against the great oak as she opened her journal and took out her pen. Then she started to recite the day's highlights in her head. Every night, after the candles went out, she would sneak a match and candle from the cupboard. She would then make her way quietly with her journal and pen to the big oak where she sat now. Nothing at her home was ever like the calming Marongo woods. Carmen had three sisters (one younger, two older) and three brothers (two younger, one older). She was the middle child, and "the beauty of the family" While her mother and siblings had short, stringy hair and big, long noses, Carmen had long, thick hair and a short, cute nose. Her outer beauty shone brighter than her inner beauty, though, for she was very shy. She liked to keep to herself, which was extremely hard at home. Her brothers and sisters were always playing loudly and obnoxiously, while Carmen enjoyed calmness and quiet in a household. Carmen had had a friend once, named Maria Rodriguez. Maria had moved to New York, with Carmen's father as the guide and helper. They had all died in the crashing of the World Trade Center. Every night, after visiting the Marongo woods, Carmen would lie in her bed and recall the details about her father and her best friend. Carmen thought of her friend often, also kind yet very shy. She was so kindhearted, though, she would have achieved great things if she had lived, Carmen thought. Suddenly, out of the darkness and the stillness, a bright light came from nowhere, and in it appeared a small girl. She had short black hair and a beautiful, Hispanic face. She was dressed in a gold ball gown, with white lace on the sleeves. Carmen thought the girl was strangely familiar. Then it hit her. "Maria," Carmen said very quietly, almost like a whisper. "Hola, Carmen," Maria said in a clear, tall voice, which was highly peculiar for Maria was very shy, even with her friends. "I have been sent on a mission to tell you a story I heard right before I died." "Once, there was a beautiful maiden named Rita Diaz. She was daughter to the baker of the town. She was shy and quiet, but very kind. One day, Rita received a letter asking for her hand in marriage. She was too shy to refuse, so she was sent away to live with her new husband, Antonio Rivera, and his family She soon realized that he was a cruel, mean man who even disobeyed his elders. Rita was too shy to ask for a divorce, so she stayed. Her husband made many terrible choices for her, so she was led into a hard, cold life. The end. "Rita is like you, Carmen," Maria said after finishing her story "If you wish to have a lovely life full of grace and happiness, you must learn to speak your own voice. Do not be scared to show your feelings. Carmen, do not be shy any longer, for I am watching over you, as is your father. Find your voice, and use it." With that, there was another burst of light, and Maria Rodriguez floated up into the sky, producing beautiful, silver wings. Carmen let Maria's words sink in. She had been letting other people take over her life. She had to get a voice, one that was her own. She knew it would not be easy, for she was already fourteen years old. Yet she knew that if she tried her hardest, she could succeed.
Poems
The first shaft of luminous light travels, its speed unthinkable Over the horizon, through the trees, And into my open eyes. Birds hop about, like people, Trying to find a good Perch, branch, position In life. Satisfied, they begin their Throaty chorusing, declaring only the best. Window open, the maple and oak Scent drifts like it has done For millions of years, a crisp Beginning to the significance Of the day, three hundred and Sixty-five rotations a year, Time's luck which decides so much. As after a rainstorm, Water has never smelled so sweet. During the time between dreams And reality, air has never Tasted so good.
Poems
The wind caresses my hair As I grasp the tiller, The direction of the sail in my hands. I watch the dazzling turquoise water Splash up against the boat, And glance up at my grandma's magnificent face. "Am I doing OK?" She answers with a smile and a wink. I feel so good, With the seagulls flying all around me, And the warm summer sunshine Beating on my bare back. I feel so good, With wonder flying all around me And the warm love of my grandma Beating in my soul.
Poems
Buzz! The familiar sounds of bees pierce my ears As I lay on the dewy morning grass. Sprawled next to me is Tessa, My younger sister, Doodling with her favorite crayon. "Tickle Me Pink, Isn't that a funny name?" I ask. Squish! I roll over to hear her reply, and Stubbles of the freshly mowed grass stick to my back. Giving me her naive face she answers, "What color is your heart?" Not wanting to confuse the toddler, I flop against the pole of the basketball hoop with a Thud! "What color is spring?" Tessa persists. I was too old for her childish games, "I don't know, now hurry up it's at least 1000 degrees out!" The grass squelches as she stumbles towards me, Waving her drawing like a trophy She sticks it in my face, and I see her masterpiece: A picture of her and me, Lying together in the grass On a warm spring day "Your heart is pink," She points to my chest in the drawing, "And so is spring." She points to the grass, sky, and flowers. And at that moment, my Tickle-Me-Pink heart Is a blossoming bud.
Book Reviews
47, by Walter Mosley; Little, Brown and Company: New York, 2oo5; $16.99 Walter Mosley pulls you into the heart of slavery in 1832. He depicts the brutality of slavery and the true meaning of freedom, through the eyes of Forty-seven, an orphaned fourteen-year-old slave. As a child, Forty-seven was taken under the wing of Big Mama Flore, a house slave, who sheltered him from the realities of slavery. The day arrives when Forty-seven is old enough to work in the cotton fields. He now faces the painful realities of slavery Tall John, a mysterious runaway slave, enters Forty-seven's life. He helps Forty-seven see beyond the fate of slavery and teaches him to believe in freedom. I have never experienced the brutality of slavery, but as I was reading Mosley's descriptions, I could feel Forty-seven's pain; his burned shoulder from a branding iron, his infected hands from picking cotton, and his bleeding flesh from being bullwhipped. This book made me think of the grim stories that my grandparents passed on to me regarding the Armenian Genocide. Although there are obvious differences between slavery and genocide, there are some similarities—both groups of people suffered at the hands of others, and both lost freedom. Throughout this book, I could not stop thinking about freedom. Freedom, to me, is having independence and having the right to make decisions and choices. I find it incomprehensible that freedom was taken from some individuals and some still do not have it today. Forty-seven craves freedom once Tall John introduces him to it. He experiences freedom in two ways. First, Tall John informs Forty-seven that by considering yourself a slave, you are. If you say that you have a master, then you do. Forty-seven finally learns that he "ain't got no mastuh 'cause (he) ain't no slave." A second way that Tall John introduces freedom to Forty-seven is by taking him to "paradise." In paradise, Forty-seven is elated and shocked that such beauty and tranquility exists. This is where he tastes freedom for the first time. Now that he learned the meaning and the taste of freedom, Forty-seven is willing to risk everything to acquire freedom for himself, and for the ones he loves. Walter Mosley's writing style captivates me. He takes one character, such as Tall John, and changes his personality. When Forty-seven and Tall John first meet, Forty-seven is overwhelmed with his language skills and forwardness. When white men confront Tall John, he is reserved. His personality changes again when Tall John talks to the men in the slave quarters, this time in a humorous way Mosley gives Tall John a sense of humor to lighten up the cruelty of slavery. Tall John's changing character is a creative feature of Mosley's writing style which is very well portrayed in the novel. As much as this book absorbed me, I did not like how Mosley combined two genres—historical fiction and science fiction. The science fiction portions of the book caught me off guard and took away from the shocking historical truth about slavery. With all of these painfully unsympathetic scenes in the book, the supernatural scenes do not fit. 47 is a great read for those who enjoy historical fiction narratives with deep meaning. Mosley's comprehensive characters pulled me into Forty-seven's world and let me think about emotions that I never thought about before. Tall John helped Forty-seven, as well as me, uncover the true meaning of freedom.
Book Reviews
The King of Slippery Falls, by Sid Hite; Scholastic Press: New York, zoo4; $16.95 Imagine it’s your birthday. Your parents gave you a surprising gift that revealed your origin. How would you react? Lewis Hinton, an ordinary boy in The King of Slippery Falls, is shocked on his fifteenth birthday, when he discovers that he's adopted. For one year, he tries to learn about his real family. On his sixteenth birthday, his adopted mother, Martha, surprises Lewis with a letter from his real mother, J. A. Poisson. The letter reveals Lewis's real name: Louis Poisson, and his real mother gave him away to Avery, his adopted father, to find her husband and freedom. Lewis is angry with his real mother because she basically abandoned him for her own freedom! Lewis also feels angry with Martha for hiding this for s-i-x-t-e-e-n years! Now that's quite a long time to keep a secret. If I were Lewis, I probably would have thrown a fit and started screaming in anger, and inside, I would have felt pretty sad, too. Lewis's friend, Sophie, and an eighty-eight-year-old woman named Maple tell him that he's of French origin by his last name, Poisson, like my last name, Chakraborti, reveals that I'm of Indian origin. Maple is what's called "one of a kind." She told Lewis that he's possibly descended from King Louis XV She explains life's gradual, out-of-the-blue, and inspirational changes to Lewis. A person's life is like a story because both experience these three changes. I found this explanation most interesting. When I saw the misery of the evacuees from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita on TV, I thought it like a major turning point in their lives. The devastation symbolized out-of-the-blue changes for these evacuees. Anyhow, Lewis's origin gets importance in his one-horse town, Slippery Falls, and the town gets vibrant. Lewis becomes the center of attention in the town. Embarrassed, he tries to stop it. I recall a rumor in my school that I liked a girl, named Laura. I felt that everyone in the school enjoyed their time by conversations involving our relationship. Thank goodness it ended. There's another important event in this story Lewis spots a trout in the town's waterfall and he's determined to catch that fish. One day Lewis goes to the waterfall on his quest. He almost has the fish, but then slips and hits his head against a rock and gets unconscious, and bleeds heavily He's taken to the hospital. Fortunately, Maple's blood saves his life. But he fails to achieve his goal. I felt pretty sad about that. Sometimes I try very hard to achieve goals. No matter how much perseverance I have, when I can't achieve them, I feel down. While he recovers, Lewis decides to go to France to learn about the ways of the French, his people. He and his girlfriend, Amanda, organize a car wash to raise money for the trip. My parents are from India, and last summer, I went there to visit my relatives. Before I went, I learned a little of my native tongue, Bengali, from my parents, like Lewis learned some French before he went to France, from Sophie. Learning Bengali helped me enjoy the Bengali culture while I was there, and now I really like it. Lewis will probably enjoy the French culture. Bon voyage, Louis!
