Fiction
A scream cut through the cool night air, but no one was around to hear it. A small boy of around five years old huddled against a tree trunk, crying desperately. His short brown hair was plastered against his brow, tears staining his freckled face. “Mommy!” he screamed. “Mommy save me!” He stared fearfully at a dark cave from which a deep rumbling resounded. Smoke billowed from the cave’s mouth, and light flashed from within. The boy’s eyes widened in fear, and he stumbled away from the entrance. A large dragon emerged from the inky blackness, fire spurting from its nostrils. Its scales glowed a dark green, and its eyes flashed red. The boy screamed, but there was no hope. The dragon slowly advanced, its eyes cold and calculating. Its back legs tensed, and the dragon sprang over the little boy, briefly expanding its wings. It began to herd the boy into the cave, occasionally spurting fire to keep him moving. The boy soon reached the cave. He took one look at the dragon and rushed into the cave, fruitlessly searching for a chance of escape. The dragon followed him, its intent obviously successful. There was a piercing scream, then silence. The dragon emerged from the cave, blood dripping from its muzzle. * * * Lily knew she was going to die the moment she heard her name. She raised her eyes to the center of the village square, hoping she had mis-heard. An old man with matted gray hair and sunken, hollow eyes stared back at her. He stood beside a worn barrel, holding a slip of paper in his hand. “Lily Joanson,” he repeated, “you have been chosen to serve your town in the greatest way possible.” Lily knew what would happen next; she had heard that same speech every year, but never directed to her. “Nine years ago,” he continued, “a great dragon settled near our town. He raided our village and destroyed our crops. The only way to appease him is to sacrifice one of our children to him every year. This year, you have been chosen.” Lily felt the ground tumble from beneath her legs. The next thing she knew, she was lying on the ground, the taste of dirt on her lips. A woman was screaming in the background, “No, not Lily! My baby, my only daughter, have mercy, I beg you!” Strong arms lifted her from the ground. She looked up into the face of her oldest brother, Peter. His wavy golden hair hung around his face, freckles splattered across his nose. He gently stroked her long brown hair, whispering words of comfort to both her mother and her. But her mother would not be consoled. “She’s only twelve!” she wailed. Lily couldn’t think. She had seen this happen every year. All the children wrote their names on a slip of paper, including her, and dropped it into the barrel. No one really knew where the barrel had come from, but there was a rumor that it was the only object that survived the dragon’s first raid. The old man would draw a slip of paper, make the speech, then send the child on their way. No one had ever returned. Lily’s sharp green eyes filled with tears, but she tried to hold them back for her mother’s sake. Lily was not athletic or clever; she knew she had no chance. She stumbled back to her family’s cottage in a daze and flopped onto her mat. She fell asleep without bothering to eat and dreamed of gruesome deaths and dragons. * * * It was still dark out when Lily woke. Her mat was warm and comfortable and, for a second, she forgot her despair. But it all came rushing back when she remembered the events of yesterday. Lily quietly sobbed into her pillow. She didn’t want to die. There was so much she had to live for. It was her dream to one day have a family of her own, and have children who could live without the threat of a dragon hanging over their heads. Now, that would never be. Her older brothers stirred beside her. She had three: Peter, John, and Mark. She loved them all dearly. That was another thing. Her mother would be completely broken if she died. She was her mother’s only daughter, the only one who still wasn’t grown up. Peter was eighteen, John was sixteen, and Mark was fifteen. Her brothers rolled out of bed and began to get dressed. Their faces were tearstained. It was all she could do not to start crying again. Looking at them, she realized what wonderful brothers they had been. She rushed over and threw her arms around them. “I love you!” she cried. They hugged her back awkwardly, not sure how to respond. The family sat down to breakfast, no one sure how to act. Lily’s mother wore a pained expression, like she was trying to hold herself together for Lily’s sake. Lily’s father had died several years before in a fire. He had previously worked as a blacksmith, and a clumsy apprentice had let the fire get too close to the wood. Lily’s father, his two apprentices, and a delivery boy had died in the following fire. Although the boys provided for the family, her father’s death created a gaping hole in their lives. After breakfast, Peter drew Lily aside. “I… I want you to have something,” he said in a cracked voice. He silently held out a small hair clip. It was shaped like three lilies, her namesake. They were a creamy white with traces of pink in the middle. He gently clasped it into her hair, then stood back to admire her. “Remember me,” he whispered. With that he turned away and walked off. Lily watched him leave, a lone tear trickling down her pale cheek. She tried to go about her normal business; she wasn’t going to be taken to the
Fiction
My shoes trudge up the path, caked with gooey mud. My shirt sticks to my body, and my hair clings to my flushed face. The winding path steeply curves on and on, taunting my burning muscles. My eyelids droop, as my legs become more and more mechanical, moving up and down with no real motivation. I snag a strawberry guava off a tree and stuff it in my mouth to suppress the gnawing in my stomach. Ginger, our dog, runs off ahead through the wilderness. My dad climbs next to me, panting heavily. “If the path doesn’t start curving down to the left soon, we’re going to have to turn back,” he says, exhaustion creeping at the edge of his voice. I knew he was right. If we didn’t see the pools of this hike soon, we were either lost or on the wrong path. I couldn’t believe that we had hiked all this way for nothing. Ginger runs toward us, sweat dripping off her tongue and creating miniature pools below her. I grab a drink of water from my dad’s pack and we continue on. “Let’s turn back in five minutes,” he sighs. “Sure,” I say, disappointed that even my dad has pretty much given up. One… Two… Three… Four… The minutes tick by, until I reluctantly decide that five minutes has come and gone. Even so, I wait for my dad to voice his affirmation that we will have to turn back. As we round another bend in the trail, the path goes out of sight. “Did the trail end?” I wonder aloud. I tentatively take another step, gazing ahead. I break into a grin as I see—finally— that we are on the right path. The trail descends steeply into the valley, plunging into a forest of strawberry guava trees, mossy rocks, and ferns. I stumble down the rocky path in a delirious anticipation of the thirty-two miles of pools we came all this way to see. “Whooooohoooo!” I scream when I reach a pool and jump into the water. The achingly cold water chills my bones. I laugh as my dad comes in and Ginger does a belly flop. I gaze up at the sky as a fleck of rain hits my head. When I feel more drops come down, I can’t help but wonder how close we came to turning back. I thank my lucky stars, because I know I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
Fiction
The waves lapped rhythmlessly against the side of the boat as I hoisted the sail and started slowly out into the bay. Dark clouds were forming on the horizon and drops of rain were beginning to fall. I squinted, trying to see through the increasing downpour, and I realized that I could not tell sky from sea. As thunder started to boom, the waves grew bigger and more dangerous. I sighed with relief as I spotted two tiny pinpricks of light wavering in the darkness. They were the two candles my mother always left out for me during a storm. I guided my boat toward the light and finally bumped it up on the shore. I raced over the dunes and splashed through the river in front of my house. The door slammed shut behind me as I blew in with the wind. My eyes darted around the clean kitchen and settled on a crumpled newspaper lying on the hearth. As I flipped through the pages, my eyes settled on an ad at the bottom of the page. It was a contest. A sailing contest. My eyes widened as I read more. “First prize of $100 to the winner of the race.” My family has always been poor so $100 would help us a lot, but we didn’t have anyone who was sick or dying. Still, I wanted to do it. I knew I could do it. But most importantly I knew I could sail. * * * Monday morning I was up at first light. I raced to the barn to do my chores, and by breakfast time the Nantucket Island sun was as high as the eye could see. I was just rigging up my racing sunfish, when I saw a boy walking down the beach. Not many people lived on Nantucket Island and I knew all the people that did. As far as I knew, there were no boys here. No young boys at all!!! The figure came closer. When he came close enough for me to make him out, I stared. He was the skinniest boy I had ever seen. His clothes were much too big for him and he was all elbows and knees. He had a mop of untidy brown hair and pale skin. His eyes were hazel and looked kind. I trusted him at once. “Hi,” I said, “my name’s Joshua Burne.” “My name’s Mike, Mike Brown.” We talked for a while and soon became fast friends. One day, when we met on the beach, something was wrong. His eyes were red from crying and he spoke softly. Too softly. “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “It’s my father,” he answered. “He has a really severe disease and we don’t have enough money to pay for his care, Josh, he’s dying.” I could do nothing but stare in disbelief at Mike’s back as he disappeared over the dunes. * * * It was Sunday. The day of the race. I woke up early with a smile on my face and determination in my heart. I ate a hurried breakfast and started down to the beach where the race was to start. I rigged up my sunfish and, as the whistle blew, pushed off and jumped into it. I felt great as I began passing more and more people. The race was from one beach to an island about a mile out to sea and back. As I hit the island, I pushed off with my hands and turned around. Then I saw a boat ahead of me and realized I was in second place. I slapped the sides of my boat in frustration. I raced over the whitecaps toward the boat ahead of me. Its sails were limp. I stopped as I saw the person in the boat. It was Mike. Tears were pouring down his face and soaking his anorak. “I wanted to do it for my dad,” he barely whispered. Though my mind screamed to go, I gave Mike a push and turned around. My heart had said something different. I numbly steered my boat back to the starting line and pulled it up on the beach. * * * It was a rainy day a week later. I was down in the dumps until I saw a lone figure on the beach. It was Mike. But then another figure joined him. A taller, older-looking person. I ran out to meet them. The other figure was Mike’s father. He said to me, “I just want to thank you for letting Mike win that race for me. It was the right thing to do.” “No,” I said, “it wasn’t just that, it was the most important thing to do.” And I meant it with all my heart.
Fiction
“It’s your turn, Quasar.” I was shaken out of my self-induced funk by the lively sound of my mom’s voice. “Huh?” “Come on,” said my dad. “Is the correct definition of cupidity a) unconditional and unbiased love, b) a type of Italian sausage, or c) greed?” “Uh… A,” I mumbled. “Nope,” said Dad. “It’s greed. Your mom wins the Dictionary Game again.” “Sorry,” I said. “I’m not really in the mood.” “But Quasar,” said Mom, “it’s Family Fun Friday. You’re really missing out on all the fun! Do you want to play Scrabble instead?” “Do you think we could maybe… watch a movie?” I suggested tentatively. “That’s a great idea, Quasar,” said Dad. “There’s a Nova on string theory at nine!” “Ugh, never mind,” I said. “I’m going to go read.” “Good idea,” said my mom. “Here’s that O. Henry book of short stories. ‘While the Auto Waits’ is a great one.” “Forget it,” I mumbled. “I’m off to bed.” Forget self-induced funk, this is seriously parent-induced. I’ve heard all of their rationales about how lucky I am not to have annoying siblings to deal with, but a sibling is also a partner in life. The solitude can be peaceful and relaxing, but sometimes I gaze out the window and wish I had someone to share the burden of overly intellectual parents. While lying alone, sleepless in the dark, I long for a companion to talk to, someone to think of quirky nicknames with that aren’t related in any way to something scientific, someone to reassure me when I’m scared, instead of my father launching into a monotonous explanation about the physical impossibilities of the boogeyman. So while I nod along to my mother’s rendition of an Eagles’ song from her youth, my heart is aching for a kindred spirit. Luckily for me, my entire grade is about to embark on the long-anticipated trip to Yosemite. For those precious two days, I will have sisters. * * * As I walked towards the bus, sleeping bag in hand, my parents waved goodbye. “We’ll tape all the Novas for you,” said my mom. “We won’t play Scrabble until you’re back!” my dad called. “And if you get bored,” my mom reassured me, “you can read The Grapes of Wrath. I packed it for you.” “Yeah, right,” I muttered, and stuffed the book in the trash before we boarded the bus. By the time we arrived in Yosemite though, my wide grin had slowly morphed into a grimace of disgust. Sitting in the overcrowded bus, I had closed my eyes and attempted to block out all surrounding stimuli, but alas, no such luck. My life for those two hours was a mix of shouts, farts, and the occasional sob of homesickness. I had gritted my teeth together, though not too hard because it erodes enamel, and waited, like a last-minute stowaway on an overcrowded ship to America, for us to reach our idyllic destination. To my horror, the famous, lush green grasses of Yosemite were brittle, bleached by the sun’s harsh rays. Near our campsite, it was a dry savanna, much different from the green, semi-coniferous forest advertised in the glossy brochures I had read before coming. I would have to file a complaint for false advertising. We were then herded out of the bus like flocks of sheep to our respective cabins and left alone to “get organized.” Still determined to have a good time, I was about to ask my cabinmates to join me in a game of Guess That Historical Figure, but they were too busy fighting over the largest bed in the room. “I call dibs,” said Gretchen triumphantly, waving her hand above her head like she had won an Olympic gold medal instead of a sagging, decrepit mattress with rusted springs and chipped paint. “That’s not fair,” snapped Allie. “The big one should go to whoever shares a bed, and I’m not sharing.” “Well then, I’m not either,” sniffed Gretchen. Still clinging to my earlier optimism, I chirped to Niota, “Well, I guess we can share.” During the afternoon meeting, the camp leader smiled disingenuously at us, gushing about how overjoyed she was to be introducing us to this “beautiful wonder of nature,” while covertly wiping her hands on her olive-green jacket after accidentally touching a child’s hand. Despite her discomfort with us, she was right. As we had ventured more deeply into Yosemite to the community center, I marveled at the juxtaposition of the evergreens’ prickly needles against the impressive granite mountains and brilliantly blue sky, pondering how such images and textures had inspired poetry and art. “Anyone want to play a game or tell a ghost story?” I asked shyly after we were all bundled up in our beds with the same bored, oh-my-god-how-am-I-gonna-survive-here-for-another-day expressions. “No,” said Allie, and everyone turned over and went to sleep. The next day I woke up freezing. “Why is it so cold?” I asked, shivering. “Because someone,” said Gretchen, glaring at Allie, “forgot to turn on the heater.” “Well, at least I don’t snore,” retorted Allie. I groaned. This was going to be a really long day. On the hike, I paused to admire a gorgeous flower, its pale pink petals sprinkled with specks of golden pollen. “Isn’t this beautiful?” I said to Niota. “Eww!” she shouted, face scrunched up into a disgusted expression. “I’m allergic,” she said, then sneezed dramatically. “Do you know what this is called?” I inquired of our hiking leader. “Look, kid,” Jay said, “I’m just here because I want a car, and this is the only job I’m qualified for. So shut up and walk.” I stared at him indignantly. Apparently, I was the only one appreciating Yosemite’s stunning flora. At lunch, we chewed eagerly on our cheese sandwiches and carrot sticks. Perhaps regretting his previous surliness, Jay brought brownies to us but then resumed playing Angry Birds on his iPhone. Afterwards we trekked up another trail, enjoying the chirps and trills of
Fiction
Kate had floated in and out of consciousness for days after the accident. She would occasionally wake to hear her parents conversing nervously with the hospital doctors. The voices were hushed, the tones grave. Kate dreamt of car crashes over and over again. She repeatedly saw the impact of the SUV smashing into her side of the car, and she remembered everything going black. Over and over she had the car dream, and she would scream, but no one could hear her. There was nothing she could do to keep from being hit. After days of drifting in and out of consciousness, Kate finally awoke. She strained her vocal chords, calling for someone, anyone. Her mother was right by her side, stroking her forehead, whispering kind words. “Mom,” Kate struggled to smile. “Oh, Kate, I knew you would make it, I knew you would!” Kate’s mother tenderly hugged her daughter. “Am I going to be OK, Mom? Is anything broken?” Kate’s mother, Denise, sniffled. “Honey, I… I have to call your dad. I’ll be right back.” “Mom, wait! You didn’t answer…” It was too late. Denise was gone. * * * Denise hurried outside and got in her car. She didn’t start it; she just sat there and stared at the rain rolling down the car’s windshield. Denise started to sob, and her hands shook as she dialed her home phone number. Her husband was probably asleep, since he had spent nearly the whole night at Kate’s bedside. Denise listened as the phone rang once, twice, three times— “Hello?” “Oh, David, thank God.” “Is everything all right? Denise? What’s the matter, honey?” “Kate woke up.” “Dear, that’s marvelous! I’ll be there right away. Why are you crying? Is something wrong?” “I can’t tell her, David. She’ll be crushed when she finds out her arm was amputated. Her life will never be the same. Kate asked me if she was all right, and I didn’t have the heart to tell her… especially after she had just woken up.” “I’ll be right there.” * * * Kate was horrified after she heard how upset her mother was. Was something wrong with her? Sure, she felt like she had just been crushed by a tractor-trailer, but that was to be expected. Kate tried to sit up so she could take stock of her surroundings and look at herself, but she didn’t have the strength to do it. Trying to hold back her tears of fear, Kate waited for her mother to return. Kate’s parents finally came in, accompanied by a nurse and a doctor. The adults looked somber, and Kate’s mom had obviously been crying. “Katelyn…” The doctor checked something on a clipboard he had with him. “Kate,” she corrected. Kate hated being called by her full name, as it sounded much too formal for a fun-loving girl like her. “Kate.” The doctor cleared his throat. “You were in quite an accident. You seem to be a fighter, but there was some permanent damage done.” Kate sucked in her breath nervously. “What’s wrong with me?” “Your left arm suffered some horrible damage during the crash. Glass penetrated your arm deeply, and you were bleeding badly. The only way to save you was to amputate your arm at the elbow.” Kate suddenly felt nauseated and dizzy. It couldn’t be true, could it? She’d never be able to do the simplest tasks like put on a shirt or pick up a large object. Kate would be an outcast, a weirdo, for the rest of her life. Nothing would ever be the same. * * * After an extended stay in the hospital, Kate was allowed to go home. Although she was glad to be home, Kate felt like she was drowning in a huge ocean with no way out. Nothing seemed fun anymore, and there was no reason to be happy. Some people said she was suffering from depression; others said she was just in shock and would eventually get over it. Kate felt like she couldn’t do anything for herself and that she was a baby again. Her mother had to help her dress, which humiliated poor Kate to tears. Fortunately, it was summer so Kate didn’t have to be seen by her peers. She rarely left the house for fear people would see her and stare. Kate felt like a freak, and she would have given anything to change what happened the night of the accident. One dull day much like the rest, Denise entered Kate’s room to find her trying to make a friendship bracelet from a collection of colorful strings. Kate was failing miserably at making the bracelet onehanded, and she was starting to become very agitated at finding that she couldn’t do something she enjoyed. “Why don’t you take a break, Kate?” Denise sat on the floor next to her daughter, brushing Kate’s hair away from her face. “Go for a walk, and get some fresh air. I don’t think being cooped up in this house is good for you.” “I don’t want to,” Kate mumbled sullenly. Her mother knew she didn’t like leaving the house, so why was she making her? “It’ll be good for you, Kate. Just walk around the block. It’ll calm you down. Please, honey? Do it for me.” Kate groaned when she realized she didn’t have a choice in the matter. She stood and said, “I’ll go around the block. Once. Then I’m coming in.” Kate left the house, turning left. Her sneakers crunched the gravel, and she realized she enjoyed the scent of the fresh air. Although dark rain clouds obscured the sky, Kate cherished the smell of the rain that was to come. Soon Kate found herself taking a long route around the neighborhood. She was about to turn around and come home when the heavens opened up and rain poured forth. The wind whipped the rain against Kate’s face, which she tried to shield with her right arm. Lightning streaked across
Poem
A carpet of sand melts into a sea of blue whipped cream I inhale the golden scent of joy Like syrup on my tongue The seagulls’ voices are wind chimes in the warm summer air They call to the sea and the sky I reach out my fingers to touch the sunset And wrap it around my shoulders like a coat
Poem
Our last night was a joyful one Yet dread waited, a heavy fog As we both knew it had to end. The next sight of each other Would be like Pixilated building blocks. Seated under the rosy sky Her laugh the flutter of a jay’s wings The wind’s small sigh. Her room Like a doll’s house Stacked with boxes, marked Ireland Two years too long The wail of my heart As I look back Until she disappears And rain trickles down.
Poem
A silver van pulls up the desert driveway From sliding doors Spill three cousins Holding teddy bears and swords Lonely fields are filled once more Screams and hollers absorb the sun-baked summer air We stumble together, reminding each other of our game Played only near the overgrown grass And where Christmas trees grow during summer MONSTER TAG. Skip through the bushes Or near the woods And find a place where none can see If tagged You’re it! The new monster, searching for its prey Adults cry, “Be careful,” as we prance off Their words are meaningless in our ears Drifting up with the subtle breeze We disperse Each racing around the house’s corner Looming fingers creep up the gray walls Peering through the bushes, I glance across the fields of green The monster’s footsteps slow A lion before the deathly pounce Grass bowing beneath its feet Paw by paw, step by step Nervous excitement builds up inside me Where to run? Where to hide? The bush embracing me with its prickly Yet protective branches I duck out from under my shield The chase begins.
Book Reviews
Sean Griswold’s Head, by Lindsey Leavitt; Bloomsbury Books for Young Readers: New York, 2011; $16.99 Her parents lie about her father’s multiple sclerosis (MS), a potentially deadly disease of the central nervous system. Her best friend flirts with her older brother. A school counselor wants to meet with her. A boy’s head becomes the focus of her life. Payton Gritas, a high school freshman and the protagonist of Lindsey Leavitt’s Sean Griswold’s Head, is experiencing an emotionally difficult time. Payton, an organized girl who uses different colored highlighters—“yellow for literary devices, pink for plot points, orange for conflict”—finds her life in conflict. Although her parents lie to protect her from the reality of her father’s MS, Payton obsesses with her father and his serious disease. To get back on track, she starts a focus journal and chooses the head of Sean Griswold as her focus. After the death of Ripley, my puppy, I looked at Ripley’s pictures and remembered our past times together, but I never once considered concentrating on a classmate’s head. However, the more Payton studies Sean’s head, the more curious she becomes about him. When Jac, her best girl friend, encourages her to stalk Sean, Payton ignores her family for Sean. As the story evolves, Payton learns the source of Sean’s scar, undergoes changes in her relationship with Jac, and starts a bike-riding hobby. Instead of only worrying about MS, Payton now decides to ride 75 miles on her bike to raise money for MS research. Payton’s efforts remind me of what I did last May: I jogged five kilometers in the Race for the Cure to help those women I know who suffer from breast cancer. Although I wish the author had also included titles for each numbered chapter, I do like the way she uses words to paint a picture. For example, to describe the anger of Payton’s mother, the author writes, “She’s like a pop bottle that has rolled around in a car for a few days.” These words enabled me to imagine the mother’s rage exploding like a geyser of soda. When exercising, Yessica, the trainer, tells Payton and the other students to imagine a jungle in which they are thirsty and biking away from a jaguar; Yessica’s details about the African wilderness reminded me of my trip to Tanzania where I saw the “water and fat antelope” that Payton can only pretend to see. This book reminds me of the importance of focusing—on my homework, tennis lessons, horseback riding, jogging, and learning to relax. By focusing on her father and his disease, Sean’s head, and then Sean as a person, biking, avoiding a best friend, and not communicating with her family, Payton eventually learns to focus on herself and what will make her happy.
Book Reviews
Steve Jobs, by Walter Isaacson; Simon & Schuster: New York, 2011; $35 Almost everybody uses Apple products these days: the iPad, iPod, iPhone, iMac, etc. But do you know who the driving force behind these great inventions was? Steve Jobs! I am fascinated with technology and want to accomplish great things too when I grow up, so I decided to read Steve Jobs, a biography by Walter Isaacson. Reading this book allowed me to take a look into Jobs’s flamboyant and complex personality that was so critical for his successes and failures. I suggest you read it too. Steve Jobs was adopted shortly after birth. In school, Jobs was a restless and precocious child. He dropped out of college and took a religious trip to India in his twenties. Shortly after he returned, he and his friend Steve Wozniak worked on a computer project that led to the founding of Apple Inc. That’s when his career took off. Jobs resigned from Apple in the late ’80s because of a power struggle with the then CEO, John Sculley. He went on to establish the NeXT company and Pixar. Jobs went back to Apple as CEO in the late ’90s. His biggest projects before he died in October 2011 were the iPod, iPhone, and iPad. Steve Jobs is a captivating book with plenty of interesting anecdotes. I did not know that Jobs was a vegetarian and once ate apples, only apples, for one week straight. A person would have to be extremely disciplined to just eat one thing for a long time. I found the strict eating habits of Jobs particularly puzzling because the same discipline was not shown at work—he could rarely refrain from shouting at his employees. Jobs didn’t like people who were different from him; many ideas were probably rejected because of who proposed them. I find that when I am in a team, we are more productive when everyone listens to each other. If Jobs had been more open-minded and receptive to others, Apple could be even greater. Steve Jobs was hardworking and dedicated. The large amount of time he spent working really benefited his company. But he overworked himself and sacrificed his health. Another price he paid was very little time with his family. Due to his focus on work and his aloof personality, he and his daughter Lisa did not begin to bond until she was about nine. He was also never very close to his other two daughters, Erin and Eve, although he was quite fond of his son, Reed. I find it sad for a great entrepreneur to not have an intimate relationship with his own children. Steve Jobs must have thought about this too. When Isaacson asked Jobs his motives for a biography, he said he wanted it to be something his children could use to know him better. I feel Jobs wanted this to be his second chance, a way to make up for all those times he wasn’t there for his children. I placed myself in Jobs’s shoes and thought, What would I have done? I decided that, although I would be just as dedicated to my work, I would also reserve time to bond with my family and relax a bit. I would play with my kids and leave them with happy childhood memories instead of a biography. I loved the way the author told Jobs’s story with so many actual comments from Jobs’s friends and family, co-workers, and enemies. After I read this book, I had a better understanding of Steve Jobs, not just as a great innovator but also as a human being. I learned a few lessons about life and work, and the importance and complexity of human relationships.
