Fiction
The mouse was a smooth-furred, jittery-nosed, small-as-grass field mouse. I remember sitting on the roughly carpeted floor early in the mornings, when it was too cold to go outside, and watching him swipe food before the chipmunks and birds, who were at least two times the size of him, got at them beforehand. I remember sitting there for hours at a time, every morning, my face so close to that cold glass door that every two seconds I had to wipe off the foggy blotches my breath made against it. And after the first glance of that mouse I ever had, I knew I had made a connection with him—one which I never wanted to be broken. I never told anyone when I saw him. Because I knew that if I did, they would have killed him. In the time when the sun rose above the peak of the mountain across the road from the two-floored cabin that my grandparents owned in Colorado Springs, after the time of my daily watching of the mouse, me and my grandma sat out on the porch. Me, my sister, my mom, and my dad call her Granny. We sat there, silently, watching the chipmunks and the birds feast on the sunflower seeds we placed out that morning. What a pretty day, I thought. We haven’t had one in a while. Unfortunately, the August rain had been pouring down on us for the past fifteen days, and since we only had two more out here, I was hoping for it to be the best ones. “There’s a lot of chipmunks out here,” Granny noted. I nodded. “There is—much more than yesterday.” Granny rocked slowly in her thickly white-cushioned rocking chair. The paint on the metal bars that supported her, at least thirty-five years old, was chipping off at a steady pace, revealing its rusted corpse. She sipped her mug of coffee, careful as to not let any drip on her once light purple, now light gray, stringy old jumpsuit. A gentle tap of her thumb against the mug handle soon sufficed for the awkward silence she left by gazing off into the distance. What’s she thinking about now? I wondered. It was typical for her to do this, as was it for me to think about what exactly she was playing around in her mind. It was around seven o’clock in the morning, and though her eyes were still a little groggy, they were keen on the lookout. For that mouse. I had always kept my daily sightings a secret for a reason, that being I was quite alone with my relationship. To everyone else, that mouse was a pest that deserved to be gotten rid of. I often wondered about that mouse as much as I watched him. About what was going on in its small brain. Especially if some seventy-eight-year-old man was rapid-firing a BB gun at you as you nibbled on a piece of celery that was thrown out for the little bunny after dinner. About how that would feel. About how it would feel if everyone hated you. It was as I thought about this that that mouse bolted from under the porch and into the play area of the chipmunks. Instantly, Granny lurched to the edge of her chair. “There… there!!! That pesky little rat!” She pointed toward a small stubby tail that was poking out behind one of the cinder blocks. She whirled quickly to me. “Get your bow!!! Kill it!!!” she growled at me. I jumped up, scaring a few birds away. My mind was blank—no thoughts came through to me. And I wouldn’t know this at that moment, but now I know that it wasn’t me who was thinking this. This wasn’t going on in my head. It was Granny’s thoughts. The want to make her proud of me invaded my mind. It controlled me, my behaviors, my thoughts. My feelings. My actions. Like a parasite, eating away at the moral meaning that I once was. I dived through an array of chairs on the other part of the porch, grabbing my bow and three arrows. I gripped them hard as I bolted back to the edge of the porch. I nocked an arrow with swift movement, locating the mouse sitting in a tube, eating some seed. I pulled back. I didn’t stop. I aimed. I bet I would have stopped. I let go. The arrow whizzed through the air slower than ever. I could see each of its carefully placed rubber tails. They spun with such precision, such determination. The air seemed to not even move as the arrow point sliced through it like a pair of scissors against a sheet of wrapping paper. One singular sliding motion. So delicate. So nasty. Ssshhhheeiinnggg! The arrow wedged itself in the gravel right next to the tube. I could see the mouse start to shiver in fear, even ten feet away. I stopped for a second. That was that little mouse who I watched so affectionately every morning. What am I… My grandma stopped my train of thought. “What are you doing??!! Shoot again!!!” I reluctantly nocked another arrow. I have to make her happy, I thought. I pulled back on the arrow. Ting!!! This time the arrow slammed into the pipe and ricocheted a few feet away on the gravel. The mouse jumped and moved a little bit forward. It was vulnerable. I drew back slowly with my last arrow. And then I stopped. “Do it!!!” My grandma looked like she was at a wrestling match—her fists were clenched in a defensive position. She held them tight, close to her chest, looking like she was ready to throw a punch at something. At that mouse. But instead, she was making me do it. Why? I looked at the mouse down the arrow. It was shivering uncontrollably. I have made this happen. I have scared a little mouse of no threat. A little field mouse passing
Fiction
One warm summer evening, when the sun was just beginning to set over the sea, a single bird chirped melodiously. His fellows one by one joined in, each singing a different melody and pitch, but somehow all truly going together. The soft, sad song of the cricket gently burst through the birdsong at random intervals, yet sounded perfectly orchestrated. A cool breeze swooshed the long panoramic grass in perfect time to the melody. This was the best serenade to ever be possibly heard by human ears, a song created by nature. And in that precise moment, when the music was its peak, a baby girl was born. Her cheeks were flushed from the moment she was born, and the puffiness that swelled around the eyes of other babies was completely absent. She had wide blue eyes, the color of the ocean, that looked curiously around the room. Then, as all other newborns do, she began to cry. But this was a different sort of cry, not a cry of surprise or sorrow, but a cry of joy that somehow fell into the melody of the crickets, and the birds, and the wind. She was named Chorus, for the chorus of nature. * * * Some ten years later, in the cool middle of autumn, Chorus woke up in the early morning. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense a bright light in front of her face. She figured it was just the sunlight reflecting in the small tortoiseshell mirror that was ever present on her bedside table. But when she partially opened her eyes, she saw it was not. The mirror had fallen to the ground next to her bed, face down, and the curtains were closed. It was a golden locket sitting on her bed, on the small, decorative quilted pillow that often plopped to the floor during the late hours. Its golden sheen glowed even in the near blackness of her room. She leaned over to the bedside table and flicked on a little lamp so as to see it better. Gently, Chorus picked the locket up by its thin gold chain and turned it over and over again in her fingers. It seemed to emit a warmth, flowing through Chorus’s fingers pleasantly, fully waking her up. “This isn’t mine…” she wondered aloud. “So whose is it? And where did it come from?” She began to study the two smooth faces of the locket. They were completely blank. Or so it seemed. When she looked at the front side for the third time, tiny words were scrawled on it, in seamless, perfect cursive. This belongs to you, Chorus… for now. She shivered. What did it mean, “for now”? How did it know her name? And how did that writing appear? Chorus shook her head, blond curls whipping her cheeks. “It was there all along. I just didn’t see them at first.” She did not quite believe herself, because deep down she knew it definitely wasn’t there before. But she started to get ready for school, and after she brushed her hair and got dressed, she paused to grab the locket and close the clasps around her neck. Downstairs, her little sister, Lavender, was already sitting at the table, munching a piece of toast with way too much butter. Lavender was in first grade and thought she knew everything. This was completely off, Chorus thought. Lavender could hardly read the word umbrella. She always said “umbella,” but maybe that was Lavender’s speech, not reading skills. No one could be sure. “Hello, Chorus! Good morning! Welcome!” (Lavender loved greetings.) “Yes, hello, Chorus honey!” Their mom gave Chorus a quick kiss. “Now hurry up and eat. We don’t want to be late, do we?” Chorus sat down in a vacant chair, got up again, brushed all the crumbs onto the floor, and sat down with finality. As she wolfed down her cereal, she asked her mother, “Do you like my locket?” Her mom turned around. “What locket?” Chorus gasped, and she touched her chest. But the locket still was present with the same heat as before under her hand. Puzzled, but unwilling to pursue the subject, Chorus finished her breakfast and tugged on her sneakers without bothering to re-tie the laces. When Chorus first got the shoes, she had tied one triple knot in them and never had to do so from that point on. In other words, she used lace-up shoes as slip-ons. She quickly checked her backpack for her lunchbox and her homework. Chorus then zipped the bag shut and slung it over her back. Taking hold of Lavender’s small hand, she gave her mother a hug and ran out the door to catch the bus. When Chorus and Lavender were alone in the smooth leather back seat of the school bus, Lavender whispered, “I can see the locket.” Chorus stopped staring out the window and turned to her little sister. “Can’t anyone?” Lavender’s brown eyes widened. “I don’t think so. Mommy couldn’t. I could tell.” Chorus wrinkled her brow and narrowed her eyes in concentration (and a tad of annoyance) and did not speak for the rest of the ride. When they arrived at school, Chorus suddenly addressed her sister. “Why couldn’t she?” Lavender’s eyes sparkled. “Magic.” The hands on the classroom clock seemed to be frozen in place, as clocks do when you stare at them waiting for something. Chorus counted down the minutes. The lesson on common and proper nouns was mind-numbing. It wasn’t usually, but today Chorus was anxious for language arts to end. Three… two…. one…. Briiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing! The bell’s chime thundered through the school. Chorus sprang up and dashed into the hallway. She nearly sprinted through the corridors and into the choir room, where she leaned against the wall, panting. “Look who’s here first! Hello, Chorus!” Miss Macintosh, the singing teacher, hurried towards her, her floaty sky-blue dress swooshing around her ankles. However, when she neared Chorus, she stopped and frowned. “Have
Fiction
The day I abandoned my best friend was the day I lost myself. With her I was everything, and without her I was nothing. It was a rainy day, and I was lying on a fluffy pink mat in Ashley’s room. There she was, standing, legs crossed, but not enough to hide the trembling. There she was, long dark hair tied back in a messy ponytail, unwashed and uncombed. There she was, biting her nails. Ashley never bit her nails. I had a hard time believing this creature was my best friend. And yet here she was, reduced to a nervous wreck, awaiting my reaction to her unbelievable announcement, “I’m moving away.” My reaction was stalking out of that room without a backward glance. She did not try to stop me. It turned out I never entered that room again while Ashley lived out her few remaining months there. The very next day during lunch I made a beeline straight for Jennifer and Tiffany’s table. I avoided catching Ashley’s eye. Instead I focused on laughing to Tiffany’s incredibly stupid jokes. Ashley was much funnier. I called my mom on my cell after school. “Hello, Mom.” “Hi, June.” “Mom, can you drive me home?” “Honey, don’t you want to walk home with Ashley?” “Well… I want you to drive me to Tiffany’s house. She invited me over.” “Homework?” “None. Mom, I always finish my math. It’s easy.” I could hear a sigh on the other end. “Coming.” Then she hung up. So that’s how my life became—going over to Tiffany’s house and watching horror movies with her and Jennifer, eating junk food, and making Tiffany’s mother angry. It wasn’t ideal, but I thought I handled it really well, until the day Ashley moved away. That day I spent sitting on my bed, clutching a bowl in my lap in case I threw up. It was a good excuse for staying home. After all, I had thrown up more than once as a result of eating too much junk food at Tiffany’s. Though that day I don’t think my nausea was caused from an upset stomach. * * * At dinner a month later Dad mentioned he’d be coaching cross-country at school. I had already signed up and when I told him he was delighted. “But Dad,” I said, “I’m short. I won’t be very fast.” “Nonsense,” he said. “You’re very athletic. I’m sure you’ll have a medal in no time.” That’s when I knew I had to get first place. Otherwise no one would ever treat me like a thirteen-year-old girl again. No girl my age was as short as I was, although Ashley had been pretty close. My mom broke into my thoughts. “Pass the potatoes, dear,” she said. “And oh, that reminds me, a new family is moving next door. The Reeds. And, June,” she turned to me triumphantly, “they have a daughter your age!” I sunk into my chair. Great, I thought. A new girl. I will have to walk her to school and be her friend and listen to her sniveling. “What’s her name?” “Melissa.” I hated Melissa Reed. * * * It was the day before cross-country was to begin and I decided to go for a run. I pulled on black running capris and a neon-green T-shirt. I used an athletic headband to keep my hair out of my face, then tied my black ponytail with a hairband. Bronze skin, shoulder-length black hair, short but strong. That was me. I ran out the front door into the crisp, fall air, heading down the sidewalk. Suddenly I stopped short. There was a moving truck in the driveway of Ashley’s house. A door opened and a tall, slender girl with a dark brown ponytail came out. She turned and looked at me. Her eyes. They were cold, cold blue eyes. Under her gaze I felt vulnerable. Turning, I sprinted up the street, rounded a corner, and slowed into a jog. Her eyes were still there, imprinted in my mind. I couldn’t shake them away. Without meaning to, I took the route to the park Ashley and I always used to go to if we had anything serious to talk about. I crept underneath the willow tree next to the lake where we used to conceal ourselves. We could tell each other anything there. Ashley. I got up and ran away from that place. Tears blurred my vision. I tripped and fell on the pavement, lay there, sobbing. Ashley. Ashley. Why don’t you come back? I heard footsteps behind me and turned, still crying. For one stupidly hopeful moment I thought it was Ashley, but then the cold blue eyes made themselves known and hatred consumed me. “Go away!” I shouted. “Go away, go away, go away!” She stared at me with wide eyes, then sprinted away. I watched her fade into the blurry background of birdsong and swaying trees. Then I laid my head down on the hard pavement and knew no more. My mom came to get me later. She said nothing, only looked at me anxiously and wiped my tears with an old handkerchief. It was already wet, perhaps from her own tears. I was too sleepy, my face raw from crying and my head aching, to care. My last thought before I fell asleep was, cross-country tomorrow. I woke up. Cross-country today. I walked Melissa to school, sat with her in the classroom and at lunch, navigated her to her classes and to the bathroom, listened and answered her questions and was her all-out friend for an entire day. It was exhausting. I couldn’t look forward more to cross-country. No Melissa there. How wrong I was. I suppose through my haze of tears the day before I hadn’t noticed she was wearing running capris and tennis shoes just like me. But there she was, and quickly she sidled up to me. Groan. My dad whistled piercingly. Everyone covered their ears. “All right, cross-country!
Fiction
I stand at the top of the cliff, gazing down at the clear, cool green of the water. I can see the rocky bottom magnified through the river’s glassy surface. The sunlight flickers along the cliff, reflecting off the smooth water. I will myself to step closer to the edge, away from the shade of the small firs, and into the sun. I stand there, soaking up the warmth of the sun as it plays over my body. My bare feet grip the rough, gray rock; my toes curl over the edge. A lazy waft of air reaches me from the river, carrying the faint scent of long-gone salmon and the cool soothing smell of the river itself. I gaze down and see the rock dropping away toward the river below. It reaches the water and turns green and mossy as it continues its downward journey. Little eddies of pine needles gradually drift down the river toward the faint sound of the rapids. I tense my muscles, hesitate, in a moment of indecision, and then I jump. The wind whips by me, no longer a faint whisper, and I windmill my arms to stay balanced. I glimpse the water rising to meet me as I point my toes and enter the water. I sink—down to the tranquil depths—before rising slowly to the surface. My feet sting, but I have done it. I grin my silent jubilation as I swim to the cliff and begin the climb once more.
Fiction
“We’re what?!!” I gasped, blinking in disbelief. “Moving, Naomi. To Hawaii.” My dad looked like he was torn between which expression to wear: excited or sympathetic. He ended up looking understanding when he was talking to me, and thrilled when he looked at my eight-year-old sister, not that she needed it. Peyton was practically bouncing off the walls, squealing with delight. I guess I should have been happy too, but after twelve years of growing up here, with my friends, I wasn’t. A vacation to Hawaii would have been nice. But living there? And then there was the weight in my mind that I had been pushing away for about a year and a half, ever since… No, I thought, tears brimming in my eyes, I didn’t want to think about it. Meanwhile, Peyton was screaming, “Woohoo! We’re moving to Hawaii! The water’s as warm as a swimming pool—Katie told me!” Katie had one daughter, Selena, who was Peyton’s age. The two had already become best friends. Selena’s parents were divorced, and Katie had been Dad’s girlfriend for about a year, the first one since… What am I doing? I thought. Every thought turns back to—no, I won’t think about it! I blinked back tears again so that Dad wouldn’t see them. The last thing he needed was more stress, and it wouldn’t be fair for me to push mine onto his plate. “We’ll go to the beach, and I’ll make sand castles every day! Wait’ll I tell…” And then it hit her. She slowly looked up at Dad, her lower lip quivering. “Papa?” she said, her voice shaking as the realization finally caught up with her. “What about my friends?” “Well....” Dad paused, stalling for time. “You’ll be able to call them every day!” But Peyton wouldn’t take it. Tears flooding down her cheeks, she ran out of the room, sobbing, “I’ll never see my friends again!” “Well, actually…” Dad tried to call after her, but she had already reached her room. He looked at me, muttered, “Wish me luck,” and strode out of the room after her. I knew that this time it would take a lot of persuasion to win her over. I sighed and glanced at my watch. It was past lunch time. Stomach growling, I got up lethargically and ambled over to the kitchen to make a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. By the time I had finished eating my sandwich, Dad and Peyton were returning to the kitchen. Dad’s whole face, I noticed, looked considerably wearier than it had when he had left. Peyton was clutching the teddy bear whom she’d named, not very originally, Teddy. Her tears had dried, but she still bore a melancholy expression. Her appearance was that of a child about three years younger than she; still in her nightgown and slippers from when she’d come down to breakfast, her curly hair a tangled mess on the back of her neck, holding an oversized teddy bear tightly around the neck. “Can I ask you something?” I asked Dad, clearing my plate as he and Peyton settled down in chairs. “Of course!” “Why are we moving?” “Oh!” he looked around, searching for the right words. “Well,” he said finally, “Katie and I had some… special news that we’re going to share with you… together.” Katie? I thought, glancing at the clock again. She’s supposed to be back any minute now from the airport, after visiting her family in… Hawaii. Anyway, what could Dad be talking about? Special news, what spe… And then it hit me, smack in the head, like a snowball. No, I thought, no, no, no! But Katie was already knocking on the door—Dad was answering it—they were walking over to us, hand in hand, Selena scurrying up behind them… “OK,” Dad announced, once we’d greeted Katie and Selena. “As I’ve mentioned, Katie and I have something special to tell you.” I winced, noticing that he squeezed her hand when he said “special.” Don’t get me wrong—I love Katie. She’s really sweet, she’s usually the only one to laugh at my corny jokes, and I’ve never had a boring afternoon while she’s been around. It’s just that no one could ever replace my mother, and—I’d thought Dad had the same opinion. My heart pounded in my chest as Katie opened her mouth. “We’re”—wait for it—“getting married!” Peyton and Selena started jumping up and down, squealing. My stomach dropped, but I planted a smile on my face. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice that only my lips were smiling. * * * On the day we found out about Dad and Katie’s engagement, Katie had brought home a pizza and cupcakes she’d picked up on the way home. We held a little sort of party in the living room, just the five of us. Dad turned up the radio and, after hearing the story of their engagement twice, we played round after round of charades, laughing and eating. For that one evening, I forgot all about what had been burdening me ever since I found out we were moving. When we’d reached our fourth round of charades, Peyton was hopping around in a circle, whipping her hands in the air. “A horse!” Katie guessed. Peyton shook her head. “No, a horse rider!” Again, Peyton shook her head. “A cowboy!” Dad boomed. “No!” “Ooh, I know!” Selena was jumping out of her seat. “A cowgirl!” “Right!” Peyton shouted over the radio, taking her seat in between Katie and Dad. I turned the radio way down. “I forgot to ask,” I said, turning to Dad. “When are we moving?” “Wednesday, next week,” he replied with a glance at the calendar hanging on the wall next to him. I nodded slowly, but they’d already gone on to talking about something else and didn’t notice. * * * When you want a week to last forever, it’s usually gone in the blink of an eye. I wanted our last week at home to go slowly, and
Fiction
It is super hot, humid. Sweat is running down my back like a brook. I am waiting. The A train is mine. I am on the east side of the Forty-Second Street platform for the southbound A train. People are running, late people walk slowly, lost people are walking purposefully. A woman pushes a rattling, clanking cart. She is dirty, a wrinkled old woman. She bumps to a stop next to me. She jingles a cup at me. She wants money. I have none. She and her cart continue on. I feel sadness. She is poor. How did she become poor? How did she get the cart on the platform? Where does she live? Why do I not have change for her? Where is she going? I don’t ask. A train stops, it is not mine. There is a band playing, a one-man, four-piece band. His face is small and thin, his clothes are clean. He is joyful, he is playing joyful songs. The music man is tempting us to dance with joyful music. I agree to dance. How come he is happy? His bucket has my money. Why did I give him my change? I feel a breeze, a train is coming, but alas it’s not mine. Some people are standing, waiting. Some are short, some are poor, some people are smiling. They are rich with happiness. Some are talking to one another. Some are talking to themselves. Some turn their heads and they are no longer talking to themselves, using Bluetooth. I see lights; a train comes soaring around the curve. It is still not my mine. By now where is this train? I look down the track. No train. I look across the platform, I see no train. I look at the platform sign, I am on the wrong side. Oooooooooooppppppppppppsssssss!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I have to cross over, the rumbles sound in my ear. I look down the track. It is my train after all. I was on the wrong side. I board. I find a seat by the window, I sit. Some people are old. More people are young adults. Some are parents. Some stare off into space. Others read books, Kindles, magazines, newspapers. I thought the Kindle was winning. Some are sleeping. Earbuds’ music, blaring, reaches my ears. I wonder if their ears are going deaf. There sits a father with his son, squabbling. A mother rests tiredly, a howling baby. Her arms bounce the baby. It does not work. The doors open at the Penn Station stop. A group of well-muscled men enter. They ask people to step back. The train moves forward, the boom box starts blasting beats in a danceable rhythm. Hip-hop dance moves fire up. Stiff as a board the first fellow spins on his hands. The next man does five back flips, touching no one. A dancer spins on a pole, missing people by inches, stunning. Acrobat number three, hanging onto a pole, does a summersault in midair. The men do a finale. People clap and whoop in approval. They pack up their boom box. With hats extended, they ask for donations. I wish I had money, sadly, my money is at Forty-Second Street. I let them pass. Twenty-Third Street arrives. The man and his son debark, squabbling stopped. The baby stops howling. More people press on to the train. There is a man on the platform hawking God. Screaming, he tells me, “You are a grave sinner. Your soul is going to hell.” Bible quotes fly out from his mouth, like an expert. I feel sad. I see his hat upside down by his feet, I see his hat, filled with dollars. Since I am going to hell I am glad I am penniless. The doors close, the train starts with a clank. Fourteenth Street arrives. A man gets off, shopping bag in tow. A few people enter. A group of boys carry a box of candy. “One dollar each!” hollers a boy. “Help support our soccer team!” I am still broke. They need money not for soccer. Their clothes are tattered, their faces tired. I don’t think they have a soccer team. I wonder where they got the candy. Where are their parents? I just nod at them. The connecting stop is Fourth Street. The baby sleeps in its mothers arms. Crowds switch, the baby still sleeps. Someone sits next to me. We look away. The train leaves. The train gently rocks around curves. My seat mate and I bump gently, in silence. This crowd is mostly workers headed home, silent. At the window I stare. My reflection stares back. My face says tired. Sniffles, sneezes, and coughs break the silence. I wish the baby would cry. The train slows for Spring Street Station. The lady and child depart. I will miss them. The crowd thins. From the station, the train eases. A woman has no bags, staggering, she makes her way forward, talking, she is making no sense. Closer, she moves. “Here’s one,” she says. Stepping closer, “You’re a fine boy.” Closer still, “You have been adopted, by a woman.” She is right. How does she know? Eerie? “You are not going to look at me,” she challenges, sticking a finger in my face. I study it. The fingernail is manicured into a fine point. Bizarre. Her fingernails are clean. “Look up,” she demands. I don’t. My eyes she cannot see. My soul, she wants to read. I refuse. Her challenge I win. With relief, I sigh. The train arrives at Canal Street, this is my stop. The soul-steeling woman gets off. I stay on, letting her go. I choose to go one stop more, to get away. I will come back on the next train. Getting home late is safer. I like my neighborhood. Is she in my building? I shiver. I hope not. The train leaves the station, I can’t see her. I breathe deeply. My seat mate tells me, “You did well, good job. She
Poems
The howl of a wolf Driven from her home The wail of an elephant Shot down for his precious tusks The lament of a polar bear Wandering in search of untouched ice They are nature’s plea The moan of a tree Torn from its sacred ground The cry of a dolphin Caught in a blood-red net The scream of a seagull Caught in suffocating oil They are nature’s plea A plea to stop destroying But instead to create A new world Where seagulls fly free, Where dolphins frolic happily, And where elephants graze without fear It is a plea to repair the equilibrium of nature To not blot out the stars with smoke But to dance with them Raising hands, paws, flippers, hooves In celebration Of a darkened world Brought back to the light
Poems
Nestled between two gnarled tree roots Is a fairy house with A sunken floor of red clay, A triangular roof of interlocking sticks, And a winding path of pebbles leading to a Bark door. Inside, a sand-colored stone serves as a nightstand, And next to it lies a bed with a Moss mattress and maple leaf bedspread. A blank scrap of paper And a pencil sharpened down to an inch Wait expectantly on the nightstand, Placed there by the child Who constructed the fairy house, With hope of receiving a message from any Diminutive guests. But the paper remained as blank as ever, And the child abandoned her belief of fairies. Though perhaps She overlooked the mussed bedspread, Or disregarded the chip in the bark door, Or failed to notice the rose petal on the floor. Perhaps she overlooked the fact that fairies Cannot write.
Book Reviews
Sugar, by Jewell Parker Rhodes; Little, Brown Books for Young Readers: New York, 2013; $16.99 Ten-year-old Sugar lives on the River Road Plantation in Mississippi in the early 1800s. Sugar is a young African-American girl whose father died during the Civil War and whose mother died of sickness shortly after. As Sugar spends her time cutting cane, Mister Wills, the plantation owner, hires more cane workers from China. These men befriend Sugar as she learns a new culture, but the workers in River Road do not like the Chinese men because they are worried that the Chinese men will take over the land. Sugar wants the Chinese men to have equality in River Road. She says, “I like the Chinese men. Reverend, don’t you preach, ‘Treat other folks like you want to be treated’?” Sugar cut cane until the sun turned red, orange, yellow, and pink, and faded into night. As Sugar says one night, “I stare at our shadows, lying, side by side, on the porch wood.” In the first few pages, I was shocked that Sugar hates her name! She throws up and gags if she eats sugar. As soon as the villagers finish cane working, they would eat the stalks. But because Sugar worked on the cane farm since she was two days old, she is tired of smelling the scent of sugar. It reminds her of the life she wants to leave behind. Though I am very different from Sugar, my family’s history is similar to Sugar’s amazing life story. My grandfather worked on a sugar cane farm for years. He grew up in a small Indian village called Panetha. He woke up at four a.m., took a shower, and prayed to God, and then at six a.m. set out for farming. He was about Sugar’s age then, and he either worked until noon or sometimes until six p.m. He worked with at least ten to fifteen people beside him. He told me that he cut sugar cane with a big knife. Inside the sugar cane is a solid fiber, making sugar cane juice. On the outside, the cane is not prickly, but be careful about the leaves! They are sharp and pointy. He sweated in the over 100-degree summers in India. He said he loved to farm. But like Sugar, he had a dream. His dream was to study and to come to America. In the late 1960s he came to America from India, just like the Chinese men came from their home country. And like my grandfather, Sugar achieved her dream to leave the sugar cane farm. I also relate to how Sugar bridged cultures. On holidays, Sugar encourages River Road to celebrate Chinese holidays. I encourage my school to celebrate Hindu festivities such as our Lower School Diwali Assembly. I hoped for grades pre-K to sixth to learn about our holiday, a day filled with joy and happiness. I think you should read Sugar, by Jewell Parker Rhodes, because I learned so much from the story of her struggle. I think that reading from authors of different backgrounds shows you new perspectives. I also recommend this story because it shows love of friends and warmth of adults. I hope my review will encourage you to read the book.
Book Reviews
Below, by Meg McKinlay, Candlewick Press: Massachusetts, 2013; $15.99 Anyone would think that if you drowned a town with five thousand swimming pools of water, it would be done and gone, forgotten forever! But twelve-year old Cassie knows that everything has a way of revealing itself, sooner or later. Since she was a little girl, Cassie was always interested in the town that the mayor, Mr. Finkle, had drowned by flipping a lever. Cassie would draw pictures and look for newspaper articles about the drowned town because that was the day she was born. She was born early, so she had to swim laps every day to keep her lungs healthy. One day, curiosity gets the better of her and she decides to swim in the lake with the drowned town instead of the usual swimming pool. I can relate to Cassie well because I have always been a curious person and have wanted to know more about things. I also am a swimmer and love the water. Cassie has always wanted to know more, and when she finds out her classmate Liam has the same interest as her, everything starts piecing together. Liam’s dad was in an accident the day Liam and his twin brother were born. His brother died at a very young age. Cassie and Liam start exploring the lake, going underwater and catching glimpses of the old town. Their search doesn’t give them any results for a while. One day, however, they see something sticking out of the water. It is the fire tree, what they used back in the old town for spotting fires. Little by little, more of the water is gone, and the first platform on the tree is above the water. There is one problem, though! The mayor, Mr. Finkle, doesn’t want any memories from the old town, and seeing the fire tree would just remind everyone about their old lives. He plans to fill the lake with water again. Mr. Finkle seems like a person who would always want things to go his way. He always seems kind of suspicious and careful around everyone when Cassie and Liam find the fire tree. A few days later, they find a shed under the water while exploring the town. They break into the shed and see a brand new red car. Cassie and Liam find that very peculiar because no one would want to trash a car on purpose, especially a new one. When they solve the mystery of the red car, it is destined to change everyone’s life forever. My favorite part of the book is when Cassie makes it to the fire tree the very first time. She has never swum such a long distance before, and when she finally makes it, Cassie has accomplished something special. I think the author, Meg McKinlay, makes everything so realistic you feel like you are part of the story. I found myself hoping, aspiring, anticipating, and envisaging that Cassie would figure out the mystery. It is also sad and melancholic to think that a whole town has been drowned and no one will ever see it again. I recommend this book to anyone who likes a mystery full of surprises to keep you on the edge of your seat.