Fiction
took a seat in the metal rocking chair outside my grandparents’ loft, gently swaying back and forth. Through the metal bars of the railing, I saw the grand old church below, small yellow lights illuminating the stained-glass windows. A light breeze blew; stars twinkled high above; the church parking lot was empty and silent, save for the single, glossy bulk of a black car lurking in the shadows. But all around there was noise—the booming explosion of fireworks bursting through the cracks in the wall, echoing in my ears like the distant rumble of thunder in a summer storm. I sighed, staring at the horizon where a dark cloud of smoke pulsated from the light of the fireworks I could not see. It seemed as though we weren’t going to have a true Fourth of July this year. “Liam, time to go,” Dad called, and I stood up, casting one last wistful glance at the disappointingly blank skyline. We bid a quick farewell to my grandparents, wishing them a happy Fourth, and then trooped down the staircase to the ground floor. No one spoke. Everyone seemed to understand that we had missed the celebration. As we were getting in the car, my younger sister Amy asked aloud, “Where are the fireworks?” “You see those buildings?” Mom said. “If they weren’t there, we might be able to see them. They’re over by the freeway.” The car pulled out into the street, and we started home. “I’m going to take the 210 home,” Dad said. “We might be able to see the fireworks from there.” The car turned onto a small side street, which opened up into a bigger avenue. Dad spun the wheel, and we turned right. “I see them!” Amy shouted. “I see the fireworks!” My heart leaped. Half hidden by trees, great bursts of color ballooned in the night’s sky. Fireworks. The light in front of us turned green, and the car turned onto the freeway. From here, the fireworks were even more visible. It was wonderful. “Look at that,” Mom said, pointing to the shoulder. There, a line of cars had stopped, and I could see the faint silhouettes of people getting out to watch the fireworks show. “Dangerous,” Dad said. I craned my neck to see the last of the fireworks as we rounded a bend. A beautiful green spark shot like a rocket into the air, exploding into a shower of red, white, and blue rain. “Look!” Amy squealed. “More fireworks!” She pointed out the front window to where a red firework was bursting. “And there’s another one,” Mom said, turning to the left, where a group of blue sparks ascended into the sky, bursting into a fountain of color. “How many shows do you think there are?” I asked aloud, chuckling. This was amazing. We kept going, listening to the pop of firecrackers going off, and the distant boom of the fireworks. All around us, fireworks burst from unseen corners. It was amazing and beautiful. And then suddenly, as we left the suburbs and ascended into the foothills, the fireworks stopped. The distant booms and rumbles and pops faded into the distance, and it seemed as though that was the end. But it was only the beginning. We drove in silence for a few minutes. Amy nodded off to sleep, her soft head leaning against my shoulder. In the front seat, Mom and Dad conversed in low tones, and I sat still, eyes half closed, remembering the beauty of the fireworks we had just seen. The car rounded a bend, and there was the city, stretched out before us. I could see each major street, lined with the ever-changing glow of car lights and street lights. It was magnificent, almost as wonderful as the fireworks. And then in the brightness of the city, a single flash of red ballooned in the darkness, like a flower unfurling its petals on the first day of spring. It took me a minute to recognize what it was. And then I realized it was a firework. I shook Amy awake. “Look at this!” I whispered excitedly, pointing out the window to where a green chrysanthemum of color was bursting over the city. Her eyes widened when she realized what it was, suddenly wide awake. “Fireworks!” she squealed, hugging me fiercely but never tearing her eyes from the scene unfolding. Even though, from this distance, they were barely the size of the toenail on Amy’s littlest toe, they couldn’t have pleased her more. They were like precious sparkling jewels, glimmering dazzlingly in the light. Or maybe they were the sparks from a wizard’s wand as he fought off dark magicians with spells and trickery. The faraway fireworks show was fantastic, and fantastical. As we exited the freeway, I craned my neck to see one last green firework exploding in the sky. Only three hundred and sixty-five days from now there was a city of fireworks to be explored once more. I smiled. I couldn’t wait for next year.
Fiction
orses, horses, horses. There were so many horses! Valery wondered which one would be hers as she gazed over the crowd of them. She had waited so long for this day. Today was her tenth birthday, and her parents had finally given in to Valery’s pleas to let her adopt a horse. There was a local horse carnival in town, so Valery and her mom had gone. “Do you want to go see the Pony Parade? It’s starting in five minutes,” Lucia, Valery’s mom asked. “I want to keep on looking for a horse, Mom.” Valery shook her head. “Can I look for a horse alone while you watch the show?” Valery offered. “I suppose so,” Lucia replied. “But stay safe! And meet me here after the parade.” “Thanks, Mom!” Valery called as she walked towards a large bay horse. The sun was starting to go down into the trees, and darkness was falling. “How much is he?” Valery asked the horse’s owner as she patted the horse kindly. He was a bit old but looked friendly. “Four hundred dollars,” the woman answered. “OK, thanks,” Valery nodded. Her parents’ budget for a horse was two hundred and fifty dollars. Valery walked around for a while, going from horse to horse. She examined great horses and small horses. Full horses and thin horses. The moon was rising as she went closer and closer to the woods that marked the end of the carnival. Valery was starting to think there were not any more horses to see when a flash of white caught her eye and the shrill cry of a horse echoed throughout the woods. Glancing around, Valery noticed that there was no one else in sight. Since the Pony Parade was probably ending, or perhaps already finished, Valery decided just to take a look at this horse, then go. Moving towards the horse, she saw it was tethered to a tree not far into the woods, unlike most of the horses who were in shiny trailers. The horse reared again and whinnied louder this time. “It’s OK,” Valery said calmly, inching slowly towards the horse. The horse snorted and backed away from her, tossing his head. He was a handsome piebald stallion who did not look older than four years. His eyes were big and dark, reflecting a sense of sadness from within. His head swept back and forth as if he could see something she could not.Then, deciding that all was well, the horse walked towards her and sniffed her face. Valery laughed as she rummaged through her pockets for treats. “Sorry, I spent them all on other horses,” she said apologetically, noticing how thin and bony the horse was. A bale of hay and some oats would help take care of that, Valery thought to herself. “Hello?” she called into the darkness. Someone had to own this horse, Valery knew, but all she could spot was a table. The carnival lights did not reach this far, and Valery called again, louder this time. “Hello?” “What?” a raspy voice snapped, making Valery jump. Quickly, she brushed a strand of dark red hair that had fallen out of her braid away from her face. There was no one in sight! Who could be speaking? Valery wondered. She looked at the horse half accusingly. No, it wasn’t the horse. But as long as someone was speaking, she may as well ask.“How much is this horse?” Valery called cautiously. “Three hundred dollars,” said the voice. Valery looked around but could not distinguish who was speaking. “One hundred.” Valery frowned. She wasn’t very good at bargaining, but she knew to start low. “Two hundred and seventy-five,” the voice replied irritably. Valery knew the Pony Parade must have ended a long time ago, but something told her that this horse was the one. “Two hundred and fifty.” Valery bit her lip. Two hundred and fifty dollars was the maximum, and she knew she couldn’t lose this horse. If she had to pay more she had to pay more. Valery just hoped her mother would understand. “All right, sold. Put the money in the bowl on the table.” Valery gasped in surprise. The horse was hers! Valery turned towards the table. There was now a dark pink and gray bowl sitting on the table where there was nothing before. Fear began to creep up her neck as she placed the two hundred and fifty dollars on the table quickly. The trees cast long shadows over the ground like the silhouettes of ghosts, and she felt invisible spiders crawling up her back. Valery began to untie the lead rope, which was tied tightly to the tree. “What’s his name?” Valery asked, desperately trying to start up a conversation as she picked at the knot with her nails. Cold chills were creeping up her back. Was it raining? Or were those footsteps she heard? Turning around, she saw that the money and the bowl were gone. Valery prepared to run, but darkness seemed to swallow her from both sides. Running could either lead her out to safety or deeper into the woods. Her nails throbbed with pain as they scrabbled with the rope. “Seamus.” His name seemed to be carried by the wind, only appearing for a moment before vanishing. Valery nodded meekly as she finally succeeded in untying the knot. Now remembering which way she came from, Valery prepared to escape with her life and the horse. Cold fingers grasped her shoulders, and Valery ran out of the dark and shadowy woods with the horse following beside her. “Valery, where were you?” Lucia cried, hugging Valery. “It’s been nearly an hour since the Pony Parade ended! I was about to call the police!” “Sorry, Mom,” Valery apologized. “I got a horse, though. His name is Seamus.” She stepped aside to let the piebald horse through. The horse had a white blaze running down his face and four white stockings that glowed in the light of
Fiction
stood in the box, wriggling my toes around in my cleats along with the sand that had somehow managed to wedge itself in there. It was a hot, cloudless summer day and I regretted wearing long wool knee-high socks, though they were part of my uniform. The green-and-white bat felt heavy in my hands, as well as the large purple batting helmet atop my head. I looked nervously at the pitcher’s mound and watched as she wound up… and threw. I watched as my teammate swung…and missed. Another hit, and I’m up, I thought, another hit and all the pressure is on me. It’s not that I don’t like softball, because I do. I love throwing and catching with my teammates, going to batting cage. But the prospect of batting in a real game makes me want to crawl under a rock for a few weeks. Behind me, in the dugout, I could hear my teammates cheering. That gave me a little courage but not much. Clang! I watched the softball sail through the air. An outfielder lunged but missed the ball and it rolled neatly onto the ground. She snached it up and made a wild throw to first as my teammate rounded it then touched second. “Safe!” called the umpire, though distantly in my head. More sharply did I hear, “Batter up!” My stomach flopped around and then violently tried to eat itself, but I forced my quivering legs to walk the couple yards to home plate. It felt like miles, especially with the ump and pitcher watching expectantly. My team really needed a hit. The score was one-to-two, in our opponent’s favor. We had runners on second and third, there were two outs. My nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point, I wished someone—anyone—would do it instead of me. But nonetheless, there I was. It didn’t help that I hadn’t gotten a hit all season. My only experience with batting was swinging and missing, swinging and missing. I shouldered my bat, lined my feet up with home plate, and concentrated on the pitcher. If I was going to have to do this, I might as well try as hard as I possibly could. The pitcher wound up, and threw. I panicked, trying to remember everything I had ever learned about batting in a split second. The ball landed short at my feet, but I still made a wobbly swing. “Strike!” called the umpire. I winced. No! You knew that was a grounder, I thought, why didn’t you leave it alone? I promised myself that I wouldn’t swing at any more balls. (A ball in hitting terms is something to avoid, something unhittable.) Next pitch the softball whizzed by my shoulders and I didn’t do anything. “Strike two!” But when the next ball rolled my feet, I was ready for it, staying stiffly where I was. Three more softballs hit the dirt and my bat didn’t move. I looked up in surprise as one of the coaches rolled out the blue pitching machine. Had I really gotten four balls? Something like hope stirred up inside of me. The pitching machine! In my league, that’s what they brought out if you had four balls. It always threw perfectly, you could always swing at it. “You ready?” asked the coach.I nodded stiffly, my helmet bobbing up and down on my head. The coach brought his hand up and around, just like a real pitcher, and released. I tensed and then something inside me clicked. I was going to swing at that ball and hit it. The ball was almost upon me, I tensed, waited for just the right moment, and then swung. Hips first, then elbows, then bat just like my coach had taught me only twenty minutes before. Ball hit bat. The clang echoed around in my mind. I had done it! I hit the ball! Then the more sensible part of me reminded myself that I still had to get to first base. I dropped my bat and was off. I ran as hard and fast as I possibly could. I had only one thought in mind, and that was: Get. To. First. Adrenaline raced through my body. I wasn’t tired, or if I was I couldn’t feel it. I didn’t have time for that sort of nonsense. In seconds, I was running through first as the first-base player ran to get her missed ball. I looked to the right and saw my dad (who was also the first-base coach), a gleam of excitement in his eyes, waving his arms in an ecstatic windmill-like fashion. I knew what that meant. Keep going. I turned, dug my cleats into the dirt, and began to run to second. As I ran, I managed to turn my head a little to see what was going on in the field. One of the girls on the other team had the ball and was winding up for a throw to second. I sped up with all the strength I had left, my arms pumping at my sides. When I was only a few feet from the base, I dropped to my bottom and slid. The front half of my foot touched the base. Ball hit glove. “Safe!” called the umpire.
Fiction
ind rushed through my long hair as I ran through the spring-green grasses of my mother’s farm. I was the happiest I had ever been. I ran through fields, picking flowers and tucking them behind my ears. I felt like a little girl again, so free, so wild. I ran with the birds, flying high above me in the sun. I felt like I could just jump and I would fly. I tried. I was flying, flying higher than the sun; leaping, bounding, laughing. Then, I woke up. My laugh faded, I looked around at my closet of a room and sighed. I was still in musty, dirty, and polluted New York City, in my small apartment, living with my absent father. When was I going to get out of here? I couldn’t stand it any longer! After my mother had died, my father had hidden any remembrance of her. He sold all of her clothing, sold all her trinkets from around the world, and sold her books. She had a whole library filled with books. Her books were historic, she got them from her travels: Egypt, Asia, Greece, everywhere! Now, there was nothing left here, except for her memories. The memories of her singing Joni Mitchell out of tune in the car, the memories of her teaching me how to ride a horse, pressing flowers from the garden, and learning to read books. These memories brought tears to my eyes. I jumped out of bed, put on my favorite dress, although I didn’t know why. I slowly walked into the small kitchen that held only a microwave, a minimum amount of cabinets, and a miniature table. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat down at our table to eat. My dad was at work, like he always was at this time. It was still summer, so I sat at the small table and waited. Most kids my age dreaded the day school would start, but I couldn’t wait. I had nothing to do. At the farm I had everything in the world to do: I could explore, I could pick flowers, I could help my mother cook our meals, or I could ride my horse, Rose, a mare with beautiful spotted white hair. I remember my mother asking me what I wanted to name her. I decided as quick as I could on my last name, Rose. Cecilia Rose, that was my name. I hated the name for myself, but it suited her just fine. Rose was another treasure my father sold when my mother passed away. I continued to sit at the table, waiting for my father to return. I walked around the very small apartment and waited…and waited. At 5:45 p.m., my father arrived. His face was encrusted with dirt and his hand was bleeding heavily. “Dad, are you OK?” I asked, concerned. He didn’t answer, he just walked straight into his room. I went to bed that night with no words spoken. My father had disappeared into his room and had not returned. That night I had a different dream. I was running, leaping, and picking flowers. I was happy, like in the other dreams I had in the past nights. Then, in the distance, I saw my mother. She was walking closer and closer. She was beautiful, her long white dress cascaded down like a waterfall, gently flowing until it reached the ground. Her face shined bright like an angel. Her golden locks blew in the wind. She walked closer and closer. As she approached I was filled with a warm sensation of new comings. I woke up and knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to cry. I sat on the edge of my bed and I cried. I cried for joy, I cried for sadness, I cried for letting go, and I cried for moving on. I thought of all the things I would do and all the things I would miss.
Fiction
hopped into my friend Teddy Ertel’s white Honda Pilot SUV on July 26, 2016. My friends Jonny, Teddy, and Mir were there too. We were going to Teddy’s beach club, Catalina, which was located in Atlantic Beach. We all squished into the back seats, fighting for room. As I banged into Teddy, I heard, “Ow, that hurt.” The only thing that was more uncomfortable than my tight swim trunks was realizing that Jonny Semach, one of my best friends, would be moving over 5,000 miles away, back to his home country of Israel, and this was the last day I would be seeing him. He would be on a flight to Western Israel on July 28 and I wasn’t going see him again before he left. Usually the beach is the one peaceful spot that can soothe my problems and stress. However, on this day it felt dreary and dismal. I knew it was going to be an agonizing day but also knew that spending it with three of my best friends would make it a little more bearable. I’d known Jonny for a long time. I met him during the first grade at PS 158 and we became instant friends. As soon as I saw him, standing in the corner with his eyes opened wide, I realized that he looked petrified to be joining a new school. Right then I made the decision to introduce myself. I scooted over to him and said, “Hi, I’m Tyler. Do you want to be my friend?” He answered me in a shaky voice and said, “Yes, my name is Jonathan.” I don’t know why, but from that moment on I started calling him Jonny and it stuck. We bonded while playing with the trains during choice time and that bond grew stronger through the years. In addition, I also knew Mir for a long time, even longer than Jonny. Teddy and I became close friends in fifth grade. The car ride to Catalina Beach Club was both a depressing and bittersweet experience, because, even though we all knew Jonny would be leaving, we also knew that we were lucky to be able to create one last memory with him at a place we all enjoyed, the beach. Once we got through the arched, tremendous entrance and signed into the beach club, we sprinted toward the ocean. My all-time favorite place to be is the beach. The sound of the waves was extremely peaceful, so I started to relax a little. In addition, the waves seemed as huge as a gigantic waterfall, just like the first time I went there with Jonny the year before. That time it was only he and I. There was a carnival at the beach that day which included a dunk tank and an extremely tall water slide that towered over us. Jonny and I took turns in the dunk tank and laughed like hyenas when we hit the target, sending each of us into the dirty, sandy water. We raced down the water slide again and again, and whoever won got bragging rights to say who was the fastest. Since we were such good friends, it never mattered to either of us who won. The flow of our conversation was always calm and easy. Getting back to my last hours with Jonny, the air smelled of sea salt and the day was as bright as the sun. The ocean was clear, not a piece of seaweed to be seen. As we approached the water, Jonny asked in a depressed, glum voice, “Is today the last day I’m going to see you?” I responded by saying, “No… it won’t be, so don’t think about it,” but in reality I really didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. I was reassuring both myself and him.It was like I was sugarcoating the truth for us, because I couldn’t bear the thought that this could actually be true. Then we all raced into the ocean, charging through the water like military soldiers charging into battle. Minutes later, we stopped and looked up and saw that there was a gigantic, eight-foot wave standing over us, making us look like we were ants. All of us said in unison, “Uh oh, we better brace ourselves before it knocks us under the water.” That gave me a funny sensation, because I felt like Jonny leaving was knocking the wind out of me, but I laughed along with the other guys, while I felt like crying inside. Crash! Bang! We continued to get knocked around, pulled under the water, and pushed onto the beach, which took my mind off everything temporarily. We were all chuckling hysterically as we swam back out for the next huge wave to overtake us. I was glad that we had this amazing time to add another farewell for Jonny to remember us by. After about an hour we left the ocean to have lunch with Teddy’s parents and his siblings. We all argued about who would sit next to Jonny. In the end I plopped onto the chair next to Jonny on one side and Mir sat on the other. We had Jonny’s favorite food for lunch, which is pizza and then cookies for dessert. Lunch was calm and silent, which was very strange for us. In the past, we were never silent, therefore I realized everyone was just as depressed as I was. Eventually, we faced the elephant in the room and talked about how each of us was going to miss Jonny. After lunch we headed back to the ocean. We continued to get knocked over by the waves. Boom! A gigantic wave overtook me and knocked me back to the shore. I was hoping I would be comforted by the sounds of the ocean, but unfortunately, that didn’t happen because deep inside I knew I would miss Jonny’s friendship the most because I had spent the most time with him. I became nostalgic as I
Fiction
hug! Chug! Chug! the rollercoaster roared as I rose higher and higher into the air. High above the bustle of Paris, my sister and I rose and plunged on the snakelike coaster. My stomach started sinking like the Titanic when I dared look down for a split second. Why did I do this to myself? I silently screamed, not really wanting to answer my own question. In a blink of an eye, we were almost at the top, and I felt my stomach clench as I stared wide-eyed at the gargantuan drop! If I could have one wish, it would be to freeze this moment. I could not mentally move past this point. One second later, reality belly-flopped me into a black hole. Chug! Chug! Chug! the rollercoaster taunted me. All I could think about was how high I had climbed, how soon the death-defying drop would plummet me into an abyss, and why I had agreed to do this. “Aren’t you excited for the big drop, Izzy?” Hannah asked, gazing at me as joy shot through her voice like a sunbeam. “Yeah,” I muttered, not looking at her. I was lying both to her and myself. Think happy thoughts, I told myself, but how could I think that way when the once bright sapphire sky was now dark and gloomy and the grass under me no longer seemed green but shadow black? I shut my eyes, not ready for what lay ahead. I would face the drop in five, four, three, two… “ARGHHHHH!” my sister and I screamed. I hurled my hands in the air and let the wind run against my arms, and to my surprise, it didn’t turn out to be as scary as I had thought it would be. After the ride was over, I realized I enjoyed conquering my fears and trying new challenges. “See, wasn’t that fun, Izzy?” my older sister asked, turning to me with her golden smile. “Yeah, do you want to go again?” I asked, my voice singing with confidence as I gazed up at the giant roller coaster with pride. “Sure.” With that, Hannah and I clasped hands conspiratorially, and we joined the line.
Fiction
usts of wind whipped around the platform, a welcome appearance for the impatient passengers dripping with sweat on this sweltering Beijing summer afternoon. Off in the distance, two whistles blew, piercing the air with their tremulous shrill, ushering in a series of booming clang clang clangs. Eagerly, I gripped my blue suitcase ever so tightly. Sweat in my palms practically melted into the silver luggage handle. Just a few moments before we would board the train… a couple of seconds now… a mere split-second… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Puffs of smoke from the train funnel rose and drifted in the breeze, and the locomotive stopped still on the tracks, its red hue dimming in its countless journeys. The crimson gleam remained though. A train attendant clad in a dark navy-blue suit and beaming pearly whites unlocked the train entrance. A cluster of voices suddenly bubbled up as everyone clamored to board the train, yearning to escape the burning heat. Only one young woman stayed behind to wave tearfully at her family, yelling a last minute I promise to write! and I’ll miss you! Her parents nodded, ready to let her go as the young woman vanished within the clamoring crowd. I had heard that boarding a train was like entering a whole new world. That it would be an exciting, thrilling adventure. That sometimes you met all kinds of people who could change your life, or become a lifelong friend. It seemed that the world inside this train was bursting with people to be met, things to be seen… People also said that riding trains was the best way to immerse yourself in Chinese culture, as Chinese people routinely traveled by train, and that was just my goal as my family and I boarded the train that would take us on a cross-country route, leading from northern Beijing to the southern China harbors. We were bound for the final stop on the train route: Shenzhen, a mega-metropolis in China famed for being the Silicon Valley of China, for its contemporary architecture and modern, youthful culture. We’d come to visit my uncle who lived there. I had heard amazing tales of Shenzhen from my parents, and I dreamed of the urban adventures I would get to experience. Inside the train, I leaped across the passenger corridors, bursting with curiosity at the unfamiliar newness of it all. I paused to stop and inspect the cogs of an enticing gadget. Or how the window curtains were royal blue and fringed with golden yellow, with phoenix figures imprinted on the fabric… I was so thrilled to be on a real-life train, on a world away from home! Suddenly, my mom called me over. Instantly, I rushed—no, skipped—over to our compartment. This would be our home for the next twenty-two hours. Triple bunk beds were built on either side. Mom and I snagged the bottom bunks—rejoice!—while my cousin got the middle bunk above. Bottom bunk was almost always the best spot, because beside it was an oval-shaped window that gave a view of outside. Underneath was a sterile white table ideal for eating. And the best part was that I could freely amble in and out of the compartment. No having to climb down and fret about accidentally squashing someone’s toes! As we furnished our surroundings, I took out my travel satchel and a pink-and-purple dog-shaped pillow. Our bunkmates soon came in and settled down. They promptly began to doze off. The train would start off shortly. Suddenly, a flurry of voices began to rise. Poking my head out to see the commotion, I heard some people having a heated debate. A woman with high heels sharp enough to stab someone chatted in animated Chinese with her friend, a carefree spirit in her smile. A frail, elderly man with a head full of gray hair, dashed with specks of white, persevered to keep his balance as he walked and took out a pocket-sized leather-bound photo album and lovingly stared at a tiny, grainy, sepia photograph before placing it back. A pair of parents warned their child QUIT climbing on the suitcases or else… A teenager crunched on some chips as she listened to the blasting music in her earphones. She swayed to a rhythm I couldn’t make out, completely immune to the activity rushing around her. An auburn-haired man glued to his cellphone muttered to himself in a foreign tongue, urgently tapping the screen for a response, a ghostly halo framing his features. A young mother with a tied-up bun nestled in her arms a whining and wailing infant. Trailing behind her was her daughter, pulling her mom’s orange blouse, craving attention. Not far behind was the children’s dad, huffing and puffing as he heaved the massive luggage. They settled in the compartment next to us, the baby screaming louder. I wondered about the tales of these people, what sort of lives they had to tell. TWEEEEEEEET! The shrill whistle abruptly sounded, and off the train lurched, giving a violent jolt and leading me to hop into the safe covers of my bed. Grabbing a book, I began to read. Suddenly, nearly three chapters in, I felt someone staring at me. Intently. And for a long time. Maybe it was my sixth sense creeping in. I could hear a pitter patter of footsteps. Then a pause. Who could it be? Looking up, I found a pair of deep black eyes staring at me! Oh! Those eyes belonged to that little girl with the wailing infant sibling! They were thoughtful, glassy eyes, like marbles, rolling around the small room and studying the compartment, my dozing bunkmates, and, most importantly, me. Then she hid behind the wall separating the train compartments. She peeked again. And again! This game of peek-a-boo went on for several minutes, with each stolen glance becoming increasingly longer and more confident. Black bangs framing her chubby face, radiating total innocence and utter angelicness, her thoughts seemed to echo loud and clear. I want
Poems
My feet sunk into the soft sand. The waves called to me. “Come play,” they said, “within my water so that I can hear your laughter.” The water washed up on the yellow sand, trying to reach me. The breeze rustled in my hair and the only sound I could hear was the love that the seagulls shared that morning. In the distance, the water looked as pretty as a pearl. Just as I was about to turn back, something sparkling came out of the sand. At first, it looked like a shell. Then it became more. It was a precious turtle, small and helpless. Suddenly, crabs and seagulls crowded around the turtle. Breakfast was what they saw. “Stop!” I shouted. I walked over to where the turtle hid and I guarded it. Slowly, I walked with it, imagining our conversation as we sauntered to the sea. Then, the turtle stumbled over a shell the color of my mother’s eyes. Finally, it made it to the sea. I picked up the shell, for it would be my memory.
Poems
When you remember The long night that passed by you There may be a hint of a scene A recollection of a moment Warped and disfigured Wonderful or horrifying Only playing out in your mind This clue may be short It may continue to a story A twisted stream of events Where nothing ever gets done Or you might wake up Believing it still to be one instant after you fell asleep And yet time ticks by Your tossing and turning the only keeper of it Your dreams the only memories of the night
Poems
A walk by the shore on a blazing summer day, So hot that you can cook an egg on the street. The soft silky sand tickles your toes While you complain that it is hot as fire. Happiness and laughter fill the air as I jump From the glistening waves that try to pull me in. You build a castle with your left hand And eat a frozen treat with the other. You spread a fuzzy blanket to sit back and wait, For the time has come for you to be speechless. In awe you see, your eyes sparkling bright, Right at the horizon, is a sunset.
Honor Roll
Stone Soup Honor Roll: July-August 2017
Welcome to the Stone Soup Honor Roll! We receive hundreds of submissions every month by kids from around the world. Unfortunately, we can't publish all the great work we receive. So we created the Stone Soup Honor Roll. We commend all of these talented writers and artists and encourage them to keep creating. – The Editors Scroll down to see all the names (alphabetical by section), including book reviewers and artists. STORIES Maris Brown, 12 Angelina Cao, 12 Catelyn Clevenger, 11 Maeve Filkins, 10 Bailey Fried, 11 Ava Giordano, 12 Sierra Glassman, 11 Garrett Heller, 13 Aleena Islam, 13 Ruhee Jain, 11 Cole Jersek, 11 Finn Joshi, 12 Renee Kelly, 9 Jannah Khan, 13 Lauren Lamson, 11 Eden Skye Lewis, 10 Sienna Ruby Lipton, 12 Emilia Llorca Luth, 10 Adelle MacDowell, 13 Arabella McClendon, 13 Sofia McTaggart, 12 Mackenzie Morong, 12 Natalia Odreman, 12 Sydney Phillips, 11 Myla Pierre-Louis, 13 Siddharth Ramesh, 10 Sophie Raskin, 9 Leyla Richter-Munger, 13 Ryan Rodman, 11 Emma Russell-Trione, 12 Shefali Sahai, 13 Emily Schechter, 11 Soleil Shannonhouse, 8 Lev Scheinfeld, 13 Zack Shell, 13 Liam Smith, 12 Owen Stokes, 12 Julia Ye, 12 Subin Yoon, 13 Emily Zhang, 12 POEMS Hattie Bradshaw, 10 Eliana Brenden, 11 Cora Cheer, 10 Alma Dasberg, 11 Riley Dowell, 10 Gabriel Epstein, 12 Mia Harte, 12 Zoe Keith, 9 Lauren Lamson, 11 Kyra Mathew, 10 Abraham Newman, 11 Hannah Parker, 12 Tara Prakash, 10 Chloe Riethmiller, 10 Logan Settle Rishard, 11 River Shields, 10 Abby Wallach, 12 BOOK REVIEWS Olivia Brown, 13 Claire Buchanan, 11 Emily Cao, 13 Eileen Wang, 13 ARTWORK Giselle Alexander, 12 Emma Hemsch, 10 Reiyah Jacobs, 11 Jordyn Levine, 12
Book Reviews
Ghost Girl: A Blue Ridge Mountain Story
Ghost Girl: A Blue Ridge Mountain Story, by Delia Ray; Clarion Books: New York, 2016; $6.99 “I stopped cold, then turned around real slow. ‘What did you say?’ I asked. A big grin spread out over Dewey’s wide face. ‘I said, the Hoovers say they’re gonna build us a school.’ Set in 1930, Ghost Girl takes place on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains in West Virginia. The main character, Miss April Sloane, is an eleven-year-old girl dubbed ghost girl because of her white skin and hair, who lives an almost ordinary life after her brother dies in a freak accident. But when President Hoover and his family move into a vacation home in the mountains and invite Miss Christine Vest, a kind, smart young lady, to teach twenty-two uneducated kids in the new school, everything turns topsy-turvy. In this fast-paced novel based on real letters and newspaper clippings about the school, author Delia Ray guides us through April Sloane’s ups and downs, her hardships and successes, and her realization of who she really is.Even though April’s life is very different from mine, I was transported to her world in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a world with no formal education and not much money. I felt like I was with April and her dad, doing chores and telling stories. I was enchanted by the author’s descriptions of the brisk cool mountain air, the dewy morning grass, and the towering maple trees. The creation of the president’s Mountain School starts out looking like it is going to give kids a chance to thrive and be educated, but it turns out to be much more complicated.From the beginning, April’s mom does not want her to go to school so her daughter can stay home to do more chores. I think the mom is still grieving for her son and wants to keep April, her last child, safe and to herself. When April comes home from school every day, overflowing with love for her new teacher, April’s mom pushes her away.The jealousy leads to discord, not only with her teacher, but also between mother and daughter. This year, I am going to school for the first time after homeschooling for six years. Like April, I am super excited, but it means that I won’t be able to spend as much time with my family, and I will not have the control that I used to have over my schedule. Now, of course, it will be very different from April’s experience because my family supports me, and no matter what happens out there they will be there for me (or at least I hope so!). But, as in Ghost Girl, there will be many challenges in going to school for the first time. I really liked this book because it opened up a whole new way of living and a different place and time than I had ever read. I would recommend this book to anyone in need of a good story.
Book Reviews
The Boy on the Wooden Box, by Leon Leyson; Atheneum Books for Young Readers: New York, 2015; $8.99 Leon Leyson’s memoir of his experiences of Nazi Germany is a testament to the power of family and the amazing ability of kindness and good even in the darkest of times. Born Leib Lejzon, the author chronicles his family’s experience during World War II and the Holocaust. He and his siblings grew up in rural Poland and moved to Krakow to join their working father in 1938. But by the fall of next year, the German army invaded, and set in motion a cycle of misery, starvation, and death that would last Leib and his Jewish family six dark years. Leyson’s writing is simple but touching and gives us a window into what it was like to live through the Holocaust. It’s insane to think about how it would feel to be beaten, starved, and hated just because of which God/gods you placed your faith in. And Leyson’s physical pain was just the beginning, as he had to go through the murders of several family members. What if one day you learned that the people you loved the most in the world were dead, and you would never see them again? How is it possible to go on living, when a part of who you are is crushed like that? But somehow, Leon and some of his family did survive. It’s amazing how Leon and a lot of his close family endured the Holocaust. It was all through the help of Oskar Schindler, a German businessman who rescued Jews from certain death to work in his factory. His story was adapted into a critically acclaimed movie, Schindler’s List, by Steven Spielberg. Oskar Schindler was an amazing man. Disguised as a Nazi, he used bribes and extravagant parties to coerce high-ranking Nazis into letting him save Jews. Leon and his family were on Schindler’s List, and it saved their lives. Leyson describes Schindler as “the hero, disguised as a monster himself, who would save my life.” I won’t tell you all of what happened, but I can tell you that the book can make you cry with matter-of-fact lines, and tells you that it’s possible to outlast even the worst experiences and build a new life for yourself. Leon went through the Krakow ghetto, two brutal concentration camps, and still somehow survived his ordeal. I have read history books about World War II and the Holocaust before, but hearing someone tell a real, human story is something much different, and is so much more enlightening than any history book could be. This book spoke to me even though I don’t share the author’s faith. It really made me stop and think about how valuable my family is, and how lucky I am to have comforts like a warm bed, enough food, and a roof above my head. These are things that we should really stop and think about, and when someone like Leon Leyson shares his story with us, it puts it into perspective. It’s easy to take these comforts for granted, and walking a mile in Leon Leyson’s shoes is important. Even though the story is very sad and touching to read, it is ultimately uplifting and teaches us that even in the worst of times, we can still find goodness and bravery, even in unlikely places.
