Fiction
One thing was for certain, she never wanted to go. She never wanted to go to Santa Chiara. Francesca stared out the huge windows of the dining hall; the rain beat harder and harder against the window, making it almost impossible to hear the nun as she said grace. The ancient Madonna in the painting over the fireplace looked as tranquil as ever. As the girls started their dinner so did their chatter, almost drowning out the sound of the storm. Francesca sat secluded in a corner, thinking, in self-pity. She was suddenly woken out of her reverie by Sister Angelica, who was standing over her. "If you are done, I will show you around the school. Put your dishes in the kitchen and follow me," she said. Francesca did as she was told and followed Sister Angelica out of the dining hall. "These are the classrooms. You will be paired with one of the other girls so they can show you to each of your classes," Sister Angelica informed her. Sister Angelica showed her the nuns' hallway with the nuns' rooms and the office. She showed Francesca the courtyard, the student lounge, and the kitchen. Finally, Francesca was shown the room where she would be sleeping with the three other thirteen-year-old girls. Her room looked out over the courtyard and the courtyard looked over the Tuscan countryside and a castle pricked the sky on one of the highest hills. Francesca sat on her bed, staring out the window, wondering why she was here, but she knew why she was here. It was her paintings. Francesca was the daughter of the owner of the largest bank in Rome, and her parents thought it hardly suitable that she should paint. They considered painting a useless occupation, so she was sent to a highly recommended boarding school in the tiny town of Castiglion Fiorentino. And here she was in Santa Chiara where the school was taught by nuns. It was about an hour before the three other girls came in. As they got ready for bed, they laughed and talked, almost completely ignoring Francesca until they were almost in bed. A girl named Sofia told Francesca that she would be showing her around the next day. It took a long while, but finally the stars calmed Francesca and she slipped into the dark folds of sleep. The next day was very uneventful, as was the rest of the week. Surprisingly, Francesca was quite happy. She liked the quietness of Castiglion compared to the buzzing streets of Rome. The classes were good and the nuns were tolerable. The only thing she really wanted was a friend, but that could wait. She quickly established that her favorite spot was under the huge shady tree in the courtyard. She liked to look out over the countryside. She drew too, but she was not entirely certain she was allowed to. One day Francesca was again sitting alone in a corner of the dining hall at lunch. She was eating mechanically, not really seeing or tasting what she was eating, when a flash of color caught her eye. It was the Madonna that was always at the head of the dining hall. Francesca had never noticed, but the painting had a placid sort of beauty about it. She whipped out a piece of paper and pencil and started drawing the beautiful Madonna. She was so involved in her drawing that she didn't even notice Sister Lucia standing over her. "Although I am glad to see you take an interest in the Virgin Mary, your parents specifically sent a note saying that you are not to draw or paint in any form," she said and whipped the paper out of sight with one sweep of her gnarled hand. * * * On Saturday morning, Sister Angelica took the girls to the town plaza. "You may go around the town," she announced, "but be back here by one o'clock." As soon as Sister Angelica had finished her announcement, the girls scattered. Francesca wandered down a narrow alley and came out two blocks away from the plaza. She did not think about where she was going, she just simply wandered along the cobblestone streets. She stopped to rest in a plaza that overlooked the Tuscan countryside. The tiny plaza was wedged between two stone buildings. There were only a few people in the plaza; a woman and her baby, two boys play-fighting and an old man. Francesca sat on the stone wall and watched the old man intently. He was painting a picture. He seemed oblivious to the world around him, only concentrating on the stroke of his brush and the sound of silence. Francesca approached him and stood looking over his shoulder. He didn't notice her standing there and she might have thought him asleep if it wasn't for the fact that his eyes were open. "What are you painting?" she asked timidly. "Life," he answered without looking up. The countryside that he was painting did look like the definition of life. The hills were green and dotted with houses and his painting looked as perfect as the real thing. I could never paint anything as beautiful as that, she thought. Suddenly, with practically a physical jolt, she was struck with an idea. "Could you teach me to paint?" she burst out in a rush and clapped her hand over her mouth in horror. Finally he looked up at her. His face was a mass of old memories and old smiles. He stared at her for several moments and Francesca stared back, mesmerized by his gaze. "I will teach you," he said finally, "under one condition. You will paint forever, no matter what." Francesca thought it an odd request, but she agreed and sat down on the wall next to him. "Now before you ever start to paint," he began, "you must learn the rules before you start to break them." He handed her a pencil and a
Fiction
I looked through the small window of my new room, watching heavy streams of water galloping through the streets. Fortunately for me, our house was located high on a hill. My parents had run down to try to help the other villagers. Flood season had come. All I could do was stare, and watch in amazement and horror. Waves and waves of powerful water were streaming down the mountains, tearing everything. It was terrible. I lifted my head, seeing the great Deer Mountain. The Deer was tall, elegant, and dangerous—especially now. What had once been the beautiful white snow of the peak of the Deer's horn was now gone, and the watery wrath of the Deer was upon us. I did not know why the great Deer was doing this. Perhaps it was because spring had interrupted his peaceful winter sleep. I closed my eyes, hoping that the Deer would find it in his heart to cease. If the Deer would not forgive us, or whatever the cause, our little settlement would soon become a watery grave. My head turned away from the window, eyes red with fright. I walked over to my small bed and lay down. However, I could still hear the splashes outside and the occasional scream. The Deer was especially angry. What a pity. I heard a knock on the door. I didn't budge. To me, the tap! tap! sounded like the galloping Deer, calling to me. Calling me outside, to its wave of terror. I did not open the door. I would be brave. But, I noticed the cease of splattering and yelling. There was hope. Was it possible that the invisible bear had come, and defeated the Deer? I found the small portion of courage remaining in my heart, and opened the door. It was my father, and he was smiling.
Fiction
"Mommy! Mommy! Look what I found!" Trish squealed as she entered the living room, dragging behind her what appeared to be a giant book. I set down the magazine I had been flipping through; there was something familiar about that book, but I couldn't quite place my finger on it. "What do you have there?" I asked. "It's a photo album." Trish plopped down next to me on the couch. "And look, it has your name on it." Sure enough, there was my name scribbled on the cover. "Oh my, I used to keep this when I was just a few years older than you. I haven't seen this in years," I murmured wonderingly, running my fingers over the worn and creased edges. As I opened to the first page, deeply buried memories came flooding back. "Who's that?" Trish asked, pointing to a middle-aged woman smiling up at us. "That's my mother, your grandmother, way back when I was a kid." "That's Grandma?" Trish said doubtfully. "Yep." "And who's that?" "That's my old dog, Suki." Next, Trish pointed to a trio of young girls. Their arms were linked together and they wore huge smiles from ear to ear. "Is that you?" Trish asked, pointing to the middle girl. "Yes it is. And those two girls are Clara and Megan. We were the best of friends up until high school." "What happened at high school?" "Oh, nothing. We were just districted for different schools and after that we kind of drifted apart . . . we were such good friends . . ." As my voice trailed off, my mind drifted back to that last summer's night I had spent with those two . . . * * * Night had already set in when we stumbled out of the movie theater, doubled over with laughter. "Did you see that guy?" Megan squealed in between giggles. "He was such an idiot!" I agreed. "What are you talking about?" Clara cried indignantly, wearing an expression of mock disbelief. Then she leaped forward and brandished an invisible sword, mimicking the character perfectly. "Art thou thy dragon I musteth slay?" "Musteth?" I inquired. "Whatever." And we all fell over in another wave of laughter. I lifted my jacket sleeve and wiped away mirthful tears. "When's your dad getting here?" I finally managed to ask once we had settled down a bit. Clara glanced at her watch. "We still have about ten more minutes." "Any of you have some money left?" Both Clara and Megan shook their heads solemnly. "Sorry, spent mine on that last bag of popcorn," Clara said. I sighed deeply and sank down onto one of the steps leading to the theater entrance. "Well, what do we do now?" We all stared down at the ground, the same thought passing through our minds, but no one wanting to speak it aloud. Finally, Clara whispered out the painful words, "You know, school starts up tomorrow I guess we won't see each other for a while." I bit my lower lip and nodded. "It sucks we all have to go to separate high schools," Megan muttered, sadness and rage blended deep within her tone. "Sure does," I said. Thinking back, I tried to recall just how long ago we all had met. Was it second grade? Maybe. But ever since that fateful day many, many years ago, the three of us had been inseparable. It seemed a rather cruel punishment to split us apart this late in our friendship. "But it's not like we can't still be friends," I added, my voice brimming with hope. "I'll call you both right when I get home tomorrow." "Yeah, I guess," Clara sighed. No one spoke for a long while. I glanced from one sad face to the next, not sure of what to do or say. Our silence was only broken when the theater door swung open behind us, and two people strode out. Megan quickly shielded her face with her hand and whispered through gritted teeth, "Look away! Look away!" Almost instinctively, I turned to see who it was. Clara grabbed my arm and tried to yank me back, but not before I had caught a glimpse of them. The two most irritating people, Shauna and Zack, were walking hand in hand down the theater steps. I waited a few moments, making sure they were far enough away, then turned to my friends and raised an eyebrow. We watched as they walked off, slowly being swallowed by the night. Once again alone, we were consumed by another fit of hysteria. I was clutching my stomach, giggling like crazy, when Clara's dad pulled up in his old wreck of a truck. Most of the paint had chipped off, revealing a thick layer of rust, and the engine made a mysterious clunking noise at spontaneous moments throughout the ride. We didn't give it a second thought. Rising from our seats, we piled into the dilapidated truck. "So how was it, gals?" Clara's dad asked as I pulled the door shut and strapped myself in. For some odd reason he always emphasized the last word of every sentence. But we were used to it by now. "Not worth the time," Clara said. We both agreed. "Ah, well. So are you gals ready for school tomorrow? First day of high school, that's a big deal. Shame you're all going to different places." "Yeah . . . a shame," Megan said. Then, we all grew quiet, each staring out their own window into the dark, moonlit night. Regret hung heavily in the air, nearly choking me. Why did it have to be this way? Why did we have to be split up now? Clara finally ended the mesmerizing silence. "You won't believe what I saw this morning . . ." And the spell was broken, our words slurring together in our haste to get them out. "No way . . ." "Did you guys see that show . .
Fiction
"Sophia, honey, where are you going?" My mother's voice rises above the creak of the screen door. "Outside," I call back. The door slams behind me as I step out into the purpling spring evening. I smile. How could "outside" describe where I'm going? Stepping off the edge of lawn, I run through the woods. Moss is thick and damp beneath my feet. Weeds grip onto my legs, friendly greeting hands. Trees rustle, in infinite patience. The sultry air fogs my glasses, and leaves drops of dew dazzling a spider web. I walk across Jordan Creek, hopping from ancient rock to ancient rock. Water sighs its way down the waterfall, and then sings into a small pool, hidden by softly curling ferns. The water shines with a light from beneath its surface, dreamily glowing to an orchestra of crickets. My feet squish on mud. One by one my worries sink into the mud; I grind my heels into their ghoulish faces for revenge. And I smile. The ground shakes as deer leap through the forest. I watch them, their eyes constantly searching for something that never was, ears swiveling in anxious questions, tails held tense, stiffened with warnings and apologies and regrets. They lope out of sight, and I look ahead. I'm almost there. Almost. And then, finally, I'm there! I relax into the constant tide of peace that splashes about my shoulders and sit cross-legged underneath a small maple tree. The clearing is small, surrounded by thick-leafed trees. It maintains seclusion from the world, a secret place that time passes by, but still I can feel waves of energy whistling through. High in the slender, supple branches of a wild apple tree, a squirrel sways in her nest of dead leaves. I close my eyes and suddenly I am that squirrel. I can feel the dead leaves damply frail against my fur; feel the heavily lazy wind raking over the branches, spilling into my nest. I chatter my annoyance at a curious magpie that comes too close, and swell with aching pride over the nestful of innocently pink, squalling babies beneath me. My eyes snap open. And I lose my thread of connection to the gray squirrel. I lie on my back, raise myself up by my elbows and gaze up at the dusk-thick sky. A robin flies ahead and in a moment of looking I am that robin. I can feel a twig roughly grooved in my beak, feel the sultry air straining against my wings. I chirp my joy for all to hear, and fester with impatience for the nest to follow the twig, the eggs to follow the nest, and the chicks to follow the eggs. A blade of grass twitches against my elbow. I become folded into it. I feel my roots soaking up nourishment from the thawing soil; feel crowded by a thousand other grasses. I feel chilled by the lowness and am stretching, stretching, growing, growing to reach the sun. I expand to my human size. Sighing, I stand up, and begin the journey home. Darkness is beginning to slash over the dusk, and Mom will be worried. But I smile, straighten my back; swing my arms in uneven rhythms. I am refreshed, rested, in all senses of those two words. I am ready to stare at the darkly ghoulish eyes of realities, and enter life again.
Fiction
Berg woke up for the seventh time this week in a cold sweat. That same dream had invaded his subconscious again, the dream where he is in the jungle, where through the thick brush he can make out a light, like a campfire. And there is also the rhythmic throbbing of voices and the steady beat of crude drums being pounded. Each time he had come closer to the fire only to wake up when he is right about to part the ferns that separated him from the circle of people around the fire. Normally, Berg, being a sensible and down-to-earth kind of person, would have dismissed the dreams, but this was no normal dream, it was very vivid, so vivid that, sometimes, he forgot whether that reality was just a dream, or the dream was a reality. I ought to see a therapist about this, he thought uneasily while climbing out of his rickety old bed, careful not to wake his fellow orphans who were sleeping in the large "nursery." Berg climbed down the cold, metal steps that led to the large common room that dominated his orphanage. From there he turned to a hallway that led to the kitchen where his favorite nun was sure to be working on making the children's breakfasts. "Well hello, Howard, what are you doing up so early?" "The dreams," he said simply, while Sister Amy nodded knowingly "Also, I've asked you, please call me Berg." The homely nun rolled her eyes and continued cracking eggs into a large bowl. "I'll call you by the name this orphanage gave you, not some nickname you made up." There was a brief pause, broken by Berg asking hopefully, "Any news?" Amy looked at him sadly and said, "No, I'm afraid not." They were talking about the news of Berg's origin. He had been given to the orphanage five years ago, and ever since then he had been obsessed with learning about his past. The nuns did what they could, which was to ask other orphanages around the state if they remembered him, and to pray, of course. "Darn it," he said, feeling the familiar suffocating grip of hopelessness tighten around his body. "Oh, don't worry," said Amy. "There's always Fleming's Domicile for the Destitute," she said, squeezing his arm and giving him a wink. He laughed. It was an old joke of theirs. When he had first come and expressed his desire to find out who his parents were, the first orphanage they checked said they had no record of him. It was then that Amy had come and consoled him and said that it was always the most strangely named place that held all the information you needed. They had spent the rest of that afternoon making up different names for this unknown, strangely named orphanage, and Fleming's was his favorite. Berg got up from the stool he was sitting on and walked out of the kitchen, flopping on a brown, bumpy couch in the commons. He had just gotten a wave of vertigo, that feeling when it seemed like nothing was real. He gripped his hand tightly on the couch armrest until it passed. He looked around at the familiar settings of the large room. In the northeast corner there was a ping-pong table that would most certainly be used over a hundred times today. Lining the room were cushy armchairs and rather overstuffed couches, and in the southwest corner was a large bookcase. Soon though, Berg's relaxation was broken by the sound of a large alarm clock and the thunder of feet stepping down the staircase. Like a large herd of cattle, the student body tromped through the commons and into the dining room, where breakfast was to be served. Berg got up shakily and walked over to where his two best friends were, near the back of the line, as usual. "Hey, Clare, Nathan," said Berg when he reached them. Nathan nodded in recognition and Clare smiled happily, glad that all of her few friends were around her; Nathan only stuck his hands deep in his pockets and whistled a tuneless song. Finally, when they had progressed through the line and were sitting at a table, Nathan asked, "So, dreams again?" Berg smiled. He knew, of course. Nathan was the most normal and predictable person you could and probably ever would meet. It was for this that Berg had liked him so much. It was his normalcy that made him strange, because while everyone had their own unique style, Nathan had none. This in itself was a type of style that Nathan took special pride in. "Yeah . . . They're getting much more vivid, ya know?" said Berg after much thought. Clare and Nathan both nodded wisely, although both were hoping that the strange nightmares that had settled on their friend's mind would simply go away. There was an awkward silence, broken only by Clare looking down at her plate, sighing, as if to change the subject, and pushing it away. "Do they expect me to eat this? 'Cause I am not eating this," she declared, although there was never an answer. It was purely a rhetorical question, more like a ritual really. She looked disdainfully at the gray metal tray that held some sorry-looking eggs and piece of toast with a smidgen of jam on it. Then, as if accepting her fate, Clare picked up her plastic fork and grudgingly took a small bite of the egg. The school bell was like an old woman, yelling at them hoarsely, telling them to get to class, or suffer the consequences. Because every student knew what the consequences were, they all hurried. Clare and Berg had to part with Nathan as they went to the math class while he went to English for his first hour. In math they were covering dimensional analysis and many students were having trouble. Just as the teacher was explaining, for the third time, how
Fiction
As the snow season ends, about two months late, I look out my window and see my beloved city. It is late at night, and still the bustle of the city sounds as alive as the day, more alive possibly. Streetlights shine in a line and light up the darkness. Buildings flicker on and off as the city that never sleeps settles and dims. I love my city. My mother loved her city. San Francisco was her home and she always dreamt of going back to it. More space, more nature, more family, where it is so beautiful with trees and gardens that fill the country with fragrant smells and colorful flowers. I suppose that she missed the silence that greeted her as she drifted off to sleep there. Each time we drove by a house for sale, she would have to pull over and check it out. I have to admit, it is nice to be there, so close to my family, more space, my own room! And recently, I am considering more the life in California, rather than in New York, where in my two-bedroom apartment, I can't run outside to my backyard, or take my dog for a walk (a dog would not like living in my house). But this city is my home, and even though it might not be the most perfect place, with the best smells, or weather, I enjoy the presence of it. I like the busy streets, and the feeling that I get on a spring day walking down the sidewalk, the freedom engulfs me and I love it. Or so I thought. Now it doesn't seem as big of a deal to me. My two opinions bicker and fight over which place I should belong to. But I know that there are different kinds of beauty in the world. There is the natural beauty, that one can't help but recognize, and there is the beauty that you grow to love and live with. The kind that settles in your heart, never to leave. Once you have seen a different place, once you have been a city girl, nothing will ever be the same. It's like when you go to Japan, and when you get back, no sushi can satisfy you because you've had the very best. My loyal city is always there. Every night as I lie in bed, I watch my city move, and listen to my city's honking sounds. The sounds ring like the anxious chattering in the schoolroom on a warm spring day. A home is a place that you love, that you go to after everywhere else, and it greets you with a sense of belonging that you can't get anywhere else. There is beauty when you look out my bedroom window; you just have to find it.
Fiction
CHAPTER ONE: LEYLA ake up, Skylar!" hissed my older sister, Robin. "It's already eight-fifteen!" My groggy eyes adjusted to the early morning light streaming through the window and I glanced at the clock. She was right. I had twenty minutes to get dressed, have breakfast, and brush my teeth and hair. I dragged myself out of bed. I was exhausted. I had stayed up till two o'clock reading a great book about the fall of the Romanov empire. And now I would have to pay the price. I sighed. Today was the first day of seventh grade. I wasn't nervous. I'm never nervous on the first day of school. It's always the same. The work's easy, and I never make any friends. I don't have any friends outside of school either. Unlike Robin. Robin is popular, and has more friends than you can count. Actually, she has fans. That's all she wants really. Fans. The morning was a rush, and I just managed to catch the bus, but only by running as fast as I could to the bus stop. I was panting as the bus doors opened to admit me. I stepped inside and found a seat by the window in the second row I sleepily stared at the head in front of me. It took me a minute to realize what was different. The head in front of me was wearing a headscarf. It shocked me, but that wasn't the only thing wrong. She was sitting in the first row. Kids here will tease you mercilessly if you sit in the front row. Don't ask me why. I've never been able to quite understand the kids that go to Newberry Middle School. But I've got a basic idea. They aren't motivated, and because of that, don't try to live up to their full potential. Because I was different, I got teased a whole lot. But it didn't faze me. Part of it was the fact that they may tease me, but I know that it is not bad to be a nerd or globally aware. I'm proud that I'm not like them. The girl turned around to look at me. Her eyes were big and brown, with long, dark lashes. The brown was almost black. Like a doe's eyes, or coffee without cream. "Hi," she said. It was almost a whisper. "Hi," I squeaked back, but she had already turned around. A new girl. And she had promise. CHAPTER TWO Newberry Middle School had seven rooms: the sixth-, seventh-, and eighth-grade classrooms, the multipurpose room, the office, and the girls' and boys' bathrooms. I know it seems a little sad, but Newberry is a small town. A very small town. If you live here, your great-great-grandparents probably did too. It's so small, the town sign says Newberry, Population: 514. So the seven rooms accommodate the ninety students just fine. Today, I trudged into Mrs. Park's seventh-grade classroom. So did the Muslim girl. I looked around the room. I was sitting at a table in the back, next to Darcy. That was OK. The Muslim girl was sitting at a table across the room. Mrs. Park walked in, her purple heels tapping the floor as she closed her door and walked to her desk. "Welcome back, to another hopefully great year at Newberry Middle School." Silence followed her words. "Now before we start, let me introduce you to Leyla Aghdashloo, who will be joining our class this year. Leyla, how about you come up and introduce yourself?" Leyla walked up to the front of the room and stared awkwardly at all of us. "Hi," she said sheepishly. She took a deep breath and started over, this time sounding more confident. "Hi, I just moved here from San Francisco; I live with my mom and dad and three sisters who are fourteen, ten, and seven. I like to read, write, and act. I also love being out in nature." She walked quickly back to her seat. "Thank you, Leyla, we are fabulously lucky to have you in our class this year," said Mrs. Park, her smile wide and fake. "Now what did you all do this summer?" Hands shot up, including Leyla's. I put my head down on my desk and listened to the other kids talk. All I had done all summer was read. And sing in the bathroom when no one was home. I love to sing. I could spend my whole summer just singing. But I'm too scared to let anyone know I do. It means so much to me, I would die if just one person gave me the least bit of criticism. This is a big problem for me as my mom is a trained singer. She doesn't sing professionally, but she knows a lot about it. She says her criticism is her way of saying I'm good, and she just wants to make me better. That if I wasn't, she wouldn't even bother. But I know this is not true because of Robin. Robin is tone deaf. She has no range. Her voice wavers when she sings. But she gets criticism. Lots and lots of it. So me, I resort to singing in the bathroom, until I have enough courage to come out of my shell. The teacher's voice jerked me out of my thoughts. "Leyla, I'm sorry, but headscarves are not allowed in school." Leyla didn't move. "Leyla, please take off your headscarf." Leyla sat as still as a stone, her eyes on Mrs. Park. "Leyla, if you do not take off your headscarf, then I will have to send you to the office." Mrs. Park looked angry now. "Very well then," and Leyla got up and walked right out. No one that I have ever seen has been sent to the office on the first day. There was a loud silence, until Mrs. Park said, "OK, stand up, it's time to say the Pledge of Allegiance. And boys, please take
Fiction
I drowsily woke up to the voice of my sister, Emma, instructing me to wake up. I lifted one of my heavy eyelids and saw that my bouncy sister was hovering over me, fully dressed and ready for the day. She held two buckets in one hand, and in another was a stack of clothes for me. In the back of my head, I vaguely wondered what my sister was doing, bursting energetically into my bedroom at six o'clock on a vacation. Suddenly, something clicked. As I slowly crept out of my warm and comfortable bed, I remembered that every morning our family vacationed to Florida, my sister and I had a tradition of running out to the beach to see the beautiful early morning sunrise. The thought of this tradition fully awakened me, and I carelessly threw on my clothes, grabbed a couple of light windbreakers, and took the extra bucket from my sister. Emma and I dashed out the condo door, sprinted down three flights of steps, and then finally arrived at the wooden boardwalk that led to the beach. We skipped over it eagerly, and then plopped ourselves down on the cool, soothing sand, only a few feet away from the receding tide. Emma and I had made it just in time. As we faced the vast ocean and gazed out into the deep blue sky, the new sun was just becoming visible. The sky changed into a dazzling orange hue, and splotches of pink, yellow, and blue were overhead. I watched in amazement and was awed at the natural beauty of the Earth. After the sky had reached a pastel blue color, my sister and I decided to stroll along the shoreline. We each held a blue bucket that was empty at the moment, but would soon fill up with unique shells and smooth sand dollars. During our ten-minute walk, Emma and I were too overcome with the beauty of the scene to say anything to each other. Just as we were about to turn back, something caught my interest. Barely fifteen feet away from the coast was a sandbar which was clustered with a large number of seagulls. The seagulls appeared to be circled around some inanimate object. Each gull was screeching at the top of its lungs. Although I had seen many seagulls before, I had never seen anything quite like this. I suggested to my sister that we discover what the commotion was all about. We waded out to the small sandbar. As I got closer to the rambunctious birds, I noticed that they were pecking at little brownish things. Emma ran to the cluster of gulls, and a few of the birds decided to leave, but most remained. Now I could clearly make out what the birds were fighting over. Ten baby loggerhead sea turtles were helplessly sprawled on the wet sand. The seagulls' sharp beaks were pecking at them angrily, and a couple of the turtles were even dangling from the gulls' mouths. I sympathized with the powerless little turtles who were struggling to survive. I wanted to help them somehow, but I couldn't think of a way. I had tried yelling at the gulls, but they wouldn't budge. Instead, they squawked back at us, as if they were laughing at our pitiful attempts to save the turtles. After five painful minutes of furrowed eyebrows, I finally decided to run through the huddle of seagulls, despite my fear of the birds, and try to scare at least half of them away. I recounted my plan to myself over and over, and came to the conclusion that it was the best plan I had. I took a deep breath, and trying not to think about the needle-sharp beaks of the gulls, ran through the circle of screeching birds. Several flustered gulls retreated into the sky, but a good portion of them stayed rooted to the sand. I decided to take another shot at it, remembering the saying, "Failure only occurs if you don't try again." Keeping this quote in mind, I attempted again, and only a few of the gulls remained. I knew I was getting closer to my objective. With Emma's help on my third shot, we were finally successful. My sister and I hurried over to the remaining baby turtles, which were still struggling on their backs in the sand, confused by what had just happened to them. I was hesitant about moving any of them, since I knew that loggerheads were a threatened species. I also remembered that I had read that sea turtles had to make the journey to the ocean by themselves, so they could recognize their native land when returning from the sea to mate. Anyway, I knew that if we just placed them back in the ocean, the movement of the tide would be sure to trap the turtles back on the sandbar. Emma and I knew that we had to make a move, or else the turtles' chance of survival would diminish to almost nothing when the seagulls returned. After brainstorming together, we came up with a reliable plan. Emma would run up to our condo to fetch our dad, who would call the Wildlife Society. This way we figured that the turtles would be safe. I waded back to the beach and kept a close watch on the sandbar, watching for any signs of high tide. I stretched out on the warm sand and waited for the return of my sister. As I was about to shut my eyes, I felt something small scuttle over my arm. Thinking it was a crab, I jumped up in surprise. I looked down and saw a little brownish creature. I peered closer at it and saw that it was another baby sea turtle, eagerly crawling toward the blue ocean. I looked around in the sand and saw several more sea turtles, also on the way to begin their lifelong journey. I realized that there must
Poems
I climb to another branch in this Sequoia giant many times older than me. It has stood through day and night, through rain and wind and lightning, yet stands alone strong and tall. I see a view so stunning from my high perch way up here, the valley and the mountains, with mist pouring over the ridges shining silver with sunlight in the early morning sky. My family owns a tree farm and this tree is one of ours. We may fell many others and send them to the mill, but we'll never cut this tree for it's ancient and special. I watch an osprey soaring over our emerald forest, over a shaded streamlet and then, catching a thermal, the big osprey drifts away leaving me just a feather. I catch the feather floating and set it in my hair. I smile and write some more in my book of poetry that I keep here in this tree to hold magical moments.
Poems
Smoke blackens your face, Bold paintings line the creases in your skin, Twisting and turning in the crooks of your elbows. In the darkness you crouch, An animal with dark cheeks and sunken eyes, Next to the smoldering embers of your fire. I see you skulking half hidden in the shadows, The whites of your eyes made clear to me, In the reflecting shadows. I lie on my back and look up at the stars, Beside me I feel you creep from the woods and do the same, I understand. I feel your spirit tingling my skin, Open-mouthed I see the stars with the wonder of my ancestors, Beside the dust of your ancient bones.
Book Reviews
Powerful Words by Wade Hudson; Scholastic Inc.: New York, 2004; $19.95 This is a collection of poetry, rap, historical speeches, stories and biographies on the struggles and triumphs of African Americans. This book intrigued me because it was the ideas and thoughts from the eighteenth century to the edge of the twenty-first century. I could read the book part by part. I like rap music so I read the section about hip-hop star Lauryn Hill first. She expresses her feelings with music. I read the lyrics of a song about a person wondering where his life is going, "And I made up my mind to define my own destiny." But she is not the first to express her feelings. Benjamin Banneker, an inventor, surveyor and astronomer, wrote a letter to Thomas Jefferson. It said, "We are a race of beings who have long laboured under the abuse and censure of the world, that we have long been considered rather as brutish than human and scarcely capable of mental endowments. The color of the skin is in no way connected with strength of the mind or intellectual powers." Mr. Banneker died in 1806. Then I read about the first black newspaper, Freedom's Journal. Publisher John Russwurm wrote, "We wish to plead our own cause. Too long have others spoken for us." It lasted two years. By the Civil War, there were twenty-four African-American newspapers. One of my favorites was a story by Toni Morrison. The story is about an old, wise, blind woman who teaches a lesson about mockery and power. Mrs. Morrison's biography informs the reader that she was presented a National Humanities Medal by President Bill Clinton and is the first African-American woman to receive the Nobel Prize in Literature. Her story was very different from Mary McLeod Bethune's story. I never heard of this brilliant woman who started a public school for African Americans. Five little girls started in 1904. By 1923, it became Bethune-Cookman College and she was president. Many African-American children received educations because of her. I wish this had been the experience for Native Americans who instead were sent to government boarding schools where they could not speak their native language and were given Christian names. I would recommend this book to everybody who has a different culture and can compare their experiences. As a Native American, I learned about how we had some of the same experiences and different ones too. We share a history of discrimination, but we have succeeded in keeping our culture alive—our foods, music and traditions. That's what makes all of our cultures different but very interesting. I sit with my mother and sister when they sing and play the pow-wow drum and I connect with my heritage. In the same way, African Americans connect with their culture with the gospel music composed by Thomas A. Dorsey, the son of a minister. He wrote, "Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand, I am tired, I am weak, I am worn; Thru the storm, thru the night, lead me on to the light." Read this book! The powerful words will teach you how many African Americans struggled and achieved great things, making America better for all of us.
Book Reviews
The Wanderer by Sharon Creech; HarperCollins: New York, 20oo; $16.99 About a year ago, my friend recommended The Wanderer to the girls in my Mother-Daughter book club. When she described it to us, I knew right away that it would be the perfect book for me—that I just had to read it. A few months later, when I was on a trip to London for February vacation, we were browsing around Foyles bookstore, and I saw The Wanderer on a shelf. I added it to the stack of books accumulating in my arms and bought them all. The day after I got back, I sat down on the couch with The Wanderer. I was absorbed from the first page, and didn't move until I finished. One of the reasons I found it so gripping was because of Sophie, the thirteen-year-old protagonist. Like all the main characters in Sharon Creech's novels (I have read four others), Sophie was so vividly portrayed and well developed that I felt like I was her—soaring across the wide Atlantic with my uncles and cousins on a sailboat, answering the call of the ocean that had captivated me every year—forever optimistic about finally meeting my grandfather who was waiting for me in England. She also made me feel haunted by the shadow of her parents' death creeping back into her memory and stepping in and out of her dreams. I enjoyed every minute of this imaginary voyage because I associate the ocean with adventure, freedom and peaceful consolation, all as endless as time, just as Sophie does. I remember when I went on a whale-watching boat last summer, looking forward to the moment when the thin line of land behind me would disappear below the horizon and I would be surrounded by the wide ocean, stretching away in every direction. I thought of how Sophie eagerly anticipated getting underway and onto the sea. The most emotionally effective part of the book for me was when Sophie finally met her grandfather, Bompie, and retold stories from his childhood to him as a means of comforting him when he was sick. She also told him the tale that she had pushed aside for so many years, of her parents' death by drowning, only to have it painfully emerge from the fog of forgotten memories and into her consciousness. The way she told this story, mingling it with Bompie's stories, provided insight into her feelings in the moment as she finally discovered the true nature of her own past. This is a wonderful book for anyone who enjoys a deep analysis into what it means to survive a tragedy that claims someone you love. Even though I have never lost a loved relative or friend, after reading this book I feel as if I know what it would be like because the character of Sophie was so sophisticated and convincingly written. This book changed my perspective on death and helped me understand what was previously so incomprehensible in the way only an outstanding book can do.
