Fiction
By Hannah Ogden Illustrated by Isabella Ronchetti Emma O’Malley was alone. Up in her attic room of her grandmother Josephine’s farm, she could hear the rain hammering on the roof. She shivered. The lights had gone out twenty minutes ago, and the only light in the room came from a flickering candle on her dresser. Dark shadows danced across the room like untamed ghosts. She got up from her bed where she had been sitting and went to the window. The rain made it impossible to see, but she could faintly hear her parents outside. Once the rain had started, they had run outside to check on the sheep that belonged to the farm. It rained quite a lot here in Ireland, but this storm had her parents worried. Telling Emma to stay in her room, they had departed. Emma’s grandmother had gone out to the barn to check on the barn cats, and they had all been gone for nearly half an hour. Emma hated the wait. She wondered if her sheep, the one she had been given for her birthday last year and had named Katie, was all right. Suddenly, Emma heard a crack of thunder overhead, and she jumped. She could not hear her parents any longer, as the rain had worsened. It came in sheets, rocking the house. Another crack of thunder boomed in the sky. Emma shivered. Were her parents all right? Suddenly Emma could stand it no longer. She went to her sock drawer and pulled on a pair of wool socks and a gray sweater over her T-shirt. A bolt of lightning lit up the room, and she flinched, but she continued dressing. She pulled a blue hat over her wildly curly black hair and made her way out her door. Her coat was hanging up somewhere in the hallway. She silently climbed down the ladder from the attic and down the hall. The house was freezing cold. Most of the walls were made out of gray stone, as the house was nearly four hundred years old. Emma grabbed a green raincoat from its hook, and she put it on, taking care to cover her head with the hood. Suddenly she heard the door open, and she spun around. A dark shadowy shape walked over the threshold, and the creature threw back its hood, revealing the tired face of her father. “Dad!” Emma cried, and she threw herself at him in a tackling hug. “Emma!” her dad answered. He hugged her tightly, the smell of wet wool filling Emma’s nose. “Your mother is right behind me. We checked on the sheep, but the rain caused the fence to fall over,” her father said. “Emma.” Emma turned towards the door where her mother was walking in. She shut and bolted the door behind her. Her mother pushed back her hood, revealing her tangled mess of damp red hair. “Emma,” her mother continued, “we looked everywhere, but some of the sheep are missing.” Emma paled, her freckles standing out on her face. If her family lost some of the sheep, then the farm would not survive. They depended on them. “Which ones are missing?” she asked. Emma’s mother hugged her and said, “About ten others, and Katie.” Emma stiffened and drew back. “Where is the flashlight?” she demanded. She had no idea what she was doing, but she knew she had to do something. Her mother handed her the flashlight she was holding. “What do you need it for?” she asked, but she found out two seconds later as Emma switched it on and opened the door to the swirling darkness of the night. Emma shoved her feet into her rain boots, which were on the front step, and ran out from under the porch. The storm blasted her back. Rain pounded on her, and her feet stuck in the mud. She heard her parents shouting for her to come back, but she half ran, half battled her way on towards the barn. A faint light glowed out from one of the windows, like a lighthouse. Emma reached the huge front door to the barn just as a boom of thunder sounded. She flinched. Emma held the flashlight in one hand as she fumbled with the latch to the barn. She finally managed to pull it open, and she slipped inside. The wind banged the door shut. The rain was slightly muffled. Emma looked around the barn. Straw was strewn around on the floor, and the smell of kerosene met her nose. Emma figured that Katie and the others might be here, hiding in fear from the violent storm. She shined her flashlight around the vast room and stopped the light at the stairs up to the loft. She heard her grandmother’s voice drifting down the steps. Emma jogged to the bottom of the stairs and sprinted up them. Her grandmother sat on the floor of the loft, a blanket around her shoulders. And all around her were the barn cats. There were several of them, and they all sat clustered around her grandmother. Josephine had lit one of the kerosene lamps, and it emitted a soft glow around the room. One of the cats was lying across her lap, and another was strewn over her shoulder. At the sound of Emma’s footsteps Josephine looked up. “Emma!” she said. “Where are your parents? Did you come here by yourself? Oh, I hope they’re all right.” “Mom and Dad are fine. I came by myself. Grandmother, is Katie here?” Her grandmother shook her head. “Nay, I have not seen her. Is she lost?” “Yes, Grandmother, I have to find her.” “I was hoping you would say otherwise. Do you really mean to go after her?” “I have to. I can’t bear the thought of Katie and some of the other sheep wandering around in this weather. What if…” “Child, I know what you mean. But I’m sure they will be fine until the storm ends.”
Fiction
"Chloë. Chloë, wake up!” Grace poked her sister in the side, then gently shook her, barely able to contain her excitement. Chloë slowly opened one eyelid, and in seconds the two seven-year-olds were scampering out of the bedroom and down the hallway, leaf-dappled pajamas billowing on their small forms. After making sure their parents were asleep, they went out the back door together, giggling. The girls ran barefoot through swaying grass, scrambled up craggy rocks, maneuvered through a network of gangly trees, and finally, breathless, arrived at their destination. The treehouse stood tall and grand, silhouetted against the golden-orange sky, and the sisters ogled its brilliance for a while. A path of flat stones trailed up to the tree’s roots, and a flimsy rope ladder climbed up its length. Sitting amid a fountain of branches was the house, built of dark, ancient-looking planks of wood. “Come on. Let’s go!” Grace shrieked with delight, and began to skip from stone to stone. She was crawling up the first few rungs before Chloë snapped out of her trance and followed her. Before they entered the house, the girls stopped, their faces solemn. Grace went first. Placing a hand on her chest, she recited, “I, Grace Sadlon, sister of Chloë Sadlon, vow to never ever break the Sister Code. I will always be a loyal sister, and will never tell anyone the secrets of the treehouse.” Chloë opened her mouth, but before she could utter a sound Grace’s foot slipped on the rung above her and her leg swung around wildly as she tried to regain her footing. The ladder began to rock back and forth. “Grace, watch out!” Chloë screamed, but it was too late, and they both came crashing to the ground. * * * Chloë tumbled head over heels in the grass; a stone nicked her ankle, but she didn’t care. Pushing herself up with her palms she scurried back to the treehouse. The ladder lay in a yellow heap on the ground, and next to it, sprawled on the grass, was Grace. Chloë’s vision blurred; everything was out of focus. A huge lump formed in her throat, and she dashed over to her sister, screaming her name over and over again. She tried to speak clearly, although a thick syrup seemed to be weighing her tongue down. “Grace. Can you hear me? Grace! Listen to me!” Chloë grabbed Grace’s hand, clutching it tightly as though she could squeeze the life back into her. “Grace, you can hear me, right?” she urged. “Remember the Sister Code? You just said it, and then you…” Chloë’s body felt numb; all she could feel was her heart thudding steadily in her chest. “Grace,” she whispered, then wrapped her arms around her sister’s lifeless body. * * * FIVE YEARS LATER The bell pierced the air, reverberating throughout Harley Middle School’s campus. As if on cue, students began pouring out of the building like a puddle of spilt ink slowly spreading further and further on paper. Kids talked energetically to one another, some huddled in large groups, others in pairs. Only one girl walked alone. Chloë Sadlon brushed her straight hair behind an ear, staring at the ground as she walked. After years of practice, she had learned how to zone out the world around her—the sounds of chattering and laughter, the sound of happiness. Someone accidentally shoved her from behind, and she stumbled on the pavement. Indifferent, she boarded the bus and sat in her usual seat; second-to-last row, window seat to the left. And as usual, nobody sat with her. * * * Hey, hon. How was school?” Dad asked as Chloë dumped her bag on the kitchen table. Chloë shrugged. “Good.” She unzipped her bag halfway, then remembered she had completed her homework the day before and hadn’t been assigned anything new. She murmured a “hi” to her mom before going quietly upstairs to her bedroom. Chloë was about to plop down on her bed, but something moved in her peripheral vision. A piece of paper, barely five inches square, rustled against the heating vents. She edged closer, pulling out the scrap of paper and bringing it up close. Two stick figures, one slightly taller than the other, stood together in the middle of a crudely drawn forest, holding hands. Above it, in scrawly second-grade print, was the word Sisters. Chloë walked backwards, landing with a thump on her bed, her eyes never moving off the drawing. And then she said it. “Grace.” Suddenly feeling a longing for fresh air, she went out the back door. The wind blew through Chloë’s hair, the scent of nature filling her lungs. A strange sensation coursed through her, and although her mind told her to go to the hammock on the patio, her legs wanted to go somewhere else. Solely following her instincts, Chloë climbed up a congregation of rocks, wandered through the dense woods, and then halted suddenly. The same thrill that had formed whenever she had seen the treehouse was present again, only this time, bittersweet. Because Grace wasn’t at her side to appreciate it with her. Chloë walked from stone to stone, then searched for footholds in the tree itself, as the ladder could no longer be used. Her legs had grown much longer over the years, and she found herself climbing swiftly up the aged trunk until she reached the top. “I, Chloë Sadlon,” she muttered, then began again, louder this time; the way Grace would. “I, Chloë Sadlon, sister of Grace Sadlon, vow to never, ever break the Sister Code. I will always be a loyal…” her voice cracked slightly, but she ploughed on, “…a loyal sister, and will never tell anyone the secrets of the treehouse.” Without further hesitation, Chloë stepped inside. * * *
Fiction
I used to own real bunnies in Shanghai, China. My grandpa always bought some for me. But my only distinct memory of owning a pet rabbit was in my grandparents’ apartment. It was 2011, so I was seven years old and as obsessed with bunnies as some girls are obsessed with “Let It Go.” My friend Giselle came to visit me and my grandparents, and she brought a moving present—a real, snow-white, fluffy rabbit! I had been wishing for one already! We played with the bunny, whom we named Carrot, until Giselle had to go back to her place. Carrot was looking at me wistfully through the purple wired crate. “If you want to set him free, do that. But only on our balcony, in case he makes a mess,” said my grandma. I swear, that woman can read my mind! We let him eat carrots off the cool, tiled balcony of my grandparents’ apartment. I lifted him up so he could see the ant-like people dotting the lush green grass, and the surrounding buildings in this area of crowded China. It’s safe to say that he loved when I did that. Oh, the summertime joys! We would sometimes walk him to the park. Lots of feral cats lived there, and they actually scared Carrot! We held him, petted him, and let him drink water from a little blue saucer on the porch. He ate carrots and played with us peacefully, until, on the fifteenth day we had him, we had to give him away somehow because we were going to another part of China to stay for a couple of weeks. That night, while my grandma was lulling him to sleep, Carrot drew in his last breath. His heart stopped beating. His eyes closed. I knew what happened. I ran from my room to the porch. “He knew… he knew we were going away. It… it was his time…” my grandma explained, her eyes fogging up. “Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry!” I burst into tears and hugged her tightly, as if she would float away from me if I let go, just like Carrot. It wasn’t her fault. Maybe Carrot had a disease. Maybe he was old. Maybe… I trudged back to my room, defeated. I sat on the dusty old piano bench and played “Swan Lake.” Only this time, the song sounded sadder and more lonesome. I cried until my eyes were red. Red, like Carrot’s eyes, I thought. Red, like my anger, and red like beauty. While I was trying to fall asleep that miserable night, suddenly I gasped. I saw Carrot floating on the air. He had a golden halo. He smiled at me. “Claire, you must not be sad. You took good care of me. You can sleep in peace knowing that you will see me once more…” I knew I could let my past slip away. The future is waiting. Carrot was guarding me, like an angel. He was watching me, from heaven. One day, I will see him again.
Fiction
Everything in the village was brown. The small, squat huts were brown. The narrow dirt road was brown. The marketplace was crowded and filthy and brown. The grass and fields, which always seemed withered and tired, were brown. And most of all, day after day, the twisting, murky river was brown. Keisha trudged along the path through the village one morning on her way to get water, like she did most mornings. Despite the sweltering summer heat, the older villagers greeted each other cheerfully and young children skipped and played. Among them was Keisha’s little sister, Afia, who was only four. Glancing briefly back over her shoulder, Keisha spotted Afia racing and laughing with a group of other children. Mini whirlwinds of dust swirled up around their small bodies, and they paused frequently to cough dry, hacking coughs. Another group of young children waved to Keisha, and she waved back. But the kids the same age as Keisha teased, just like they did every day. “Are you still looking for magic stones?” they taunted, and hooted with laughter. Some days Keisha retaliated, saying, “You have to go for water every day too. You know that it’s as brown as the road. You’ll be jealous if I do find a magic stone.” Today though, Keisha just ignored them and marched on, gripping the handle of the large wooden bucket. Several older kids who were standing nearby, taking a rare rest from their daily stifling hot farm work, smiled at her. “You’re only twelve, Keisha—stop trying to save the world by yourself!” They chuckled. Keisha disregarded them as well. At the center of town, Keisha passed the marketplace. It was dusty and dim, but everyone laughed loudly as they bartered for a good deal. “I’m not payin’ that much for your scrawny vegetables!” one woman declared over the roar of the crowd. At the edge of the marketplace, under the shade of a lone tree, stood the old blind man that everyone called Grandfather, though only out of respect—no one knew of anyone that he was related to. As always, Grandfather knew when Keisha was coming. “Good day, young one!” he greeted her. “Don’t forget to look for a magic stone today.” “I won’t, Grandfather,” Keisha assured him halfheartedly. It was Grandfather who had first told her about the magic stones. They were blue, he had told her. A deep, beautiful blue like the ocean. Keisha had never seen the ocean and knew no one who had, but she could imagine an intense, powerful blue that she was sure must be the hue of the ocean. The stones, Grandfather had told her, were for wishing on. If you held one and wished, the next day your wish would come true. He was considered only a skillful storyteller by the rest of the village, but Keisha held his stories as fact. Keisha hummed a quiet, wordless tune as she walked past the end of the village and along rows and rows of fields. Her gaze darted around, constantly searching for the dark blue stones, but her heart was heavier than a full sack of rocks gathered from the fields. There never were any wishing stones, and she suddenly felt certain that there never would be. Keisha wondered if everyone else was right. She realized that they probably were and that Grandfather was only a storyteller. Anger as hot as boiling water flared up inside her, and she realized how childish the hopes were that she had clung to. Keisha quickened her pace, her tough, bare feet hitting the hard ground with slaps like an angry drumbeat. Many steps later, Keisha reached the twisting river. She straightened her faded, tattered dress and bent to fill the huge bucket with the murky brown water; water that her family would drink. The river—which was more of a creek or stream—was called Crystal River. But the water was never crystal clear, or anywhere near it. Maybe it had been pure at one time, but if it had, no one could remember. Now clean water was wishful thinking. The shallow river seemed to be narrower every day too, and it was scarcely deep enough for Keisha to submerge her entire bucket under the muddy, sun-warmed water. Standing up, Keisha lugged the backbreaking bucket up the short, steep bank and set it down. She sat, since there was no one nearby to scold her for being lazy. The warm sun blazed down on her, scorching and burning. Keisha ran her fingers through her black braided hair and held it up off her sweaty neck, staring miserably at the river. There were many small stones along the banks of the river, and another sudden wave of fierce anger washed over her. Keisha bit her lip against the strong feeling of unjustness, willing her emotions not to spill over into hot tears. She grabbed a handful of small stones, digging all the way into the muck of the riverbank, and flung them far down the river. The stones were in the air for only a brief second as they soared above the stream and then dived into it, but it was long enough. Long enough for Keisha to see that one of them was blue. She scrambled after it, but the stone had already plunged to the muddy bottom of the river. Keisha searched desperately, but she knew deep inside her that it was futile. She had let Grandfather down. She had stopped looking; stopped hoping. And now her chance was gone. “Keisha! What on earth is taking you so long?” Keisha turned and glared at her older brother. She leaped out of the river, grabbed the burdensome water bucket, and flew past him down the path, not noticing the weight. * * * That night, lying on a thin blanket in the corner of her family’s traditional mud-brick hut, Keisha listened to the lions roar. They were far away, in the
Fiction
My sneakers pounded the red turf as I circled the track. Sweat ran down my neck and I wiped my stinging eyes. Beside me ran Rhonda Monroe, her braids flying out behind her. “You’re slow, Bailey. You shouldn’t be on the track team. Bye bye,” she jeered as she shot away from me. I gritted my teeth and ran harder, ignoring my burning lungs. I drove my feet hard into the ground, imagining that with each step I was pounding Rhonda’s face. I smiled viciously. Finally I skidded to a stop in front of Coach Leslie, just seconds behind Rhonda. I gasped and clutched my aching sides, determined to not look at her triumphant smirk. Coach Leslie smiled encouragingly as the other girls began to cluster around her. Finally, as Jenna leisurely jogged up to the group, she pulled out her clipboard. “Great job, everyone,” she said. “I have some great news. The Oregon State Championships are coming up. Three of you landed a spot in the champs. And the honor goes to Rhonda, Lucy, and Bailey!” “I knew it,” Rhonda said loudly. “I’ve won the Oregon State Championships twice. I mean, for such a great runner like me, it’s totally easy.” Lucy screamed and tackled me. I crashed into the ground and winced. Lucy didn’t seem to notice. She danced around me, her face shining with happiness. I pushed myself up and gave her a grin. I glanced at Rhonda, who stood off to the side, staring at us. I could see a longing in her eyes that startled me. “The winner of the race receives one thousand dollars. However, other girls from many other states will also be competing. I expect you girls to come to practice at least four times a week, including our normal meets. The rest of you, we will just have our usual practices two times a week,” Coach Leslie instructed. “All right, see you on Thursday.” I ran to Mom’s car and threw open the door. She looked up from her iPhone and smiled as I jumped into the back seat. “Well, you look happy,” she observed as she started the engine. I bounced up and down on the seat. “I’m going to the Oregon champs with Lucy!” I cheered. “And… well, with Rhonda.” My mother frowned at my subdued excitement about Rhonda. She raised an eyebrow quizzically. I avoided her gaze and picked at the stitches in the back seat. My mother cleared her throat and I sighed, defeated. “It’s just that Rhonda’s so rude,” I finally mumbled. “She always makes fun of me.” “And you do the same to her.” “You would, too, if you had to listen to her sneer at you all day!” I snapped. My mother shook her head and stopped the car at the red light. I crossed my arms, scowling. Figures my mom would insist I had to be Ms. Goody-Goody angel. My mom turned around to face me. I braced myself for a blow about treating others well. But instead she only said, “Rhonda’s brother has a rare disease. Only an expensive operation her parents can’t afford can save him. It’s been hard on Rhonda.” I didn’t say anything as the guilt plague pummeled me. My mom turned around and kept driving. Guilt. It was the one feeling I couldn’t stand. I wished I could just go back to hating Rhonda in peace. * * * "Fast mile, girls, let’s go,” Coach Leslie called the second Lucy, Rhonda, and I stepped onto the turf. I nodded and sprinted down the track, Lucy at my heels. I could hardly look at Rhonda, much less give a snarky remark as Lucy and I passed her. Her head was down and she was dragging her feet. Around the track I whirled, Rhonda trailing behind me. My breaths came in short gasps as I fought for air. My legs pushed onward though my muscles screamed for a break. Finally I crossed the finish line, seconds before Lucy. We waited for Rhonda. It seemed like an eternity before she finally ran up to us. We hurried over to Coach Leslie. She was frowning as she whipped her red hair into a ponytail. I winced as she started giving Rhonda the stink eye. “OK, not bad. Take a water break. Rhonda, come over here,” Coach Leslie ordered. I gulped down the refreshing water as it cooled my body. I could feel beads of sweat running down my sticky back. I inched over to where Coach Leslie was standing behind the storage shed. I leaned back, pretending to savor the shade. Instead, I strained to hear their conversation. “Look, I know you have a lot going on, but that run was unacceptable. You got to step up your game or else Alexia is going to replace you. Once you’re on the track you have to leave your emotions behind,” Coach Leslie said. “OK, OK. My brother had another seizure and you’re, like, telling me to just deal with it. Give me a break!” Rhonda said. Her voice started to crack. She sniffled. “Uh, I’m sorry this is so hard for you. Just, um, try to calm down,” Coach Leslie said awkwardly. She was never the comforting person. She was kind, but her way of kindness was driving us hard. They stepped out from behind the shed and I jumped and made a strangled cat sound. Coach Leslie eyed me, but I avoided her gaze. “All right, we’ll run more tomorrow. Get a good rest tonight and try not to think about… other things,” she said, giving Rhonda a good stare. I nodded and wearily headed towards the gate. As I let myself out and walked over to the car, I still couldn’t believe Rhonda Monroe would cry about anything. * * * My mind forgot about Rhonda’s brother and soon all three of us felt
Fiction
"No, it can’t be.” Slowly my hands caressed the sweetsmelling leather of his bridle, and my fingers traced the small letters engraved on the tiny brass nameplate. J-U-D-A-H. Judah. My gaze dropped from my friend’s sympathetic face to the bridle in my hands to hide the tears welling up in my eyes. The only thing that I could see past my tears was the shiny metal plaque on my best friend’s bridle. My chest grew tight and a sob rose in my throat as I made out the tiny red hearts that I had painted around his name. I realized suddenly that my lips were moving in a silent prayer. “Please no, God, please don’t let it be true. Not Judah. Not my stubborn, cantankerous, sweet, wonderful Judah! Please don’t let it be true.” But it was true. I knew that it was true. Judah was gone. Coming to this stable for riding lessons and meeting Judah was one of the best things that had ever happened to me. He was a sorrel thoroughbred gelding, kind of plain looking but beautiful in my eyes. There wasn’t really anything special about his appearance, except the large white splotch on his forehead that made an almost perfect map of the Middle East, hence his unusual name. But something had drawn me to him, and ever since the first time our eyes met, we were a team. I had learned to ride on Judah, and almost all of the blue ribbons that adorned my bedroom wall had been won from Judah’s back. The tall thoroughbred was an excellent teacher, and everything I knew about horses I attributed to him and my riding instructor, Holly. I had won many ribbons and spent many happy times on and around Judah, and when my father left my family for good, it was Judah whose mane I had cried in. We were a team. Or, we had been. My mind was numb and I wanted to be alone, but I listened while my friend told me what had happened. After the first of several mild knee injuries that Judah had suffered over the last few years, his owner and my riding instructor, Holly, had begun to consider retiring him. After all, Judah was getting rather old. However, his quick recovery and the way he threw himself back into his work convinced her that he would be able to give riding lessons for quite a while yet, so Judah stayed. That was the way it had been after his second injury, too. But when the same problem popped up again, Holly had decided that it was time to turn the most amazing horse in the world out to pasture. She had made the decision without telling anyone, and he had left to go to another farm two days ago. I wanted to be mad at Holly for sending Judah away, but I couldn’t. I was too miserable to be angry. Already I missed my horse. Well, not my horse. Judah was Holly’s horse, and it wasn’t like she needed anyone’s permission to retire him. Only Judah, God, and I knew that I thought of him as my horse. Judah’s fuzzy orange ears were the only ones that I had ever whispered it to. If only it were true. If only he was my horse. But he wasn’t. And he was gone. I walked out of the stable without a word, never realizing that Judah’s familiar leather bridle was still clutched in my hands. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the stable after that, so instead I turned my attention to finding my best friend in the world. After numerous emails to Holly, I learned that Judah was still in the state, but Holly had forgotten the name of the place where he was, and she didn’t have time to try to find it. So, after that, all of my spare time was spent researching stables in the area and sending countless emails, letters, and phone calls to the owners to find out if an old sorrel thoroughbred with an irregular white splotch on his forehead lived there. Sometimes, if nobody replied to my desperate messages, my mom would drive me to the stable or farm after work to ask in person. Yet, though I knocked on many doors and sent countless emails and all my allowance money was spent on postage stamps, I could not locate Judah. It had been over a month since I’d seen him last, and every night I barely held back a flood of tears when I looked at the many pictures of him scattered about my room. While driving to my sister’s dance recital on a chilly day in October, we passed an unfamiliar stable set far back from the road. A pasture full of lush grass sprawled toward the road, and I scrutinized it, as I always did, for horses. Suddenly, I spotted a tall, fuzzy sorrel grazing near the middle of the pasture. “Mom, can we stop here for a second? Please?” The strained, high-pitched voice that asked the question sounded more like a dying duck than me. But I didn’t care. Tears pricked at my eyes, and my throat constricted. My heart pounded. My mom pulled over with a concerned glance in my direction. “What’s wrong, honey?” she queried. I didn’t answer. The next few moments passed in a blur. There was a house near the barn, and I leaped out of the car and sprinted to it. Almost as soon as I knocked on the door, someone opened it. After that, I don’t remember anything of what happened except for hearing the words “Judah, yes” and “go see him.” That was all I needed to hear. Blinded by tears, I tore across the lawn and vaulted over the fence to the pasture. “Judah!” I called out to my horse with as much strength as I could muster, ignoring the tears streaming down my face. The next instant,
Poems
We go to the airport looking for him The day he got back from that God Awful Place I see people most of them soldiers talking and crying but none of them him Finally I stop I see green and brown I see him smile He puts out his arms Then I knew This was my dad This was my dad Back from Iraq
Poems
Legs, they’re trembling with nervous excitement. Muffled voices pulse through your head. You’re moving now Perched Tense at the edge. You grip the lip of the block. Your body shakes with the sound of the start, But You’re already gone. You slip into the water Like it’s meant to be. It is. The rush pulls you. Through the water you speed. Your body taking control Arms, legs, core Gliding in perfect precision. You snort something into your airway. Gasping for air You leave the perfect world for a flash Of a second. Halfway to the T Marble Seven in view. Can you make it? One last breath And you completely submerge. Spinning through the bubbles A hair away from the wall. You kick. Hard pressure starts at your feet It spreads, Rocketing your body backwards. A few seconds left. You’re still on fire, but it’s fading. Your speed is no longer faster Than your heartbeat. You kick it in the last few yards Knowing The end is near. You slam both hands on the wall Smiling, screaming, laughing, You pump your fists in the air As you watch The other swimmers finish After you.
Poems
The world is full of fog that people put out to hide the wrongs that they have done (or are about to do) The world is full of deceitfulness and lies that is the fog of the world But there is another kind and that is of the countryside of my home where fog is real and drifts drowsily around old Douglas firs and house windows Through that slow sleepy fog I read in newspapers and hear on the radio about the war in this and that far-off country Though here at home I am safe and warm there is no war here except the occasional war between that stray cat and my dog aside from that there is only peace Later when the sun breaks through lighting tree tips and making colors bright and flowing down I run along the warming ground with my large black dog for both of us are youths and like to run he with ears flopping and tail bouncing and I with my hair bent by the wind Then I sit on a hill and watch the ducks swimming in the lake the herons fishing for newts and the hawks hunting for mice I can see a deer with her fawns the robins in their nest the bees going to work at the flowers I am glad that they are all still here. I think to myself this is Paradise.
Poems
Threads of twine twisted together Working to keep me up As I swing into the air My hair trailing behind me. Crashing my legs into the bushes I get scratched all over But I don’t care Holding onto the rope with all my might. Wind slashes against my cheeks Bark and twigs fall in my eyes The branch sways back and forth, threatening to break As I spin around in a wild circle. Leaning back and looking up The tree’s limbs wrap around the sky Shining through the foliage The sun smiles and so do I.
Book Reviews
Babe Didrikson Zaharias: The Making of a Champion
Babe Didrikson Zaharias: The Making of a Champion, by Russell Freedman; Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Books for Young Readers: Boston, 2014; $10.99 Russell Freedman’s biography, Babe Didrikson Zaharias: The Making of a Champion, is a fascinating book that tells the life story of one of the greatest athletes of all time. Babe lived for sports and excelled in many of them, including golf, track and field, basketball, baseball, tennis, bowling, diving, swimming, roller skating, and boxing. Earning her nickname from baseball great George Herman “Babe” Ruth, Jr., Babe took the world of athletics by storm, despite the opposition she faced as a woman athlete in the early twentieth century. Mildred Ella Didrikson was born on June 26, 1911, in Port Arthur, Texas. She was born into a family with five older siblings and would later become an older sibling herself. Babe grew up with a group of barefoot neighborhood kids, and she quickly became known as the local tomboy. As a child Babe seemed to find trouble. She was often sent to the principal’s office because of her pranks, and one time she was found sitting on top of the flagpole! It wasn’t long before Babe realized her passion. She knew from a young age what she wanted to live for, and her goal was to be the greatest athlete of all time. Babe was a motivated and determined young woman who was willing to work extremely hard to achieve her goals. It was not unusual for Babe to train from early morning right up until it turned dark. Before I read this book, I wondered if I could even relate to Babe. I quickly realized we had more in common than I thought. First, Babe and I share the same birthday, June 26. Also, I realized that Babe was an ordinary kid who loved sports, mowed lawns to earn money, and routinely found mischief, such as hitching a ride on a freight car and jumping off as it moved faster and faster! What I enjoyed most about reading this book was the surprise and excitement the biography had in store for the reader. I felt like I became friends with Babe. I rallied with Babe as she overcame adversities, cheered with her at every victory, and was shocked when the fame-seeking tomboy from Texas wanted to spend time at home in her garden and flowers. I was angry when Babe was treated unfairly, nervous when her marriage struggled, and sad when she died at such a young age. This is a wonderful biography and I thoroughly enjoyed reading it! Babe was a strong-willed young woman whose life demonstrated that with determination and purpose you can conquer and rise above adversities. I highly recommend this book to anyone who enjoys reading biographies.
Book Reviews
Willow, by Tonya Cherie Hegamin; Candlewick Press: Somerville, Massachusetts, 2014; $16.99 The first thing I noticed about this book was the fact that Willow is both the main character’s name and the title. I liked this because I sometimes refer to a book by the protagonist’s name and not the title. Willow is about a fifteen-year-old black girl who lives in Maryland in the late 1840s. Like many girls of her heritage in that time, Willow is a slave. However, she considers her life almost as good as a free one, because she has always been favored by her master. Reverend Jefferson Jeffries (what a name!) treats all his slaves with much more respect than other masters do. Still, they are slaves. Willow’s father is both Rev Jeff’s most trusted servant and his overseer, so Willow and her papa live a little nicer than most. Unlike many parents today, Willow’s papa makes all the decisions for her and is not open to negotiation. My parents give me lots of choices and support the things I want to do, like piano and competitive gymnastics. One thing that is very similar between Willow and me is that we love to read and write. However, my parents have always encouraged and helped me with reading, and Willow has to keep hers a secret. I have been keeping a journal for years and making up stories since I was little. Now I write some of them down, but every day I tell myself several stories that will never end up on paper. For Willow, writing does not come easily, as she has to teach herself. Her most prized possession is the copybook in which she writes letters to her dead mama. One day, while Willow is riding her horse in the woods, near the tree where she writes these letters, she spots two black men in the forest, one leading the other to freedom. Later, meeting one of those men, Cato, she discovers that he is a freeborn and lives in a town full of free blacks. Amazing! Willow thinks. A whole town full of free black people? Soon she falls in love with Cato and begins to consider running away. One part of this book which I particularly did not like is when Willow and Cato spend a night together in the woods. It is very romantic and has too much description. The author uses a lot of description throughout the book, and in some places, like this, I thought it was too much. The thing I liked most about this book was that you felt you knew the characters. Since it is written in the first person, I felt that I was Willow, and I knew all of the other characters. I was so excited when I got this book, I sat down to start it almost immediately. From the very first page to the very last one, Willow is a powerful book. It talks a lot about human rights and is very accurate and true to the times. One issue that is addressed as well as slavery is male dominance, the fact that men made all the decisions. At the start of the book, Cato is not sure how much rights women deserve, until he meets Willow and realizes that, just as blacks need their rights, so do women. If you read this book, I hope you find it, as I did, to be a good account of the times back then, written in a way easily related to by modern preteens and teenagers.
