Fiction
Fear and disbelief drip down the back of my neck. I am leaning against the wall, feeling cold, hard, merciless brick beneath my palm, hearing things—simple, life-giving things, such as breath and whispers and rustles of skirts—so loudly that I'm afraid my very listening will give me away. On my side, my Jewish charge, and I want to tell her to kneel, to get shorter, to do something other than stand there and look at me with those pleading eyes. To take off that necklace she wears, the little silver chain with the tarnished Star of David hanging limply from it. No time, I remember, and it amazes me that even my thoughts come in short spurts. My older brother Henk has practiced with me many times ever since he has taken it upon himself to open our home to the persecuted Jews. Many alarms I was sure were real turned out to be hoaxes, gentle deceptions, in benefit of my training. But this—no, this was no fraud. I had seen the tobacco-stained teeth out the window, the frilly mustaches. I had heard the front door slam and their feet ascend the stairway. Leah's hand edges into mine and I feel like falling into tears, enraged toward the Germans, hateful of everything they hold dear to them. How can they curse Leah, such a simple, innocent soul? What demon is tearing my continent, my precious Europe, apart so? Have these people not known kindness, and do they not understand how to imitate mercy? Whispers in Yiddish. I can't comprehend it. Funny, I think, that the soldier, the Jew, and I all speak different languages and come from different cultures, yet still live in mortal terror of the other. Boots are getting nearer. They're in the living room, perhaps, with the unstylish masses of Victorian furniture and its quaint view of the winding creek outside our townhouse window. From there it is a short leap into the hallway, then the closet door—from there, us, hiding behind the furs. They don't stop in the living room; steady, trim clicks are advancing down the hall. Leah's hand grows a tighter grasp on mine, and my eyelids suddenly fall shut, staying tightly latched. I'm so still—my breath, my thoughts, my very heart has stopped—I'm afraid God might mistake me for dead. The door cracks. The light bulb, hanging from a dusty string from the ceiling, suddenly tosses a pool of light upon the floor. The door wafts shut again, and here we are, together: three different people from three very different beliefs. The hangers to our left start clacking and his shoe, with a forlorn stalk of a pants leg growing off of it, is right in front of me. I realize he smells of stale brandy, of restless wandering, of dust. I accidentally think of the shoe polish on the shelf right above our heads, that he might be able to use, but I scold myself for thinking that. Suddenly he yanks a coat away and is staring into my face, then Leah's. We both stand there, silent for a moment, as I wash my eyes over his clean-shaven, dirt-smudged face. He doesn't look like Hitler—he looks more like Henk, an honest man caught up in something bigger than his imagination would let him ponder. "Who are you?" he asks, voice rough. "I'm Leis, sir, and this is Leah," I whisper. "And why ever are you here in this dusty closet?" As he speaks I see his teeth are darkened, a small scar meekly clinging to his lip. "You scared us, sir," I managed. "We hid as soon as we could." "Poor darlings. Come out—it's cold in here," he says, and he holds open the door for us as we uncertainly, defeatedly, trudge out to the hall. Suddenly I remember—Leah's necklace—her Star of David! If the soldier found that, he would have proof, proof that she's a Jew, proof of her country, her heritage, her ancient culture. I glance at her neck but she's torn it off and thrown it on the floor—I look back at it in the closet, watching its glitter, praying the soldier doesn't notice it sparkling there, like a trout in a silver spring. He's gone on, though, to the other soldiers, to present us. "Which one of you is the Jew?" is our greeting, spouted from an older, fattened man. "Or are you both Jews?" "Jew?" I whisper faintly. "There are no Jews . . ." "Which one? There's been reports of Jews hiding in this house! Which one of you is Jewish?" Our soldier interjects, "They're children, Setzlich. Danish besides." Here he glances, silencingly, at us. "It has been said the Danish don't lie. Jews indeed." "The Danish don't lie," mutters Setzlich, glaring at us both as his voice tumbles into a tumult of anger. "You idiot, Schmidt! The best lying in the business comes from the Danish—I swear, they've got the devil on their side!" His hand suddenly reached out and grasped my collar. "Girl," he growled, "girl, how many rooms is this house?" "This is all," I say, truthfully, and, distrusting me, he slowly lets go of my dress. "The living room, bathroom, and closet."His eyes stay on me. "Search the cursed closet again, Schmidt," Setzlich whispers, voice trembling with loathing. "Goderstadt already got the bathroom. See if there's any more. Then we'll see if the Danish don't lie." "Yes, sir," says our soldier, and Leah and I exchange terrified looks. A search of the closet would mean the discovery of the Star of David twinkling on the floor, would mean our arrest, might even mean our deaths. My entire heart has suddenly twisted in torment—I can't think, and can't breathe. I hear him throwing a ruckus around in there—oh, why make it painful? Just expose us as liars, as protectors of the Jews, of God's chosen people. He comes out then, expressionless. "Nothing," he says, and I look at him, confused. How could
Fiction
The chilling night air swirled around James Henry as he stumbled blindly over the treacherous forest floor. Just above the treetops, the full moon hung low in the sky, swathed in a shawl of thick clouds. James hurried breathlessly through the dense undergrowth, ignoring the brambles that cruelly cut and scratched his skin. Tree branches snagged at him, like claws of demons, and spooky noises all around him seemed to be sounds of his pursuers. A sudden hooting of an owl sent him sprawling across a fallen tree trunk in fright and he rose in a panic, his sweating face a mask of terror. He lurched forward into the bushes once more and continued his desperate flight. His thoughts raced back to that fateful Wednesday afternoon. The day had been a blistering heat bath and the air was so thick you could barely breathe. While working in the fields, he had fainted from exhaustion. The overseer, who had a horrible temper, was already in a foul mood from the scorching weather. He threw himself upon James in a fury, and whipped him frenziedly until his back was thick with blood. James decided that night he would run away. He had had enough. Gathering his small bundle of pitiful belongings, he stole off just as dusk fell. At first all went well. By night, he traced his way using the North Star as his guide. By day he hid and slept. But then the nights turned cloudy, blocking the stars, and he lost his way. Then, this night, a group of slave-catchers had stumbled upon him while he was resting, and he just barely got away. But they were hot on his trail and it was only a matter of hours before they caught up with him. Suddenly, he stopped, chest heaving from exertion, heart pounding. He heard it. The sound of hoofbeats echoed in the distance, like drums heralding an execution. He paused an instant, stricken with fear, then broke into a run, his small bundle of possessions slapping against his back with every step. James did not have any memories of his father or mother. When he was just a little boy, the Wicomico plantation he was born on went broke, and he was sold off to Talbot County. He recalled having a brother, but hadn't seen him since he was sold off. He was now, as best as he could calculate, some eighteen years of age, and until a few days ago had lived at the plantation of Mr. Stuart Henry. Mr. Henry's plantation was enormous, and tobacco was the staple crop grown there. The field hands had to do backbreaking work from dawn to dusk each day, watering the precious tobacco leaves, tending to them, and worst of all, picking the horrid tobacco worms from off the undersides of the leaves. James had experienced this horror every day for as long as he could remember: the scorching sun pounding on his back, the lash of the overseer's whip, and the constant humiliation of being a slave. He had also hated it for as long as he had known it, and he had always promised himself that one day he would get out; one day he would escape!!! Now here he was, running through the woods driven by sheer panic, branches stinging him as they slapped at his face. Suddenly, he saw the faint glow of a light about fifty feet ahead. He slowed down and approached it cautiously. He emerged at the edge of a clearing, and saw a house, with a lantern swinging on the gate. Swinging!!! He had just registered this when strong arms grabbed him from behind and he found himself looking into the face of a bearded, heavyset man. Paralyzed with terror, he opened his mouth, but then the man chuckled and said, "Heh heh, ain't safe for someone like you to be out here this late!" They walked up to the house and the man ushered him in quickly. "Sarah!" he whispered hoarsely into the gloom, "I've got someone here who needs help." Seconds later, a smiling, plump woman appeared and hurried James down the hall to a room on the right, while her husband left and went upstairs. "You'll be safe in here," she whispered, picking up a rug and opening a trap door. James looked down and saw that below the paneled floor there was a pit, about fifteen feet deep. He looked back at the woman and began, "I can't tell you how much . . ." But she interrupted him, "Shhh, no time for this. Get in!" He lowered himself down, and just as the trap door closed, there was a knock on the door. James huddled in the darkness listening intently. After a short pause, he heard a shuffle of feet, and the sound of a door opening. "Yes, may I help you?" said the woman. "Yes ma'am," a deep raspy voice replied, "we're looking for a runaway. Would you mind us having a little look?" "Oh no, there's no problem," said the woman. More shuffling of feet sounded, accompanied by the sharp click-clack of boots on the wood floor. James heard them walk down the hall, pausing every so often as the man looked in a room. ". . . with the new Fugitive Slave Law, business is really good. I can even get away with returning slaves without a trial . . ." The man was nearing the room in which James was hidden. Suddenly, the man's voice trailed off and the footsteps halted right outside the room. "Is anything the matter?" James heard the woman ask. "Oh, nothing . . . nothing," mumbled the man. James's palms began to sweat as he heard them enter the room and he shivered, despite the stuffiness of the pit. He crouched there for several terrible seconds. Without warning, the rug was swept off the floor. He heard the woman protesting, but suddenly the trapdoor was wrenched
Fiction
My eyes opened. Sitting up, I glanced at my clock on my nightstand, and read the green, fluorescent letters: 4:42 AM, three minutes before my alarm was due to go off. I stretched out my arm and turned off my alarm. Scrambling out of bed, I changed from my pajamas into a tank top and shorts. I yanked a brush through my frizzy brown hair, and stuffed it up into a ponytail. I left my room and tiptoed down the hallway, trying hard not to make any noise. Creeping down the stairs, I forgot about the step that always creaked, and as it did, I winced. I hated how small sounds were always magnified in the quiet. I stayed where I was for a moment, and, holding my breath and crossing my fingers, I listened for stirrings from my family. When they didn't come, I let my breath go, and uncrossed my fingers, relieved. I wanted to be alone. I didn't bother with breakfast, as I wasn't really hungry yet. I pulled my sandals on, and walked out the screen door into our backyard, and then began trudging up the back pasture to the top of the hill. The date was June 21, the summer solstice, the day with the longest sunlight hours of the year. I had gotten up early to watch the sunrise. I know it sounds a little weird, but it's a tradition of mine. I've always done it, as long as I can remember. The sunrise has always been special to me, put in the same category as the unicorns the six-year-old me believed in. My older brother Ian used to come watch them with me, but now, at sixteen, he thinks it's dumb, and immature. Last night when I made the mistake of asking him if he wanted to accompany me, he just came up with an excuse in his wannabe manly way. "Can't, Beth, I gotta sleep well. I have a big all-star baseball game this weekend, and Coach will be really mad if I'm tired." "Now Beth, dear," added my mother, who had been listening, "don't you think you are getting a tad old for that? I mean, you are thirteen years old." Folding his Wall Street Journal, my father agreed. "Yes, Beth, you should call up one of your friends. Maybe they could pry your nose from that notebook of yours." In response, I nodded to show I had understood. My parents seemed satisfied, and went on to more interesting conversation. So often I feel like an alien in my own family, traded with their real daughter at birth. I mean, with the exception of me, my family is the typical American family. My father is a lawyer in a successful firm, my mother is a homemaker, and my brother the star of every sports team he plays on. The only reason we live in Vermont instead of New York City is that Mother needs to take care of her failing parents, who were prescribed "good, healthy air" along with many pills by the doctor. I am the misfit of the family. I am quiet, studious, prefer the company of the characters in my books and stories to the flighty ditzy girls at my school, and am nearly always writing. My parents don't understand my writing. They think it is a little, silly hobby of mine, and hope I will outgrow it and become what they think of as "a normal girl." But I am far more serious about writing than they know. I want to be an author, and win the Pulitzer Prize. I know this is a big dream, but I also know it is what I desperately want to do. If only my writing came out on paper as it was in my mind. I reached the top of the hill, and pulled myself out of my thoughts. In the west, the sky was still dark with night, a deep navy blue. Overhead that blue was blending with almost purple shades, which in turn were mixing with reds and pinks. In the east, I could see the glimmering pinks and yellows of the sun beginning to rise. My watch said 5:19. According to Internet data, the sunrise had begun. Sitting down, not minding the dew on the grass, I just watched. The blue and purple, once overhead, were slowly moving backward, opening up the sky to a whole palette of new colors. Oranges, coral-like pinks, reds, and yellows were streaked and blended in the whole sky in front of me. They were colors so amazing that I was sure there had never been a sunrise as beautiful as this. There was an upward shaft of sunlight, so intense at the bottom it dazzled my eyes. Surrounding it was a sea of pinks and reds and yellows, which seemed to ripple as a real ocean does. I had never known there to be so many different colors! I felt as if there was nothing in the world but the sunrise and me. It was then, as the sun burst from the horizon, so magnificent and regal, a ball of yellow fire, that I heard the voice. "Your dream," it said, "follow your dream. You can make it. Keep on trying. Don't give up hope!" I was dazed. Who is this voice? Who, or what, was speaking to me? "Don't give up hope!" the voice said again. And then I knew who was speaking. It was the birds, and the crickets, the trees, and the grass, the wind, the clouds, the sun, and the colors of the sunrise. But mostly me. It was I who wanted my dream to come true and I who would have to work for it. "I'll get there," I replied. "I'll do the work; I'll make my dream come true."
Fiction
It had been almost a year since that fateful day last June when Lucy Livingstone's baby boy had died at the age of ten days. Catriona Livingstone, her twelve-year-old daughter, was accompanying Mr. and Mrs. Livingstone to the cemetery to visit her brother on what would have been his first birthday. The day was cloudy, with a hint of rain in the air, quite unlike the lovely June day when Ty, her brother, had been born. Catriona was somber as they drove through the dreary streets to the graveyard, but inside she was concentrating on her hope that after this day her mother would be less grieved and her father less tense. She didn't know why she expected this; probably because it had been almost a year since their son's death and she thought it time to get on with life, and stop dwelling on the past. Catriona, too, had suffered for days after the loss of him, as had her parents, for she'd welcomed her new sibling into the world graciously; she even decorated his future room and attended a baby-sitter's course to learn how to care for babies. But now she was ready to move on, eager to hear her mother laugh again and her father crack silly jokes once more. Today, in the car, she felt she'd burst if things didn't change soon. "We turn here," said Mrs. Livingstone stiffly to her husband, who was driving. He nodded dismally, and flicked on the signal. Catriona began to idly drum her fingers in time to it, but one stern look from her mother silenced her. In a moment the car had turned into the parking lot, and the three of them got out, Catriona hurriedly—she was tired of sitting in the gloomy atmosphere of the car. Mrs. Livingstone set off at a brisk pace, and Mr. Livingstone and Catriona followed, the silence unbroken except for the sound of their feet on the grass and the wind in the trees. Ty's grave was a small one, hidden behind a neatly tended wild rose bush. Mrs. Livingstone knelt down when they reached it, her fingers trembling as she touched the cold stone. Catriona peered over her shoulder to read the inscription. Tynan Philip Livingstone, son of Lucy and Bradley Livingstone. Born June 8th, woo, died June 8th, 2000. Rest in Peace. Under the headstone bearing these words, her baby brother's body lay, imprisoned by the chilled earth. Catriona's heart ached for something she could do to bring him back again. She wanted to complete the family, add the missing piece. But he was gone, and no one could ever restore his life. Mr. Livingstone, Mrs. Livingstone and Catriona remained silent for a few moments, their thoughts as bleak as the gray sky. Finally Mr. Livingstone murmured, "He would have been a good boy, I'm sure of it." Catriona sighed and straightened up. She decided to go sit down awhile, somewhere she could think things out. In a soft voice, she excused herself, and hurried over to a neighboring spruce tree. Its branches formed a low canopy, so she crept under it to seek shelter for her thoughts. Her feelings had been mixed and twisted together since her brother had died. First of all, she had been swallowed in sadness, her own and that of the people around her. Next, her feelings had been regret and longing, and reluctance to accept the fact that he was gone—never to return. Further, still, into the following year, she had felt neglected, and bitter over the fact that her parents were rather guiltlessly ignoring her. And, finally, she had become impatient and rebellious, angry that her parents couldn't—or wouldn't—get over their lost infant. Lately, Catriona had been enduring a detestable combination of each, unable to pick apart her complex thoughts. One day one feeling would overcome her, the following day, a next. Now, as she sat in the protective security within the dark spruce's greenery, she pondered this as the gentle lull of the tree's slight swaying coincided with her parents' hushed conversing. What to do? Catriona's thoughts were being interloped by the realization of the truth; her parents weren't likely to come home any differently than they had arrived, she had seen it in her mother's eyes as she fingered the headstone. Should she speak to them about her feelings and demand change? Or should she continue to bear the burden of emotional loneliness? She couldn't decide. She would have to simply practice the virtue of patience. And, she thought ruefully, I might as well begin now . . . who knows how long I have to wait. * * * When Catriona arrived home that day she went off to attend a dress rehearsal for a concert she was in. She played the violin, or rather the fiddle, as it was called in the Celtic fiddling group in which she was involved. The concert was on one of the main stages in town, and Catriona was both apprehensive and excited about it. At the rehearsal, however, as her fingers flew over the strings and she drew quick, light bows, as her foot kept the beat by tapping the floor, she forgot about the stress which barred her way. She forgot her muddled feelings, she forgot how her hopes for a new beginning had just been dashed, and how her mother had rushed to her room and wept uncontrollably when they'd returned home. All she focused on was the optimistic laughter soaring from the fiddles, and the joy that music brought her. During the last tune, a slow and mournful melody, Duana, Catriona's talented instructor, stopped the group. "Excellent. As long as you play from your heart and blend together as one, this will be superb." She beamed reassuringly at Catriona, one of the youngest (many were adults). "I believe we are behind time, so I'll let you scatter. See you there on the big day. Practice hard!" And to Catriona, reading
Fiction
John McCarty was warming up his arm. "Whip it in there!" yelled his friend, Stuart Johnson. He and Stuart played for the Rockets. The Rockets were the best baseball team in the league, all because of John, their pitcher. Or at least that's what Stuart thought! John was great at baseball, but he also loved school and got A's in almost every subject. He loved history the most. Stuart, on the other hand, hated school and especially hated history. The one thing the boys had in common was that they both loved baseball! They both rocked at it too! John was the pitcher for the Rockets and could pitch 60 mph. Stuart played shortstop and was the fastest runner on the team. They were both drafted to the Rockets last year when they were only ten years old. Before they joined the team, the Rockets were in last place. The Rockets easily picked up the two friends in the first draft. As soon as John and Stuart joined the team, the whole team seemed to burst with skill. The Rockets started winning again. Last season they were undefeated all the way to the championship, which they ended up losing to the Devils. Today, John was going to pitch the whole game for the Rockets' second championship attempt. John was warming up his arm with Stuart. They played catch until Mrs. McCarty came. "Are you sure your parents know we're taking you to the game?" questioned Mrs. McCarty. "I'm sure," replied Stuart. "They said they would be late to the game." "OK then, pile in boys," said Mrs. McCarty. Stuart felt energetic and excitedly ran to the car. John felt like running, but he didn't want to tire himself out before the game. As John walked to the car, he noticed a sparkle on the ground. He bent down to study it when he heard his mom calling him from the car. "C'mon, John, or else you're going to be late to the big game!" "One minute," John yelled back. John looked back down at the ground. He could barely make out the shape of a ball as big as his palm. He dug at it with his fingers until he pulled it out of the dirt. The bottom side of the sphere was clean and shiny like a crystal. He would have examined it more if his mom didn't grow impatient. "John! Now!" He couldn't wait any longer without getting in trouble, so he stuffed the ball into his pocket and walked to the car. Soon they were en route to Callahan Park, named after the city's founder. As they turned at an intersection, all that was on John's mind was the game. John didn't give a second thought to the mysterious, shiny sphere. John was so caught up in thinking of the game that he never saw the car speeding toward them from the opposite direction. Mrs. McCarty had reached for the Chapstick she had dropped on the floor and didn't see the car. When John looked up and saw the speeding car, he knew something bad was going to happen. Before he could tell his mom to watch out, the car impacted Stuart's side of the car with enormous force. Stuart was thrown forward and then backward. John heard a crack and then everything went black. When John woke up, he was still in the car, trapped in his seat. When he looked over at his friend, he was shocked. He saw his friend hunched over, but the thing that scared him the most was that Stuart's neck was in a weird position. John saw that Stuart wasn't breathing. He is just holding his breath, John thought hopefully. But five minutes passed and Stuart still hadn't taken a breath. John had been feeling an uncomfortable sensation by his right pocket. When he reached down, he felt the sphere bulging into his leg. He carefully took it out and rubbed off some of the dirt. He had noticed an inscription on the sphere before he got in the car, but he hadn't had time to examine it. He could barely make out the inscription, "Precious Time." As John kept rubbing the sphere, he noticed it started to glow. The ball jumped out of his hands and started spinning, making a kind of a force field around him that lifted him up out of his seat and out of the car. After the force field stopped, a screen popped up in front of him. It had "year, month, day, and time," with blanks after each word. Right next to all of that there was a button that said GO. A thought came to John. Could this be a time machine? Could he bring Stuart back to life? John quickly typed the information on the keyboard. "There!" exclaimed John, "I'm all finished!" He wasn't too sure about hitting the GO button. He thought of Stuart and knew that helping his friend was all that was important. John pushed the button. Nothing happened! He tried it again. Then he realized that he had typed in the present time and not the time of the accident. He looked at his watch and noticed that the second hand wasn't moving. He estimated the time of the crash and typed in the information. Then he hit GO. At first, nothing happened. Then suddenly, he saw everything go into rewind. He saw his car go backwards and go back around the corner. Then it stopped and he was teleported to his car. The car went forward around the corner and approached the intersection. His mom dropped her Chapstick. "Stop!" yelled John, and his mom slammed on the brakes just in time to stop from being hit by the car. "That was close," said Mrs. McCarty as she breathed a sigh of relief. John reached into his pocket and noticed the sphere was gone. Had all this been a dream? John wondered. All he knew was
Fiction
Emily shaded her green eyes from the hot Nevada sun. A tiny breeze blew a loose strand of her dusty brown hair and relieved the humidity that made the air hang thick and heavy. Her mother's horse, Sweetie, shifted impatiently beneath her. Emily reassured her with a pat, but her mind was in the craggy mountains that loomed high and forbidding above horse and girl. She strained her eyes, searching for a cloud of dust kicked up by a figure on a lone horse. Finally she saw movement. A mustang, running wild and unkempt in the hills. Behind it was a small herd, all shabby and scarred. All of a sudden, they broke into a gallop. The stallion screamed his shrill emergency call. Was it a bobcat that so upset the herd? But then she saw a man who was waving a long lariat atop a bay quarter horse. Only then did she relax. She watched, enthralled, at the scene going on far above. Man and horse closed in on a handsome mare, coat gleaming in the sunlight. The horse received small signals from his rider that were only seen by the experienced eye. After lassoing a few mustangs, the pair rode down the steep cliff toward Emily. The man grinned with pride at the fine mare he had caught. "She ought to fetch a fair price," her father determined. He worked for the Bureau of Land Management, capturing mustangs to sell at silent auctions to qualifying owners-to-be. "Yeah. Ain't she gorgeous," Emily replied. "Mom's looking for you." "All right. Let's go down to the house together." The smiling Sarah Jenners came to the door to greet them in her apron, flour coating her arms up to her elbows. Nevertheless, she hugged her husband and daughter, speckling their clothes with whiteness. Joshua and Emily flicked the flour off onto the dry ground. Sarah looked at the mustangs Joshua had caught with a dreamy look in her eyes. "They're so beautiful," she told them. "That one isn't so pretty—look, he's got scars all over him. He's a sorry sight, all right," Joshua commented. "Oh, no—he's the most beautiful of all." Emily couldn't say she agreed with this, but she decided not to press further. During supper, Joshua described his capture. "I was chasing the herd, and a pretty little mare caught my eye. I brought Wild Thing close to her to try to corner her, and just for a second I was distracted by a rearing horse. When I looked back toward the mare, she was gone." "Maybe she went off in a hidden crevice," Emily suggested. "You're probably right," her father agreed. "There are plenty of hiding places in the mountains." He pushed his plate aside and rose from the table. "Well, I'd best get a good night's sleep—I have a hard trek tomorrow." Emily remembered that her father was going to the next county to sell some cattle, and wouldn't be back until after dark. Joshua said good-night to his wife and daughter before getting ready for an early bedtime. "I wonder what happened to that mare Dad talked about," Emily said to her mother when they were clearing the table. "Oh, I don't know. The mustangs have secrets humans will never know," answered Sarah. But Emily wanted to know. The question nagged at her even as she fell asleep. Emily was riding a horse through the mountains. She didn't know whether it was Sweetie or Wild Thing or some other horse. She was searching for something exciting, but this was unknown to her also. Suddenly, a gleaming palomino mare stepped out of the shadows. She seemed to be glowing with some inner light and stood out like a beacon in contrast with the black night. Emily knew this was what she was searching for. She sat looking in awe at the magnificent creature looking back at her with large, wild eyes. They both remained motionless, as though frozen. Then, wisps of fog abruptly started to curl around the mare, shrouding her from Emily's view. "No, no!" she cried out, reaching her arms desperately toward the mustang. A wail of disappointment tore from her throat. She woke up with her pillow damp from tears. Emily dressed like a zombie, eyes staring into space, thinking about the palomino mare. She pulled on her jeans and headed outside to saddle Sweetie. After scrawling a short note that said "Gone riding, back for breakfast," she headed for the mountains. For the first two hours, Emily saw no sign of life except for the occasional jackrabbit springing across the path and the hawks soaring high in the sky. It was eight o'clock, and she knew her mother was up by now and preparing breakfast, but Emily had no thought of turning back—not until she saw the mustang mare. Another half-hour passed. Now her mother was probably getting a little worried. Emily continued to ride deeper into the mountains. Here was a low canyon, surrounded by mountains on all sides, except for the narrow space between. A brook bubbled across it. Emily's heart leapt. This spot was the perfect home for a herd of mustangs! She directed Sweetie to the brook and gave her a long drink of the cool, refreshing water. Looking down into the water, she gasped. Behind her, she could see the reflection of a palomino horse! Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned her head so she could glimpse the mare. Nervously, the mustang sidestepped, wary of this human drinking at her brook. The sunlight made her smooth golden coat shine, and her mane and tail were long from years of growing. The mare stared at her with her big, deep brown eyes. Looking at her under the clear blue sky, for one shining moment, Emily thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world. Suddenly, Emily heard the shrill neigh of a mustang break the silence. The mare heard her stallion too, and galloped away to him in
Fiction
Billy stood on the porch of the cabin enjoying the cool, fresh air. He loved the way everything was quiet and still before the rest of the world woke up. Then he remembered—he was at camp in North Carolina, 800 miles away from his parents in Florida. Billy shivered. Suddenly, the air seemed too cold and the quietness too quiet. At home it wasn't like that. Home. That magical word. No, stop thinking about that! Billy rubbed his eye where a tear tried to come out. Finally, he gave up and started bawling like a baby. The rest of his cabin woke up and started saying, "Crybaby crybaby, crybaby Billy's a crybaby, crybaby, crybaby . . ." Aah! Billy sat straight up in bed. Where was he? Oh, now he remembered, safe at home in his bed. He groped around the nightstand for the thick glasses that he needed to wear. He got out of bed and opened the window. Ahh, the wonderful balmy breezes that Florida was known for. It had just been a nightmare. He wasn't in North Carolina and he wasn't going to camp. He was going to spend this summer like the previous summers: at home with his family doing nothing. Billy smiled, went over to his closet, and pulled out a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt, tucking the shirt in just so. He then went and stood in front of the mirror, examining his face carefully. If only my glasses weren't so thick and my hair so shaggy, Billy thought. If I didn't have glasses then I wouldn't look like a nerd, and my brown eyes are actually quite nice. Then if I get my hair cut like the other boys I could be a model. Well, not quite a model, but . . . Billy's fancies were cut short by an ear-piercing yell. "Billy! Oh, Billy my boy! Breakfast is ready!" Billy followed his nose down the stairs and into the kitchen where his mother had cooked her famous "start of the summer" breakfast. Billy smiled happily and started wolfing down her delicious pancakes and sausages. Yes, this would be a great summer. Maybe he would even make a few friends. But the next instant this feeling of happiness was shattered by the words that came out of his mother's mouth. In that same false, happy voice she announced, "Oh, and your father and I decided you're going to sleep-away camp this summer." Billy choked on his sausage. "What?! What do you mean? You can't send me to camp! I . . . we . . . I thought . . . ohhh!" Billy stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to his room. Well, he thought, maybe Brian will understand the way I feel. So he called his best and only friend, Brian. "Hello?" answered a husky voice, unmistakably Brian's. "Hey!" replied Billy "If you want me to play with you today I can't because I'm going to camp in two days and I have to pack." "Well, actually, that was what I was calling to talk to you about. You see . . ." "Wait!" Brian interrupted. "If you're calling to convince me not to go, well, you can't. Just because you don't want to go doesn't mean that I don't want to go." With that, he slammed down the phone. While Billy was still trying to let the phone call sink in, his mother came in. "Billy, let me explain about our decision." "You don't have to explain, I can tell that I'm a pain to you guys and you want to get rid of me!" snapped Billy, and, with that accusation, Billy stormed out of the room. He grabbed his baseball, bat, and glove and ran outside to the baseball field down the street from his house. Once there, he started sobbing like a maniac, throwing the ball up and swinging the bat wildly, not caring that everyone was stopping to stare at him. The only thing that Billy accomplished from this was a bump on the left side of his head where the ball hit him. When it grew late, Billy walked back to his house and into his room, slamming the door for the second time that day. There was a tray of food on his bedside table which he gobbled down hungrily, while opening the note that was also on the table. It said: Dear Billy, Your mother told me about your reaction to camp, and I just want to get a few things straight. The reason we are sending you to camp is because we're running low on money and need to work extra hours. We can't be at home at all this summer to see you or take care of you. Because camp starts in three days, your mother will help you pack tomorrow. Your camp is in Raleigh, North Carolina, and it is called Golden Eagle. You should have a lot of fun there. You need to grow up sooner or later, and this is the best time to do it. You will not only be helping us out, but also yourself Thanks so much. Now eat your dinner and get to bed, because you're going to need all of your energy to pack. Love, Dad Well, it was pretty nice of Dad to do all that for me, thought Billy as he got ready for bed. But still . . . Billy couldn't finish his train of thought because he burst into tears. He cried himself to sleep. The next few days went by in a blur of tears and packing. Finally, the fateful day arrived and after a long drive it was time for Billy to say goodbye to his parents. "Take care now. Have fun. Don't forget to write us," his parents said. All Billy could do was nod and force back the tears that were threatening to overflow down his cheeks. Then his parents left
Poem
Cleaning yourself as if the world is just fine Of course you don't know about September 11 or the war You don't know about the terrorists or do you Is that mangy dog down the street the terrorist you fear What does someone of your small stature think of the world Do you look at the humans around you and think you're much smarter because you can hunt smell a rat and see in the dark Maybe you think all we can do is open a can How would you manage all these wars between countries Would you talk out your problems or use a more violent approach Grady enters the room and I watch the hair on your back rise You don't move He doesn't move This could be a showdown But no The moment passes and you resume your cleaning I breathe a sigh of relief What would the world be like if ruled by a cat say, like you, Stripes Would everyone be ordered to bathe for hours on end You look up at me with clear eyes and I'm curious to know Do you actually reason or do you just look smart You know I've always suspected you have the ability to think and also the ability to pretend to think I see a smile flitting across your face You get up and go outside Even though that dog could still be there you show no fear
Poem
In my house, we celebrate everything. Even the smallest things. Good grades on a test. Learning that we are going On vacation. Even a surprise present. The reward is "doing the tango." The dogs want to join in And scramble to find a toy A bone, a partner to celebrate The joyful dance. Learning to do the tango Was a hard job in itself. When I was young, The turn and the switch Of hands Was the most challenging. Now it comes naturally The greatest part of all Is seeing the joy On my mother's face When she knows There is good news, Meaning We get to dance the tango.
Book Reviews
Belle Teal by Ann M. Martin; Scholastic Press: New York, 2001; $15.95 Do you ever act differently around African Americans than you do around white people? Belle Teal did not think anyone would ever do such a thing, until segregation was reduced and, once more, schools began to integrate at Coker Creek. Belle Teal tells of the cruelty to people just because of their skin color. Before I read this book I knew that people were often singled out, but I never realized that they would actually get hurt, or sent to jail, just because of their race. In Belle Teal many kids, and even parents, were extremely mean to the new kids at Coker Creek Elementary. When one of her friends started to taunt the new kids, Belle Teal got very upset. Her friend's father became the real problem, though. He is racist and prejudiced toward the children. His extreme racism finally came to a head when he began spreading lies and rumors. When Belle Teal found out that the stories were untrue, she became especially angry and decided she needed to do something to help. This story was about the struggle between right and wrong. Belle Teal really made me think about how much it hurts people when you tease them or get them in trouble for something they didn't do. I have always thought and wondered, why do people treat their peers differently because of their race or religion? They are humans too. In school you learn about the segregation laws and how life was in the 1950s, but Belle Teal truly makes you visualize how things were. I personally thought that this was a great book. In my opinion, it teaches you more about life in the 1950s than a teacher can explain to you. I would definitely read this book; it will make you see how African Americans really did feel in the past, and even, sometimes, in the present.
Book Reviews
Someday by Jackie French Koller; Orchard Books: New York, 2002; $16.95 Ever thought about your "someday"? You know, someday you'll go off to college, someday you'll get a job, someday the house, the family—someday, someday, someday. Someday the town you've loved and grown up in will be washed away to nothing more than a reservoir for a big city, is not your normal "someday." It will no longer be on a map; only a sad distant memory for the people who once lived there. I'm almost positive that that thought hasn't entered your mind. For Cecelia Wheeler, though, it was a fact, but one that was always off in the distant future. Yes, it would come true, but it was too far away to think about now. Unfortunately for Cecelia, someday, sadly, came too soon. In this creative and detailed story, fourteen-year-old Cecelia Wheeler (affectionately known as Celie) is falling apart as she watches her town collapse. Everything she knows (including her family) is changing. Worst of all, she might have to move to Chicago, a city too far away for words to describe from her precious town of Enfield, Massachusetts. More importantly, Chicago was too far away from her best friend, Chubby Miller. During the last few days of Enfield, a strange, handsome and wealthy young man waltzes into Celie and her mother's lives. It seems as if nothing could go right. When there was a sliver of hope that things might go right, it just crumbles again. Someday is the story of the surprises, the misery, and the triumphs of the people during the last few days of Enfield—and all the towns in the Swift River Valley. While I was reading this book, I thought about my own somedays. I remembered that years ago, I loved to go to my grandpa's house very much. He had so many stories, so many memories of the way things were. I was immersed in my family's history. I had always known my grandpa was old, and I knew that someday he would die, but when it happened, it all seemed so sudden. It was as if we were just in the living room of his house, sitting at his feet and listening to his stories and all of a sudden the stories ended; I just wasn't ready. Then, I remembered that last year, I had to make the decision about which middle school I would attend. As most of you know, middle school is a big step from elementary. For me, it was an even bigger step. I decided not to attend the school where all my friends were going, but a school where anyone who attended was immediately labeled a snob. I knew no one where I was going, and I had to basically start all over again. There were new teachers, new kids, new rules and a whole new environment. I knew that someday this would happen, but once again I just wasn't ready. My someday came and now I enjoy my new school. I also enjoy my friends—old and new. One of the things I really loved about this book was how the story about the town wasn't the only story going on. Celie and her family had to deal with everything from love to hate, joy to sorrow, laughter to tears. Read the book and think about your somedays. Maybe you'll get the same message I did, or maybe it will be something totally different for you. I know this much is true: when your somedays become today, you can remember yesterday with the hope for a brighter tomorrow.
