Fiction
On a cool, fall afternoon a young girl ran home from school. She pushed her straight, brown hair out of her eyes as she neared her house. She could not wait to tell her parents the exciting news. "Mom! Mom!" The girl burst through the kitchen door. Her mother looked up from peeling potatoes for their dinner. "What is it, Carmen?" she asked. "Mom, I was accepted! I'm going to audition!" "Audition for what?" "There is going to be one student that is chosen to play a solo in front of the whole school and also the parents. All the other children will accompany the soloist in the orchestra. But we have to audition first. The audition will be held on Friday. Then our orchestra teacher, Mrs. Newton, will pick the child to play the solo. I don't know who I am competing against, though." Carmen's eyes shone. She was so glad that she knew how to play the violin. Ever since she was very young, Carmen loved the music of the violin, so her parents encouraged her to play. They had signed her up with an exceptionally good professional violinist, who gave Carmen lessons. Working hard, Carmen established a good rapport with her private lesson teacher, as well as her school orchestra teacher. Carmen's parents were able to help her practice because they both played the piano very well. So, in this way, at eleven years old, Carmen was considered a very accomplished musician for her age. "What are you playing for the audition, Carmen?" Her mother's voice broke through her daydreams. "Oh!" Carmen came back to earth. "I am playing the Vivaldi Concerto in A minor." "The whole thing?" Carmen's mother looked shocked. "That's a very long piece you are taking on Carmen! Are you sure?" "Mom, I've been practicing the concerto for four months. I have almost fully mastered the last movement. The concert is two weeks away from now! I'm sure if I practice, then I will be ready in time for the audition." Her mother sighed. "All right. If you say so," she replied. "Good luck!" That night, after supper, Carmen studied her reflection in the mirror in her room. She did not think much of her appearance. It had been the same since third grade. Carmen had short, straight, rather stringy brown hair. She was sort of skinny, and shorter than most of the kids in her class. Oh, how Carmen wished that she looked like Gabriella, the new girl in her class. Gabriella had long, curly, golden hair. She had quickly become the most popular girl in the class. Gabriella chose her friends very carefully Carmen was not one of them. Sometimes Carmen saw Gabriella looking at her. It was almost as if she wanted to talk to Carmen. But every time Carmen had tried to smile, talk, or be friendly, Gabriella acted as if Carmen were not even there. Every time Carmen tried to start a conversation, Gabriella would turn away and start talking to her other friends, girls like her, who only thought about themselves and how they looked. So, Carmen had long since given up trying to be friends with Gabriella. For the rest of the week, Carmen practiced and practiced. She thought that perfecting the piece would help her feel better about performing. Instead, the more she played the concerto, the more nervous Carmen got. Again and again she told herself that it would be OK if she was not chosen to be the soloist. It did not help her one little bit! She, Carmen, wanted to be the one on stage on the night of the concert. * * * At the end of the first week, Friday morning, Carmen woke up early. This was the morning that she had been waiting for: the morning of the school audition. Carmen would also learn who she was competing against and what they were playing. Her heart thudding nervously in her chest, and with butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach, Carmen got in the car after breakfast and her mother drove her to school. Her father worked on weekdays. As soon as her mother had kissed her goodbye and driven away, Carmen went straight into the big assembly room in the school building, where the concert and audition were going to take place. Carmen took her violin carefully out of its case. She tuned it to the baby grand piano. The piano had a wonderful, ringing tone to it, and Carmen could not help but set down her violin in its case, sit down on the piano bench, and play a sonatina. Her mother and father had also taught her to play the piano. Knowing that she was very early, Carmen kept playing. Suddenly, the door behind Carmen opened. Startled, Carmen stopped playing and whirled around on the piano bench. Gabriella was standing there. To Carmen's immense surprise, Gabriella gave Carmen a small smile. It was so small that Carmen could hardly see it, but it was still there, and it was still a small, but unmistakable smile. "That sounded very nice," Gabriella said. "I really liked it. Do you think you could play it again?" Carmen felt so surprised that the girl she had tried so hard to be friends with, the girl who had always acted as if she were not there, was finally being nice to her. She immediately sat back down on the piano bench to play it again, when two very popular and not very nice girls came in. They both rushed over to Gabriella. "Gabby, we've been waiting and waiting for you," one of the girls complained. "Where've you been? And what are you doing with her?" the second girl said rudely, pointing at Carmen. Without another glance at Carmen, Gabriella stalked out of the room. Carmen was almost in tears. Just when she had a perfect chance of becoming friends with Gabriella, two other girls had to come in to ruin it,
Fiction
At the very western tip of the world lies a land of clear waters and cold winters, where wild storms turn the sky and sea to dark gray, and white-sailed fishing boats once glided like swans over white-crested waves. During one particularly fearsome storm, where thunder crashed and lightning lit up the sky for miles, a group of travelers huddled in an inn. "Tell us a tale then," urged one cloaked traveler, nursing a cup of something hot and nasty smelling. "Something to take our minds off this dratted thunder!" The flimsy wooden shutters rattled open, lending the occupants a view of huge waves pounding relentlessly against the rocks and cliff where the inn was perched, punctuated every few minutes by another bright flash of lightning falling out of the sky The innkeeper's wife hurried forward to bolt the shutters closed, replacing the view of storm-tossed ocean with badly-painted shutter. "Come on now, Fion," added a raggedy-looking woman in a faded red cloak smoking a pipe, "best make it quick though, before this whole cursed rock falls into the sea." "All right then," conceded Fion, a younger man with a mane of long brown hair tied back at the nape of his neck, who wore a battered hat with a feather. "It just so happens that I know the perfect tale for nights like these," he said, standing up and bowing grandly to the other inn's guests. A storyteller by trade, he made his living by keeping audiences enthralled. The woman, Nell, told fortunes, and the other man, well, he made sure that no one bothered their small band. Together they lived their lives traveling, surviving off the small coins tossed into his cap after a performance. " As I was saying," Fion stepped forward into the firelight, casting dark shadows over his usually handsome face, "storms like these bring to mind a certain tale I heard a while back. You folks ever heard of Searain?" he asked, mentioning a rocky peninsula a little ways north and east of the inn. The inn's guests nodded. "Funny name for it, eh? Seeing as there's been no rain there for over a decade, nearly thirteen years it's been, now, hasn't it? Well, it wasn't always like that. Used to be the wettest point around here, and that, my friends," he said, as the rain pounded on the roof and the storm still raged outside, "is saying something. Now the Fisherfolk used to be quite common here in Iristerra," he continued, naming this land where the colors of the sea and land shifted and changed like the rainbow. "Few years ago, the Fisherfolk were as common as seagulls and as good at fishing too, but then came that huge storm, you remember that one, Nell? Nearly washed her wagon off the road, it did. I was only a young man then, just starting out on my own, before I joined up with the Travelers. Wiped most nearly all of the Fisherfolk out, and the ones that survived left after that. Nowadays it's rare to see those beautiful boats with sails like wings sailing down the harbor." He surveyed his audience, the inn's guests ignoring their drinks and turning their faces to the storyteller. Even the innkeeper's wife had stopped wiping out glasses to listen. "Once, not so long ago, when the Fisherfolk sailed these waters, was a young woman who lived on one of those boats, one of the Fisherfolk, yes, but different. Most of those in Iristerra have light hair, pale brown or yellow as daffodils. Her hair, though, was dark as midnight on the water, and some said that it shown with blue and green lights when the firelight hit it. "These people live by the sea, off the fish they catch. Most never leave their boats except to trade in the town. Rather like us Travelers, in some aspects. She, however, could often be seen wandering along the shore or in the town whenever her boat wasn't anchored too far off shore. She never learned to fish; how to haul in a net or fillet a catch. Refused even to watch a hook and line, something even they let their youngsters do. "She could swim, though. Swim like a fish or a seal, her eyes glistening blue-gray like the sea itself. She could even catch fish with her bare hands, but would always let them go. Odd, that was, considering that most of the Fisherfolk never learn how to swim. Say that if they can't trust their boats from not sinking, then what's the point? Uncanny, they said. Unnatural even." He paused, taking a sip from a mug that the innkeeper's wife offered him. "Some even called her a weather-witch, one who could tame the winds and ride the storm. And it was true that on days when the wind howled and the rain nearly washed the paint off their boat, she could be seen balancing on the bowsprit, right above the figurehead, and that dolphins came to her call. But the Fisherfolk all have their way with the ocean; it'd be considered uncanny and unnatural if dolphins didn't come to their call. Half-dolphin already, the whole pack of 'em, leastways they were. "Some called her a Selkie, one of the seals that could turn into people, and that one day she would up and vanish to join her kinsmen beneath the waves. She didn't though. Maybe she was a very patient Selkie. Maybe she was just human. In time she took up with a feller from Searain, a handsome one by all accounts, not one of the Fisherfolk, a merchant lad he was. He fell in love though, as all who met her did, and left dry land to join her and her family on their boat with sails like clouds." He paused again, staring into the firelight, remembering the boats and the smell of salt spray. Of course it was just a tale, he chided himself: He
Fiction
The latch creaks gently as I push open the gate. In front of me, a small potting shed covered with wild roses blocks my view. But I already know by heart what lies beyond. And sure enough, as I walk around the corner of the shed, the sight of a familiar garden greets my eyes. But it isn't just any garden, it's my garden. Even though anyone can come here, it has always seemed to belong just to me. It has been my sanctuary in times of sadness and my inspiration in times of joy. But most of all, it has always been somewhere where time seems to melt away: where there are no math papers due, no people to be polite to, no mothers to get into fights with. Everywhere I look, a perfect tapestry of color and shape greets my eyes. Here, perfect rays of sunlight reach down long fingers to gently caress the silvery leaves of a grove of aspen trees. There, a vibrant butterfly gently alights on the lip of a delicate blue-and-gold flower, slowly fanning its wings, anticipating its first sip of nectar. I breathe in deeply, inhaling the mingled scents of rose and hibiscus. Slowly, I can feel the anger coiled tightly around my heart loosen its grip. The memory of my most recent fight with my mother starts to fade. For the past few years, our fights have become more and more frequent. Sometimes I feel like just flinging open the front door and running away. Usually I resort only to slamming the door. This time was just one time too many, that's all. I couldn't face her anymore. I had finally opened that door and left. At first, my intention was to leave and never return. But now I wasn't so sure. The garden was having its usual effect on me: putting the jumbled thoughts in my head back into place, sorting out the tangled knot of anger and confusion I felt inside. No matter, I thought. I won't let myself think about that right now. As I venture deeper and deeper into this garden of miracles, I come to a small bridge adorned with horsetails on either side. Instantly I am transported back in time to when I was six. My Mama and I walk hand-in-hand over this very bridge. "Wait, Mama!" I say, bending over. "I want to see the fishies!" Mama lies down on the rough wooden planks next to me, and we both spend the next ten minutes immersed in the activities of the fish. When we sit up again, slightly stiff and sore, Mama reaches out and pulls a horsetail toward her. "Look!" she says with as much excitement as if she were the one being shown this small miracle for the first time. Gently, she pries the sections apart and lays them on the wet ground next to her. "Now, watch!" Carefully, she picks up each piece and fits them together again. I can feel my eyes bugging out of my head! After a few minutes of labor, she holds up the horsetail exactly as it had been before she picked it. "Ta da!" she exclaims proudly. As my memory fades, I can feel my eyes start to swim with unshed tears. Even though sometimes I feel as though I hate her, I know that inside I will always really love her. Even though sometimes I want to slap her, I know that inside she will always be that same Mama who showed me the horsetails, all those years ago; and that I will always be the same little girl who clung to her hand and exclaimed over the fishies' activities. For better or worse, she is my Mama, and I love her.
Fiction
Today I go into candy shops and see little bottles of liquid Warhead sour substances and Warhead sour spray. But I can never find what I am really looking for: sour, sweat-producing, face-pinching, tongue-twisting, and eye-watering, irresistible, Warhead sucking candies. I know it sounds weird making so much fuss over something so little as a sucking candy, but it is more than a sour sucking candy to me, it is a memory to me, one memory that has been wrapped, packed and sent from Japan. It all started way back in second grade. Fraser and I met each other the year before but that year in second grade was the year of the Warhead! If you did not know any better, you would say Fraser and I were twins. He is slightly taller than me, but he has brown hair, and blue eyes, two of the many features we share. In fact, I, one of the two "twins," had mistaken him for me. I was walking into my second-grade classroom when I saw a picture of me on the floor. I thought it was Fraser's and ran to give it to him. This is how much we look alike. Fraser was a really nice kid. He was a bright and clever kid. He always came up with ideas that everybody agreed on. Even though he was Australian, he did not have an accent. He was someone who was ready to do anything, anytime, anywhere, even if it meant his life. But the thing I liked most about Fraser was that he always had a smile on. He was also daring. He was not afraid of anything. But we always helped each other. Fraser and I were a team. Anyway, he would come to lunch with a goldmine of Warheads. Black cherry, green apple, yellow lemon, every Warhead flavor. He would tell me which he thought was the most sour. He would put more than one in his mouth at a time and tell me which were the best combinations. While he did that he would make funny faces trying to fight off the sour. He would imitate the face on each wrapper on the Warheads (except for the head exploding). He was like a librarian. "Hi," you would say to him. "What could I do for you?" he might reply. "I am looking for something sweet and sour." "Hold on." He would reach into the goldmine and pull out a green apple. "Here you go." "Thanks." You would take the Warheads and leave with sour explosions in your mouth. One day while we were in the second grade we were at Fraser's house when he got up and said, "I'll be right back." When he returned, he laid out five black-cherry Warheads (the most sour) on a paper napkin in front of me. He did the same for himself "Let's see who could hold the sour the longest," he said with a sinister grin. "Whoever spits their Warheads onto the paper napkin first loses." "You're on," I said, confident of my victory. "On your marks," he said, "get set, go." We stuffed the candy in our mouths. Immediately my face scrunched up from the explosion. But Fraser was sitting calmly with that sinister grin again. Can newcomer Michael Madans beat Warhead master Fraser Stead? I thought. Nope. I stared at the Warheads that were just in my mouth and now on the paper towel. Then I just laughed. Once Fraser finished off his Warheads he started to laugh too. And we just laughed and laughed. This was more than just a sucking candy, it was one of the things that made our friendship stronger. Halloween of 2003 was the last time I saw Fraser. We were only in the fourth grade when he moved back to Australia, where he was first born. And that was also the last time I had a Warhead for a long time. It is Warheads that keep our friendship as strong as it is. It was devastating. I just stood there doing nothing, no matter what my heart said. "I guess this is it," I said. "Yeah," he said. "Bye." "Bye," I replied. I was ready to do something outrageous. But I didn't. It felt like being strapped to a brick wall. After all these years of happiness, laughter and Warheads, we were going to be separated on Halloween, which is supposed to be a holiday of joy "It was really nice knowing you, bud," I said. "I am going to miss you. See ya." And that was it. But little did I know, I did not just say goodbye to my friend, I also said goodbye to the memory of a huge friendship. So that was it. No more Fraser. No more Warheads. I wonder what my life without Fraser would be like without Warheads. Would we remember each other? Would we still be friends? Many things could happen if it was not for that piece of candy. So here I was a fifth-grader, almost sixth, walking down the street. It has almost been a year since I last saw Fraser and the last time I had a Warhead. I think to myself, if I could just taste the sourness, and the sweetness of the memory, my spirit would rise. I wonder if Fraser has Warheads in Australia? Does he remember Warheads and all the memories? I walk into the nearest candy store and think, I wonder if they got more blue raspberry sour spray I reach in and pull out a package of WARHEAD SOUR SUCKING CANDIES. I really do not think when I see it. I just grab it. It is not a bag of candy to me. It is the key to my happiest memories, Fraser. I give the cashier the exact change and run out the door. I open the package and look at the goldmine of Warheads, which I thought was lost. Black, blue, pink, green and yellow
Fiction
“They're crazy!" shouted my father, bursting through the door and coming in for dinner. Mother, careworn and ever patient, calmly laid the bowls for supper. "Now, Jim," she said practically, filling our bowls with warm soup. That was what she always said when Father got excited. "I mean it Mabel!" he said, lifting his arms into the air. "If those men think they can get away with making a machine that can fly, well, I just think they're craz- . . ." "If the Good Lord had intended us to fly, we would have wings," agreed Mother. "Supper's ready." * * * The next morning at breakfast, I gulped down my food. "Papa?" I asked, downing a spoonful of porridge. "Yes, son?" said my father, busy doing something else. "Papa," I said, "tell me about the men who are making that flying machine." Papa grumbled disapprovingly. "The fools. They've come here to Kitty Hawk to play with gliders and try to make the silly things fly without wind. Like birds. Ridiculous." "What are their names, Papa?" "Wilbur and Orville Wright. A pair of daydreamers." "Maybe they'll be famous someday, Papa." "Famous?" roared Father. "Famous? The whole business will amount to nothing! Nothing, I tell you!" Mama, clearing the table, mildly interjected, "Now, Jim. You said the same thing about the horseless carriage." "And what became of it?" Father broke in, waving his hat. "An automobile, like Uncle Bill's," I said dreamily. "A cloud of smelly black smoke with a steering wheel, that's what! Anyway, I am off to work. Good day!" He violently slammed the door. Mother gave me a reproachful glance. "He's right, Ben," she said. "Now you got him all excited. He's never been the same since that time with Uncle Bill . . . Ah! What am I doing? Children, you get along and do your chores. Frannie, scrub the dishes. Carolyn, you can help with lunch. Ben . . ." I was out the door like a shot, racing to the sand dunes of Kitty Hawk. I wanted to see the men who were going to fly. My arms and legs pumped faster and faster. Perhaps they had figured out how to fly already I just had to get there in time. Finally, I reached the barren windswept wastes of Kitty Hawk. Off to one side was Kill Devil Hill, a mountain of sand towering above me. To the other were two tents, which I had never seen before. Faintly, I detected dark objects moving around inside the tents. I crept closer and closer, my bare feet soundless on the sand. The black objects left the tent and became men, carrying something large. What were they doing now? They were letting it go . . . the breeze caught it up . . . it was flying! Gliding, rather. I moved closer. And closer. Even closer. It was like some kind of magnetic attraction. I continued to gravitate toward the kite until I was standing next to the man flying it. Startled at finding myself there, I gasped and hopped back. The man looked down at me with a cheerful smile. He had a small, black mustache and was dressed quite neatly "Hello," he said, "I'm Orville Wright." My mouth went dry "Ben Thompson." "This is Wilbur, my brother." A thin man leaned out from behind the first Mr. Wright and smiled, doffing his cap. "Are you . . . ?" I started. "Are you the craz- . . . I mean . . . are you making the flying machine?" Orville nodded. "We're trying. Still in the experimentation stage. Want a try?" He handed me the kite, gently steadying my hand. There was a fair breeze that day, blowing in from the ocean. "You want to make this fly?" I asked. Orville nodded. "We'll have to find a way to make it fly without wind . . ." Throughout the next hour, I learned almost as much on the subject of flight as the brothers knew. Then, Amelia, my big sister, came and called me home to lunch. "You better hurry," she said in her prim, superior way. I waved to Orville as I trotted down the road, trying to catch up with Amelia. She was daintily stepping along, avoiding muddy patches and stopping briefly at puddles as if she expected me to be Sir Walter Raleigh and sweep off some velvet cloak for her to walk on. "Ooh! What will Mama say when I tell her you were flying kites instead of doing your chores?" she said as I panted alongside her. "Amelia!” I pleaded. "Won't you catch it!" she gloated. I pulled her hair. * * * “What's wrong with Ben?" asked 1VIama that evening as I stood motionless with a broom in one hand. I awoke with a start from my reverie and started sweeping again. I couldn't seem to keep my mind off the Wright brothers. One thing was certain: I was going back tomorrow. * * * I kept visiting the Wright brothers all summer, and soon took to calling them by their first names. They didn't seem to mind that much. One night, after dinner, I ran down to Kitty Hawk to see them. Orville played his mandolin, and Wilbur, his harmonica. We spent the evening singing, laughing, and talking about the long journey that lay before us on the road to flight. I liked the way that Orville said us, not just himself and his brother. It felt nice to be appreciated and part of a group doing something important. Wilbur and Orville, although several years apart, made a great team. Yet there were so many differences between them. Wilbur, the elder of the two, was solemn and quiet. Orville took his job seriously, but he was merrier and more outgoing than his brother. Wilbur was also the frailer of the two. Although both brothers became my friends, I was more inclined to share my thoughts and
Fiction
Shannon lifted her head and howled into the empty black sky. It was a sad, mournful song, shattering the cold silence. Slowly the old wolf dipped her muzzle to her toes in a sort of bow. Her graying white coat bristled slightly in the chilly breeze. Snow surrounded her, looking like a big, beautiful quilt of cotton. Only her soft paw prints disturbed it. She howled again. It echoed off of the nearby mountains, but again, there was no reply. Shannon stood up and shook herself of the snow, which sprayed everywhere. Then she walked over to the trees, her paws sweeping lightly over the snow. She stopped and listened, but heard nothing. The great, snow-topped trees loomed above her, as though taunting her, but she just walked on. She heard crackling in the bush next to her and flinched. Then she broke out into a fast-moving trot. She trotted through the big cluster of tall trees, pausing once in a while to sniff around. Finally she came to a small clearing. A small, wooden cabin lay nestled tightly in the deep snow; the tiny windows leaked long, eerie shadows onto the tree trunks nearby. The door of the cabin swung open to reveal a young woman with curly, chestnut-red hair, and a big moose-skin coat. She walked out and shut the door quietly behind her. Shannon paused for a second before coming out of the trees to greet the woman. Her brilliant green eyes darted around. "Hi Shannon, are you hungry?" The woman smiled and pulled out a small can of dog food, which Shannon eyed. The woman laughed. Then, with her mitten, she dug a shallow hole and dumped the contents of the can into it. "Eat," she commanded, and gave Shannon one more pat before turning back to the cabin. Shannon dipped her head and started to eat. Once she was finished, Shannon walked back into the trees and pawed the snow, checking how soft it was. Then she lay down, tucked her nose under her tail, and with a sigh, closed her eyes. Instantly, she was asleep. * * * Shannon was awakened by the barking of some young, energetic dogs. Heaving herself to her feet, Shannon yawned. Then she trotted back to the same clearing as the night before, taking great, sweeping strides. She knew exactly what was going on, and she did not want to miss it. * * * When Shannon reached the small clearing, she was met by the woman who had fed her the night before. In the woman's hand was a dog-mushing harness. "Shannon, do you want to go for a trail run?" the woman asked kindly Shannon wagged her tail before dropping her head so that she could be harnessed. Just as the woman was finishing up with Shannon a short and rather stocky man stepped out of the cabin. His eyes focused on Shannon right away. "Smart dog ye got there Kayla," he said, his blue eyes twinkling merrily. "She isn't a dog, John, she's a wolf. Caught her myself, as a pup, I did. But yeah, she's very smart and tame all right." Kayla hooked Shannon up to the rest of the team, and snapping the last piece into place, waved at the man. "I'll be back before dark; you can count on that. I'm an experienced musher of course. Well, bye." Kayla waved at the man. Then she bent over to make sure everything was packed, just in case. Shannon tossed her head restlessly. She loved trail runs, as long as getting ready didn't take too long. Most of the dogs in harness were just getting exercised, and knew the trail well. Only one dog didn't. Roxy was a dark gray husky with a pure white mask on her face. She was fairly young, new to the trail, a little bit skittish, and was extremely afraid of thunder and lightning. This was who Shannon was placed beside. She was not extremely fond of the idea of running with a pup, and was ready to teach Roxy that, except Kayla called upon them to go. Shannon trotted along, enjoying the beautiful scenery The trees that had loomed so high above her the night before, now seemed welcoming. The snow now sparkled as the strong, early morning sun shone down upon it, creating a dazzling sight. Shannon wished her partner, Mendae, could see it. Like her, Mendae was a wolf, caught and tamed by Kayla. She was, like most wolves, gray. But unlike most wolves, she had one blue eye, and one green. Recently, Mendae had taken a bad fall and broke her paw. The vet said she would never walk again, but she proved him 'wrong. He said she would never be a good sled dog anymore, but Kayla hoped she could prove him wrong again, but so far she hadn't. * * * Roxy leaned over and bit Shannon's ear playfully Shannon gave a warning growl and bared her gleaming, white teeth. Roxy whined. "Shannon, Roxy, break it up! You guys are supposed to get along!" Kayla jiggled the sled ropes, trying to catch the team's attention. The dogs threw all of their weight into the chest pad of the harness. The sled creaked as it slowly started to move. It bounced along the trail, hitting many bumps as it gathered speed. Roxy began to bark excitedly as the dogs fell into an easy rhythm. Shannon just pushed harder into her chest pad, her paws turning up small clouds of snow. It seemed as though she was trying to get away from the pup, even though she knew perfectly that she couldn't. "Keep going! You guys are doing great! Go!" Kayla called, trying to encourage the team into going faster. A gust of wind blew softly, tossing Kayla's long red hair this way and that. The team trotted on, through the winding trail that seemed almost endless. Soon the wind started to pick up, howling
Fiction
Someone’s trust can take years to gain, but only seconds to lose. Revving the motor of my best friend's dirt bike always gave me a thrill. Yet, nothing could compare to the feeling of zooming down the back roads by my beach house on a warm, summer day. As I switched gears from first to second, I glanced at an old woman giving me a cryptic stare. I saw her shake her head as if to say this was not safe, which only enticed me to go faster. I shifted to third gear and sped past her garden. I did not care about her opinion, for at that moment, going thirty miles per hour, I was the king of the world. The warm wind whipped through my hair while my shirttail flapped furiously in the breeze. Little toddlers venturing to the beach gazed at me in awe. Nothing could bring me down on that day . . . except for a small strip of gravel on the side of the road. My head was up in the clouds so I failed to notice the sliver of sand and pebbles ahead. I plummeted down quickly from Cloud Nine, however, when I flew through the dusty air and onto the hard pavement. I heard my friend stop his bike short, dismount, and rush towards me. Wanting to look cool in front of my fourteen- year-old friend, I stood up, brushed myself off, and forced a smile. He gasped as he pointed toward my arm. Suddenly I felt a flash of pain travel up my arm. I stared in disbelief at the blood dripping onto the bike from the dirty gash in my left arm. Gravel was jammed under the flesh of my palm, and my hip and legs were badly scraped. Holding in my tears of agony, I slowly drove back to my house and said I'd call him after I got cleaned up. After he drove around the corner, I sprinted through the front door and screamed for my mom. To be honest, I had never told her that I was riding this motorized vehicle. So, when she questioned me, I simply told her I had fallen off my bike. She took me down to the ocean and carefully washed off my scrapes and cleaned the gravel out of my hand. The salt stung my open wounds. When she had finished, I limped over to my friend's house. I was feeling terrible, not just because of my injuries, but because I felt guilty. My mother had recited over and over how dangerous dirt bikes were and that I was never to ride them. The thrill of the ride clouded my judgment, and I did not heed her warnings. Later that evening, we all went out to dinner. My sister had been with my dad in town during the day and was unaware of my injuries. So, when I was scooping up my lobster ravioli she noticed the cuts on my arm. She questioned me about the cuts and my mom replied that I fell off my bike. She misunderstood and thought my mom had said dirt bike so she blurted, "You fell off the dirt bike! Aha! Jesse said that thing was extremely safe!" My dad chimed in with, "How did you fall? You looked like you were great at riding it when I saw you!" My mom glared at me. Watching my mom's face, realizing that she had been misled, was sheer agony. Her words, "I see you conveniently neglected to tell me the whole story," felt like daggers in my heart. Suddenly, as I looked at her face, I realized that trust was a very fragile thing. Her eyes clearly told me that I had lost her trust. I always knew she would forgive me, but I still regret hurting her because of my need for speed.
Poem
Leaving my dear country made me sad, made me miss all that was worth remembering the food like foutou the food like attieke the food like aloko. Leaving my African country made me mourn, made me long for the people like the Baoule the people like the Senefou the people like the Dan. Leaving Cote d'Ivoire made me sour, made me cry for the places like Grand Bassam the places like my grandfather's village —N'Gattadolikro the places like Abidjan. Leaving Papa resting in his grave made me dispirited, made me despairing. I miss him Listening to Louis Armstrong, reading the poetry of Leopold Senghor, calling me his cherie.
Poem
Soft, quiet, a blanket of books, Turn left, left again, up the stairs, Feet finding the usual route. Passing comrades, enclosed in words, To the end of the row, near the window, The chair, my haven, Of books. I don't notice when it grows dark, Outside, I don't look up from the knights, And dragons, and swords, and horses. The problems in this world are easier, To face than the ones in Mine.
Book Reviews
The Waterless Sea: Book Two in the Chanters of Tremaris Trilogy
The Waterless Sea: Book Two in the Chanters of Tremaris Trilogy, by Kate Constable; Arthur A. Levine Books: New York, 2005; $16.95 Before I even begin writing this review, let me tell you, the glorious reader, about my two beliefs concerning fantasy novels. First, there is such a thing as sappy fantasy In fact, there are so many sappy fantasy novels that it could be called a genre unto itself Sappy fantasy can usually be recognized only by a true fantasy connoisseur, such as myself; however, there are a few defining marks: 1) the main characters of sappy fantasy novels are always beautiful or handsome; 2) elements (such as orcs, goblins, elves, the "Gift," etc.) are stolen from other true fantasy novels and are entwined into the literature. My second belief is that you can always tell how good a fantasy novel will be by reading the first paragraph. If the book starts out by describing (a) the sunrise/the sunset, (b) a woman who is not the main character, or (c) clothing, 99 percent of the time, the book will be a sappy fantasy story The Waterless Sea fits none of these requirements. Unlike books such as Eragon (and now, Eldest) or the Alanna series, which perch precariously upon the brink of the cliff which leads down into the cavern of sappy fantasy, The Waterless Sea sits far removed in a secluded hamlet in the realm of true fantasy—a realm which is steadily shrinking. Kate Constable's characters are bold and daring, yet not without weakness. One of the book's main characters, Darrow, is deathly afraid of the responsibilities of leadership, mainly to try and prove to himself that he is not who his former-friend-now-archenemy, Samis, claims he is—a man hungry for power, a cohort in Samis's quest to conquer the land of Tremaris. Yet the character who intrigues me the most is not Darrow, for all of his quiet strength. I am most interested instead by Calwyn, a young girl who grew up on a sheltered mountainside, yet who always dreamed of adventure. In this way, both Calwyn and I are alike. My home is an idyllic place—quiet, peaceful, and really very boring. I dream of traveling and going beyond just what I can see by taking the bus or walking out my front door. Just like Calwyn is, however, I fear that I will be disappointed by what I fmd there, wherever "there" may be. Calwyn dreams of the world as an exhilarating adventure abounding with opportunity and hope. What she finds is a sullen, twisted, reproduction of the world that existed in her imagination—where she is hated and despised for her ability to sing the ancient magic instead of loved and respected, where women are downtrodden and meek instead of considered men's equals, where the rulers are corrupt and greedy while the poor starve in the grimy coastal towns. I fear that something like the disappointment that Calwyn went through will also happen to me . . . instead of the lush jungles that I imagined I will find burning stumps of trees; instead of soaring towers and turrets of ancient castles, I'll find swarming tourists and graffiti. Perhaps I am too naive in my assumption that everything beautiful will stay as it is . . . but at least to protect the dreams of children we should be making more of an effort to make that which is beautiful also permanent. I recommend this book to readers aged nine to twelve. Also be sure to read The Waterless Sea's prequel, The Singer of All Songs.
Book Reviews
The Truth About Sparrows, by Marian Hale; Henry Holt and Company: New York, 2oo4; $16.95 The truth about sparrows takes you right back into the Great Depression. From the minute you open the book, all of Sadie Wynn's burdens will be yours. From the very beginning: having to give up a home, the only home you've known all your life. Sadie has to deal with it all. The Wynns have to leave their wonderful farm in Missouri to go to Texas. On the way, they meet a girl, Dollie, and her family Dollie becomes Sadie's friend throughout the story But to be true to Dollie, Sadie will have to let go of someone from the past: Wilma. Wilma is Sadie's best friend back in Missouri. As you read the book, you discover what Sadie discovers: that even if you trust your friends so much, they could still dump you. I've had some experiences like that, including when a friend and I had too many play dates and always got annoyed at each other. Now we're friends again. But even though Wilma promises to, she never writes to Sadie. Sadie sends her three letters and doesn't hear back. Sadie thinks at one point, "Wilma could be anywhere. But mostly, she was gone." In my favorite part of the story it's Halloween night and Sadie and some friends tell ghost stories. The book really comes alive, like a personal experience. I've spent time making up funny stories with friends and it sure is a lot of fun. Sadie tells a story about Wilma's brother who heard and even felt a ghost. I enjoyed that scene a lot. I guess you're wondering why this book has its name. One day, a man comes by a tent the Wynns are living in. He asks if they'll give him something to eat, and Sadie's mama obliges. The next day, Sadie is mad and looks for a place to be alone. She startles a sparrow who flies to another perch. Then Sadie is startled by a movement in a cardboard box. She moves closer and sees that it's the man her mother fed the day before. From then on she calls him Mr. Sparrow. I studied sparrows in first grade. They're the sweetest, most ordinary birds. Perhaps that sweetness and ordinariness is the truth about sparrows, and the truth about the man whose life is so hard he lives in a box. There is a lot of talk about poverty in the book. Sadie overhears a conversation between a boy and his dad that really stayed with me. The dad describes " . . . kids sleeping in the cold under Hoover blankets and scouring the dumps for food." "What's a Hoover blanket, Papa?" "A newspaper, son. Just a newspaper." This book taught me a lot of history Hoover was a man who was President during part of the Depression. This is what I saw when I traveled to India. Poverty. India is filled with it. "Too many people and not enough jobs," is another line from the book. Whenever you stop at a red light in Mumbai, kids will come to your car, trying to sell you something. Elderly men will ask you for money The Depression did that to people, too. This story will make you brood even after the last page is read. It has something to offer to everybody History, friendship, and the real preciousness of life. I recommend this book to everybody who reads this review!
