Fiction
The Tale of the Strange Nobleman
Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful noble lady whose name was Thione. She was loved and cherished by all of her people, and her wisdom was prized for miles around. Her husband also was a brave and noble man, and loved by his people just as much as his wife. His name was Lord Paul, and he was lord over many of the king's provinces. And so when the king invited him to a feast to celebrate his own marriage, Lord Paul had to attend, and his wife, Lady Thione, stayed to govern the castle during his absence. The journey was hard, but after weeks of travel, Lord Paul and his retinue entered the king's palace. The feast was indeed as great as the king had said in his letter of invitation, and the splendor and aroma of the food made even the pickiest of the courtiers' mouths water. There was fruit in abundance, meat stews, beef, pork, and chicken, a great variety of cheeses and breads, and wine that came specifically from the king's cellars in honor of his bride. Yet happy as he was, Lord Paul also felt lonely for his fair Lady Thione, for he felt that the beauty of the new queen did not rival her, and soon this loneliness shown forth not only in his heart, but in his face, and the king, being keen of eye, noticed, and being slightly drunk from the overabundance of wine, was offended and inquired of his lord's woe. "How can I be happy, o my king," Lord Paul answered, "when I long for my own wife whose wisdom is famed in the provinces and whose beauty goes unrivaled?" Then the king was furious for he felt that his wife’s beauty would surely surpass any who dared to boast in such a way. Therefore, he, in anger, had Lord Paul sent to the dungeons, until "the woman of whom he boasted should prove her wisdom to be greater than his queen’s." So he sent his decree to Lady Thione, convinced that nothing could rescue Lord Paul from his sentence. * * * Yet, as always, Lady Thione thought wisely and devoted all of her time to thinking of a way to rescue her husband on the king’s terms. Many days and nights she stayed in her tower, thinking and praying, till on the morning of the third day she emerged with a scheme. Quickly she commanded that a great and beautiful bow, inlaid with gold and silver, be made, along with a quiver of arrows of equal workmanship. Then she called to the blacksmiths for gauntlets and leggings of mail to be made, along with an iron helmet. Then she and her maids set to work on the finest embroidered shirt and tunic that could be made out of fine silk and velvet, stitching in many patterns, making it as beautiful an attire as possible. For one entire month they worked, none knowing what she was scheming. Finally, on the first day of spring, Lady Thione and her maids finished the strange-looking garment. She arrayed herself with the heavily embroidered shirt and tunic, tying them in place with a green silk sash into which she thrust two foreign knives. Then she did up her hair and put on her helmet, along with the chain-mail leggings and gauntlets, and a few articles of gold, Finally slinging on her bow and quiver. In that strange array, she looked like a young formidable prince from a far land, and her presence struck awe into her servants' hearts. So she mounted her black mare and rode to the king's palace. * * * The king could make nothing of the lordly stranger, except that he must be a great prince from a faraway land. His display of wealth was either the rashness of a fool, or he did not fear that anything would be stolen. The king decided upon the latter when he recognized the youth's quiet, cold, yet courteous attitude. So he politely invited the travel-stained lordling into his hall, and asked him why he had come. The disguised Thione replied using a strange accent, "I have journeyed for many miles, as it is the custom of my country to learn of those who live beyond our great borders." The king was nonplussed. But his wife was a little more suspicious and, whispering to the king, said, "O my king, I would be wary of that one, for something in me says that that is no man, but a woman who lies beneath that barbarian apparel." The king looked at the waiting prince and softly replied, "Perhaps, Queen, but I feel inclined to test this noble stranger before making such a judgment. If it would ease your heart, then I shall have you devise what three tests should be given him." To this the queen agreed, and the king turned again to the foreign prince. "In honor of your stay, we shall hold a feast, and events appropriate shall be named, of which I hope you will partake." The strange nobleman nodded and the king continued. "Should you win all three of these events, I will grant one wish to you." The prince bowed, and the king dismissed him to be guided to his quarters. The feast was held the next day, and the food was indeed great to behold. But the prince did not eat with his hands but withdrew from his sash a pair of wooden sticks that were pointed on one end and dull on the other. Positioning them like claws in his hand, he ate his meal in that fashion, much to the surprise of the court. All doubt that had been in the king's mind until then was gone in that instant. The prince not only looked different, he acted different! The first event was an archery competition among the younger nobles. When Thione's turn came, he walked calmly to the line and
Fiction
Click here to link to a reading of the story by its author, Emmy J. X. Wong. Nan stared directly into the gray fog, letting the present day obliterate into the cold ethereal wetness. Standing defiantly on the pitching deck of the fast ferry, the Flying Cloud, which had left Hyannis only one hour earlier, she stared blankly at the emerging and unwelcoming, rocky shoreline in front of her and the cream-colored moorings that dotted the horizon fast approaching. How could her mom do this to her? she questioned. She was referring to her mom sending her here, or was it... nowhere? How could her mom send her to the place the Native Americans called "that faraway place, Nantucket"? she asked herself. It just wasn't fair. "She knew what summer vacation meant to me," Nan declared stubbornly. Nan relived the worn-out argument she had had with her mom at the ferry terminal just before her departure. She didn't want to understand why she had to take care of Grammy Armstrong in 'Sconset for the whole summer while her mom stayed behind to work as a nurse at Cape Cod Hospital. She and her mom had moved to Cape Cod, Massachusetts, less than a year ago, just after the divorce. Her mom had said she wanted them to be closer to her family. Little did she know then she'd be sent to take care of an aging grandmother she hadn't seen since she was five years old! "It's not fair," she heard her pleading words now echo aloud to an unsympathetic, weathered seagull who had come to perch on the cold, steely railing next to her. "I won't see any of my friends this summer." But no one was listening. She thought about the stolen sleepovers she and her new best friends, Molly and Claire, had carefully planned, the lost trips to sandy white beaches under azure skies that the Cape was famous for, and the lazy days she had planned to bank reading beneath the generous awning of a shady maple in the backyard before starting seventh grade. Just then a single blast of a horn sounded to interrupt her reverie. "Prepare for landing," she heard the captain's voice bellow across the crackling loudspeaker. The auburn-haired girl pulled her nubby, evergreen sweater tighter around her waist and wiped away a tear before finding her bag and departing down the gangplank with a crowd of tourists. When she reached solid ground, Nan dutifully pulled out her cell phone, dialed her mom first to tell her of a safe arrival, then the cab company owned by her uncle. In no time at all, a cheerful man of few words, simply dressed in a khaki pressed shirt and a sea captain's hat, Uncle Tommy of Tommy's Taxi, had scooped her up and headed for the eastern part of the island where she would spend her entire summer totally bored to death, no doubt. When Nan arrived at the natural shingled two-story clapboard Cape on the leeward side of the island, she was immediately taken by the ruffled carmine-pink roses that grew in sprays from bushes hugging the bleached-shell driveway and the lacy blue hydrangeas in the front garden. The sunlight was peaking out from behind the clouds, now casting a cheerful wash of sunshine over everything in her path. She stole a quick glance upward at the black iron weather vane forged into the shape of a whale, which sat atop the roof, and wondered if it held any special significance. Upon entering the house through the side entry, Nan was enveloped by warmth that felt as comforting as her mother's old calico patchwork quilt she used to drag from the hallway closet whenever she was sick. There was a familiar feeling to the place. Nan headed up the uncarpeted narrow steps to the breezy second-story bedrooms where Uncle Tommy had promised she would find her gram, before he had to hurry off to pick up a paying customer. Immediately upon eyeing the frail woman with the dancing pale-blue eyes and mop of snowy hair, Nan knew she was home. "I'm so happy to see you, my Nanette," exclaimed the older woman, with enthusiasm. "I hope I won't be a burden to you," she added meekly, her voice withering. "Ever since I caught pneumonia last winter, my Yankee stamina just hasn't been the same." Nan hugged the elderly woman firmly and returned a wide grin. She was genuinely happy to see her gram and hoped she would be on the mend soon. She now wanted to be of some help to the sprightly woman she felt close to but barely knew. The next day, Grammy Armstrong was sitting up among the patchwork covers and working her hands to create what looked like a neatly woven basket. "It's a lightship basket," she informed Nan. My great-granddad was a lightship keeper in the early days, as were many in my family." "What's a lightship, Gram?" asked Nan with keen interest. "A lightship is like a lighthouse, only it's a ship that floats offshore to keep sailors from crashing on the shoals," she began to explain. "These waters south of Nantucket are some of the most dangerous seas you'll ever come across. Hundreds of ships have wrecked in these parts, so the lightship was the answer to warn sailors in the south shoals." It seemed Nan now had more questions, not fewer, after her gram's studied reply. "What's a shoal? But how is the basket related to the lightship? Do lightships still exist? Can I go see one?" Nan anxiously fired back a flurry of questions. "Come with me," Gram beckoned, taking Nan by the hand and leading her downstairs to take up a comfortable corner in the warm, sunlit kitchen. Over steaming mugs of peppery Earl Grey tea and sweet raisin scones lavished with heaps of tangy rose-hip jelly, Grammy Armstrong told her tales of lightships and stalwart Nantucket whalers. The whole time, the
Fiction
When the wind mows on a funeral, it cries with the heartbroken. It mourns with the tearful. It drops bright leaf handkerchiefs from its shaking fingers. When the wind watches as a coffin is lowered into the ground, it bows its gray head in sorrow. And even as the last regretful people get into their cars to leave, the wind stays a moment longer, fingering the fresh grave, before whipping away to think of what it has witnessed. But when the wind blew on Moon's funeral, it didn't cry. It didn't mourn. It didn't even need a handkerchief. The coffin it should have watched was too small for its tastes, the mourners too few for it to even deem this a proper funeral. After all, it was spring, and the wind was no more than a lazy-boy breeze, blowing loose things around like a bored child kicking at tin cans. The wind didn't care about Moon. But I did. * * * Moon had her start as a small white kitten in a pathetic little "Free to Good Home" basket at a yard sale. Mom and Daly were digging through piles of stained clothing and broken toys as I wandered around, bored out of my wits. Yard sales were ridiculous to me, like saying, "Here, take this stuff. It's so gross I don't want it anymore," or "We were too fussy to sell our stuff on eBay, so we'll sell it here at the same outrageous price." I had just skirted a large haystack of skis and bent ski poles when I saw the basket. It was across the street, at the very foot of the driveway, too obvious that these kittens were unexpected and unwanted. I was a cat-lover born and bred, growing up in a house where it was impossible to wear anything black in public or to escape the dreaded litter-box routine. I was totally ready to bring another member into the family, as one of our three cats, Smoky, had died of old age just a few months before. So when I saw that basket, there wasn't anything to stop me. I practically plowed over Mason, the neighbor's seven-year-old, as he stood in front of the basket. He looked up at me with big sweet eyes and asked, "Do you want one, Jackie? Mommy says that they've all got to go today." How could I resist? Carefully, I inspected each of the darling little creatures. They were all white but one, which was gray. I was drawn immediately to the gray one. He likes to stand out from the crowd, I thought in amusement. However, I could see that he was skittish and shy of people, backing away from my hand as far as he could. Mom would never let me make a project out of accustoming him to people, so I turned to the next. That was Moon. She was as friendly as her brother was nervous, and I was able to pick her up and rub my fingers through her silky kitten fur. She was the one for me. * * * "No, Jackie. Absolutely not." That was Mom's first reaction to Moon. I begged, "But Mom, Smoky's been gone for months, and I need another cat in the house to complete our trio." "We don't need any more vet bills than we already have. Vaccinations cost money, and we're still paying off Smoky's heart medication." She looked down at Daly and held up a hideous pink T-shirt with orange fringe that I strongly suspected had been white when the shirt was new-bought. "How's this, Daly?" Mom asked, changing the subject. Daly hopped up and down, babbling as only a four-year-old can: "Mommy, Mommy, my shirt! My pink shirt!" Mom looked satisfied and slung the shirt over a growing pile on her left arm. "So can we, Mom?" I asked, thinking she might be in a better mood now. "Can we?" "No." My attempts to persuade her failed miserably for several minutes, until my stroke of genius saved the day. I was dragging my feet as Mom flipped through racks of women's clothes. Daly, likewise, was whining and sighing with boredom. Then it hit me. Slyly, I asked, "Hey, Daly, do you want to see a kitty?" She faced me, pouting. "We've got kitties already. I want to see toys!" "But we don't have kitties like this." I took her hand, careful not to pull too hard, and added, "They're a lot smaller than Oreo and Tiger. Come on, let me show you!" She finally stopped digging in her heels and, reluctantly, followed me across the street. Her hesitance evaporated when she spotted the kittens in the basket. With a squeal that made Mason cover his ears, she pounced on the gray kitten and was about to scoop him up when I quickly tugged her hand away. "No, that one is scared, Daly. Look at this one." I placed her small fingers on Moon's head, and the kitten, playing her part perfectly, began to purr and rub against Daly's hand. My sister was enchanted. "Jackie, let's get this one," she cried, and I didn't stop her when she picked up this kitten. I trusted Daly with holding cats; like me, she had grown up surrounded by them— Dragon, Floss, Smoky, and our remaining cats, Oreo and Tiger. Triumphantly, I led Daly and her precious bundle back across the street, where I faced Mom with a grin. "And thus, our new kitten joins the family." I gestured to my sister. Daly proudly held up the small white kitten. Mom really did try to rally her forces and resist, but her genes and mine were too closely linked. She was as much a cat-lover as her daughters. "All right. We'll keep it. Boy or girl, and what's its name?" "Girl." I closed my eyes for a moment to think of a good name and the image of the kitten's face, round and white as a
Fiction
The racetrack is filled to bursting with clamoring people. Heady aromas of buttery popcorn and sticky cotton candy fill the air. Rose and I stand apart from the other horses. They mill around like ants on an anthill. My mouth is as dry as a desert. This will be the last race I ride with Rose. She will be turning four soon and I want to retire her. Cheers and yells coming from the crowd are earsplitting. They sound like logs being ground up by a sawmill. The neighs of the horses mingle with the deafening noise, creating a cacophony. Finally, out of all the noise I hear a whistle. It's the whistle for the horses to come to the starting gates. We line up. They smell distinctly musty, as if someone had not washed them in years, maybe centuries. Well, that's how old the racetrack is. I pet Rose on her soft silky coat, calming her. It would not do to have her strength wasted before the race even starts. John Thompson, the jockey of another horse, Angel, whispers smugly to me, "Angel is too good for Rose. We'll win!" I try to ignore him. He's too crazy. His remark makes me even more nervous though. There are elephants in my stomach instead of butterflies. Why can't the starting pistol fire? CRACK! The noise of the pistol firing nearly makes me leap out of the saddle. The gates spring open with surprising agility for something so old. Rose bolts forward as fast as lightning. I taste her rough mane in my mouth as I'm jolted onto her neck. Angel is jostling us ferociously. My foot loses its grip on the stirrup. Wind rushes past me as my leg swings wildly in the air. It's slowing Rose down! We're way behind at the half-mile mark. My fumbling foot finally finds the swinging stirrup. Luckily, it slips in. We've got to do this! This is our last chance. We can't let Angel win. The pounding of hooves is deafening. I hear the other jockeys yelling at their mounts to go faster. The wide home stretch is in front of me, perfectly straight and flat. My saddle is sticky with sweat. I grip fiercely at the reins. "Come on, Rose! You can do it!" The wind almost blows my words away, but not quite. I can feel Rose lengthening her strides. She must be going thirty miles an hour! The finish line is just feet ahead. Angel is neck-to-neck with us. I will Rose to win... She leaps across the finish line! The thought sinks into me. We won! By a nose. I inhale the fragrant scent of the roses on Rose's back. They match her name. I hug the chilly golden cup. It is but a mere symbol of what I really feel. Rose's thoughts seem to connect with mine as she rears up in exaltation.
Fiction
It was late afternoon on a humid Thursday in June. The air seemed to wrap everything on Long Island up in a sticky, sweaty bundle, even despite being near the ocean. The heat certainly didn't help my already sweaty palms and flip-flopping stomach that made me think of a beached cod. Ugh! New York City should be evacuated on days like this! I thought. "Rachel, it's time to go! Are you all ready for the concert? Grandma and Grandpa just pulled into the driveway and the drive will take an hour with traffic." Mom's voice had a slight air of impatience. "Yeah, I'm ready!" I called down to her, stepping out of my room, music and bassoon in hand. I almost fell down the stairs wearing the high heels Mom had bought me the day before. Good thing we didn't have to walk anywhere too far, or else I would probably break my ankle! Everyone piled into our burgundy Ford Windstar, and we jerked backwards out of the driveway. I felt the contents of my stomach slosh around. Grandpa Solomon had insisted on driving, and with his attitude of scaring cars out of his way, it was a wonder that all of us hadn't already been killed in an accident. After getting on the highway to head into the city, I started feeling carsick. I tried to zone out and ignore everything around me —my brother Isaac's humming to his iPod, the adults' talk of how proud they were that I was playing at Carnegie Hall, me being only thirteen years old! Just how did I do it between Hebrew School and homework and lessons, they wanted to know? At least my five-year-old sister, Rebecca, was sleeping, or my head would have been exploding by now! I closed my eyes. Deep breaths, Rachel, deep breaths. My mouth tasted sour, like rotten milk, acidic and green. I felt like I was going to throw up. "Mom, Mom, I feel sick," I moaned. "Sweetie, just relax. We'll be there in half an hour and you'll be fine," she said, very unsympathetically. Grandma looked at me. "Helen, she does look a little pale. We won't be late if we stop for only a couple of minutes." However, my mom was not going to miss this opportunity, even if that meant that we had to roll down the windows and I had to use the plastic grocery bag in the back seat. "Rachel, find a bag back there in case you need it. We can stop, but only if you actually do throw up." Choruses of "Ewwws!" rose from everyone except my very serious mother. Gripping my music and disfiguring the perfect black marks, I choked on bile, and quickly my grandmother grabbed my dark, shiny brown hair, opening the bag just as I let loose all the things I had eaten in the past twelve hours. Thank God there was an exit coming up. * * * Twenty minutes later, we were back on the road, and thirty minutes after that I was opening my heavy eyelids to the sight of the Empire State Building. Fortunately, I had slept, because that's generally what you do when you're sick, right? Carnegie Hall was bathed in light, since it was early evening. The sun was dipping below the skyline, casting shadows of the tall, steel monsters that New York was famous for. Mom and I got out of the car at the entrance, where we were supposed to meet my father. He came running up to us and hugged me tightly, smelling like work offices and cologne, then planted a kiss perfectly on my mother's lips. "How's my gorgeous girl doing today?" he asked. "Or should I say, my two gorgeous girls?" He grinned. I led the way up through the heavy glass doors and into Carnegie Hall. Mom walked up to an employee and asked where performers were supposed to go. "You can head right to the backstage," he replied in a professional manner. "All the musicians are warming up back there." He pointed us to a door labeled BACKSTAGE, painted on with neat gold letters. Inside, everything was utter chaos. Music was lying everywhere and stands were interspersed randomly throughout the room. An Asian violinist was playing an amazing, staccato piece so high that I doubted piccolos could even beat that! He looked about my age, maybe even a little younger. I was shocked. Mom and Dad said that they had to leave now and that they would see me after the show. Each of them wished me good luck and kissed me before they disappeared out of the backstage door and into the growing crowd of people on the other side. It was all up to me, now. It was hot inside the backstage area, so hot that beads of sweat soon dotted my forehead. As I was putting my bassoon together, the tenor joint slipped from my hands and made a terrible thud on the linoleum floor. All heads turned to look at me. I felt my face flush with embarrassment. "Sorry," I squeak-choked. I prayed, and I mean prayed, that my hands wouldn't slide off the keys when I played my piece. Luckily, no more awful things happened— I didn't even spill my reed water! But by the time I was all set up to play, almost everyone else performing tonight was there. After a quick chromatic scale, the introducer and conductor for tonight tapped on a music stand to get our attention. In a second, silence had overcome the room. He cleared his throat and began. "Hello, fine young musicians, and welcome to Carnegie Hall. My name is William Bostrovsky, and I will be introducing all of you, as well as conducting two pieces that will be played by the Boston Youth Symphony Orchestra tonight. Here is the order of performances for this evening. Up first, we have Rachel Levine on bassoon." My heart stopped beating. Oh. My.
Fiction
Rain and warm mist stick to the windowsills. My face is leaning towards light, pressed against glass. It's a sun shower. Always such an unnerving thing, as most adults put it. I think we need more of these sun showers in life. It's too rare a moment to pass up, and it brings such joy. I am sitting on one of the various window seats that my home-decorator mother insisted on for our house when I was born, the last of seven children. There is one window seat for each of us, with cluttered cubbies and our names underneath. Other than my parents, we kids don't care whose window seat belongs to whom, and we take whichever is available. I'm currently sitting on Mark's. For the past couple of days I've been thinking more intently than I'm used to, and less selfishly than my thoughts usually turn out to be. I'm thinking about people, and what I'm missing when I look at them. * * * I met Loraline at art camp, at the beginning of summer. She came up to me, popped a big bubblegum bubble in my face, and asked, "Are you the new camper?" "Yes," I'd answered, a bit shell-shocked, not so much because of what she'd asked, but because of her forwardness, and her appearance: a cowboy hat, cowboy boots, overalls, and wild, dirty-blond hair. "Of course, you gotta be," Loraline said, hitting her forehead with her palm, "how many new campers are there! Simonee said one new camper, not plural, more than one. So you're obviously it." I was already a bit frazzled, but the sudden mention of a girl with an odd name like Simonee—not Simone—made me even more confused. I asked who Simonee was, and she just laughed. "Who's Simonee! Good one, real good one. I'm Loraline. You'll get used to me blowing bubbles—I use gum for my art projects. I'm very original." Now that that was established, I didn't ask anything else about this mysterious Simonee girl—until I met her. There was such an anticipation to meet the girl who apparently everyone except me knew that I found myself asking, "When will Simonee come to camp?" about every minute of my first day. "What, are you in love with her or something?!" joked Gabriel, who Loraline had introduced me to as "the calm guy." Gabe smiled gently beneath his curly brown hair, and he indeed didn't look like someone who liked arguing. In fact, he was the one who had suggested the idea of creating a clay music box to the camp counselors—a project that we were working on today I was painting mine with waves and mermaids, for the calming ocean. I noticed that Loraline's was bright pink, and had pictures of ballerinas popping bubbles, and that Gabe's had faces of smiling people looking straight at you. I wondered what Simonee's music box would have looked like if she were here. My second day at camp, Simonee arrived. And ohh, did she arrive in style. "There she is!" Gabriel pointed out, as she strutted through the doors to the art room. Everything surprised me. First, I overheard that she was fourteen. And I thought / was short! She could pass for an eleven-year-old, honestly The second surprise was that when she entered with her four dalmatians and huge fur coat and mittens (in summertime!), the three camp counselors—Stacey, Joe, and Abigail—cleared a sort of path for her, as did the campers. The four dalmatians barked wildly as Simonee got them to shut up for a few minutes, leading them off to a corner where they obediently stayed put. She shrugged off her heavy fur coat and handed it to Joe, who quickly hung it up. Just as Simonee was walking over to our art table (I'd figured out by now that Gabriel and Loraline were her friends, and by establishing myself with them, I was too) and I wasn't ready for more surprises, every single camper minus myself sang out, "Hi, Simoneeeee!" Simonee ignored the cheers and claps for her and plopped down right next to me. "Tell me your name," she commanded. "Why?" I couldn't help asking. "Tell it." "Deliah." "Deliah," she repeated, gazing at Loraline for a minute, then at Gabriel. "Hmmm. We'll have to think up something for you." "Think up something for me?" I was shot a look that had never before been aimed at me: a look that told me right off that I was an ignorant fool with gravy for brains. Simonee's answer was simple. "A nickname. Are you mentally challenged?" "No, she's just new," said Loraline, quickly. She was immediately shot The Look of Dumbnosity. "Newbies always start out mentally challenged. Some, like me and you and Gabriel, get over it, and some..." Simonee looked straight at me "...might not." * * * The third and fourth days of camp were a blur of Simonee bossing people around, Loraline constantly popping her bubbles to re-use them for her art projects, and Gabriel acting as the peacemaker, while I sat silent as a mime. On the fifth day, Simonee poked me during collage-making. Loraline, obviously, was looking for pink backgrounds to match her bubblegum scene, Simonee was trying to find cute dog pictures, Gabriel was on a hunt for caramel colors to match his skin in the self-portrait he was making, and I was on the lookout for pictures of children— especially friends. I'd never experienced friendships with kids as different as these three, and I wanted my artwork to reflect upon them in some way. "Don't you ever talk?" Simonee asked simply. "Yes, I do talk. I just haven't been given much of an opportunity to prove my chatting skills yet. At the right moment, I assure you that I will please you with talk." Apparently I had answered correctly Loraline blew a bubble and tipped her cowboy hat at me, and Gabriel gave me a thumbs-up. Simonee just smiled slyly, and I
Fiction
Dust particles danced in the shafts of moonlight that filtered through the holes in the barn roof. The sight wasn't much, just a regular old barn, but the sounds, ah, the sounds were special. Galileo, the owl, hooted from the rafters of the old building. Bella, the foal, shuffled restlessly in her stall, while Sugar, her mother, tried as well as she could to ignore the feisty young horse. In the chicken coop, Cara, the old hen, ruffled her feathers uncomfortably, yet remained sitting, protecting her future chicks from the cold. The five piglets of the barn, Penny, Sally, Marvin, Wendy, and Dennis, snuggled up to their mother, Whitney, snoring softly. Catherine's cowbell jingled quietly as she moved into a more comfortable position. Slowly, the old barn door creaked open and the silhouette of a man was visible against the moonlight. The man stood there for a while, contemplating his surroundings. Galileo turned his owl head around and stared at him with his penetrating yellow eyes, though he soon relaxed. The man was usually here during the night, writing his poems. The poet fiddled with a flashlight. Once on, he pointed it at the ground so as not to disturb the sleeping animals and swung the barn door shut. He looked around at the farm animals, all deep in the realm of dreams, that is, except for the horses. Sugar was obviously annoyed at Bella, who ran around the stall with chaotic energy. The man walked over to the foal and, after rummaging around in his pocket for a few seconds, stretched out his hand. Bella accepted the carrot without hesitation and allowed the man to pet her muzzle. The loving strokes soothed the young horse and she calmly lay down in her stall. Once the foal was asleep, the man walked towards the back of the barn, his footsteps muffled by the straw that littered the floor. Next to the pigpen there was a wooden bench. He sat down and pulled a small notebook from his pocket. He opened it to the bookmark. The page was covered with crossing-outs and mistakes. He had tried to write during the day He often found it to be challenging inside the house, with the baby crying, his young daughter spilling his ink all over the floor, and his wife yelling at his teenage son all the time. The poet sighed heavily and put his notebook to the side. The only time he had peace and quiet was at night in the barn. Here, he was in his element. The poet listened for a minute or two. He was surrounded by the night sounds, the crickets chirping outside and the rhythmic breathing of the farm animals. He let the sounds take control of his body, control of his mind. In the air the sounds were trapped, but on the page they were free, free to be admired for their beauty. The sounds were restless to escape and they took control of the poet and he was the portal, the portal that led them to the real world. Without noticing it, his hand inched slowly towards his notebook and quill. He began writing. He wasn't sure what he wrote, the verses of the poem just poured out of his soul and onto the clean page. The strawberry- red ink flowed smoothly, guided by his hand... no, by his heart. He wrote of the owl's constant vigilance, the hen's patience, the cow's indifference, the foal's incessant energy, the pig's role as a mother of five. He wrote how all of them and the melodic sounds of the night were intertwined like strong rope. It seemed to him that they belonged together. Before he knew it, the man had filled two whole pages. He smiled. The barn had worked its nighttime magic once again. He felt much more relaxed, ready for another day in the fields, another day of work. He stood up and strode towards the big barn door, past the pigpen, the chicken coop, the stalls. The poet opened the door and took one last look around the old room. Then, he quietly swung the large door shut. And the dust struck up a dance.
Poems
The ice and snow are almost melted, Winter's biting cold has mellowed, Mountains brown and bare for so long, Show an almost imperceptible haze of green. The sky is the delicate shade of thrushes' eggs Soon to be laid in a nest of mud and twigs. A mole furrows the earth's brow with his tunneling, Cautious tongues of green make their way Through last autumn's leaves into the balmy air. The first robin pecks at the newly softened ground, And drags an unwilling worm into the light.
Poems
The rustle of rough leaves awakens me from my rest And I gaze up at a dark sky as vast as the sea And laugh as the stars tumble into my hair "How green your leaves are!" the stars whisper in my hair. "How bright with happiness you are," I sigh. "No. The sky is cold and lonely," the stars moan. "At least the birds don't peck at your arms and the squirrels don't hide nuts in your armpits." "But the birds sing to you and the squirrels tickle your bark." "True, I'm lucky to be a tree." "Alas, my nearest neighbor is ten light-years away." "But you guide people through the darkness." "Yes, we do," the stars whisper, their voices tinted with new light. And as a blue jay's soft feathers brush my arms, I inhale the sharp green sent of pine, and I laugh
Book Reviews
Travel Team by Mike Lupica; Penguin Young Readers Group: New York, 2004; $16.99 Hello, I’m Zach Hoffman and I'm twelve years old. I'm going into the seventh grade and I love to read and play sports. I like reading books in which kids play sports with their friends and teach you lessons on confidence, pride, and teamwork. When I read the book Travel Team, by Mike Lupica, I was taught all of those lessons. Danny Walker, age twelve, is the smallest but best seventh-grade basketball player in Middletown. To Danny's misfortune, when he arrives at the tryouts for Middletown's travel basketball team, he finds out the Vikings are looking for a bigger team this year. After two nights of exhausting hard work, Danny is told after the tryout that he didn't make the team. Danny is told up front by the coach, Mr. Ross, that he didn't make it because he knew his dad as a kid. Everyone else got a phone call at home. Danny takes his tryout misfortune too personally and thinks about quitting basketball altogether. Danny's parents are divorced. Danny lives with his kind mom, who's an eighth-grade teacher. His dad, who was a basketball child star and former NBA player, lives out of town. When Richie Walker hears his son didn't make his old Middletown travel team, he arrives back in Middletown and at Danny's side. Danny's confidence is beginning to rise back up to start playing again. His dad creates another travel team. This immediately boosts Danny's confidence and he can't wait to start. Danny is put in charge of contacting all of his friends that didn't make the Vikings and all the other kids he wants to play on the travel team. Last summer, my dad created a basketball team and put us in a summer basketball league. Like Danny's team, we didn't start out too hot. But throughout the season, we got better. I realized that it isn't always about winning, but having fun and getting better at what you love to do. It was my first year to try out for my school's A team in basketball last fall. I was really nervous that I wouldn't make it and everyone would make fun of me. I practiced really hard every day. Every day I practiced, I got a little better. By the time the tryouts came, I knew I was ready to show the coaches what I could do on the court. After the two nights of tryouts, I waited a long week for the call to finally come. I had done it. I had made the A team! After all the hard work I put into it, I had succeeded at reaching my goal. Up to this day, my confidence has stayed with me and I know I can accomplish anything. There was one part of Travel Team that I especially liked. Danny's Middletown Hawks had made it to the play-offs. To the Hawks' disadvantage, they would have to play the Middletown Vikings, the team Danny had originally tried out for. Mr. Ross's son is equally as good as Danny and is also a very good friend of Danny's. Ty got mad at his dad for not letting him hang out with Danny and his other friends on the Hawks. So before the big rivalry game, Ty becomes the newest member of the Middletown Hawks. When the game starts, the Vikings go up by a couple points. But Danny and Ty work up some plays to get the Hawks right back in the game. In the end, the game is won by the Hawks, after Danny makes a left-handed pass to Ty for a layup. I really enjoyed this book and hope to read another one by the magnificent author and ESPN sports reporter, Mike Lupica.
Book Reviews
Hurt Go Happy by Ginny Rorby; Starscape: New York, 2007; $5.99 I can’t imagine what life would be like if everyday sounds, such as the voices of my friends and family, weren't included. I'd need to read their lips or communicate in sign language with them, which would have to be tough. Joanne "Joey" Willis, the main character of Hurt Go Happy, faces this situation. She is almost completely deaf, but can speak. Making it even harder, her mother, who is ashamed of her deafness, does not let Joey use any sign language. The young teenager feels painfully lonesome, what with the constant teasing from peers and the fact that many individuals' lips are impossible to read. One of these individuals is her own stepfather, whose facial hair covers his mouth. If Joey wishes to speak with him, her mother (or someone else whose lips are easy to read) needs to interpret. I have felt a bit left out before because I practice the Jewish religion, which is fairly uncommon in my area. Many of my good friends follow the Christian religion, and they sometimes talk about Christmas, Easter, and other Christian holidays. I don't know much about these special days, so I can't exactly contribute to their conversations. Most of us have had our share of these feelings, which is why we can relate to Joey. She feels isolated and as if no one wants to be her friend. She feels as if a gigantic chunk of her life is missing. That is, until she meets an elderly man named Charlie. He lives near Joey's California home, and she comes across him accidentally. But their meeting is the beginning of something wonderful, something remarkable... Charlie introduces Joey to an interesting pet of his: a chimpanzee named Sukari! The most exotic pet that anyone I know has is an iguana! But still, there's more. Sukari is unlike most of the chimpanzees often found in zoos. She can communicate with humans through American Sign Language! Charlie converses with her in the unique way of talking, and Joey is enchanted. Charlie and Sukari become Joey's true friends, but her mother disapproves of her seeing them. She doesn't want them to influence Joey to study the unusual language. If she used it in front of others, her deafness would be apparent to them. Has anyone ever tried to stop you from following your own path? I began dancing at the age of five, and it is now a very significant part of my life. If my parents had discouraged me from pursuing ballet, I would have felt quite troubled and confused, trying to decide whether to fight my way down my own path, or give in and change direction. Joey is stuck between these two options. As she begins to pick up several of the signs, she secretly selects her own path. Charlie plays a crucial role in Joey's life. He gives her the inspiration and spirit to continue down her road, not her mother's road. Finally, after much convincing, her mother surrenders. The girl is overjoyed and incredibly grateful. She has won this war at last! But soon, when tragedy strikes, there is another war to win. In the midst of mourning the loss of one dear friend, Joey is fretting about the life of the other. Based on a true story, Hurt Go Happy is a brilliant novel with an intriguing plot and excellent character development. I would recommend it for both boys and girls ages nine and up.
