Fiction
Tendrils of clinging fog rose up off the ice, curling into claws, sinking into my skin, freezing my blood as it pumped through my body. Shaking, I looked around, seeking a friendly face, a familiar face, anything, something that wouldn't leave me feeling so alienated and alone. There was none. The judges' faces were blank, their mouths set in hard lines. The audience was no better. They seemed to be sneering at me from the bleachers. Even my coach, leaning over the boards, looked cold and distant. The music came on. I pushed off on my ice skate as the first few phrases drifted down through the still air. The melody seemed right, at first, but as the program went on, it grew faster and faster, the notes harder and colder. It wasn't right. Nothing was right. My toe loop was wild and out of control. I landed it, but barely. Turning to my coach for help, I saw her shrug and mouth "go on." Trembling, I pushed forward. The hardest jump—the double axel—loomed ahead. Quivering like a bowstring, I took off. I flew higher and higher, too high, so high that my arms flailed out of position and started pinwheeling. Yelling helplessly, legs dangling, the ice rushed toward me. I just knew I was going to die. * * * I sat up straight in bed, eyes wide, chest ballooning in and out, gasping for breath. The room was dark and still. I jammed my glasses on my face, and glanced at the digital clock on my night table. Three o'clock in the morning. Too early to be up. Nightmares had been plaguing me for more than a week about the upcoming show. Tonight's dream had been the worst by far. My head swung around to glare at the calendar perched on the wall. Yes, it was still December 10, two weeks before the Christmas Eve ice show. Yes, I was still alive. Shaking, but alive. I caught a glimpse of the mirror and groaned. My wiry red-brown curls stuck up almost vertically from my head, and my terror-stricken eyes had enormous bags under them. My twin, Sara, slept peacefully in the bed next to mine, her auburn hair lying in rippling waves on her pillow. She's just about as different from me as humanly possible. Graceful and elegant, Sara wows everyone on the ice with just a few cross-overs, while I have to do flips to get a little attention. Though we're both short and thin, Sara is slender, not scrawny like me. She brings to mind a willow, while I'm more like a scraggly thorn bush-prickly and ugly. Sara says I'm too hard on myself, but then, she always knows what to say. Still, I love her. Even though she's perfect. With a sigh, I dropped back onto the pillows and waited for sleep. * * * "Toe loop! Cally, leg straight! Back cross-overs! Sara, don't lean in so far! Scratch spin, and step out! Very good!" called Coach Vanessa from behind the boards. Her face was happy and animated, so unlike the coach in my dreams. She skated out to meet us. "All right, girls, now you're going to have to do something difficult. I want you to go into a double axel from a curve on opposite sides of the rink, and then cross in midair. Cally, what's wrong?" My face had gone white and I was sweating. Remembering the dream, and what my coach had urged me to do, had set my stomach churning. I ran my fingers through my bangs and mumbled, "Nothing." "Good. For a minute there I thought you were going to fall over," said Vanessa briskly. "Now, get to it!" Gulping, I got into the starting position and pushed off. Cross-over, crossover, step forward, and jump!!! I felt Sara go whizzing past me in a whirlwind of blue velvet skating dress before my leg shot out and I landed. Breathing a sigh of relief, I waited for Vanessa's approval. I wasn't disappointed. "Awesome! Now, do it again." We practiced all afternoon until my leg muscles felt like jelly and I was actually looking forward to homework. "Can we practice more tomorrow?" I asked. "I feel like I'm going to collapse." "Just do that jump combo one more time," urged Vanessa. "All right, all right. Good for you, sister?" "Definitely. Let's do it!" Cross-over, cross-over. I glanced over my shoulder at Sara. She was out of line. "Sara, scoot!" I called to her. Step forward. Sara was still out of line. My leg swung forward without me thinking. Jump. Time slowed to a crawl. We were going to crash, fast and hard. I couldn't move, couldn't stop, couldn't prevent the inevitable. The panicked look in Sara's eyes told me that she knew what I knew. Vanessa's shouting was a distant buzz in my ears. We crashed. I flew backwards, hitting the ice with a whack that stole the breath from me. The sharp pain in my back receded to a dull ache as I slumped to the ice, stunned. Sara hadn't been so lucky. She fell awkwardly to the ice, skidding across the rink. She was a limp pile of skater, face down on the ice. * * * "Sister, you sure know how to pack a punch," said Sara with a grimace. Her leg was in a cast, and stitches inched up her hand where my skate had slashed her skin. "I told you I'm sorry!" I said in a frenzy of guilt. "I didn't mean to do it! It just . . . happened. What can . . . " "Stop, stop," interrupted Sara, "it was really my fault. Should have scooted when you told me to. By the way, how's your back?" She had remembered. "The doctor said I was lucky not to have cracked a rib. Anyway, I'm going to have some interesting-shaped bruises in the morning. You're the one everybody should be worried about though.
Fiction
Swish, Swish . . . The repetitive motion of the windshield wipers flicks the tapping droplets to the side. The fog flushes out everything as if someone poured the foam from a soda over San Francisco. Only the tops of the Golden Gate's 746-foot towers protrude out of the milky sky. Going over the bridge, I see a man. The man is barely visible through the misty window and the thick fog, but visible enough to see him slip on the concrete glazed by the shimmering water. * * * There he was. The radio was on. President Roosevelt was talking to the nation. He loved fireside chats and therefore paid close attention. It was our lunch break, and we were all sitting on one of the big icy-cold beams. The loudspeaker was perched above us. He stopped eating and concentrated on the fuzzy radio transmission. Once Roosevelt said "the New Deal," he kept eating. Our boss blew the horn and said, "Lunch is over." We packed up our lunches and put back on our helmets. My brother and I picked up our tool belts, strapped them around our waists, and went back to work. His gentle face didn't fit the ominous structure looming above us. With one hand he grasped the metal ladder and started to ascend the structure that would one day span from San Francisco to Marin. His weary posture struggled to climb toward the cries of seagulls above. After listening to "The Shadow'' all night, his tired body could barely make it. However, he maintained his high spirits and flashed me a smile. As I looked down, I was thankful to see the safety nets protecting us from the darkened water below. The criss-crossing ropes had saved many of my friends, so I knew I had little to fear. But as my courageous brother reached for a dangling cable, his foot slipped on the steady hold, and he fell forward into those loving nets. I gasped as I saw my brother fall through the chilled wind, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight to follow. After he hit the net, he began to struggle to his feet. But before he could stand upright, a snap echoed through the hills, and I saw my brother plunge into the murderous blue below. My eyes clung to the spot where he had landed on the concrete waters, until the fog swallowed the ripples of my heart. * * * As I finish crossing the bridge, I notice a strip of sunlight piercing through the rainy sky. I look back through my misty windshield and the man is gone. Was he the key to my buried memory? Now the stranger is gone too. Or was he just a reminder? I focus on something, but only the gray looks back.
Fiction
In many ways Aubin Tupper was a lonely child, with no children nearby he thought of as friends. Living out in the country with his parents and little brother, he had homeschooled since grade two—it hadn't taken him long to find out that the public school nearest wasn't for him. He didn't hate learning, more the opposite of that, but so many noisy children and frustrated teachers got tiring after a while. He was a quiet, timid, scared little mouse that recoiled whenever someone approached. Aubin had had a love of nature and animals since he was born and a tendency to take refuge in make-believe worlds. He learned to read quickly and was soon consuming thick novels at a teenager's level. He had a vivid, active imagination and often slipped into it, forgetting everything except the goings-on inside his head. Since Mr. Tupper was a truck driver and away much of the time, the homeschooling rested in his wife's hands. She did a good job, and soon Aubin and his brother, Forrest, were academically ahead of most kids their age. When Aubin was ten and Forrest was five, their family moved to a different acreage, this one bigger, beside a lake. In the midst of a scattered farming community, there was a school within walking distance, which the boys would hopefully attend and make friends at. To any stranger meeting Aubin he would appear mysterious, different and would probably provoke their curiosity. It was impossible to forget his appearance—wavy, red-gold hair tossed about by the wind; wide, thoughtful, clear, blue eyes and a fine-boned, small, yet strong and healthy figure, which resembled a deer when he sprinted across open fields. His physical being hid his personality; which surfaced only when he was alone, in nature. Aubin was rarely seen without Forrest, a mischievous little boy always running off and needing to be found. He was the best friend Aubin had. That is, the best human friend. When the Tuppers moved to their new home they brought with them the rest of the family: Annie (Mrs. Tupper's horse), Jake (Forrest's pony) and Guthrie (Aubin's beloved black gelding); Whiskers—his companion of a gerbil—and Dan and Baily, two sleek, gray housecats. And of course Fifi, the family's frisky border collie. Without those animals, Aubin would have felt as if without friends. His wanting for human friends was very small, as he didn't want to risk anything. Because he was shy, and afraid, he thought other boys would make fun of him. * * * As he and Forrest stepped out of the van that bright day in August, one when you can just smell summer on the air, his first impression was that he'd love it there. He'd loved their old place as well, and missed it after three hours of driving, but this new home looked captivating. Raspberry bushes drooped heavily over the walk, their berries full and ripe, all the way up to a large green farmhouse. The paint on the house was peeling but Mr. Tupper had said they'd give it a new coat once they moved in, and other than that it appeared well taken care of It even looked as though people were already living in it; Aubin's parents had moved everything in the past week-even a flower pot on the steps sprayed cheer across the yard. The yard itself was quite simple; a few shrubs had been planted here and there and a rickety; old toolshed overlooked a garden, bare except for a few overgrown perennials. Behind that a forest sprung up, which Aubin knew was hiding a stable with the horses already settled in, and a pasture beyond that. To the left patches of rippling blue water through the trees caught his eyes-the lake. Right away, he knew it was home. "Why don't you two munchkins go and explore?" suggested Mr. Tupper, as his sons stared around, wide-eyed. "The stable is just down that path to the right of that shed." Eagerly, Aubin nodded and grabbed his brother's hand. Together they raced off, Aubin's thick auburn and Forrest's wheat-colored blond hair blowing in the breeze, their feet thudding in a steady rhythm before slowing as they entered the trees. Aubin was glad to see that the stable was in good repair and was more or less the right size for three horses; he cared deeply about the well-being of animals. Unbolting the door he stepped inside, Forrest close behind him. Three roomy stalls faced him, a horse in each. "Guthrie," sighed Aubin contentedly, stepping toward his horse. Guthrie snorted softly as Aubin stroked his velvety black muzzle. "Good to see you again, boy. Those folks took good care of you." He spoke with ease, and kindly, his gift with animals apparent. He loved all three horses so well-tall, high-spirited Annie with the fine chestnut coat, short and round little Jake with the sweetest temperament possible, and of course his own adored Guthrie, black as night, free as the wind. As he leaned against his horse, Aubin prayed inwardly that none of their new neighbors would take interest in the Tuppers, that the world would just leave them alone. That his life would remain separate from everyone else's. * * * After eating lunch in their new, bright kitchen, Aubin wanted to go for a ride right away. "I was planning to go swimming, in the lake," said his father. "You could come." "No, thank you." Aubin's heart was set on Guthrie. "I wanna go!" exclaimed Forrest. "Sounds good," smiled Mrs. Tupper, a horse-lover herself. "I'm too busy today to ride Annie, but you can take Forrest, Aubin. I've checked the trails and they seem fine." Later, as they groomed their horses, Forrest begged to ride Guthrie with Aubin. "Jake's puny," he complained. Aubin smiled a little. "OK, but promise me you'll ride him tomorrow." "I will," sighed Forrest. "But they'll all get exercise anyway today when Mom turns them out." Aubin ignored him. "We'll
Fiction
Walking into my father's mud-brick palace, I saw my brother standing in the middle of a plaza. Not stopping to think why he was surrounded by guards, I ran toward him. "Rudiju!" I said. Rudiju was my favorite person in the palace because he always used to play games with me when we were little. He and I would spend hours playing hide-and-seek, or we would play Senet together. Sometimes he would let me win, but Rudiju was always much better at it than I was. He has a good mind for strategy games. Rudiju's squinty eyes swung toward me. A worry line creased his forehead. This was surprising; my brother is usually carefree. I walked toward his open arms. We have always been very close, and show our affection openly. Because of this, no one will accuse me of being jealous about my brother being the Pharaoh's first heir or suspect me of an assassination plot. When I was three feet from my brother, a guard stopped me by taking my arm. Bowing, the guard said, "You are not to speak to him." "What?" "The prince Rudiju is to be held on trial. No one is to speak to him," the guard explained. Then, embarrassed at addressing a princess, he resumed his position at the door. I was baffled. What could Rudiju, my beloved brother and future Pharaoh of the Land of Egypt, have done? I could not think of anything that might connect him with a crime. Rudiju would sooner sell himself into slavery than break the law. Still pondering what might have happened, I turned a corridor and entered into the women's lounge on my right. It was empty and silent, and I was thankful. I was a young girl, and not allowed in the lounge if older women were present, though I had been in it before because I was a princess. As I sank into a chair, a deep feminine voice behind me asked, "Do you always sit in the presence of gods?" Jumping to my feet, I saw a glimmer of light, a woman with a bird's head. "Isis," I breathed, bowing. "I am sorry, I did not see you." "It is wise to be watchful, young princess." I looked at my feet with embarrassment. A crocodile walked past them. With a little scream, I jumped backwards, landing on the chair with my legs beneath me. "You did not see me, either," the croc said. "Sobek?" I asked. The large croc nodded, his reptilian eyes strangely wise. "I am honored," I said, finally remembering my manners. "It is a great privilege to be visited by gods." "You may get used to being visited by us," Isis said. "You are important to the future of Egypt." I bowed my head. "I beg your pardon, great lady," I said, "but I do not see how. My brother Rudiju is my father's heir, and he is ready to become a great king." "I believe Rudiju is ready," agreed Isis. "But being ready does not mean he will get his chance." All this time, my attention had been focused on Isis, but now Sobek spoke. "We must take our leave now. Remember us, because we shall be prominent in your life. We are, after all, gods." With a wink and a grin from Sobek, and a nod from Isis, they disappeared. I sank into the chair for the second time, my thoughts back on Rudiju. What could my brother have done? Then, my meeting with the two gods sank in. I was left thinking, what did Isis mean, "being ready does not mean he will get his chance"? * * * Rudiju's was held two days later. It took place in a giant plaza on which a stage had been erected. The vizier, my father's right-hand man, ran the trial. Because it was an important trial, Father was there to make the final judgment about the accused. I was present, as were all the nobles and some of the peasants of the capital of our dearly loved Egypt. Before the trial, I learned that my brother was in trouble because he was caught with a wounded cat. This was a great sin in Egypt, because cats are sacred to the goddess Bastet, whom we worship. Since my brother was trying to enter the palace with a wounded cat and had not made any move to heal it or at least make it more comfortable, Rudiju was breaking the most sacred law in the city. His excuse was that he had wanted to bring the cat to me as a gift and had not known that it was hurt. I believed him, but my father thought that if his son wasn't punished for breaking the law, Rudiju would not be a trusted Pharaoh. Since he thought that Rudiju was useless once he couldn't be a Pharaoh, my father sentenced the normal punishment for abusing a cat. Rudiju's execution date was to be exactly a week from the trial. He chose to commit suicide rather then go through the embarrassment of an execution. I think this was partly Father's judgment, too. Rudiju, my beloved brother, was dead within three days. For weeks after Rudiju's death, I wandered the palace aimlessly, remembering Rudiju. How he would talk to me when our parents were busy, how he would play games with me. Now he was dead, because of me. I had killed my brother. If he had not tried to get a cat for me, he would be alive to laugh at my jokes, or to sit in his favorite chair and think, or to learn to write ... My thoughts went in circles, and I was often in tears. One day I had another visit from Sobek. I had been crying softly for about an hour on my bed when I saw a crocodile's snout, followed by his eyes, then his back, emerge from under my bedcover. "Stop feeling sorry
Fiction
Buck felt the wind blow through his shaggy hair as he pounded his way across the frozen forest, his whole pack following half a minute behind. The chase had lasted three days, three long days of running at top pace, his nose continually dipping toward the ground, sniffing for any twist or turn his prey might make. He had been on many hunts but never one this lengthy and tedious. But then again his prey wasn't what it normally was. He wasn't chasing humans, who were slow on foot and only dangerous when a club or gun was within reach. No, he was tracking something unique, something not normally seen in the sprawling forestland of the Alaskan wilderness. This type of animal was typically killed by predators at a young age, an age when its brawling hooves were not quite the works of death and destruction that they would later become, and those bloodcurdling antlers were not so large and sharp as they would grow to be. He could feel his prey getting closer, could feel it in the earth; the very ground he stood on was informing him. He understood it; he took its knowledge to be true, as true as the roaring wind or the vast bottomless sea. His prey must be resting. He himself had started to feel a pang of delicate soreness every time a paw hit the ground. Surely his quarry could feel it too. Buck was pondering this when he passed over a large hill. With a glance that bordered on premonition, he saw it. Proudly holding its ground on a patch of trampled and dirty snow waited the moose. Buck waited a few seconds for the rest of his pack to catch up before he decided to press on a little further toward the magnificent beast. It kicked up snow, dirt and even little bits of wood as the circle of wolves grew ever more tight and threatening. Buck was the first to pull up and try to make a go at the moose; he would have it no other way. As he made his approach he growled in a low tone so as to warn that he was ready to attack. Just as he poised himself to do so, his brother wolf and his younger sibling jumped in and began to rip at the strapping old moose's flanks as if their attack had been choreographed. The moose quickly bucked them off his sides, his legs pistoning up and down in the air. As though it was caught in a sudden gale, the moose shivered and then charged straight at Buck. He artfully moved to the side, narrowly avoiding a certain death by the moose's sharp, shredding antlers. Buck then took the one millisecond in which the moose paused, vulnerable to attack, to jump straight for its throat. Knowing the time had come, the whole pack dove upon the rampaging moose. Buck was slung back and forth on the moose's neck like the pendulum on a metronome, but held on for fear of his own life, and for want of his opposition's. The moose took a long time to die, but he did. And triumphantly, Buck stood over his kill, king of the forest for the time being.
Fiction
Emily and I were the best of friends. I remember those times when we were four, licking melted ice cream off our fingers in the burning sun. I remember fifth-grade days spent frolicking in the pool in hot and freezing water alike. I remember the seventh-grade blues, where the sorrow of both of our failed romantic endeavors were shared equally and sympathized upon by the other. I remember that we were inseparable. Our birthdays were within a week of one another's. Instead of holding one big party, as it seemed to be the tradition for friends like us, we held two huge ones. The sun smiled for us on our parties always. We were shocked the year that clouds sneaked up on us and hid the sky; it went against everything we had always believed in. Soon, it had us under the sheets for cover. "Hey," I whispered in the barest scratch, pointing at the sky outside the window, "do you think that someone up there is mad at us?" I was afraid that whoever that someone was, he wouldn't think twice before thunder-bolting a little girl who affronted him. "I dunno," she replied, revealing a profound secret, "but the Rainy Day Man isn't mad. Mommy told me that he's an old man who gives good girls presents on rainy days to cheer them up. She said not to tell anyone, 'cause if everyone knew, then everyone would be good on rainy days and he would become all overworked like Santa." I nodded at this wisdom. Most kids were whiny on rainy days, and Emily certainly was a whiner. It was with hope and wonder that we waited for our gift until sleep arrived to harness us into her land of dreams. But moment passed with time and memory faded with moment. Seven, eight, nine, ten . . . We were still together, like I always knew we would be. Eleven, twelve, thirteen . . . We remained the best of friends in spite of everything life threw at us. * * * In our eighth-grade year, Emily caught a crush on Chris Hubbic, a black-haired, pale-skinned, pierced-eared Goth. For the life of me I could never figure out why, and she admitted that she didn't know either. The very fact that the attraction existed was to be the most sacred of secrets. I, being the faithful friend that I was, swore to never tell. Alas, I should have known better. My mouth was never really good at following the instructions my brain gave it. "Really, I only told one person!" I whimpered, trying in vain to explain it to Emily the next day. "I really have no clue why everyone seems to know!" But what can words do to mend trust once ripped? I watched as she turned a deaf ear to my pleas, instead stomping off to weave through the crowds in the hallway until she was lost in the sea of students. The first day after, I almost wondered if she was playing some sort of twisted game. She avoided me on the bus, and moved to the opposite side of the room when I walked into my classroom first hour. And soon, I realized it was much, much more than a game. Our long-held belief that we would be companions until the end of creation had crumbled into dust beneath our feet. We gradually drifted apart, each adopting a new set of friends. Our mutual friends learned to never talk about one in front of the other. When Emily's birthday arrived, I watched as all the members of our former set of friends were invited to her birthday party. All except for me. The day of the party, my rebellious feet carried me to a store, where I bought a small gift and some wrapping paper. I wrapped it up with surprising care—after all, why should I care if the present turned out messy?—and had my mother drive me to Emily's home. Inside, music was blasting so heavily that it seemed to weigh down the house. I heard voices, and one by one I identified them. Jenny, Kelly, Shelly, and Erin. Julie, Megan, and Melanie . . . I paused there at the door for an eternity, wavering, deciding. Then, with a sudden burst of adrenaline, I realized that I might as well do what I came to do. Ding! The sound of the doorbell was faint to my ears and drowned out by the screams of laughter and music within. I waited, my nervousness rushing back and forming a knot in my throat. One minute, then two, then three. No reply. In a surge of rage, I dug my heels into the cement so heavily that I left a dirt mark with my shoe when I turned and left. If she hated me enough to not open the door, then fine. She wasn't going to get a present either. The next week, for my birthday, I didn't have a party at all. Perhaps it just wasn't the same without Emily. Perhaps I wanted to show her that some people had the decency to not just go ahead and invite everyone but one person. In a way, the incident at her birthday party was like a final seal to a truth that way back somewhere in my heart I had refused to admit: Our friendship had been blown away by the wind, and it was not about to fly back. Something in me clicked that day. Somehow, I became the one who tried to stay as far away as possible on the bus and in the classrooms. After we graduated from middle school, we both departed to different high schools. Emily simply disappeared from my life. * * * High school was amazingly busy. So many clubs; so little time! I was a member of Future Problem Solving, Young Writers, Spanish Club, and Math Club. I joined our school's volunteer organizations, SADD and Project LEAD.
Fiction
Winter Palaces and Ice Ballerinas
It snowed last night, first it came down softly, then hard. My father was watching the news this morning, and told me that my school was cancelled because of the slick ice on the roads. My mother said that Jack Frost had done a good job last night. I could tell he did too. The windows had enough frost on them that I could write my name with my warm pink finger, melting the frost. I found this so amusing that soon most of the windows in the house had my name written all over them. When my father saw me still inside, he sent me out to shovel the driveway and scrape the car's windows. I whined and complained, but my father does have a way with persuading me to do things. So I put on my mittens, zipped up my coat, pulled over my earmuffs, gripped the snow shovel, and made my way outside. A cold chill made its way up my nose and my cheeks, turning them cherry red. Before I started shoveling, I looked around me. Everything looked like a winter palace. The kind of palace you'd think the Snow Queen would have lived in. Forgetting about the chore my father had sent me to do, I dropped the shovel and walked into the winter scene. The naked trees and evergreens had snow stacked on top of their branches. Also, if I hadn't counted wrong, I only saw one spear of grass coming up from the snow. There were squirrel and rabbit footprints in the white blanket, leading to a tree or burrow. Every one of the tiny details outside was like magic to me. Pure magic. The icicles on the roof, the way the wind would blow snow off tree branches, even my own boot prints, printed in the snow. I felt like I was the Snow Queen in the winter palace, and the chubby robin that was trying to get warm on a tree branch was the Snow King. "Snow King," I told the robin. "Come down and play with me." Frightened by the sound of my voice, the Snow King flew off the branch, although it was hard for him to do this because of all the weight he put on for the winter coldness. As the snowflakes fell, they looked like graceful ballerina dancers, twirling and floating. I stuck out my tongue and a ballerina landed on it. The little ballerina snowflake tasted like frozen water only it had more texture to it. I turned around in circles with my tongue sticking out, catching ballerinas. At the corner of my eye, I saw all of the snow, blanketed on the driveway of my house. At that moment, I remembered the task I was sent to do. But, I didn't want to leave my winter palace. So I pretended not to remember the driveway, and continued to watch ballerinas dance through the sky. Then, to my surprise, my father came out to see how I was doing with the driveway. "What are you doing?" he asked me. I bit my lip and thought for a moment. "I'm watching a recital of ice ballerinas,"I replied. "While I was sitting at my throne with the Snow King, in a winter palace of pure magic." I stared at my father. My father stared at me. To my amazement, he smiled. "Can I join?"
Fiction
"Carmen!" Dad's voice rang, crisp with excitement. "Come look what came in today!" Half-heartedly, I swung off the couch and walked heavily to the door. I groaned as I stepped out of the air-conditioning into the stifling summer heat. I jogged to the corral where Dad stood and leaned on the fence next to him. I followed to where his finger pointed and saw what all the commotion was about. It was a huge black stallion, sides lathered in sweat. He stood silently in a corner of the paddock. Other than the occasional flick of his tail to ward off pesky flies, he was still. "Isn't he a beauty," Dad sighed, leaning over the fence rail. I nodded and leaned forward too, holding out my palm. "C'mere boy, lemme get a good look at you," I called. He whipped his head toward me, eyes wide and alert. He started a quick trot toward me. "Carmen, NO!!" shouted Dad, yanking me to the ground. Terrified, I watched as the horse let into a wild gallop and smashed into the fence. He reared, hooves flailing, and cantered back to his corner, where he resumed whisking flies. But his image was stuck in my mind. The fire in his eyes! His nostrils had been flared so wide that I could almost picture smoke coming out of them like some sort of dragon-horse. That got me thinking. Dragon-horse . . . Horse-dragon .. . "Draco," I whispered, hoisting myself up. "What?" Dad asked. "Draco," I said louder. "His name's Draco." Dad chuckled and said, "Well, it's time I got your Draco into his stall." He swung a halter over his shoulder and headed slowly toward Draco, murmuring soft words. Finally, he got close enough to place a hand on his quivering side. Suddenly, Draco reared, sending Dad sprawling on the ground. He galloped madly around the pasture as Dad escaped. "Th-that horse," he gasped, "is a live one!" Later that night, I came out to the pasture with some carrots and a halter. There was Draco, silently brooding in his corner. I leapt deftly over the fence and stood still. He regarded me warily, but lost interest as I stood still. I put the carrots in my palm and held them out to him. As we stood in the fading orange sunset, my mind began to wander. Before I knew it, I felt warm breath on my fingertips. Draco had come for the carrots. As he crunched, I slowly placed a hand on his forelock. He brought his eyes up to meet mine, and instantly I felt a trust form between us. Carefully, I slid the halter over his head and led him to the stalls. He stomped his foot on the wooden floor, shuffled through the hay, and gave a defeated sigh. I patted his side and whispered, "Spirit, boy, spirit." * * * "I don't know how you do it, Carmen!" Dad shook his head in wonder as I rode Draco bareback around the paddock. I had spent a lot of time with the horse and he had learned very quickly. I had a feeling that perhaps he had belonged to one of our neighbors, and was a runaway. As it became clear that I could handle him in the paddock, I decided to run him outside on the prairie. I chose a strong bridle and led him out, but his confusion was clear when I began to trot him toward the open prairie. But with every step away I could feel his mind clearing and his muscles coiled to readiness. Once we were out from the ranch, I let the reins go slack. He stopped completely for a moment before he realized what I was doing. How he flew! And for once, I saw the world through Draco's eyes. The wind rippled the Indian grass, looking like the waves of an ocean. The sweet scent of the prairie rose wafted on a light breeze. And there was nothing to do but run forever, racing the shadow of the hawk to the end of eternity. I leaned eagerly against his neck, wind whipping my face, and forgot everything . . . Suddenly, a picture of the ranch flashed across my mind. We were far from home, now. I pulled the reins, but he strained forward. As I struggled to pull back, he fought for his head. In a last effort, I called softly, "Draco, we have to go home." I gulped. "Well, my home, anyway. I can see it's not yours, and never will be." He slowed to a trot, then a walk. I turned him slowly toward the ranch. A change came over him the next day. His eyes had a glazed-over look; their old fire was gone. He barely acknowledged me, just kept his eyes on the window opened to the prairie. * * * The next day, he Stopped eating. Worriedly; Dad called the vet, but I knew he wouldn't find anything wrong. Draco was dying of a broken spirit. I went to talk to Dad. "No, no, absolutely not!" Dad said. "But Dad!!" I cried. "Carmen, no! It is simply out of the question! Those horses are income for you, me and your mother! We are not letting him go!" I turned around to the door, tears in my eyes, when he said, "Carmen, wait." I turned halfway. "I forbid you to go into Draco's stall until after he's sold." I turned to stare, not believing what I heard. "I hate you!" I screamed. "I hate you, I hate you!" I tore down the hallway, slamming and locking my door. A few seconds later, Dad was pounding on it, yelling, "Carmen, open the door this instant! Carmen!" I ignored him, turned my stereo on full blast, and fell into a troubled sleep. A few hours later, I woke to the rumbling of an empty stomach. I crept down the dark hallway into the kitchen and helped myself
Poems
She's not the type that jumps off swings But clings to the rusty chains and Drags her feet in the wood chips to stop, Squealing when I tease her by Twisting close on my swing I watch her dismount and Step gingerly away: I pump my legs and lean Backwards way way Way back so far my long hair sweeps The ground and I look Behind me and the world's upside down Down down, or am I upside down Then swinging up-up-up again and swooping Downwards almost crashing To earth but I don't, I just swing up-up-up Again and I can see nothing but The sky above me and the chains Go slack and I am weightless for one Lifting second, not sitting in the swing but on Sky then forwards backwards Forwards it's all the same, just Glorious movement, twirling and Tumbling around and a Round, side side over–watch The poles!–and Circling again and again. dizzy dizzy dizzy then I Realize the only thing preventing me From flying is the chains so I JUMP, leaving the unimportant Swing behind in one soft blurred instant, Jumping off swing and into sky, Just sky and soaring Off into air, only air Around me, lifting me up-up-up And I wonder, is this flying? Nothingness becomes Everything around me air is All I am Touching Then ground is here, under me, And I am running, one foot then The next, helpless to stop, can't Stop, just running. I Stagger, head still, but World spinning. She tells me I'm Crazy, but I know better, She is the crazy one-not jumping off swings Denying herself that air-feeling The instant when you lift off The swing and just lift, rise- You haven't fallen yet, you're Going up-up-up and being Dizzy doesn't matter You are all Air And sun in your eyes and Life becomes nothing but Simple happiness.
Book Reviews
Flight to Freedom by Ana Veciana-Suarez; Orchard Books: New York, 2002; $16.95 Flight to Freedom by Ana Veciana-Suarez is amazing right from the start. It is definitely a page-turner and will keep you reading for hours. When I first received the book, I wasn't sure I would enjoy reading it. I had second thoughts about reviewing it because I usually don't like journal-style writing. I started on page one and in a flash I changed my mind. This book is a daily journal belonging to a young lady named Yara Garcia. This book takes you through the easy, rough, happy and sad times of Yara that take place while she and her family are going through the process of exile. This "almost thirteen years old" girl tells us about her home life in Cuba and her days in La Escuela al Campo, a communist training camp. She tells us about her flight to America, her new life in America, and the different feelings and obstacles she faces every day of her new world. This story felt so realistic to me because my dad and his family went through the same thing. They came from Cuba to America in 1961. My dad was only eighteen months old and doesn't remember much, but my aunts do and they share their stories. My feelings toward this book are natural. At some points I was laughing, celebrating or being proud of Yara's actions, but at other times I was crying, scared, or upset. For example, when she talked about how her abuelo said, "I may never live to see my home country again," I was sad, feeling upset for him. I couldn't even imagine not being able to see my hometown or country again. Another example is when her abuelo died of a heart attack. I was crying very much because my abuelo from Cuba also died of a heart attack. I was scared thinking that it must mean something, but I just let it go. Nightmares that night? Oh yes!! When I hear about the cruelness of Fidel Castro and the horrible times the Cuban people went through, I think how lucky I am to live in a free country. I am able to do, say, and act in whichever way I want. I feel sorry for the Cubans and hope that one day Castro will come to his senses and let them live freely! I love this book and not only will I recommend it to my friends and family, I will read it over and over again!
Book Reviews
Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art
Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art by Barbara Elleman; Houghton Mifflin Company: Boston, 2002; $20 I can still remember when my dad read Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel to me. In fact, my dad remembers when his mother read Mike Mulligan to him. Did you ever wonder what was the story behind the acknowledgment to Dickie Birkenbush at the bottom of a page in Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel? Have you ever wondered if there was a real Mike? I did and found the answers in the book Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art. If you are curious, read the book to find the answers in the first chapter. Virginia Lee Burton: A Life in Art is Burton's biography that describes her creativity and lifestyle. Energetic and amiable, Virginia kept busy from dawn to dusk, raising sheep, vegetables and two children on her New England farm. Abandoned by her mother as a teenager, she found emotional strength from her artwork, as well as her skill as a dancer. Burton created a home environment that promoted her artistic fervor, surrounding herself with artistic things and people. Her husband was, in fact, a well-known sculptor. Numerous photos that depict her life in art fill this book. I particularly like the one of her dancing on the giant granite picnic table in her backyard. In another photo, Virginia and her sons stand in front of the boys' bedroom wall that shows hilly tracks and trains painted by their mother. The back cover shows an eye-catching picture of her uniquely decorated barn studio, only steps away from her house. I admire Virginia because of her ability in handling the emotional stress of her mother's abandonment. Despite the negative impact that this must have had on her, she created a happy life for herself and her family. Interviews with her sons, who never recalled any visible signs of distress from this sad event, proved her successful efforts. While I still have my mother, I want to follow Virginia's example of not dwelling on negative aspects of her life, but living in the present and improving her future. It must have taken a lot of courage to remain positive without letting her inward feelings affect her outwardly. I probably could not do this, because, if I have a problem, I go to my mom. Without her, I would have a hard time coping. Although Virginia was emotionally stronger than me, we are similar in several ways. Like me, her perfectionism made her constantly fix her work. If I'm doing a project and don't like something about it, I mess with the mistake until it looks right. Sometimes, I end up making it worse. Virginia loved drawing, always sketching down ideas. When she took art and designing lessons, she had a long commute by rail, ferryboat and cable car. During those long hours, she sketched her unwary fellow passengers. I also enjoy sketching my friends and other people I meet. If I don't have anyone to sketch, I draw people and animals from my imagination. Virginia read her stories to her children to test if they were interesting enough for them. I'm always testing my funny stories on my younger brother to see whether he will laugh. The hard part for me is writing the stories down on paper. It's fun to read a biography about a person with whom I found much in common.
