Fiction
Since the beginning of time itself, my mom, my sister, and I have baked chocolate-chip cookies. They’re not amazing or perfect and definitely not round, but to us they’re as good as paradise. We bake them all the time, on rainy evenings, or mopey afternoons, or cozy Sunday mornings. If you scavenged through our kitchen and found that cookbook, in its rightful place beside the toaster, you would see the recipe forever open to that spot. You would see the splattered batter marks. You could even count the thousand chocolaty fingerprints. Today, we will bake them again, stirring up all our memories in the mixing bowl. We cascade into the kitchen, hollering and whooping and turning on cheerful music. We all dance, and Zoe sings, her sweet melodies rising into the air. We do a lot of things, but mostly, we bake. I dump in teaspoon after teaspoon. Cup after cup. I add vanilla, contemplate, and then add more. We pull out ingredients from cupboards. Flour flies, and batter drips. All the while my dog licks up the mess. Spatter, lick, spatter, lick. It goes on like this for a while until we have successfully put the pan into the oven. We stare in, oohing and aahing at the soon-to-be cookies. Now all there is left to do is wait. And check the timer, and wait. And peer in through the oven glass and wait. And wait. With nimble fingers, my mom pulls our legendary cookies from the oven. They are the yummiest shade of buttery brown. The chips are melted completely, mixed into the soft cookie. Perfect. Only then does my dad come down to admire. Only then does my sister stop texting. Now, it is time for our little feast. When I was little, and Zoe was little, we would pretend to have tea parties. I would lay out a pink crocheted blanket, on which we’d all sit, as if on a picnic. We’d sip milk from small teacups, and talk in English accents. My sister and I were usually princesses, and my mom, the queen. Now, as time progresses and we are all too old for make-believe, my family sits at the kitchen counter, just our plain old selves. We guzzle cookies, not trying to be proper or princess-like. We talk too. About regular things, about school, about what we’ll cook next. It usually turns out to be those same cookies. About past and future, and right now. Maybe we don’t play pretend anymore, but I’m sure we love these cookies as much as any queen of England ever could. Maybe even more.
Fiction
Kevin jumped out of bed and pulled at the curtains to open them. He glanced outside and groaned. The sun was not yet over the horizon, but snow was falling very heavily and the wind was whipping the trees back and forth. The snow was so thick he couldn’t even see the houses on the other side of the street. Kevin threw himself back on the bed and tried to console himself. Grabbing his iPod off the nightstand nearby, Kevin checked it for messages. There was one new message. Please no, he prayed silently, and he opened the text. The text was exactly what he didn’t want to read. School canceled and that meant no basketball. Today was the last basketball game and Kevin was looking forward to it and now there had to be a snowstorm. “Drat!” Kevin mumbled to himself. Kevin had been out all season from the first game with a broken wrist, and now with a few days of practice under his belt he was going to play in tonight’s final game of the season. Or he was, until school was canceled. Kevin dragged himself out of bed and slouched down the stairs to the main floor where his mother was busy making breakfast. The pancakes and bacon didn’t improve his mood, even though they were his favorite meal. Kevin just sat in his chair, moodily staring at the wall. His dad thumped down the stairs wearing a suit and a tie and rubbing his head with a grimace on his face. “Hit my head on the low ceiling again,” Kevin’s father replied to his wife’s inquiring look. Mr. Hargrove was six-foot-ten and very muscular. He dropped his tall ungainly figure into a chair and settled himself down to a plateful of pancakes and bacon. He was halfway done with his plate of breakfast when he noticed that Kevin had eaten nothing. Kevin was tall like his father already at six-foot-one in eighth grade. “Canceled?” Mr. Hargrove asked his wife. She nodded and turned back to the griddle silently. Kevin looked up from his plate and asked, “May I be excused? I’m not hungry.” “Not hungry?” his mother asked, pretending to be surprised. “You know I made this especially for you. I want you to at least eat one pancake and one piece of bacon.” Kevin broke off a tiny piece of bacon and a slightly larger piece of pancake, swallowed them quickly, and washed them down with a glass of orange juice. “Now?” he asked. “Fine, whatever,” his mother replied impatiently. “Go.” Kevin pushed his chair back and walked upstairs. As soon as he left, Mrs. Hargrove turned to her husband with a sad look. Mr. Hargrove stood up and took his wife’s hand. “You know how much this means to him, Mary.” She nodded and said, “Yes, I know, especially after what it meant to you, Tim.” Mr. Hargrove nodded. He knew what she was talking about. He had been a star in the NBA, but in his third year he had a career-ending injury during a game, injuring his spine so that he could never play again. Kevin had this dream that he could be a star like his father, only without injuring himself. Kevin was only in eighth grade and was better than any boy his age at basketball, and that is why it bothered him so much to have been injured in the first game. Kevin made himself go downstairs about fifteen minutes later. His parents were talking by the garage door and stopped when they saw him approaching. As he came to say goodbye to his father, his parents came to a silent agreement. “ Kevin,” Mother said slowly, “how about you drive along with your father to his work and use the gym next door? You can spend the entire day there. Here is some money,” Mrs. Hargrove said, handing him ten dollars, “to buy lunch with at the Pizza Hut next door. Will you be OK being there by yourself?” Kevin nodded. He had spent many days in that gym all by himself in the summer when his mother worked and he wasn’t at any of his friends’ houses. “All right then,” his father clapped. “I definitely don’t want to be late for my meeting, so let’s get going.” Kevin grabbed his basketball and hopped in the car with his father. A few minutes later Kevin stretched as he stepped out of the red Corvette his father drove. “See ya, Dad,” Kevin called as he slammed the door and his father pulled away around the corner. Kevin opened the door to the building, showed his pass to the clerk, and walked on to the gym. A fun day in the gym by myself, thought Kevin. He was wrong about one thing. He wouldn’t be alone. As he walked through the open door to the gym it seemed empty, as usual. He ran to barely behind the three-point line, lined up, and, with perfect form, took a shot. Swish! “Yes!” he muttered to himself and ran to get the ball. After three more shots he was startled by someone standing up from under the bleachers on the left. “AHH!” Kevin shouted. “Don’t do that!” he said, startled. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” said the boy. The boy’s voice sounded different from any voice Kevin had heard before. “Well, what were you doing under there? Did you drop your phone?” Kevin asked. “No,” the boy replied. “I was just looking for something to do.” “Oh,” Kevin replied. The other boy came and stood a few feet away from Kevin. Kevin had to stop himself from pinching his nose at the smell of the other boy. He smelled like he hadn’t taken a shower in months. Kevin didn’t recognize him from the school he went to. Kevin just tried to keep the conversation going. “Where are you from? I haven’t seen you before.” “I-I-I,” the boy stuttered,
Fiction
By Mathilde Fox-Smith Illustrated by Anika Knudson He had decided earlier that he wouldn’t do it tonight. This nagging annoyed him profoundly. Though now that he was already plastered against a wall, inches from the swerving shaft of police-car headlights in the city, it might as well happen. As soon as the tires rolled over the crumbly pavement, he crept from the shadowed wall, slipping down the road. The streets were licked by shadows and mostly undisturbed by the din of passing cars. He could faintly picture a blank, ancient building in the back of the park a few roads over, one that he had seen before. To avoid being questioned or recognized by drivers, he kept his head down, his eyes burning into the sidewalk. A tall gate guarded the entrance to the quiet park, made up of thin black posts set close together. A barrier of thick bamboo crowded the borders between grass and street. He began to shove aside the flexible trunks, squeezing in between the stems. It enclosed him in a chamber of green as he pushed through to the park’s grassy edge. Pale moonbeams pooled over the dark ground. Barbed wire twisted between the park and the site of the old building. Gingerly taking the smoother bit of the wire in between his fingers, he jerked it up as far as he could to create an entrance for himself. Crumpled leaves and rust-colored pine needles concealed cans of spray paint, stashed there on his last encounter with the police. Lifting a random container, he scrubbed away a patch of the dirt and scanned the color: brown. Pictures fluttered back into his brain. Selecting a cream-white from the paints, he also chose a scene. And then, he began to paint. Lise woke abruptly. The cheerful chirping of a robin rang in her sleepy ears. Roused by it, she slipped out of bed. Her long hair was matted from sleep. Lise clomped into the kitchen, rubbing her eyes. “Morning!” she was greeted by her mother. Lise returned a smile and plopped down into a hard wooden chair. “Would you mind much if I go to the new art exhibit?” she requested. “Well, we have a party, and dinner out tonight… you know that your father’s running for office again,” she warned. “He might want you to help with pamphlets and flyers.” “I won’t be long.” “Yeah, I guess. But be sure to be back by two-fifteen,” she agreed. Lise smiled in thanks and finished her breakfast hastily. The brutal August sun cast its blinding rays over the city and the people that swarmed like ants in the streets. An art gallery was featuring a new exhibit, and Lise was eager to visit it. Though her intention was to stay for that exhibit only, she decided to wander about the old ones, too. Just as she exited, Lise was drawn into the cheerful green park. Her feet ached from her brisk walking in the gallery, so she swiveled around to where she thought was a bench. That ambition quickly vanished from her mind. She remembered the building quite clearly; that was why she didn’t recognize it at first. Its crumbly surface was completely slathered in paint. Lise blinked repeatedly, astonished. The only thing that remained of the eerie side of it was the floppy fencing of barbed wire. Otherwise, it was majestic. A painting of a sunset flourished over the bricks. The vibrant sky was streaked with crimson, magenta, vermillion, and turquoise. They blended beautifully above the magnificent, blazing sun, reflecting in the rippled ocean. Even the water nearly moved. The beach was a golden stretch of beige, shining in the sun’s rays. Just in the front of the piece, a single luscious palm tree leaf waved. No longer was the building a building, but a window. Lise was petrified with amazement at the artwork, her breath blown away. She stepped closer, examining every flawless stroke of the painting. “Wow,” she breathed. A tiny signature was traced with black spray paint: “Tobias Acosta.” She suddenly remembered the stern reporters on television who spoke of the so-called Tobias Acosta, a graffitist. Although his paintings were signed with that name, no recorded resident of the city was called by it. Of course, she knew this painting was outrageously wrong—it was graffiti, but her amazement defied her consciousness. Lise uttered, “I never thought I’d see one in person before they erased it.” She moved close enough that her fingers curled around the rusty barbed wire and took in every perfect detail. Unexpectedly, Lise’s eyes strayed to her digital watch and she gasped at the square letters. “Three o’clock! Oh, I’d better go.” She took one last examination of the picture and reluctantly turned to leave. Lise took a particularly long time returning home, the image glowing in her mind. By the time she approached her doorstep, the little watch ticked three-fifteen. Entering the apartment, she was first greeted by her mother, and her daze quickly dissolved. "Sorry. I… lost track of the time,” she stammered, because it wasn’t a total lie. What would her parents—her campaigning father, mostly—think if she marveled over the artwork of a criminal? Lise passed her mother and entered her own room, standing before the dresser and gazing at the girl in the mirror. “Will I ever be able to draw like that?” she wondered aloud. Lise’s favorite activity was art, and she was praised at school and home for her artwork. The girl repeated her question, but something in her aqua eyes made Lise know that her inquiry was foolish. * * * "Mom… I left my purse in the car.” “Lise, do you really need it?” She sighed, “I’ll get it.” Her mother’s forehead creased, but she tossed Lise the keys to their vehicle and called, “Be quick!” The warm August air was much more welcoming at night. Lise hurried under the blanket of stars above her
Fiction
I didn’t dare breathe. The air smelled of fish—dirty, rotten fish, and the slightest of sea salt. In the distance I saw a long boardwalk out to sea. Dark, musty, wooden, it gave off the air of failure. I shivered, but not with cold. In front of me was the village I was born in. A poor fishing village hidden in South Korea. I looked back. My family stood behind me. My sister looked nervously at me. My “family.” My “sister.” They didn’t look like me. The blood that ran through their veins wasn’t anything like mine. I took a step on the gritty road, gazing at the old, decaying houses. They stood desolately by the ocean. It was Easter, so the town was abandoned. I guess no one wanted to spend their Easter here, in this sad old village. But here I stood. Clouds covered the blue sky, the sun refusing to shine. I looked back and saw my family cautiously walking forward. But they weren’t my family. This was where my real parents would have lived. My father would have been a fisherman, out to sea for such long periods of time that my mother and I would probably worry. My mother would stay at home, cook, wash, and do other housecleaning duties. I, her daughter, wouldn’t go to school, wouldn’t go out into the world. Instead I would be at home, repeating my mother’s life and her mother’s life. But here I stood. My real parents were either dead or they abandoned me. Who knew why or how. This old village, full of people I would have known, was poor. Who knew if I would have ever had enough to eat. Why was I brought to this world? Who were my parents? Burning questions that would never die out. Their flames will sting me forever. I felt strangely distant from the woman, man, and their daughter behind me. I had been counted as a family member for so long, but somehow here, now, made me feel separated from them. They gave me food, clothes, and shelter. They took me with them on their travels around the world. Their daughter spent countless hours giggling with me, carefree. The man teased, joked, warned me to stay away from boys. He helped to get my homework done. He embarrassed me in front of my friends, and then we laughed about it later. The woman stayed home with me when I was sick. Wrapped her arms and warm blankets around me. She gave me advice and gave me sympathy. Gave me love. If I lived here, I would never have met them. I wouldn’t know who they are. Everyone back home, all my friends, teachers, mentors, coaches… Everything I knew, everyone I know, everywhere I’ve been… All I believe in… Nonexistent. Suddenly dizziness swept over me. My knees buckled. My hand grabbed for a railing, a pole, something to give me support, to help me stand. Tears rushed to my eyes. I didn’t dare look behind me. Then I felt warm, sturdy hands help me up. I found myself looking into the eyes of my mother. My adoptive mother. But it didn’t matter. She had been everything a mother should be. She whispered my Korean name in my ear. Jin Ae. Its meaning: truth. I stood up. I grabbed my mother’s hand. We walked back to my family, turning away from the life I would have had.
Fiction
Timing is a funny thing. Some religious figures see it as fate, when in reality, it’s chance. The world doesn’t care about any one person enough to stop its continuously moving clock and allow what some people see as “fate” to occur. The world is morphing and changing all around us, and having bad timing can alter what could have been to what actually is. And that is exactly what happened to Helen and Rose, or what might have happened. I suppose I’ll just start at the end, since I have already spoiled it for you. If, say, this story were to be written in any sort of organized manner, the last few words would say, “Helen and Rose never officially met, and therefore, the course of history wasn’t altered even the tiniest bit. The world kept spinning, the sun kept shining, and the birds kept singing as usual.” Oh, but that’s no fun, is it? What would you learn from that story? That timing is awful, and constantly doing us wrong? I’ll continue my story, starting from the end of it all, and hopefully give you a little something more to think about. Now, I have already told you that the girls never met, but what if I told you that they almost did? Oh, they were so close! One of the opportunities, the last, to be precise, was a sweltering hot July afternoon, yet Helen was cool as a cucumber, and pale as one, too, in her study. Meanwhile, Rose was attending yet another appointment with the swimming pool and was as crispy as a potato chip. A few hours later, Helen hopped in her car, for no apparent reason but to drive, and Rose mounted her motorcycle (for no apparent reason but to leave). And for a second, as they passed each other on the road, they made unmistakable eye contact. Silly, worthless eye contact, really. The kind where each person thinks, “I am so much better than her,” because, in fact, that eye contact was the only factor holding their destined meeting back. If they hadn’t seen each other at that pitiful time, a little later down the road, Helen would have noticed the poor, shivering girl in her swimsuit, offered to give her a ride, and, well, you know what would have happened. But that wasn’t the case, so each girl’s world remained unaltered, again. Now, let’s rewind to a few years earlier, at Rose’s sweet-sixteen party, aka the party, at Bowl on a Penny, “the cheapest bowling in America!” which just so happened to be Helen’s place of employment at the time. As they bowled, Rose, a clearly inexperienced bowler, rolled a bowling ball so softly that it came to a halt only a few feet away from where she had dropped it. Laughing as if her daughter had just told the funniest joke in the world, Rose’s mom walked over to a lovely young girl at the Snack Shop. That girl turned the task over to (who else, but…) Helen, of course! Destiny was trying to make its way into the world again. Grudgingly, Helen waddled up to the alley, right as Rose’s friends all gathered around her to give her the presents. Helen handed Rose’s mom the bowling ball, with a hinted “you’re welcome,” and returned to the Snack Shop. And that was the end of it, yet another missed opportunity. In fact, they both had a few opportunities to meet each other. Each one they missed left them two steps behind, and yet another opportunity caught them off guard. Their first opportunity was truly a shame. It was the perfect scenario, both girls were in the same store, in the same location, on the same day. The only issue: timing. And though one may groan at the agony of all these missed opportunities, I can sure as anything tell you what would have happened had these scenarios ended in a meeting of the two girls. Yes, it would have been a great friendship at first, filled with many great memories. However, a few years later, Helen would convince Rose to spend less time at the pool. Rose would encourage Helen to give up on her dreams and goals to relax more. Over time, they would gnash away at each person’s individual talents and characteristics and morph into the “normal” person—do nothing great, achieve nothing great, learn nothing great. So be thankful for timing, for the people life lets you meet, and those who life doesn’t. Now that you know what would have happened if fate had won over reality, be mindful that with the people life gives you, you control your destiny with them. And always be thankful for chance, because this world would have lost two individuals, Helen and Rose, without it.
Poem
There are special moments where you connect with another living being. When no words are spoken you can understand each other. Some moments you can physically feel, as you run with your dog and your steps fall in line, as if to the beat of a drum. You can feel it through music as you dance together with someone you love, twirling in and out of the rhythm and letting it hold you close. When you don’t even try, it can happen, as you hold a baby close to your chest feeling its fragile heart beat. And the precious life in your arms doesn’t even know the brightness of the world, but you know each other. When you are a baby, you don’t know how to speak but you have a language. It is silent and without words. As you learn to speak, that unspoken language gets less practice and slowly fades away like a memory from long ago until all you know are words as if that is the only way to communicate. Sometimes you can still use it and it will kick in on its own, that is when these moments happen. The language is strong and quiet like a wooded stream. You will stop to listen to it and feel it in you bypassing your brain and rushing straight to your heart. If you hold onto that current you can embrace it and let it speak to you in its own way.
Poem
Night knits the mountains close and hazy lines shoot high. A half moon rising low and dim quietly moans a tune; the wind is at a howl; the trees are a wobbling drum. The lake ripples— the main event is about to occur— Though it is nothing special, really, but celestial dead bodies that light up our little souls.
Poem
I spread my sides, flattening like Play-Doh, And close my eyes as light spreads its fingers over my back. My blood heats and spills warmth into my tail and toes. Hidden prey sings the song of my recognition and their mating. I open my eyes to see a lizard. He lies on his tri-colored boulder like a scaly draping. He looks dull against his darkened, nonsensical, almost see-through background. Another sun rests above his head. How nice it must be to have the sun follow you around. He cocks his head as I do the same, He often comes when the crickets sing and often sits on his red rock. Tonight he is a wet bearded dragon, like he was in the rain. As I have been, Warm water poured down my head as I stood, Up to my sides, in water before I went to my den. Prey sits in front of him as a chirp sounds in my ear. I admire the diamonds on his back, so like my own, And the red and white around his ears I also thought were mine alone. Our close resemblance is queer. His tail is gray but red striped and tame. And his head is the work of a perfectionist artist In its perfect symmetrical design only nature can claim. I clamber off my red basking rock and so does he. This night he moves with me, mirroring my every move. He looks so close he could be me. Then click… the sun is dark. My eyes see in the new land instantly, But the lizard in gone, where does he lurk? I pull my dragon body over my hill into my cave, And wonder if he will come on the dawn of tomorrow
Book Reviews
The Children of the King, by Sonya Hartnett; Candlewick Press: Somerville, Massachusetts, 2014; $16.99 It is too dangerous to stay in London. The threat of bombs falling overhead is constant, and now that France has fallen, Cecily’s parents are getting worried. So they decide to send Cecily and her brother Jeremy (along with their mother) to their Uncle Peregrine’s house until it’s “safe” enough. Although Cecily is perfectly happy to stay with her favorite uncle, Jeremy is frustrated. He feels like he’s not a child anymore at the age of fourteen and should help with the war. He wants to do anything, anything to help, which leads to reckless decisions later on. If you haven’t realized it yet, it’s World War II, and reckless decisions can end you up in situations you don’t want to be in. Especially when you are on the battlefield, and your only decision is to kill—or be killed. This isn’t the first book I have read about World War II, and it certainly won’t be the last. How can I read about such horrible times? How do I stand to listen to those terrifying stories? Because these stories are in my blood. My mom grew up in the Soviet Union. As you can expect, so did her parents, my grandparents. So did my great-grandparents. Yes. My great-grandparents on my mother’s side, two of whom are alive now, lived in the Soviet Union during World War II. To top it off, they were Jewish, and they were each very young then, high-schoolers at most. As you can expect, they each had their very own interesting story that happened during that time. One of my great-grandfathers fled to a safer part of the country, where he finished school and started going to the university when he was only sixteen. My great-grandmothers also fled to different parts of the country, where they could be safe and sound from the Nazis. Meanwhile, my other great-grandfather, who was only eighteen, got automatically signed up to fight in the war. He doesn’t tell anyone what happened during those times, but I can only imagine how horrible it was. I read these stories so I can know what was happening on other sides of the globe during this dreadful period of time. Stories of bombs, murder, and loss, but they are connected to me, and all of us, through our blood. We must know our history. During this time, many children got separated from their parents. May was one of these children. She was sent alone to the countryside, to be taken as part of a new family until it was safe enough for her to go home. She was an evacuee, and if she wasn’t taken by a family, who knows what would have happened to her. So it’s lucky for her that Cecily spots her and decides that she would make a good friend. They take May to their home, and everyone quickly adapts to the new lifestyle. Well, except for Jeremy. He still feels helpless in the war and doesn’t like the feeling. Then one day, Jeremy runs off to London. With no one knowing where he was, when he was coming back, or if he was even safe, the two girls got worried, and not only about him. Would he come back? And who were the two boys hiding in the woods? This was a wonderful book, and the thrill it gave me as I read it was also. I’d recommend it to anyone, anywhere.
Book Reviews
Counting by 7s, by Holly Goldberg Sloan; Dial Books for Young Readers: New York, 2013; $16.99 Twelve-year-old Willow Chance, who is fascinated by and knowledgeable about plants and medical conditions, has enough to deal with starting a new middle school with no friends and being accused of cheating on an important test before her parents die in a car crash. She soon finds that not only her world is changed after her parents’ sudden, tragic death, but her personality as well. Willow no longer finds herself indulging in her old habits—counting by sevens (her lucky number), charting home-grown sunflowers’ percentage of germination, or even checking the time of day. The summary on the back cover of the book states that “the triumph of this book is that it is not a tragedy.” After reading the first twenty or so chapters of the book, I couldn’t say I agreed with this. Willow was completely devastated after losing the only family she ever knew—who wouldn’t be? But as I proceeded to read the rest of the book, I found that the statement was true. Willow’s story is not a tragedy. Instead, the plot focuses on how she puts herself back together, piece by piece, until she finally returns to her old self. I have come across several books in which the protagonist has been orphaned, but none that feature this unusual way of bringing realism to the narrative. When I finished this book, I wasn’t left with the same sense of emptiness I’ve experienced with other books. I left Willow with compassionate, understanding people who care for her. I do miss the characters, but I don’t feel the need to read more and more about what happens, as the ending is positive and satisfying. However, what I enjoyed most of all about this book was how well written it was. In the first page, the balance between rich description and the flow of action really pulled me in. The opening scene, which includes speaking in Vietnamese and eating ice cream with the school counselor at the Foster’s Freeze, left me wondering and motivated to read more. The chapters flip between first-person narration from Willow’s perspective and third-person narration, giving the reader a viewpoint of what’s going on in Willow’s opinion and what’s happening in the rest of the world. The author is so insightful about seeing the world through Willow’s eyes that I can easily relate to her in many ways as a twelve-year-old myself. Willow’s story possesses another unique quality that many books lack—there is no “bad guy,” bully, or even unkind person in her story. Instead, Willow’s villain is her own misery. This makes the book even more realistic. Willow does not need to humiliate, stand up to, or get revenge on anyone to be able to fix her life—she has to overcome her enemy by achieving happiness and returning to her old personality, or, as she puts it, “the Old Me.” As new characters are introduced throughout the book, the author includes Willow’s first impressions and, over time, subtly points out their strengths, weaknesses, and traits. Through many interactions, the reader learns to like the characters, each in their own way. The characters who are important enough for Willow to get to know are compassionate people, at least on the inside. I think Counting by 7s is a worthwhile read because the uniqueness and realism of the plot and characters is well-matched with the compelling narrative.
