Fiction
Katherine looked up into the smiling faces of her parents. Though they appeared to be cheerful on the outside, she could sense the worry that hung about their shoulders and the urgency in their movements. She watched as they put on long black overcoats and dark hats with brims that obscured their eyes. “Mommy, Daddy, where are you going?” Katherine asked anxiously. “To somewhere safe. Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll come back for you. I promise.” Her father hugged her tightly, giving her a soft kiss on the cheek in the process. “But why?” Katherine queried. She was confused. Why were they leaving her? Where were they going? “Honey, we cannot stay here, we must keep moving.” Katherine’s mother sighed heavily. “Everything will turn out all right.” Katherine watched as her parents ran off into the rainy night, droplets of water hitting their overcoats like shafts of silver arrows. When they were almost out of earshot, she heard her father call, “Take good care of baby Lily for us.” And then he rushed away, a dark shadow moving with expert stealth. Katherine felt a tear escape her eye and run down her cheek. She sniffled and looked at the sign on the door behind her: Mulberry Orphanage. She looked at her baby sister, asleep in a little bundle on the doorstep, unaware of the confusing world around her. Once again, she looked out into the night, hoping that her parents would return soon. She stood there for a long time, smelling the earthy aroma of storm, the noxious fume of gasoline, and listening to the rain beat out its arbitrary time signature on the roof. Finally, when it became clear that her parents were not returning anytime soon, Katherine curled up next to her sister and slowly, painfully, heart-wrenchingly, cried herself to sleep. * * * EIGHT YEARS LATER... Katherine awoke suddenly. Her body was tangled in her sheets and soaked in a cold sweat. The last few moments of her dream lingered fresh in her memory. She desperately wanted to see her parents again, but interacting with them in a recurring dream ad nauseam made her long for her life to return to the way it once was. “Kkkhhonkh.” Katherine looked over at the sleeping figure of her younger sister and smiled. Lily was sprawled across the bed, the blankets wrapped around her torso like a bedcover toga. Her long auburn hair was spread across her round face in knotted clumps, and her mouth was open, exposing a number of pearly white teeth. Katherine nearly giggled, but her face regained its now familiar solemnity when she thought of how innocent her once baby sister had looked, sleeping in that little bundle on the doorstep of the orphanage. Silently, Katherine stepped off the edge of the bed and stole carefully across the floor, trying not to make any noise. It reminded her of the times when she snuck out of bed to get some extra food for Lily from the orphanage pantry. She remembered how underfed the kids at the orphanage had been, each one subsisting on only a tiny bowl of porridge, a cup of chicken broth, and a few pieces of bread and cheese a day. It had been awful living in the orphanage. The director had been a cruel man. He had hated the kids; the only reason he had decided to run an orphanage in the first place was the prospect of money. He had been strict too, and punished the kids for no particular reason. The whole situation had been almost too horrible to endure. But Katherine and Lily had had to bear it… and for eight whole years they did, accumulating calluses all over their hands and feet and growing skinnier by the week. Each day had been the same: short, dull, and hazy. Work, study, eat, work, study, eat; that had been their life. But then there was the joyous day when a woman had come to the orphanage. And she was nice; very kind. Katherine had liked her… and she liked the woman even more when she decided to adopt Katherine and Lily. Now, Katherine quietly slipped out of her bedroom and into the living room. In the ghostly moonlight, she could see the faint outlines of the furniture. She tiptoed across the floor to the window, her nightgown ballooning about her knees. Silently, she eased open the creaky window, allowing the delicious nighttime scent to waft into the room. Outside, Katherine could see the lights of the city spread out in front of her like the bioluminescent scales of a fish. Each one glittered and sparkled, one infinitesimal spot of color in a gown encrusted with sequins. Beyond the city, Katherine could just make out the chain of mountains on the horizon, a jagged line frozen forever in a state of hazy evanescence. And beyond that, into the ebony heavens above, Katherine saw the stars, twinkling and shimmering, like their cousins, the lights of the city, reflected in a tranquil pond. “Oh, Mommy, Daddy, where are you?” Katherine asked aloud. “Why did you leave me?” Katherine thought of what her father had said: “We’ll come back for you. I promise.” Had he been making a promise he couldn’t keep? It was hard to know for sure. He had seemed so sincere, so honest. But no one was exactly the way they seemed. It was a hard mystery for Katherine to ponder, for deep down she wanted to believe that her parents had been good people, and yet she was shrouded in the gray veil of doubt. A single teardrop dribbled down Katherine’s cheek. “I wish things were simpler,” she whispered, more tears escaping from her eyes. “Oh, Katherine, don’t cry, everything is OK.” Katherine felt a warm hand on her wrist. She looked up, expecting to see Amber, the woman she and Lily now lived with. But no, it was her sister, Lily, whose hazel eyes gleamed in the soft moonlight.
Fiction
A TRUE STORY Kamina grinned. Finally, it was Diwali! She had been longing for this day since she had come with her family to her grandparents’ house, and now she could hardly wait to start the celebration! Diwali was an Indian holiday, celebrating the return of the prince Ram. The story was that Ram had been exiled from the kingdom to battle demons, and when he came back, the people of India lit candles to guide him home. “Kamina, Kamina, where are you?” a familiar voice squealed. It was Liliana, or Lili, Kamina’s little sister. Kamina looked around for a place to hide. She spotted a tall tree, its branches easy to climb on but leafy enough so Liliana wouldn’t find her. Quickly, she grabbed the nearest branch and swung onto it, hooking her feet in the small crevices of the trunk. Soon, she had climbed on a branch where she could see Liliana but Liliana couldn’t see her. “Kaminaaaaa! Where are youuuuuuuuu?” Liliana’s voice echoed up to the branch where Kamina was hiding. Kamina stifled a laugh. “Kamina, if you don’t come down now, we will prepare for Diwali wiwout you!” Kamina couldn’t help but notice that Liliana had pronounced “without” wrong. As much as Kamina liked to annoy her little sister, she did not want her family to prepare for Diwali without her. So, she climbed down, trying to stay out of Liliana’s eyesight. But, as soon as her feet touched the ground, Liliana yelled, “Found you!” So much for sneaking away, thought Kamina, disappointed. But her disappointment flew away as she saw her dadi, the Indian word for grandma, taking out the boxes of beautiful candleholders. Her dadi handed her one of the boxes. “Here,” she said, as Kamina took the box from her hands with the greatest care. “Put these on the porch for me, will you?” she asked. “Of course, Dadi!” exclaimed Kamina, already heading towards the porch. Kamina carefully placed the box on the porch, then opened it to make sure none of the exquisite candleholders were broken. Kamina gasped. The candleholders were simply beautiful. Some were blue, some were green, some were so decorated they burned Kamina’s eyes! But if she was impressed by these, she was completely unprepared for the second box of candleholders her dadi gave her. Dashes of rainbow, sunlight, and joyful thoughts filled Kamina’s mind until she had to close the box. Skipping this time, she went back to her dadi to see if there were any more boxes to be carried. “No, there are no more boxes to carry,” said her dadi when Kamina asked. “But,” she continued, seeing Kamina’s disappointed face, “you can help me clean the kitchen.” “Uhhhh, no thanks, Dadi,” said Kamina. “No offense, but I’d rather be bored than clean the kitchen.” Her dadi smiled. “Off you go then!” she replied. Kamina ran into the house to find herself face-to-face with Liliana. Uh-oh, I better get out of here, thought Kamina, but it was too late. Kamina found herself playing dolls with Liliana. A few hours later, Kamina’s dadi called them in her room. “I have a surprise for you girls!” she exclaimed. When they entered Dadi’s room, the first things Kamina saw were two gorgeous Indian dresses. “Do you like them?” asked Dadi, watching the girls’ reaction. “Oh, Dadi, they’re wonderful!” exclaimed Kamina. “Are they for us?” Their dadi smiled. “Do you think I would order dresses that small for me?” Liliana squealed and picked up the smaller dress, one that was gold-embroidered with fiery-colored threads that shined. “Oh, thank you, Dadi!” she squeaked happily and ran to the bathroom to try on her new dress. Kamina stared at hers. It was the most beautiful piece of clothing she owned. Speechless, she carefully smoothed it out and hugged her dadi. Then she ran to the bathroom as well, to put it on. A few minutes later, Kamina was staring at herself in the mirror. She looked amazing. The dress was black with golden stones and threads that brought out the golden highlights in her brown hair. She loved it. Soon, the family was almost done preparing. The fireworks were out, the food was almost cooked, everybody was dressed up, and Kamina’s dadi had taken out her camera, ready to take photos. Liliana was bouncing in excitement. To calm Liliana down, Kamina asked her if she wanted to play hide-and-seek. Liliana agreed, and soon Kamina found herself looking around the house for her annoying little sister. “Found you!” she exclaimed, as Liliana came out of a closet. “Girls! Time to eat!” called Kamina’s mother. Sure enough, Kamina smelled the scent of spices floating through the air. She licked her lips and headed towards the dining room, where delicious-looking food awaited her. Kamina sat at the table, grabbed her fork, and dug in. After the feast (which was as delicious as it smelled), Kamina and her family went outside to light the candles. Kamina and Liliana weren’t allowed to light any candles but they were allowed to watch. As Kamina’s uncle lit the last candle, there was a terrible scream. Kamina turned around and saw Liliana leaning over a candle, her bangs on fire. Kamina, not knowing what to do, also screamed. Her mother was racing towards Liliana, but Kamina’s grandpa, her dada, had gotten there first. He used his bare hands to pat out the fire as quickly as possible. Her dada was soon joined by Kamina’s mom, and soon they extinguished the fire. Kamina’s heart was racing. She was trembling in terror. As much as she thought Liliana was annoying, she was her sister, and she loved her very much. Kamina watched as her mom raced into the house with a crying, screaming Liliana in her arms. Quickly, Kamina raced after her. When she got there, her mother was pouring water on Liliana’s forehead. Kamina stared at the sink, where lay blackened bangs, crumbling as she touched them. Kamina looked up. Liliana
Fiction
OCTOBER Come on, Josh,” Mom urged one day. “It won’t kill you if you join band.” “Yes, it will,” I retorted. “I’ll take away your video games,” Mom threatened. “OK, fine!” I finally gave in after weeks of argument. “I’m sure the way to fit in at my new school is to be a band geek, so that’s exactly what I’ll be. Then you’ll be happy.” “Josh, we both know that’s not what this is about,” Mom said sharply. I grabbed my comic book from the table, ran to my room, and slammed the door behind me. I jumped onto my bed and crossed my legs. Angrily, I flipped the pages, sighing and shaking my head. Mom never got me. Not since I turned ten, not since we moved, not since I joined fifth grade, and especially not since Dad died. I lay there for a while, staring miserably at a small chip in the ceiling. Then I heard Mom call, “Josh, time for dinner!” Glancing at my watch, I realized an hour had passed. I threw my comic book off my stomach and ran to the kitchen. Mom was listening to those jazz recordings, like always, though she turned them off quickly when I entered the room. Another hour passed, and Mom and I had finished dinner without speaking one word to each other. I went back to my room and resumed my position on the bed, until the chip in the ceiling started getting blurry. My eyelids got heavy. “Good night, Mom,” I murmured. I fell asleep in my clothes but woke up when I heard Mom shuffling into my room. I closed my eyes again and pretended to be asleep. Mom ruffled my hair and kissed my forehead. It was just as well she was acting so affectionate. By tomorrow, I’d be a band geek. By tomorrow, she would have ruined my life. The next day, a teacher I had never seen before sauntered into my classroom, so tall he had to duck through the doorway to get in. He had gelled-back brown hair, brown eyes, and a huge smile, one that lit up the whole room. His smile almost made me smile. But then that grinning, very tall man introduced himself. “Hi, everyone. I’m Mr. Huffington, the band teacher.” Mr. Huffington talked excitedly for forty-five minutes straight, hardly taking a breath, about how awesome it was to be in band. The strange thing was, hearing and watching him, I started feeling like maybe being around a guy like that would almost make being a band geek worthwhile in the end. * * * MARCH Five months had passed since I joined band with Mr. Huffington. I was OK with going early every Wednesday morning for practice. I was OK with lugging my trumpet case up and down the stairs every Friday for trumpet lessons. I wasn’t crazy about it all, but it was OK. I wasn’t suffering or anything, at least not the way I do in math. But I wasn’t very good at the trumpet. I was trying hard but just wasn’t getting the feel for it. The band was scheduled to play at the fifth-grade graduation in June. I’d told everybody I was going to play, and now I couldn’t just drop out, but I wouldn’t be allowed to play unless I got better. So I tried even harder. And absolutely nothing happened. “Come on, Josh,” Mr. Huffington said encouragingly one particularly frustrating Friday afternoon. “Curl in your lips. Let your air take over.” I took a deep breath and let the air flow through my curled lips. To my surprise, I hit a pretty high note. “Awesome!” Mr. Huffington said, clapping his hands. “That was High C. Just try to aim a little lower, for G.” “OK,” I said, suddenly feeling more confident. I aimed lower and got G. “Good!” exclaimed Mr. Huffington. “You’ll be playing like a pro in no time.” “How long is no time?” I asked. “Because I have to play at graduation. Do you think I’ll be able to?” “Probably,” Mr. Huffington said, “if you practice a little more.” “Hmm…” It was true I hadn’t practiced much, even when I’d wanted to practice. Often I’d pull out my rusty rental trumpet, but instead of hearing my notes flying out of it, right away I’d start to hear the notes from those recordings. My heart would get tight, my eyes would start to sting, and I’d quickly tuck the trumpet away. But if I practiced, would I ever sound like the recordings? Would I ever be that good? Was it worth it to even try? “OK,” I said doubtfully. “I’ll try to practice a little more.” “Great,” Mr. Huffington said. Then the period was over, so the half of the trumpets I practiced with on Fridays all packed up their stuff. The next half came streaming in through the door. I liked it better on Wednesday mornings, when all the trumpets played in unison. No—I liked it on Wednesday mornings, when the entire band played in unison. This March was a crisp one, not so cold as to have winter gear muffling your voice, but not too hot, where you sweat like a waterfall. It was a mellow March. The flowers were getting planted, to grow in May, and we weren’t getting too much rain—that was April’s job. I had forgotten to practice during the week, so I practiced extra the Tuesday before band. Mr. Huffington took special interest in me the next day—how I kept missing notes, struggling with my air, and how my elbows were jabbing my own ribs. How tense I was. How sweat trickled down my forehead. He took special interest in me this time—the time I was failing at the trumpet, more miserably than I ever had. He just looked. He listened. He didn’t speak. At lunch, I ate fast, threw out the white foam tray, and tapped the table and bounced my
Fiction
The Eiffel Tower was the ideal pickpocketing spot. Tourists were the most likely targets because of their ignorance and trust in the locals. Much of Paris’s underworld hung around the Eiffel Tower, preying on unsuspecting, over-trusting visitors. One clean, quick, unseen swipe, and the fool had lost a possession. When that fool found out, it was much too late. Luc was a young boy, dark-haired with a lanky frame, who was quite advanced in the art of pickpocketing. He spent many of his summer afternoons going to the Eiffel Tower and preying on those unsuspecting fools. He was a regular at the Eiffel Tower but always careful enough to not get noticed as one who comes every day. Luc had seen men taken away by the police, because they were suspected of pickpocketing. If a pickpocket was to survive the racket, he must be alert and cautious at all times. Luc solved this problem by wearing a variety of baseball caps, so he would remain inconspicuous and look like a different boy every day. He would use his different caps and various disguises to look like an American. One day, on the observation deck at the Eiffel Tower, Luc was observing his next target and was liking what he saw. The target was an old man, too busy seeing the gorgeous view to notice anything else. The old man was very tall and seemed calm and collected. Judging by his facial features, Luc guessed that the old man was German. Indeed the view was gorgeous, and it distracted many people. This was ideal for pickpocketing. The Eiffel Tower was crowded on the observation deck, so “accidentally” bumping into someone was a great excuse, and it always worked for Luc. The old man was looking east in the direction of Notre Dame and was not guarding his valuables. He was one of the tourists who had too much trust and knew nothing about survival. It was a warm, sunny day, which also benefited Luc, because the sun blinded his victims. Now, the question was what to steal from the old man. The old man had a gold pocket watch that was hanging out of his pocket. Luc had never seen such a prize. The pocket watch looked old and valuable. Of course, it might not be authentic, but if it was, it would sell for a lot of money. Luc decided to take the chance. He moved in to get a closer position. The trick to good pickpocketing is to move slowly and not go for the victim immediately. One needs to approach cautiously and not arouse suspicion. Luc made his way over to the old man carefully, stopping every so often, as though he too was interested in the sights. He was not interested in the sights. His eye was always on the prize. The old man walked away from him, towards the west side of the tower, but Luc was not worried. He would catch him eventually. He always did. The old man was talking jovially to a guide and his guard was down. Luc wanted that pocket watch. It was just swinging in the old man’s pocket, taunting him, willing him to come and get it. Luc was not going to fail now. Mercy was for the weak and soft. Why was it that no one suspected Luc? Was it because he was a child, and children are trusted more? That is one of the mysteries of life: children are marked as immature and naive in the world of adults. Luc broke through the wide corridor packed with many tourists and was at last alone with the old man. But this would not do. It was far too obvious if he was the only one around the old man. The old man would suspect him immediately, and that would be the end of the road for Luc. Luc would have to wait for a while. The old man seemed to have no intention of leaving the spot he was infatuated with, so Luc wanted to be productive while he waited. With an experienced eye, Luc quickly and confidently selected his new victim for the meantime: a middle-aged woman, on the other side of the tower, with her purse unclasped. It seemed almost too perfect, which caused Luc to hesitate. But a pickpocket needed also to be confident in his work. So, he took his running start, to make it look like he was that naive, ignorant boy that all adults expected him to be. He ran into the woman and at the same time, with a concise swipe of his hand, took her wallet. He apologized to her, but she just muttered, “Boys.” It took some time, like it always did, but it was finally announced over the loudspeaker. “Warning: Pickpockets are active in the tower!” Luc grinned at these words, knowing that his job was done. Now, he needed to find his main target: the old man with the gold pocket watch. Luc was a little nervous, because he was running out of time, and he was no closer to getting the gold pocket watch than he was when he first discovered it. He closed in on the old man and was finally in a good position. As he passed by the old man, he snatched that gold pocket watch right out of the old man’s pocket, and the old man didn’t even blink an eye! Luc was pleased with his success and was in high spirits while he made his way to the lift. As Luc stood in line for the lift, he looked behind him and saw the old man walking slowly to the lift. Luc willed the line to go faster. The last thing he needed right now was the old man to foil his plan. After what seemed like an eternity, the lift came back up. As the people in line began to file in, Luc knew that he was saved. But,
Fiction
Dear Bobbi, There is definitely a risk in sending letters. I know that. However, there is more of a risk in trying to visit you or send a holo-message. Then I’d get caught for sure. Holograms always pass through the Big Villa, and they would watch it before you even knew I had tried to contact you, my long-lost cousin. Let me tell you one thing right now: Do not try to reply to me. I wish I could say that life in space is great, but it is far from that. Everyone is becoming restless and sick of being stuck at the space station. Honestly, I am starting to wish that Great-Great-Great-Great-Great-Grandpa never left Earth, even in the state it was in. I should probably stop this first letter now, just to make sure you get it and I don’t reveal too much… Sincerely, Storm * * * Dear Bobbi, I have waited several weeks to write again for a couple of reasons. First of all, I wanted to make sure you got my letter, though I can only hope you did, but I assume you got it since I haven’t gotten in trouble for unauthorized communication to the colonies on Planet 236. Second, resources are scarce, including paper, so I had to add it to my ration request list and then I had to wait for Headquarters to accept. They probably think I am using it for my experiments. I really wish I could live in your colony with you, on solid ground with life and weather and open space, even though we don’t know each other. It makes me mad that I was named Storm, a weather pattern that I have never experienced. But enough talk about myself. The real reason I am writing is to warn you. I only just found this out myself, but Headquarters is planning to “help the space station for the better.” Whatever that means. But I have done a bit of eavesdropping and there seems to be something wrong. I have a feeling that all of the strange actions of Headquarters are leading up to something. Also, our captain has cut our rations and said that we also need to cut the rations of the colonies. Permanently. I don’t know when they will stop sending food, but you may have noticed that you are not getting any new textiles. That is not an accident. So my best advice is to leave your colony with any of your trusted friends and with the necessary supplies. You will have to learn to fend for yourself on Planet 236. Good luck. Sincerely, Storm * * * Dear Storm, I will try. Bobbi
Fiction
Even as a child, I was fascinated by wild things. Some of my first memories are those of my dad marching me into the wilds of the jungle and pointing out troops of monkeys, kaleidoscopes of butterflies, and schools of fish. The flapping of wings intrigued me most. It didn’t matter if the wings were those of birds, bats, or dragonflies. Birds, however, were my favorite. I found it amazing that they were so free. Free to fly, to soar, to go wherever they wanted or yield to wherever the wind took them. These little fragile creatures made of hollow bones and feathers, although so free, could suddenly plummet back to earth and break into a million pieces. Hollow bones snapped, the ability to fly, the one thing that made them so free, snatched so easily. But still they rose bravely into the air. As if suspended by an invisible wire, they rose. They rose. I will never forget seeing the spotted wood owls in the driveway at school. I was four. And I was excited. My dad had told me about them several times before we actually went to see them. He had heard them hooting and seen them flying in the long driveway some evenings, but not all, around seven. That year the spotted wood owls had come back to nest in the broad rain trees lining the driveway and they had a chick. That evening I was allowed to stay up past my bedtime, an event memorable in itself though. I don’t actually remember the drive in the car to the owls, just the excitement. The excitement and the eyes. The big, black, bright eyes that were framed by the beautiful dark brown face. The three owls sat side by side together on the branch with the little, fluffy owlet nestled safely between them. The wind had a damp smell to it. It was a smell that hung on the breeze just as the owls’ deep and powerful hoot did. It echoed through the whistling leaves. Excited, I wiggled my toes in my shoes. The baby owl called shrilly for food and looked over, expectantly, at its mother and father, who both in turn returned their gaze. In the dark their eyes glowed with magic. From that moment I became a self-appointed crusader and protector of the birds, and my first battle was to stop other junior school students from touching the pink-necked green pigeons’ nest. My friends, Jasmin, Maya, and Avni, were also involved. Avni mostly tagged along when it suited, and Maya went along with anything. Jasmin, however, was my best friend and my equal partner when it came to our frequent adventures. Drama unfolded because other junior school students didn’t know not to touch nests, which surprised me, because my dad had always told me not to touch the nests. Lifting me up onto the tops of his shoulders to see the birds’ nests, high up, he’d say, “Don’t touch it,” firmly but softly. He has always had a funny way of being able to do that. Then he’d say, “You know why?” I would shake my head. “Because then the mummy and daddy bird will leave the baby and you don’t want that, do you?” And I’d shake my head again. It stunned me that other kids didn’t know not to touch the nest and that their parents had never told them. It wasn’t the kids I needed to worry about though. It was the cat. One break time, the cat pounced and snatched the egg from the nest. I blamed myself for that and I thought that I should have done more to stop the cat from eating one of the eggs. We took the remaining egg to the science lab to put in the incubator, thinking the parents had abandoned it because of the cat. Maybe they had, maybe they hadn’t; we took it upon ourselves to intervene. For the next three weeks the egg remained precariously balanced between two sticks of the tattered nest. The whitish-pink speckled egg was cool and just a little rough to the touch. I would visit that incubator every day. Before school. After school. And every single break. I’d open the door and stretch up on my tippy-toes to see the silver tray that housed the egg, nestled in the remains of the nest. But the egg never hatched. Sometimes my friends would come. No matter how much we hoped it would, the egg never hatched. So I would close the door. I could picture the little baby bird clearly in my mind. It flapped. And it cried. In my mind’s eye I saw its oversized head fitted with a pair of equally oversized eyes that had not yet opened the whole way. Over time, the chick would gain strength and size, its eyes opening, and the body of the chick growing in around the eyes, making the chick look less alien-like, its feathers shooting, swelling, and sprouting. In my imagination the baby bird was getting ready to fly away from its prison of metal and disinfectant. Then one day it did hatch. Well, it split really. The shell was smooth and breakable, cracked in several different directions. The slightly decomposed body of the chick was left exposed on the tray, the short stubs of feathers sprouting. The stubs that would one day have enabled it to fly free. All of the features were fully formed, ready to hatch. But it hadn’t. The eyes were closed. Never to open. Not to hold the beauty that the eyes of the owls had held. Despite my constant care and attention, the baby bird died and I blamed myself for this failure of the nest. Yet, this did not affect my interest in birdlife very much, it just made me more cautious and taught me not to become so attached to the often cruel fate of many nests. It took until grade seven for me to really
Fiction
Frustration, Happiness, and Pure Amazement
How I Found Chanterelles Rain splattered against ice-cold windows, and fat, foggy, clouds hung low. I was in my dad’s twenty-one-year- old Honda Accord, zooming along the highway. It was four-thirty, and I had just gotten out of the two-hour Chinese School that I attend every Sunday. My dad, sister Mia, and I were on our way to a place in the middle of nowhere to find… mushrooms. Chanterelles, to be exact. My mom would’ve come, except she was at work. I sighed. My little sister’s chattering did not sound good with Madonna’s remix that was quietly coming out of the ancient speakers. Mia Widrow was six years old, and if you (like most of my friends) think she’s cute and polite, I have two things to say to you. One: Mia isn’t really cute and polite (well, at least with me), and two: looks can be deceiving. We soon pulled into a small trailhead and parked our car. Last time we had come to this place we had found one and a half pounds of chanterelles. We hoped for better luck this time. An orange gate blocked the path, and tall fir trees crowded around the trail. The bones of a dead deer lay to the left of us, and to the right a heap of trash. “This is it,” my dad announced loudly. Soon an elderly couple came into our view. Their faces were tired but happy, and they were carrying baskets of chanterelles. Wow! I thought. It looked like there were maybe fifteen pounds of those mushrooms. My dad chatted with the couple for a few minutes, but I wasn’t paying attention. If we could find that many chanterelles, gosh, I could only imagine how happy I would be. Soon the couple departed, and we trudged farther down the gravel road. We soon went off the path to try and find some chanterelles, but we had no luck. There were only a few russulas and some old brown mushrooms. Our next try was no better. We tramped through dense undergrowth of fern and salal and still found no chanterelles. My sister kept chattering and chattering, and I got more and more annoyed. I was freezing, drenched, and bored. We had slightly better luck on the third try, and we found a few chanterelles, but not that much. Soon we came to a bend in the road, and a huge shadow stretched out in front of us like a giant, kneeling on a prayer rug. I looked up and saw a six-by-four-foot half-rotten log. It was the perfect place for chanterelles. My dad, sister, and I ran in ten paces, and then we saw them. The forest floor covered with them. Curved tops, fluted gills, colors a mix of butter yellow and the orange color of Creamsicles. Chanterelles. I rushed in and picked a few, then held them like they were a bouquet of yellow flowers. They smelled like apricots, how chanterelles were supposed to smell, and they grew in pine needles, surrounded by ferns, where chanterelles were supposed to grow. They were perfect. I picked and picked, all the while shouting “OMIGOSH! OMIGOSH! There are sooooooo many!” and “Can you get me another bag, this one’s full!” Never in my life had I seen so many mushrooms, not even in Safeway where they sell those brown ones that you see on your pizza. Never had I been so excited about seeing that new and unfamiliar orange-yellow color that isn’t very striking until you see it in a dim, dark forest. Hey, you might say I’m exaggerating, but just try experiencing finding rare mushrooms yourself. It’s more addicting than eating eighty-five-percent dark chocolate. Maybe. Soon we all tramped back into the car, and I was grinning from ear to ear. True, the day was cold and wet, and the forest was dark and dreary, but none of that mattered because I had found chanterelles. Later that night, we came home and surprised my mom. We only showed her a small bag with about eight chanterelles in it, and even with that, she was delighted. All of a sudden, my dad said he had “left his hat” in the car, so he went out and came back with twenty pounds of chanterelles. My mom’s mouth dropped open in a perfect O, and for a few precious moments, she was completely speechless. For dinner we ate chanterelles in pasta, smothered in garlic and butter. Yum. There are a lot of things I remember about our mushroom hunt. The anticipation while I rode on the winding highway, the frustration I had felt when my whole body was soaked and we had not found any chanterelles, the amazement when I finally found those rare, prized mushrooms, and the contentment as I ate them in pasta that my mom had carefully made. But my very favorite part was walking back on that rocky trail and thinking that in that very small fraction of my life, chanterelles were all that mattered.
Poem
Dark skies The Milky Way shining through The once bright blue sky Toasty fire Turning white marshmallows To golden brown Silent wind nips my nose The occasional hoot of an owl The yellow-orange flicker brings Peace to the family Optimism to the air Light dew begins to form Across the sloping grass Leaves slowly float to the ground Nature’s music soothes me Minnesota’s northern lights cast an eerie glow Across the forest It’s half past ten Crawl into the tent Waiting for the early light of the morning
Poem
I had forgotten what it felt like to fly I watch as the plane speeds down the runway A lurch The wings turn upwards as the wheels retract The plane flies gaining height dips to the right then the left now it steadies itself It climbs higher reaches a peak and then climbs higher touching the clouds Its blinkers come on small but strong flashes of light tumble through the sky The experience is exhilarating I am drifting and the clouds hover below me a blanket of white Big towers, only a speck below Cities, a cluster of little dots Rivers, a stream of water The light blue sky a deep blue haven I am on top of the world in a special place a small world yet on top of the world My worries left below, waiting and I let them sit not wanting to return to the world anytime soon With one movement I can shut the world away but I keep a little window open And I can see why birds often hang in midair I want to see it all I want to fly without the protection of the plane I want to feel the air surround me but I am stuck in the plane with only a pane of glass separating me from the outside world
Poem
I fall into a golden, crisp carpet of leaves watching as the wind whirls them into a painting of bronze butterflies their wings rustle and I am by the sea again remembering the summer I love the aroma of sweet-scented cinnamon sprinkled on warm pumpkin pie crunchy apples and maple leaves brushing the air with a wash of maple syrup As Mom calls the leaves crackle under my boots and I whirl into the whispering wind
Book Reviews
The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill
The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill, by Megan Frazer Blakemore; Bloomsbury Children’s Books: New York, 2015; $7.99 In 1953 Hazel Kaplansky is a fifth-grader who wants badly to be a detective. She has read all the Nancy Drew books in her library, feels that she is the perfect sleuth, and is prepared to solve any mystery that comes her way. But none ever do. Until… rumors of communist spies in Hazel’s own town, Maple Hill, begin to float around. Hazel is very eager to help find these potential spies. Finally, she will have something interesting to put in her so far boring Mysteries Notebook. So when she has a hunch that Mr. Jones, the hired gravedigger at the cemetery that her parents run, is up to no good, she starts doing some sleuthing. With the help of Samuel, a new boy in town, who is maybe, possibly, even smarter than Hazel, she uncovers many clues, but, as Samuel says, no concrete evidence. Even though there is no solid evidence, Hazel is absolutely sure “The Comrade,” as she calls Mr. Jones, is a spy. Otherwise, how can the locked safes he receives from Mr. Short, the father of a mean girl in Hazel’s class, be explained? Or the objects he leaves at a grave? This grave, marked “Alice, Ten Years Old,” seems to be a drop-off spot for information. Then there is the mystery of Samuel himself. Everyone seems to know something about his mother that they won’t tell Hazel. Even Hazel’s classmates know. Hazel wants to find out and believes Samuel’s mother must be a communist spy. Then Hazel realizes that thinking every other person in her town is a spy is getting her nowhere, and she is hurting more than one person’s feelings. I connected to Hazel a lot, because I live in Vermont like she does, and I like to climb trees, ride my bike, and I am in fifth grade. Also, she is something of a tomboy, as am I. The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill got me interested McCarthyism and the Red Scare. I did some research about the time period, and I thought it was interesting to learn about when some people were afraid the U.S. would become a communist nation, and Senator Joseph McCarthy made their fears seem real. When I asked my grandfather about the Red Scare and how it affected his family, he said what he most remembered were extended hearings on television almost every day, where Senator McCarthy sat, making accusations. Also, he said a local priest, who was determined to root out all communists, accused the principal at the high school he went to of having communist ties. It was neat talking to him and hearing about what he remembered from the early 1950s. I liked learning about a time that seems long ago about which I formerly knew so little. I really loved this book because I changed my mind so many times. Sometimes I thought Hazel was completely correct, and everyone else was wrong; sometimes I was convinced Hazel was not being observant enough, and she might be mistaken. My favorite thing about this book was that it has a surprise ending. The ending was not at all what I imagined. Also, the author did something very rare: she ended this book in the perfect place. I do not think this book needs a sequel at all, not even an epilogue, because the end is entirely satisfactory.
