Fiction
“Wheeee!" We must have been going fifty, maybe sixty miles per hour in his new Whaler speedboat, and I loved every minute of it. Janet, lying down in the bow to perfect her supermodel tan, gripped onto the handrails at this sudden shift of speed. I laughed next to Jesse, my six-foot-one, fifteen-year-old friend from two houses down. His sandy-blond hair was erupting from his worn Boston Red Sox cap that looked like it went through just as much abuse as the team itself. His emerald eyes were shielded by a brand new, gleaming pair of black Oakleys so as to impress the ladies. I on the other hand was uncomfortably placed on the driver's seat next to him, attempting to look half as cool. I strained my eyes behind the dashboard and I could barely make out our destination in the distance. I stepped off the Kiss My Bass and lingered on the dock as Jesse fastened the bow rope to the dock post. My fifteen-year-old sister, Janet, a brown-haired, fashion-loving, shoe-collecting diva, was right behind me, sporting a J-Crew skirt and an Anthropology T-shirt. Then I noticed her earrings, sparkling like tiny suns dangling from her earlobes. Why has she suddenly started wearing earrings? I thought to myself. Who is she trying to impress? It's not like we're in the city... we're on a boat heading into a fisherman's diner! However, the thought of melt-in-your-mouth, luscious, buttermilk pancakes quickly took over my mind and I had to cup my hand up to my mouth to stop the cascading drops of drool. Jesse jogged up the walkway, slowly putting his wife beater over his bare chest, and I thought I saw Janet's stare linger for a couple of seconds before she looked down at her feet. You see, the story of our friendship is a complicated one and may not be for the weak of heart. Back in the day, when I was a mere six years old, I met Jesse on the sandy shoreline of Wingaersheek beach. He looked a lot like me, only two years older with some buck teeth, but I didn't care and we soon become two peas in a pod. One day I brought him to my humble abode, and we ran into my sister. Coincidentally, the two knew each other from sailing. However, they were not buddies. Jesse would tease her incessantly and Janet hated him. The awkwardness that followed was so tangible it was hard to breathe. In the following summers, Janet and Jesse warmed up to each other, but it was obvious that Jesse and I were closer buddies than him and Janet. I selfishly enjoyed this knowledge, but that would all end soon. Jesse taught me everything about sports, girls, video games, baseball cards, and everything in between! Soon, Janet became accepted into our Rat Pack, and we'd all hang out together. But recently, I started to feel that maybe I was becoming the outcast... We walked through the rickety, weather- beaten door of Charlie's Restaurant. The jingle-jangle of the two bells taped to the front door caught the attention of the waitress and she pointed us to a corner booth. I slid down the bouncy seat, and Jesse followed behind me as Janet sat opposite from him, directly opposite. A rumbling feeling erupted from my stomach, my calling card for hunger. Or was it something else? I ordered my buttermilk pancakes and Janet and Jesse decided to split a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes. "You like chocolate chip pancakes?" my sister giddily exclaimed. "Me too!" Suddenly, they started to talk non-stop and every time I tried to get a word in edgewise, I was cut off by banter of shoes or high school. What has happened to our friendship? Our gang? And then I was struck with the most hideous, repulsive, barf-inducing thought. Do—do my friends LIKE each other? Oh—oh no, it can't be! But even as I denied this horrible idea, the two were having a staring contest and my sister laughed the most girlish giggle I had ever heard from her. My heart sank as our waitress named Pam set out my steaming, juicy set of carb-filled happiness. The two clanged their forks together as I tried to bury my heartbroken face into my cup of milk. I walked alone down Wingaersheek Beach, the same beach where Jesse and I used to practice football plays in the sand and where we would point out all of the beach babes soaking up the rays. The clouds had swallowed the sun, leaving only a dull shine on one end of the beach. Every step I took, I could not believe my luck (or lack thereof). All of the signs, how did I miss them? Their lone walks together when I was at tennis, her always dressing up nice even when we were eating pizza, Jesse always calling and asking for Janet instead of me, I felt so alone. He was my best friend, the only one I had, and I was losing him and there was nothing I could do to stop it. But, maybe it was time I met someone else, someone my own age. There were the Silverman kids on the next street over; one of them looks around thirteen. Maybe it's time that I took control, to stop feeling alone and left out. I ran up my beach path, snapped on my sandals, slammed on my helmet, and biked to the next street over. With each round of the pedals I felt more confident that this was the right thing to do. I was sick of wasting away my summer with two kids who thought of me as an annoying little brother rather than a friend. Quickly I skidded to a stop, kicking up flecks of dust, sand, and rubble in front of my new destination. Then, I started to second-guess myself. Maybe this isn't a good idea. I mean, maybe I'm all
Fiction
I was seven when I first worked up the courage to get on the back of a horse. Not that it needed too much courage to climb aboard a twenty-year-old pony who was not even five feet tall. It was at one of those pony rides at the county fair, nothing special. Me and the little pony, named Cash, walked once around a little paddock, me holding the mane with white knuckles, and the old man who ran it leading the little horse. After the first trip around, I decided I had had enough, and I climbed down. My mom was putting the digital camera back in her purse; she had just snapped a picture of me on top of Cash, and my dad beaming brightly through his beard. My parents then took me to get some cotton candy and ride the merry-go-round. When I climbed onto the deck of the ride, I chose the white horse with a harness of flowers and chipped paint. I had ridden that one since the first summer of coming to the county fair; it had always made me feel magical. But as the horse went up and down, I found that it couldn't replace the sensation of a living creature below me, my body moving with it, even if I had been terrified. That was probably the most important day of my life. That was the day I decided to ride. The very next summer, I was already cantering. And the summer after that, I got my first horse. I named her Cherish, though while I was riding, I called her Cher. She was sixteen hands tall, and was two when we got her. She had a buckskin coat and was my perfect companion. I told her more than I told my friends. She stayed in our little barn behind our house, and was with us when we moved to Kentucky I still remember my anxiety about leaving her alone in a cramped trailer behind us. But the seven-hour drive was completely worth it. We moved from our little house in the country of Sewickley, Pennsylvania, to the rolling pastures of Greenland, Kentucky Dad was gameskeeper for a property owned by Mr. Wester, the owner of the legendary racing stud, Black Thunder. Black Thunder had sired nearly seven other racing legends. Now, in his old age, the ten-million- dollar horse shared a pasture with Cherish. I always pretended they were boyfriend and girlfriend. As I grew older on the farm in Greenland, I rode more and more. I became a very good rider, and was always winning trophies and such at little shows scattered around the area. The shows were my mom's idea, I never really cared for dressage or jumping on Cherish. I wasn't like the girls at school, they claimed that dressage was for proper ladies, or that jumping made them feel like they were flying. I could jump and do dressage just fine. But what really got my heart racing was not dressage or jumping, but racing. I needed to run. I needed to race. At the stable where I rode and was instructed, we had a little thing called Game Sundays. Now, I didn't have time to ride every day, no matter how much I wanted to. But I did ride on the weekend, so I was there for Game Sunday. On that day, the kids riding could choose a game to play on horseback, like polo, or racing. Of course my vote was always for racing, and sometimes it won. And during those times, I truly knew what was so wonderful about riding. While Cherish ran her hardest, time seemed to slow. I could feel her every movement, every little increase in muscle tension, I could hear her breathing and my breath came in and out to match hers. We won almost always. My thrill of the race only increased as time wore on. Soon, I was pressing my parents to enroll me in county-fair races, instead of wasting time on dressage and jumping. After about a month of nagging (not mentioning the hours of chores I did to make Mom pleased), they finally agreed to enter me in one cross-country race. It wasn't much of one, only a quarter mile through the pasture owned by Edgar Greenwell, but at least it was something. I remember the day of the race was clear and sunny, perfect for racing. I could see the finish line, an orange sign stretched across the small space between Mr. Greenwell's house and barn. It read, "Finish." I apologize for talking about the finish line so obviously I'm not questioning your intelligence of the word. But while Cherish and I were lining up on the starting line, I could only see that one thing. When the pop gun bang rang out, I gave Cherish a nudge. I believe still to this day that Cherish loved to run. She did that day All it took was a nudge, and she was off, running as fast as possible. There was a gelding who was leading, but Cher and I were right behind him. Cher kept her pace the whole half I figured that was all she had, she couldn't run any faster, but I was wrong. Around halfway there, she began to run faster. I could feel her body aching to move faster and faster, and she did. We slowly began to pace the gelding, whose rider probably couldn't tell whether we were going faster or if they were going slower. Then Cherish broke free. It was as if she was breaking free of a thin layer of film; now she could really run. We ended up winning the race. My parents, always supportive, were thrilled. I took the little medal that was the prize home. I set it apart from my other winnings. I put it in the barn next to Cherish's stall. That way, every time I saddled up, I could see it,
Fiction
Ruthie Spokes was a lover of golden retrievers. She was captivated by their silky, golden coats, and their sweet, lovable nature. She often begged her parents to get her a golden retriever, and by the time Ruthie was eleven, her parents knew Ruthie would settle for no other dog. She would have never guessed that one dark, rainy night, before her birthday, her dream was almost about to come true... Ruthie threw the covers away from her. What was that noise? It sounded like it was coming from... the garage. Trying not to awaken her sleeping seven-year-old sister, Julie, she crept down the bunkbed ladder and opened the door. Peering around quickly, she tiptoed down the stairs and to the door that led to the garage. Voices drifted to her ears. "Perhaps we shouldn't have bought the Irish setter," she heard her father say "You know Ruthie will be upset he's not a golden." "But all the golden retrievers we looked at were filthy and sick," her mother reasoned. Ruthie gasped. "What was that?" Mom said. Before Ruthie could run away, the door swung open. "Ruthie!" her father said in a surprised voice. Ruthie looked at her feet. "Well, come in," he sighed. "Happy birthday." Ruthie walked in to see the puppy her parents were talking about. He ran to Ruthie, barking ecstatically. "He's not a golden," Ruthie said to herself. To her parents she said, "Th-thanks, Mom, thanks, Dad." "You're welcome," they replied. Ruthie's fifteen-year-old brother, Sam, opened the door, holding Julie on his hip. "What's all the commotion?" he yawned. "Julie was scared out of her wits." "A puppy!" Julie cried, forgetting all sleepiness. "What are you gonna call him, Ruthie?" "Shamrock," Ruthie said sadly, though no one noticed. "Ireland's Lucky Shamrock." "Nice name," Sam approved. He may be lucky, Ruthie thought, but I'm not. * * * As Ruthie climbed the stairs to her room Shamrock followed behind her, pouncing and growling at her heels. When they reached the bedroom Ruthie shared with her sister, Shamrock crawled into his blue-polka-dot doggy bed, and promptly began chewing on a stuffed toy. Her parents had helped her set up Shamrock's things in Ruthie's room. Ruthie climbed up the bunkbed ladder and lay down. Ruthie glanced over at Shamrock. The doggy bed was three sizes too big for him, and the carrier that contained newspaper for bathroom breaks was gargantuan to the little puppy But Shamrock didn't seem to mind. He contentedly chewed the stuffed animal's leg slowly. Ruthie reached under the covers of her bed and pulled out a book hidden there. It was entitled, Owner's Guide to Golden Retrievers. The spine was broken and a few pages torn from constant use. Each picture of a dog was marked with a different name. Ruthie smiled as she remembered how she used to play "dogs." She would carefully set out food and water, patiently groom the "dogs," and take each individual for a long walk down the sidewalk. Now Ruthie turned to the page that had a picture showing a smiling girl and a happy golden retriever puppy. Under the picture it said: Best Friends. "What are you reading?" a voice asked. Ruthie jumped, and seeing that it was her mother, hastily shut the book and sat on it. "Oh, n-nothing, Mom," Ruthie stammered. "I was just reading about what to do when you first get a puppy." Mom stared at Ruthie's pale face for a moment. Then she said, "I know you're disappointed. You were hoping for a golden retriever, weren't you?" Ruthie nodded. "I know you always wanted a golden, but all the golden retriever puppies we looked at were overpriced and unhealthy. We didn't want to spend money on veterinary bills, so we picked a healthy, active Irish setter puppy. He's not a golden retriever, but who knows?" She smiled. "This setter pup may turn out to be a golden dog, too." She bent over and kissed Ruthie. "Now you get some sleep. Don't keep Julie awake." Ruthie smiled a crooked smile. "Thanks, Mom," Ruthie grinned. * * * Ruthie awoke with a start for the second time that night. She heard a weird whining sound. Then she remembered: Shamrock. She peered over the edge of her bed. She saw Shamrock pacing the ground, crying. Ruthie dropped lightly from the ladder. "What is it, boy?" Ruthie whispered. Shamrock stared at her with a sad, hollow stare. Ruthie thought for a moment, and then walked to the bathroom, Shamrock right behind her. Ruthie found a hot water bottle and filled it with hot water. She then wrapped it in a towel, and placed it in Shamrock's bed. She carefully placed Shamrock in the bed. Shamrock snuggled close to the water bottle. He stopped crying. Ruthie turned to leave, but as she stepped away Shamrock cried out and leaped toward her. Sighing, Ruthie dragged her pillow and blanket by Shamrock's bed, and lay down. Shamrock jumped into his bed, satisfied. Shamrock licked Ruthie's face, then fell asleep. * * * The next morning Ruthie was licked awake enthusiastically by Shamrock. "OK, OK, I'm awake," groaned Ruthie, sitting up. "I'm going to get your breakfast." Ruthie poured the dog kibble into Shamrock's blue bowl. She then filled the other bowl with fresh water from the bathroom. She placed both bowls far away from the carrier, which was going to be used as Shamrock's bathroom. As soon as Ruthie set the bowls down, Shamrock shot forward and started devouring the kibble. Ruthie grabbed his collar and pulled him back. "No," she said firmly. She knew if she let Shamrock eat quickly, he could get a tummyache. After Shamrock finished chewing the first mouthful, Ruthie let go of his collar and Shamrock darted forward again. Ruthie pulled him back and said very firmly, "Shamrock, that's no." Shamrock ate slowly after that. As Ruthie joined the table with her mom and siblings, Shamrock started sniffing around the table for crumbs. As Ruthie
Fiction
I'm lying on my back in my grandfather's orchard, staring up at the branches above me. It is one of the last days of summer. Already the days are shorter and the nights are cooler. Some kinds of apples are already ripe. Others will be ready to pick soon. I think of my grandmother's apple pie, and how I used to make it with her. She died last year, before the apple harvest, and I have not had her pie since. I really miss her. I hear bees busily humming about, visiting the late summer flowers. Fall is quickly approaching, and the bees move from flower to flower, collecting pollen to make the sweet honey that they will dream about all winter. They are landing so softly on flowers that it barely makes the flowers dance. The gentle hum of their wings nearly lulls me to sleep. The sky is as blue as my grandfather's eyes. Above me, big white clouds race across the sky like pieces of cotton blowing in the wind. I look for pictures in the clouds. One looks like a dog chasing after a ball. Another looks like a frog jumping off of a lily pad. School starts in another week, and time seems to have slowed down. I hear the branches moving in the closest tree. I look up and see a squirrel, flicking his bushy tail, his eyes happily laughing at me. I don't know what he finds so funny. And then I see it, the perfect apple! Big, ripe, and juicy, it hangs far above my head. I scrape my hands on the rough bark of the trunk as I struggle to reach the lowest branch on the tree. I let go of the trunk and leap for the branch, an adrenaline rush temporarily conquering my fear of heights. I catch it in my hands and hang from it, slowly swinging, surprised that I have made it this far without falling. Slowly, painstakingly, I pull myself up onto the branch. Standing on the thickest part of it, closest to the tree, I look up. The apple is still far above me. I continue climbing higher, using the same tactic for every large branch that I meet. The smaller branches get in my way, scratching my face and tangling my long, black hair. I pass many beautiful apples, dripping with dew and warmed by the sun, but none are the perfect apple I am after. I scramble up the last few feet, and grab the shiny apple in my hands. My mouth begins to water. I can almost taste the apple, sweet and yet tart at the same time. Crisp... juicy... with a nice big... hole? A hole?! Now I know what the squirrel was laughing at. Over in the next tree, he chatters again. I throw the apple at him. Of course I miss. His eyes still smiling, he runs away, jumping from tree to tree across the orchard until I lose sight of him. "Sophie!" calls my grandfather. "Is that you?" I scamper down the tree, take his hand, and tell him all about my day as we walk through the orchard. We talk about apples, and squirrels, and Grandma. He tells me that he misses her too. He puts his rough, brown farmer's hand around my shoulder and pulls me close. "You know, Sophie," he says, "I spent the morning in the attic, and you'll never guess what I found. It's the recipe for Grandma's apple pie. I used to help her make it sometimes. I can't do it all alone, but you used to help her too. Maybe between the two of us, we can figure it out. Wanna try?" "But it won't be the same without Grandma," I tell him. "That's true," he says, "but nothing is the same without Grandma. Still, I don't think that she would want us to never have another apple pie. What do you say?" I nod yes, and we walk towards home... towards an afternoon in the farmhouse kitchen, making Grandma's famous apple pie.
Fiction
In the blink of an eye, one chapter of your life changes into another. Someone that you knew since you were a toddler becomes a stranger. A place that you've memorized by heart becomes unfamiliar. And you, you've changed so much that your childhood best friend wouldn't recognize you if you appeared right before them. It's been three years since I've felt the North Carolina air around me, three years since I last said goodbye to my closest friends, three years since I left my native home. I expected everything to be the same as I left it. I expected everyone to be who they were back then. Only after my brief visit back home did I finally come to realize that I expected too much. As we drove past the tall, looming trees and the wide, dusty lanes, my parents pointed out all the different things that they remembered. I didn't remember anything. Only as we entered our old neighborhood did I finally have memories pushing themselves to the front of my mind. Home, I thought, I'm finally back home. Familiar houses passed us by, well-known paths and gardens seemed to welcome us back warmly. Yet, something had changed. I just didn't know what. All the adults gushed about the changes in my appearance, notably my height. All my friends, who were all grown up themselves, welcomed me back with friendly smiles and familiar words. They filled me in on all the things that I've missed out on and on all the changes of our community. They all seemed like strangers to me, it seemed like I was meeting them for the first time. But as the days passed, their facades disappeared, and they became, once again, the people that I knew so well. The people who I could tell my innermost secrets to, and the people who I shared all my childhood memories with. My love and care towards them returned and our friendships were revived. One night, we were all crowded around the television screen, watching the intensity of the basketball game on television. Our home team, which we all loved deeply, against some unknown college. We cheered as victories were made and groaned as the other team gained points. We were all on the edges of our seat as the final minutes of the game came upon us. When we won only by a narrow margin, we exploded, cheering like mad. Only then did memories of our past come swimming back at me. They all told me that Texas had changed me, that I was an entirely different person. My love for pop music slowly gave way to the fun country songs. Healthy East Coast dishes gave way to fried foods and steak. My hair grew out, I adored shopping malls and makeup, my clothing style became unknown to them. But at the end of the week, they too realized, that deep down inside, I was still that little girl who cherished her stuffed animals and saved every blemished photograph in her memory box. On my last day in North Carolina, I sat down on the little bed and thought. I thought about how much everyone had changed, about how much I, myself had changed. I had made plenty of new friends, and I wouldn't give up my new Texas home for anything. I had eventually moved on and became a different person. But then, as I waved goodbye to all the people that I loved, a little voice inside my head reminded me that, only here is where my heart truly belongs. Only here is home. Note: This story is a sequel to "Moving On," which appeared in the January/February 2005 issue of Stone Soup.
Fiction
There was once a boy who lived in a village in a valley of Japan. His village had wooden houses with sliding doors and rushing water and creeks. One hot summer day, it rained heavily from dawn to dusk. The creeks got deeper and wilder, and the boy, Makoto, thought it was the perfect time to venture down to the creek and hop from rock to rock. Makoto loved to watch the water, to feel it gushing over his hands. He put on a finely-woven straw hat and his blue shoes. Makoto's mother was fixing lunch, and she told him to be back in half an hour so he could eat with his father when he came home from his job at the post office. Makoto told his mother that he would be back by then. Stretching his socks up to his knees so he would not get mosquito bites, Makoto started down the road. Not many others were on the road at the time, but Makoto did not mind. He liked to be by himself, to breathe in the fresh, thick air, to wade in the creek, to trek amongst the large green trees of the valley School had just ended, and Makoto went out every day to see something new, or to visit old special places. Makoto headed down the road, and stopped at the post office to say hello to his dad. Makoto reached into his pocket and took out a few pumpkin seeds. He handed them to his dad over the counter where he worked, selling people stamps or arranging for their letters and packages to be mailed. Makoto pressed the seeds into his father's hand and his father smiled and thanked him. "Where are you off to today?" he asked Makoto. "The creek," Makoto told him. Then, in a hurry to get there, Makoto waved to his father and ran down the rest of the road. Makoto walked past the giant bamboo stalks and he stepped carefully down to the creek. He hopped from rock to rock, and then stopped to listen to the loud, rushing water. He looked to his right, where two waterfalls stood. They had been there for hundreds of years. He hopped onto three more rocks, slipping on the last one, which was wet and slippery. He fell on it and scraped his knee, and as he scrambled up on the opposite bank, his shoe was pulled from his foot and swept down the river. Makoto ran down the riverbank as fast as he could. He caught up with his shoe, but then it floated away from him and under the bridge. There was no bank for him to run on and no rocks to hop on. He waded into the creek, then swam through the creek and under the bridge. His shoe had caught in between two rocks. He swam closer to it, but was soon swept off to the side. Makoto was tired from swimming and his limbs were sore. He pulled himself up onto the bank, and lay down on his side. He was wearing only one shoe. He turned to lie down on his back on the muddy bank. He sat for a long while, just thinking and sitting still. Then he remembered that he had been asked to be home to eat lunch with his father. His shoe was no longer in sight and Makoto was so tired that he couldn't bring himself to swim through the rushing water and the sharp rocks. He decided that he would sit on the bank until a villager noticed him. But if he didn't arrive home soon, his parents would be worried. Makoto was just falling asleep when he heard an ancient voice whisper into his ear. "I will take you back, and look! I found your shoe." Makoto opened one eye and then two. A turtle was standing in the mud next to him. On the turtle's back was his shoe! Makoto thanked him gratefully and put his shoe back onto his foot. The turtle waded into the water. "Climb onto my back," he said. Makoto sat down on the turtle's back and he leaned forward and held on tight to the turtle's beautiful shell. Then the turtle swam swiftly into the water. Makoto held his breath, but the turtle assured him that he didn't need to. Makoto breathed in, and water came out his nose. "I wasn't ever able to breathe water before!" he told the turtle. The turtle smiled wisely and said to Makoto, "Did you ever try?" Makoto had not. The turtle said to him, "Makoto, you have always been one of us. You are really a human body and mind, but your spirit and soul are turtle. Once every seven years we give one newborn child the ability. The child can breathe and swim like us. When you fell into the creek when you were young, all the turtles of the creek circled around you to cast the spell. Your mother came and took you out of the water just after you had become part turtle." Makoto was amazed with the turtle's tale, and he believed it. He even found himself about to check if there was a shell on his back, but he remembered that his appearance was human. He began to get used to breathing water, and soon they had swum under the bridge. The turtle paddled in between rocks, and then up the bank. Makoto turned to say goodbye and thank you to the turtle. But the turtle had swum back into the creek. Makoto crossed the creek on the rocks once again, and he held on with his hands so that he didn't slip. He hurried up to the road and ran toward his house. His slid open the door and took off his shoes. He slipped into his house slippers and crossed the room to the table where his parents were sitting on the tatami mats.
Poem
The fields are a wonder in summertime: Midnight black like the sky, With twinkling lights like stars. What are those lights? Hundreds of fireflies flittering about, Tiny and so nimble. Their lights shine on and off, Making the field like shiny sequins, Like moonshine dancing off the sea. I run out into the field, The half-grown wheat scratching my legs, The ground soft and damp, The air humid and fresh. The fireflies dart away from me, Intimidated by my presence, But I don't mind. I watch them from a distance. They float above the wheat, Like bright candles in the field. Glancing up at the heavens, I see the stars, Bright candles in the sky This is the moment When Heaven and Earth meet: The stars in the sky are the stars on the ground. How strange it seems That something as small as fireflies Can bring these two vast kingdoms Together as one.
Poem
There are scattered wildflowers wilting among the coarse grass. Solitary deer graze on prickly stems. Birds gossip in the branches of dead oak trees. Sunlight casts a dappled shadow onto the hard dirt. And the wind whispers secrets to me over the bent corn.
Poem
At first glance, only shadows Only wisps of black knitted into The patchwork quilt of springy turf Where magic warms the notes of moon's music, Light playing upon scruffy T-shirt and shorts, Hair swirling, legs Twirling, Hoping to gather treasure in her net Then out of dark and fresh-lain night: A tiny little bead of light Up, up swoops the net with arms raised high And the balls of bare feet jump to meet The moon And lo, the little flickerin' thing Is caught up in the net And she reaches balled fist in eagerly, Band-Aids patching up hurts of yesterday, And tiny, warty fingers fix themselves round their catch, But, try as she will to cut off its light, Clasping both hands round the firefly, She cannot kill the hope of the creature That has been caught before, And the giggles, the attempts to close in the beams of yellow Only amuse the moon For what would parents know of such important matters? And as she releases the firefly's light It sails back off into the night.
Poem
Lines... Veins... Silky Strands... One red leaf on a green tree, Swaying all alone in the wind One red leaf falling through the chilled fall air Swirling in the twilight. A busy spider in the early hours of dawn, Silk webbing falling behind, Swirling strand, into lines, into web of silk. Twilight One red leaf is swirling, Falling it twirls one more time, A beauty... A web with one red leaf Intertwined in the silky strands.
Book Reviews
Powder Monkey, by Paul Dowswell; Bloomsbury USA Children's Books: New York, 2005; $16.95 Imagine the fear of being blown to pieces at any minute! Thirteen-year-old Samuel Witchall constantly faced this horror in the action-packed historical adventure, Powder Monkey. Being blown up was just one danger Sam had to endure aboard a Navy fighting ship in 1800. While reading this book, I kept wondering why any boy who wasn't crazy would want to be a sailor in this time period. But it was the book's vivid descriptions that helped me understand the thrill of a reckless adventure and how it could tempt men and boys out of their comfortable homes to the sea. The book opens with Sam wishing to be a sailor so he can discover the world beyond his tiny town. He ends up on a merchant ship which is quickly taken over by a British Royal Navy frigate called the HMS Miranda. This sleek, 32-gun boat is so precisely described I felt I was bobbing in the sea looking up at its dazzling beauty. Sam is forced to work on the vessel as a powder monkey, running back and forth to the Miranda's gun deck delivering powder to the cannon crews. Sam is told he needs to be like a monkey because monkeys are nimble creatures. He's also told if one stray spark floats onto his gunpowder delivery he will be blown to a pink mist! I've never heard of a more stressful job for a kid than powder monkey. Sam had to confront so much brutal stuff, including: fierce fighting, raging storms, punishment, mutiny, and death. Yet, the day-to-day annoyances of Sam's life hit me the hardest. I'm not a morning person, and on a Navy ship in 1800 I would have been extremely miserable. If a sailor isn't awake and out of his hammock in double speed, the hammock is cut down or the sailor's head is assaulted by a knotted rope! I wouldn't get used to this. Sam never did. Sam says he "dreamed of a fresh, warm bed, and the freedom to stay in it until the weariness left his bones." Up until reading this book, I thought it was really hard to get out of bed for school. Now I realize things could be much worse. I can't imagine giving up my safe, warm home for Sam's life! This doesn't mean, however, I wasn't captivated by every word describing Sam's adventures. By far, my favorite part of this book was when Sam's courage is tested after a Spanish ship captures the Miranda in a miserable battle. Sam's crewmates plan to take their ship over again, with Sam playing a key role. He sneaks through dark passages, swims through freezing, rat-filled water and outsmarts his captors on his way to the weapons room where he steals cutlasses, axes, and swords. Sam's adventure made my heart race as I tried to imagine how stealthy and brave I could be in this situation. Until Powder Monkey, the author, Paul Dowswell, had never written a fiction book. He wrote mostly history and science books. For a rookie fiction writer, Mr. Dowswell sure tells an absorbing tale. Knowing the author's background, I'm not surprised this book is brimming with actual history and technical maritime details. This is a really great book that I'd recommend to many people, including: historical fiction readers, Blackbeard and other pirate fans, maritime history buffs and lovers of the movie Master and Commander! In my case, I'm always looking for an unforgettable adventure. I found a WILD one in Powder Monkey!
Book Reviews
Voices of War edited by Tom Wiener; National Geographic: Washington D.C., 2oo4; $3o Don’t get scared away by the title or how many pages in this book. It is really the Voices of Heroes. Veterans who served in World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam and the Persian Gulf talk about what happened to them in the wars. It's like sitting down with someone's grandfather or uncle or brother and hearing them tell stories that you will never learn about anywhere else. On page 127, Ben Snyder remembers on December 7, 1944 that it had been three years since he heard the horrible news of the Pearl Harbor attack by Japan. He was in the South Pacific still fighting the Japanese and he didn't know when he would ever go home. When I read that, I remembered the attacks on September 11, 2001, and we are still trying to stop the terrorists. An army nurse, Isabelle Cedar Cook, wrote, "I keep thinking about the children that will soon only know World War II as a chapter in the history books. I wanted very much to share my experiences with them, so I decided to write a book. I called it In Times of War because in times of war things are very different." One man told about how his brother had been killed. His mother thought the army would fly him home immediately. "Unfortunately, she believed the nonsense the government put in the newspapers during the war for civilian consumption, such as flying soldiers home when tragedy struck a family," wrote the soldier, William Whiting. He was in the Army's 802nd Field Artillery Battalion. When he saw dead German soldiers he wrote that "even though they were .the enemy, once they were dead you could no longer hate them. You could not help but remember they were or had been someone's son, husband, father, brother." That's what this book is about. How the war is for regular people like nurses, soldiers and sailors. That's why you should read this book. So you can see how Americans coped with war. I feel like a walking version of Voices of War I am involved in the Stories of Service Veterans History Project. I am a youth producer. I videotape interviews of veterans for the Library of Congress. Then the veterans' interviews will be preserved for future generations. These interviews will give information for speech writers, college students and book writers. Each veteran that I interview becomes part of me. I am hearing firsthand accounts of what happened to these men and women. Every one of them has a great story and lesson to pass on. One thing I hear the veterans say is that they want peace. These people know what war is and they want peace in the world. At DePortola Middle School, where I am a seventh-grader, war is not something students think about, but this book would be a very good book to have. It can be used to write history essays and learn about how soldiers and sailors lived and felt then and how they think about the wars now, which is thirty or forty or sixty years later. In history we learn about the generals and presidents and the famous battles. This book tells the real story of the people who fought the wars that became history.
