Fiction
Alyn Walker took in a shaky, excited breath. She had been waiting for this moment for a long time. Her mother and father had described the “perfect house” and living in it would be like “walking around in a storybook.” Finally, Mr. and Mrs. Walker had brought their daughter along with them to see their new home. The realtor, dressed in a tight gray suit, unlatched the wooden gate embedded between two towering stone walls. Alyn clasped her hands together, calloused from hours upon hours of writing over the years. Her excitement was manifested as the prim realtor opened the passageway. Alyn’s mouth fell open. The house was at least a hundred times better than how her mother and father had described it. The cottage, fashioned with hand-cut stone, was quaint, charming, and very charismatic. Surrounding it was a magnificent garden, abundant with foliage and greenery of every kind. Every bush had been planted with loving care, every flower placed with such tenderness, that the garden had amounted to a gorgeous, glorious whole. A brick path wove its way around the garden like a little snake slithering along the soil. “It’s beautiful,” Alyn breathed. She couldn’t quite wrap her mind around the fact that she was going to live in this exquisite house. “Did I mention that we will be sharing this property with a neighbor? She lives in that little shack there,” Mrs. Walker said brightly, always in a positive mood. Alyn hadn’t noticed the small stone abode before, for it was concealed behind the tall nectarine tree and abundant shrubs. Now she saw the rundown home, with the door falling off its hinges and a single, dirty window. Alyn felt a tiny poke of disappointment in her happy heart. She wasn’t a greedy person, in fact, far from it, but she really didn’t feel exhilarated about sharing her new estate with someone who didn’t have the decency to keep up their own house. She gave a slightly injured sigh. Mr. Walker took notice of his daughter’s crestfallen reaction and quickly comforted, “Don’t worry; the realtor said this neighbor is extremely introverted. She won’t be any bother to us.” Alyn nodded and shook it off. This moment was too special to be spoiled with a minor inconvenience. “If you like it, honey, we can move in next week,” Mr. Walker said. Alyn grinned. There was no house that ever was, nor ever could be, more perfect than this one. How her friends back in New York would envy the little Californian beachside cottage with a yard full of plants as green as her eyes, all tucked behind real stone walls like gold buried in a treasure chest! As the four exited the property, Alyn felt a stony gaze upon her back. She glanced up at the window on the hidden shack, and was frightened to observe two glaring eyes, golden as a ferocious tiger’s, staring at her. * * * A young woman peered out of the solitary window in her rundown house, watching the realtor and the family of three stroll through the garden and inspect the cottage on the property. This woman had decidedly lived in an isolated state for five years and hoped that these newcomers would not be a nuisance. She glanced over at a picture frame on the dirty windowsill that held a photograph of her husband and son. She had loved them dearly, for her husband had a kind and understanding spirit, and her red-haired son was a huggable teddy bear with a charming smile. Pain pricked her heart like a sewing needle would prick one’s finger, and she reached for a piece of paper and a pen. * * * It had been a week since she had first been at the cottage, and Alyn was unpacking and attempting to air out the musty smell that had settled upon the old house. The two shining, yellowish eyes had been brushed to the farthest corner of Alyn’s brain, for there was so much to do! She stood up from her bent-over position on the wooden floor and wiped sweat from her brow. She didn’t remember having quite so much stuff, but here it all was, waiting for her to unpack it and place it in the cheery sunroom that had been converted by the Walkers into Alyn’s bedroom. Alyn pinned her swooping bangs behind her ear and surveyed the area. Boxes were piled in every corner, and she could barely find what little furniture she had set up amongst the monstrous tower of moving supplies. Deciding it was time for a short interlude, she opened the door, its glass panes reflecting the sunlight, and entered her outdoor haven. The scene painted before Alyn was a sight to behold. The salty ocean air breezed past her nose, and it was so delightfully overwhelming that she felt like she could taste it. The seagulls cawed overhead, dancing in wild, unrehearsed formations in the clear blue sky. The heavenly scent of flowers tickled Alyn’s senses, for the blossoms were plentiful, scattered amongst the bushes. Blue jays and robins twittered in the shrubs, gossiping about who knows what. Walking along the pathway, she approached the nectarine tree, standing firmly like a soldier amidst the other plants. The sweet smell was so tempting that Alyn plucked a fruit and took a large bite. The juice dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t wipe it away. She didn’t care. There wasn’t anyone here to criticize her, or anyone to give her a reproachful glance… in fact, there wasn’t anyone here even to see her! Then Alyn remembered the introverted neighbor who lived in the tiny house behind the nectarine tree and bushes. Her hand quivered slightly and her heart began beating faster. Had the strange person with the awful eyes seen her? She didn’t want to find out. As Alyn hurried back to her house, she heard an eerie creaking noise coming from behind the shack. Curiosity sneakily
Fiction
Crunch. Crack. The pavement gurgles under our car. My excitement turns the corners of my mouth up. We are going miniature golfing for the first time. I push the button to open the window. The crisp fall air lifts the pieces of hair that rest on my forehead. The light is like liquid, shimmering down from the sky. Everything is palpable. The royal, jade trees, the soft, quiet pale blue of the sky and the warmth of my rose-pink fleece sweatshirt on my skin. We follow the wrong road and we don’t see the right signs. Finally, after searching, we find our path. When we get to the park, there is a sign that reads, “Closed. Under Construction.” I sigh as my breath circles around me. We get back into the car. My mom announces that we are going to find Jones Beach. I wonder how we will swim in weather that bites at your face. We can’t find Jones Beach but we find our way to Oyster Bay Beach. We go to an ice cream parlor near the sand. As we walk towards the boardwalk, I slip the blue plastic spoon into my mouth as the Oreo ice cream slides down my throat. I begin to skip but bend down to tie my blue-and-white sneakers perched on the ground like a blue jay’s vibrant wing. We walk as our feet tap on the wooden boards. The ocean wrinkles to my left and my sister walks next to me on my right. The wind blows through our ink-black hair and we all smile. We do not talk. The wind whispers secrets that we do not have to speak. The setting sun melts like sweet butter into the ocean. My thoughts wander and the boardwalk stretches far as if being pulled by a giant. I think about my birthday that just passed, and how I spent months planning it out to be perfect. In the end, it did not live up to the times and activities I had carefully laid out on paper. Now that I look back, how could a game end at a perfect hour and not interfere with the next activity? I had tried my hardest to anticipate the exactness of the special day but I had not succeeded. We finally reach a bench next to a broad and aged tree a few feet off the boardwalk. The knotted roots tightly embrace the splintery edges of the bench. I sit down as the lowest branch gently grazes the top of my head. I squeeze my mom’s hand tightly, look far out across the golden water and smile. This day that we had not planned was perfect.
Fiction
I stood outside the little store, waiting for my mother to come out. The golden sun had sunk behind the whispering branches of the pine trees. The moody sky had been dyed dark orange and gray, dotted with thin, wispy clouds. All the birds of the forest were silent and had hidden themselves, except for a single great-horned owl dozing in a tree. I shuffled my feet and the pebbles underneath my sneakers tumbled over each other, raising little clouds of gray dirt. I wish Mom would hurry up, I thought. How long does it take to pay for firewood? I had been waiting there for fifteen whole minutes, according to my pale pink watch. I watched as the second hand ticked its way slowly around the face of the clock and finally decided that I had waited long enough. “Mom,” I hollered, poking my head through the door of the shop, “I’m going back to the tent by myself. I’m tired of waiting for you!” Without a second glance, I turned on my heel and sprinted down the dusty trail, the gravel crunching beneath my feet. As I ran, the cool autumn wind blew through my long hair, and I breathed in the rich, sharp scent of pine needles. Suddenly, I reached a fork in the trail, unsure of where I should go. I was pretty sure the campsite wasn’t to my left, so I decided to take the right trail. That part of the campground was darker, and the trees grew closer together. Vines and roots jutted out from the ground like mossy tentacles, making me trip and stumble. Minutes later, I heard a small splashing noise. Thinking that maybe it was my father making soup over the campfire, I ran towards it. But it wasn’t soup at all. It was a silvery blue stream, surrounded by muddy yellow weeds. I turned around and started walking in the direction I thought was the way back to the campsite. But wherever I went, the trees, grass, roots and dirt looked exactly the same. Warm sweat started to trickle down my sides and make my shirt stick to my back. When the sky was starting to turn dark gray, I heard a noise but I was too far away to make out what it was. When I approached the source of the sound, I realized it was another stream. Then I saw the muddy, soggy weeds and realized with a jolt that this was the same stream I saw an hour ago. I was going in circles. If I was to continue like this, how would I find my way back to the tent? The sky had already darkened to a threatening shade of dark blue, and the full moon had taken the place of the setting sun. My heart thudded in my chest like a trapped bird. I heard a low rustling noise and spun around. Nothing was behind me. Just shadows and black trees, where anything could be hiding. Terrified, I sprinted away from where the noise came from. I ran past the dark pine trees, each one filled with leering, fanged faces and scaly corpses’ hands reaching out towards me. Something wet and cold brushed against my hand, and I whimpered and ran faster. Luminous, menacing red shapes filled the thick undergrowth, watching me dash past. When I dared look away from the glowing figures to glance up at the darkening sky, the stars became white-hot eyes glaring at me from above. Suddenly, a pair of huge, sharp yellow eyes snapped open above me. My heart stopped, and so did my feet. I watched as the two circles stared down at my face, and then one eye closed sleepily, and opened again. I then realized that those two eyes were not the eyes of a monster or devil, but the ones of an owl. My eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness, and I could see that it was a Great Horned Owl. It spread out its wings, displaying its massive wingspan and black speckled feathers. All of a sudden, it soared towards my head. I ducked and watched it land on a branch to my left. It cocked its head expectantly. Did it want me to follow it? I didn’t think owls were smart enough to lead someone home, but something about this bird just seemed… trustable. I hesitated and then took a few steps towards the bird. It took flight, soaring through the chilly night sky. I stumbled blindly after the owl for what seemed like hours, my ankles becoming scratched and bruised from the rocks and thorns on the forest floor. I started thinking that I shouldn’t have followed the owl and that I was simply too imaginative. Suddenly, I heard people calling my name. Recognizing the voices of my parents, I raced towards the shouts, completely forgetting about the owl. I glimpsed my mother and father rushing through the trees at me with their arms outstretched, sobbing. As I was caught in their rib-crushing hug, I babbled to them about all that had just happened. Then my voice trailed off as I glimpsed a familiar pair of great yellow eyes peering out at me from a pine tree. But as soon as I laid eyes on those two shining stars, they blinked and disappeared into the night.
Fiction
Waves pounded on the sides of the boat like relentless punches, throwing the large craft off course. My uncle regained his footing on the drenched deck and forcefully guided the boat through the tormented sea. His black hair whipped around his face and his lips were set in a hard, thin line. All around me crates of life vests slid around the ship. I sidestepped one and lost my footing, tripping over the box. Above, lightning arched across the gray, stormy sky. I scrambled to my feet and glanced around, my senses alert. I spotted my cousin Trent twenty yards away. I ran up and helped him pull a long rope, trying to steady the sails from losing control in the wind. It was like playing tug-of-war with the Empire State Building. I firmly planted my feet on the deck and pulled with all of my strength. No use. Without my uncle it was hopeless. We both let go, defeated. I studied my cousin’s face among the blinding mist. He looked worse than me, almost. His entire body was flushed from strain and his eyes told me that he was on the verge of fainting. Just then, the boat lurched and dipped, threatening to turn over. A mountainous wave swelled next to the ship and crested, higher than the deck. It was one of those moments where everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The tension of foresight tightened my chest as the wave stumbled, losing its balance and crashing down onto the deck. I was flung, powerless, from my cousin, tumbling through the churning wave. I fought to gain control, but my minimal strength was nothing compared to the smashing force of the water. When the wave receded, I found myself lying face down near my uncle, who was clinging to the wheel. “Go!” he shouted through the howling wind. “Wha-?” I started to say, but then I saw what my uncle meant. Trent was clinging to the back of the mermaid statue protruding from the front of the ship out over the water. It didn’t look like he was going to be able to hold on much longer. I raced to the prow, slipping more than once. With no energy left, I hoisted myself up onto the mermaid and, promising myself I wouldn’t look down, crawled slowly towards my cousin. He was straddling the statue, his arms wrapped around her neck. I prayed I’d reach him in time; the wooden ship had become so slippery it was a wonder he was still with us. I moved slowly out over the water. I couldn’t help looking down, despite my promise. Fear gripped me in a choke hold. My stomach seemed to be trying to throw itself up, stuffing itself in my throat. I couldn’t do it. Then, a second tidal wave hit the craft. The ship bobbed threateningly and I lost my grip, slipping off the statue. I closed my eyes, and I couldn’t breathe. Instinctively, I swung my arm backward for support and managed to grab the ship. Digging my fingers in the wet wood, I used the siding of the boat to support myself while I swung my free foot over the railing of the boat. When I was safely on deck, my next thought was about Trent. There was no way he could have made it. I stared into the crashing sea and knew what I had to do. I rushed over to the emergency life craft and struggled inside. Then I took a life vest and secured it on my shoulders and took out my pocketknife. Furiously, I worked on the ropes suspending the small craft until finally they snapped and sent me plummeting down into the violent waters of the sea. I spotted Trent a few yards away in his neon-yellow shirt. I paddled furiously with paddles from the lifeboat, but the waves, which now seemed to have tripled in size, consistently sent me spinning off course. Blinded by fatigue, I gave one final push before I reached him, gliding next to him among the choppy waters. I extended one hand out to pull him toward the lifeboat, but I realized I had no strength left. I barely had enough to breathe. No, I told myself, neither one of us is going to die. My fingers felt the fabric of his shirt. Come on, come on, come on… * * * The next thing I knew, I was lying in the bottom of the lifeboat, Trent next to me. I immediately bolted upright, but a sharp pain in my head made me stumble backward for support. I looked around. Everything was blurry but coming back into focus. The storm seemed to have subsided, but I had completely lost my bearings. All around me was open sea. There was no sign of my uncle’s ship anywhere. Strike that. There was no sign of life anywhere save the unconscious form of my cousin lying unceremoniously in the bottom of the lifeboat with me. The lifeboat was a tiny, sleek design painted white. It had a small, weak motor in the back and a small tin box with first-aid equipment. I turned back to Trent. He was starting to come to, shaking his head slowly. His eyelids fluttered open and he too was greeted by a splitting headache. “Ahh, ow!” he said. “Trent,” I breathed, relieved to see him awake. “I… not…” “Calm down,” I said gently. “We’re OK.” “Is Uncle Frank…?” “I don’t know. I don’t know where we are or he is. I was out cold too for a while.” “We’re lost, aren’t we?” It was quite the inconvenient truth. I slumped over, defeated. This was not how it was supposed to be. When Uncle Frank suggested that Trent and I come along in his authentic 1700s-design tourist ship for a spin a few miles into the sea, getting lost in the middle of the ocean with no signs of anything for miles and
Fiction
The small, ragged fox trotted along in the dry brush near the train track, head low and ears flattened. His scruffy, dirty, brown coat ruffled slightly in the cold mid-October wind. His alert, dark eyes were half-closed, giving the fox a sharp, hooded gaze. Though barely a foot-and-a-half high, everything about him was tough and quick. He was hungry. The fox lifted his slim muzzle to the wind and sniffed deeply, hoping to catch the whiff of a mouse or a fat starling waddling along the tracks. No other animal was nearby, but there was something tantalizing in the air… He leaped out of the dry bracken and onto the great ridge of white gravel, upon which the railroad tracks lay. Here the fox could have a better view of his surroundings and could better smell more distant odors. Again he snuffed the breeze, short, stiff whiskers trembling. Yes, he could smell it, quite clearly now. It was coming from a small grocery store, from its open garbage cans. The fox left the tracks and with a steady, quick dog-trot headed towards the store. He didn’t mind scavenging—it was certainly easier than hunting, but he preferred fresh meat any day. Still, there were some foods in those garbage cans that he couldn’t get enough of—like the salty potato chip crumbs at the bottoms of those funny crinkly bags. As he neared the grocery store, his ears pricked at the sound of a terrific crash. The fox pushed aside the dry brush, rather startled, but curious. A big male raccoon sat in a jumble of aluminum canisters, banana peels, old eggshells and moldy bread. In his paws was a half-eaten ice cream cone, which he gnawed on with relish. Glancing up for a moment, the raccoon spotted the fox standing in the bracken. He dropped his treat and growled, ready to defend his supply of food. The fox barked back his challenge, teeth bared, and moved forward. Brute strength would not be enough in this battle, he knew. The raccoon was much larger than he. But wit and agility were also valuable traits, and these the fox had. The two wild creatures circled each other, occasionally making experimental snaps and lunges. The raccoon was stronger, younger, and larger than his adversary. But the fox was wiry, swift, and experienced in fighting. For a minute there was no sound except for the cold breath of the wind. Then the raccoon sprang. The fox easily evaded the attack with a leap of his own. He sailed clear over his enemy’s head, landed on the other side, then whirled back and nipped his hindquarters. The raccoon squealed. Claws out and ready, he made a swipe for the fox’s head. But it only connected with hard ground. Again the smaller, quicker creature spun about, then returned, nipping and tormenting. A second time the raccoon dashed to get away. Then, he made a maneuver that was surprisingly quick. He turned swiftly and made a dart at his rival’s side. Teeth sank into the fox’s leg and warm blood spilled onto his paw. Wrenching himself away, the fox leaped on the coon’s back, clawing and snapping. Suddenly he was rolling over and over, gray fur in his mouth, claws in his face, teeth in his shoulder. He lashed out with one front paw, but it found nothing. Then he kicked sharply with both hind legs, slashing the raccoon’s belly. There was a sound somewhere between a growl and a shriek. The coon untangled himself from the fray and bolted for the underbrush. The fox stood still for a moment, panting, as he watched this retreat. When he was sure that the enemy was not returning, he licked his new battle scars and settled himself down for an excellent meal. * * * It was a quiet, misty autumn twilight when the fox began to make his way towards his den. All day he had scouted his territory, checking boundaries and making sure that no intruder fox had invaded. It was not a large territory, but he knew every inch of it well—the best places to hunt, the deepest shadows where he could lie undetected, the busy streets where cars roared constantly. The latter he avoided. The fox only saw humans at a distance and concluded that they did not concern him much. He pressed on, paws flashing back and forth in that mile-eating dog-trot. He sniffed the fine drizzly rain, listened to a few bedraggled sparrows chirping in the brush nearby. He did not stop to hunt them, though. His belly was full. As he approached the small tangle of young trees, the fox halted and peered nervously over his shoulder, making sure no creature saw him. But he was alone. The fox gracefully leaped through a gap in the thicket and tumbled into his close, grassy den. After a moment, he lay down and curled into a ball. He nosed at the rags and dry leaves on the ground, tucking them around his ragged fur to keep warm. Finally, he fell into a deep sleep. * * * The next morning, he slowly awoke to sunlight filtering into his den. Rising, and shaking his fur free of dried leaf bits, he stepped freshly out into the cold early morn. A silver fog blanketed the world. No birds twittered; not a breath of wind stirred the fallen leaves scattered about the ground. The dry, bare plants seemed to shiver, though they did not move. At that moment the sun’s edge peeked over the horizon, tinting the eastern sky with gold. The light spread wide into every corner. The air itself glittered, as if thick with golden dust. The fox lifted his head, breathing in the magic of the silent dawn. A late robin suddenly let his flowing melody loose. It was as if a cord had been snapped. The mist cleared, the magic faded, and small morning sounds pervaded the air. The fox swept a dingy
Fiction
Thousands of twinkling and glittering stars lit up the black night sky. It’s so beautiful, I thought as I gazed up at the sky. I wish I could stay here forever, but I couldn’t. Heather and I were slowly walking up the street towards my cottage. It was like we did every summer night after we said goodbye to our other friends, but tonight was different. The night was warm and still and I could hear crickets chirping and an owl hooting deep in the woods. The big fluorescent streetlights were faintly buzzing above us, helping to light our way. Our bare feet were padding softly on the pavement, and we were crying. Tears ran down my face, and I kept wiping them off. I must look like a wreck, I thought, because I had been crying all night. “Next summer will be here before we know it,” Heather sniffled. “Yeah,” I agreed, “but we have to go to school between now and then, which will make it seem way longer.” “We need to plan for summer 2011, because it will be epic!” Heather exclaimed. “Totally!” I grinned. We laughed a bit about our joke. It was because I told her the story about how when I was younger one winter my mom, my sister, and I were at a hotel with an outdoor heated swimming pool and a bunch of teenagers were out there. The teenagers kept yelling, “That was so epic!” Naturally, my sister and I would run out on the balcony, yell, “That was so epic!” and run back inside. Then in the sky a glowing light streaked by. It was a shooting star. We stopped talking and stood still. It seemed like the whole world held its breath. I smiled, it wasn’t the first shooting star I saw but it was the most special one. We wandered up to my cottage, then we stood there for a second looking at it. It looked so bright in the darkness, with all the light streaming out of the windows. I could still hear crickets chirping. My nose was stuffed and I was still crying a little bit. “That was pretty cool,” Heather finally said. “I guess that means next summer is going to be awesome,” I smiled. “Oh you know it,” Heather agreed. “Do you want to sit on the porch?” I asked. “No,” Heather replied, “the sidewalk is fine.” Heather and I sat down on the rough sidewalk, instead of the porch. This feels weird, I thought. Every night we sit on the porch and talk, not the sidewalk. We talked for a while and even laughed a little bit. It was time for Heather to go back to her cottage, and I wouldn’t see her again for a long time. I started to cry again. We both stood up from the sidewalk and brushed the dirt off our shorts. Heather and I hugged each other, and I could feel the tears sliding down my face again. “At least it wasn’t as sad after we saw the shooting star,” Heather sighed. “Yeah,” I nodded, “bye.” “Bye.” “I wish you could stay another week.” “Yeah, me too.” “But we’ll see each other soon.” “Yes, we will.” “Bye,” I said again. “Bye,” Heather said for the last time. Heather turned around, strode down the sidewalk. She looked back one last time and waved. I waved back. Then I stood there for a while watching her get smaller until I couldn’t see her because the big pine trees were covering her. I stood there for a little while longer. Then I sighed and started up the stairs. Tonight was sad, but it wasn’t terrible, I thought as I trudged into my cottage, and I was already excited about summer 2011.
Fiction
I had always considered myself a pretty good runner, but when you’re running for your life you can never move fast enough. I glanced back, almost tripping over myself. I could see out of the corner of my eye his black mask, beady eyes, and his muddy fur coat. Though what scared me the most were his sharp canine teeth. Go ahead and laugh but I was running from… a dog. My flip-flops had fallen off my feet when I started running and the pavement was burning hot. I rounded the corner into my driveway, sprinting for my front door. I wasn’t always scared of dogs, but something happened that makes me run every time I see one. Two years ago a dog ran into my yard where I was playing. When the dog started to wag his tail and bark I thought he was nice. So I tried to pet him, but apparently he didn’t want to be touched. When my hand got too close to his forehead he lashed out and bit me. I can only remember screaming and crying, waiting for the pain to go away. The next day when I woke up I was lying in the hospital bed with stitches on my right arm from my wrist to my elbow. Even though the dog had to go to the pound the fear and the scares he gave me never left. I don’t know why but I never told anybody about what happened. You can imagine with my fear of something like this I was an easy target for bullies. No one wanted to hang out with me anymore. Even though before they were really only my friends because I was the school’s best track and cross-country runner (we had a really small school). It didn’t really bother me because I could always find something to do by myself, but my parents disagreed. “You need at least one friend, honey. Someone you can talk to other than us.” My parents always said that when they saw me reading, alone, up in the branches of a maple in our backyard. Though they were right, I was lonely. However, I didn’t want to become friends with anyone at my school, until I met someone who changed everything. I knew the day would come when the teasing would become too much and I wouldn’t be able to take it any longer. On a Friday in October it happened and I ended up running to my house three miles away instead of taking the bus home. I went straight into the woods when I got home. I sat down in a pile of leaves, letting all the sadness and frustration that I was holding inside go. I listened to the hush of the trees and admired the beauty of the falling leaves. Suddenly I heard whimpering, and it wasn’t mine. I glanced around quickly. At first I saw no one but then I saw the last thing I wanted to see, a dog. From instinct I stood up, legs tense, as if I was waiting for the starting gun in track, but the dog didn’t move. Even with my fear of canines a part of me wanted to go and comfort the wounded stray. Eventually, my heart overpowered my conscience and I couldn’t bear his pain. I knelt down ever so gently, so as not to frighten him, still he didn’t budge. Then carefully I reached out my right hand. My scar started to tingle, remembering the last time I was this close to a dog. Then, before I was ready the dog stretched out his neck, nudging his head into my hand. At that point I knew he needed me and I needed him. The dog happily followed me home; sadly, he was limping the whole way. Some animal probably more frightening than any dog had wounded his back right foot. However, the expressions on my parents’ faces said it all. Their mouths had dropped to the floor speechless, and when I asked if we could keep him, they assured me that if he didn’t have rabies we could. Even after a few days with Scruffy (which is what we chose to name him) the statement “Dogs are man’s best friend” was proven true. One day, a couple months after I found Scruffy, I was taking him for a walk and I noticed a sign on a telephone pole. The sign read: Lost Dog Medium height, brown eyes, mutt, male, scruffy light brown hair, Answers to the name Copper. If seen, please contact me at 544-0222, or bring him to my house at 18 Sugar Hill Road, Easton, NH Thank you, Annie Samson Next to the writing there was a picture of Scruffy or Copper. No doubt about it, that was a picture of the dog who was sitting right beside me. My heart shattered into a million pieces. The dog who had rescued me from drowning in sadness belonged to someone else. That evening I sat in bed, staring at the sign that I had torn down in anger. Just then it occurred to me that Annie was probably feeling just as miserable as I had before I found “Copper.” At that moment I knew I had to return my friend to his rightful owner. The next day I brought Copper to Easton to find his owner. He seemed to recognize the smell near the house, but I didn’t want to let him go. When I knocked on the door I knew I had done the right thing. The girl answered the door and almost cried with happiness that her dog had come home. She thanked me about twenty times before she took Copper. Then, right as she was closing the door, I whispered, “He’s a great dog.” She must have recognized the sadness in my eyes because she offered for me to come over after school and walk Copper with her. Annie and I quickly became
Poems
The whale gently glides across the surface his sad, long, moaning music enchants all he meets to rejoice the sound would be a wronging for he is sad, lonely, cold his sister has just lost her life and the two-legged ones did it an empty feeling embraces his head and the wind drowns out his thoughts as he peacefully swims away
Poems
A bluish cabin near a quiet peaceful lake. Nothing, nothing at all could beat a place like this. Colorful sailboats glide along the silent water. A loon and its babies dive down to get a fish, Leaving a ripple in their place. Birds calling, a tree swaying, Laughter of my family fills the air. My feet run across the soft mossy and green grass, While playing with my dog. In this place, it makes me happy, Takes me away from all the dangers of the world. It protects me. I jump into the crystal-clear water. It refreshes me on a hot summer day. This place is better than an arcade or a water park. The hammock swings near the water, While hot dogs and hamburgers are grilling. It’s old I know, but it’s the best. It’s Camp!
Poems
Secluding ourselves by a fire, Cherishing a novel. Burning rubber under us, As wind whips our face. Embracing in a hug, When one has not seen The other for years. Smiling, laughing, splashing, As icy water slithers up our bodies. Savoring arctic-cold lemonade, On a blistering summer day. A refined voice departing your throat, As a thunderous boom of applause Emits from the audience. Doing whatever appeals to you, Without any consequences. This is the way life should be, This is the fictional world That we pray becomes reality. But an alarm rings madly, And my wondrous dream comes to an end.
Book Reviews
Counter Clockwise, by Jason Cockcroft; Katherine Tegen Books: New York, 2009; $15.99 Have you ever read a book that has changed the way you look at your life? A book that opens your eyes? Counter Clockwise did that for me. Suddenly, you don’t take everything for granted. Most days I wake up, look at the clock, get dressed and head downstairs. I am in the same house, same place; I am with the same people. It’s a secure feeling, like a rooster crowing at the break of day. I always took that for granted, waking up in the morning and having a house and parents that care for you. I never quite realized how lucky I am, that my life is intact and doesn’t just break apart suddenly. Like shattering a thin layer of ice. But some people aren’t so lucky. They set out one day and take the wrong step and suddenly things shatter. This happens in Counter Clockwise, by Jason Cockcroft. A bus that is just going too fast hits Cornelle, Nathan’s mom. The bus tries to stop but it’s too slippery, and right there in that split second life will never be the same for Nathan or his family. The author captured those seconds when the bus slides but can’t stop. My heart beats as if I am there living the life of Nathan. Every single person has the right to choose his or her step. As I write this I choose to tap this review out. I don’t have to but I do. Changing the course of my life in a small way but still changing it. Anybody can accomplish anything because they choose the steps they walk. Nathan’s mom made the wrong steps. Why does it have to happen to her? Only fate can tell. Nathan is overcome by grief; he can’t understand why this had to happen to him. One night after school he goes to a bonus class. By the time it’s finished it’s dark. As he waits for his dad, something odd happens. He meets a Beefeater who helps keep the crows away at the Tower of London. He remembers his father telling him his grandfather was a Beefeater. His dad was always embarrassed having his father dress up for a job; in Nathan’s dad’s view not even a job. The creature says his name is Bartelby. Nathan follows him and Bartelby starts changing the dates and papers at the school’s office. Nathan tells him to stop. He says that Bartelby is ruining somebody else’s work. Bartelby turns with a glint in his eye and says, “What would we do if everything were perfect?” That line was interesting to read. It’s true. What would we do if everything were perfect? In India they sew beautiful rugs. They purposely make a mistake so their work is not quite perfect. So the work has character. Then something unimaginable happens, Batelby takes Nathan back in time, counterclockwise, to the day his mother died. He is confused and scared. He walks along and sees his mother about to walk across the road. He runs toward her and then everything is a blur of sirens and shocked people. Nathan begins to move back and forth through time’s mazes. Will Nathan lose himself in the past? Or will he be able to move forward, into the future?
Book Reviews
Slept Away, by Julie Kraut; Delacorte Books for Young Readers: New York, 2009; $8.99. When I first picked up Slept Away at the bookstore, I expected it to be a fun, entertaining story, and it’s that plus more. In addition to being amusing and lighthearted, this book holds a meaningful message about society, and particularly popularity. All Laney Parker knows is New York City. It’s her home, where she’s lived all of her fifteen years. Summer’s approaching, and she’s looking forward to lounging around in luxury by a beautiful pool with her best friend, Kennedy. She’ll sleep in late every morning, hit all of the huge parties thrown by her peers, and maintain her reputation, while relaxing under the sun for a couple of months. It’ll be a great relief from the stress of the school year. But her mother has different ideas. Wham—Laney’s awesome and lazy summer plans go down the drain as she’s faced with six weeks of misery and torture at a summer camp called Timber Trails in Pennsylvania. No matter how much she kicks and screams and protests, Laney is thrown way out of her familiar, busy city environment into a rural campsite with no air-conditioning, a cabin she has to share with a few cruel strangers, and chocolate only twice a week! How will she survive? Although this pampered princess may be overreacting, I can understand her anger. With so much free time over the long summer break, I’d definitely prefer to make my own plans as well. I can relate to how Laney doesn’t want to go out of her comfort zone. This winter, my parents have been urging me to try something new and go skiing with them. I, having zero tolerance for the bitter cold, have always said no. Perhaps if I just tried it, I’d find that it’s a lot of fun. Used to being in the royal party when it comes to the social ladder, Laney quickly realizes that things are not quite the same here at Timber Trails. That may be a bit of an understatement, actually. How is she suddenly considered the outsider, the weirdo, the geek? And these girls who she’d probably make fun of if she were back at home were suddenly… the popularity queens? Laney’s world is being shaken up like a salad after all the ingredients are put in the bowl. Things become even more peculiar when she runs into a guy from home, here at camp. Ever since a horrible accident that led him to pencil in his eyebrows in the third grade, this boy has been the biggest joke in the city… at least among their group of peers. He obviously leads a double life, as he’s a major heartthrob at Timber Trails, bewildering Laney. Soon, she finds herself falling for this guy. Uh-oh… This relationship would be totally off-limits back in New York! Will she ignore him because of his status, or will she listen to her heart and risk her social standing at home? Laney’s been faced with one of the toughest decisions in her life, and one of the most important revelations about popularity—what’s the point of it all, anyway? If you look deeper at someone, maybe there’s more to that person than a silly label implies. At the end of this dreaded summer, Laney Parker is left with a few amazing new friends, an appreciation for both the stylish clothes and the chocolate she has at home, and a freshly opened mind to the realities of popularity.
