Fiction
The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. She would be moving clear across the country, from California to Massachusetts. After a few moments she sighed and sat down on the floor. She pulled a stack of books toward her and started sorting through them. Old picture books? Into the bin without a second glance. Roald Dahl? Kathy stared at them for a minute and then tossed them onto the pile of books to ask her brother if he wanted them. Her cleaning went well. In half an hour she was on her bottom shelf, with the taller books: comic compilations, encyclopedias of science and mammals, an old photo album, and assorted art books. Kathy flipped through the photo album for a few minutes, enjoying pictures from the first five years of her life, and then she saw the binder. Frowning, she pulled it out. She had no idea what the half-inch plastic binder contained. But as soon as she saw the cover, a grin spread across her face and she settled more comfortably against her wall. “Kathy’s Stories, age 9,” it read in a childish hand. When she was nine, Kathy had gone through a writing phase where she churned out five stories per week. She hadn’t looked at them in years, probably since they were first written. Kathy opened the binder and began to read. A clock ticked regularly in the background and the dust motes swirled around her, becoming golden when the ray of sunlight coming through the window leveled as the afternoon wore on. A deep silence spread around the house. Her brother suspiciously became quiet. The clattering from the kitchen became more muted. Even the very birds outside Kathy’s window seemed to stop singing. Kathy delved through time and space, completely alone, held captive by the words of her nine-year-old self. Nothing existed except the words on the paper, speaking with a volition of their own about fantastic faraway lands and heroes who triumphed over evil (interestingly enough, they were all named Kathy) and amazing, exotic beasts illustrated in compelling colors and seeming to breathe with life and spirit. The words wove a complex spell around Kathy, and she sat late into the afternoon, drinking in tale after tale of increasing interest and skill. At last she reached the final story. This one was written at least six months after the others. Kathy remembered that she had wanted to write a story set in the future. A realistic one, unlike her other stories of heroism and adventure. It was titled simply “Memories.” Kathy scanned the page and frowned in disappointment. Only one small paragraph had been written under the title. Apparently she hadn’t had time to finish it. The paragraph read: The sunlight slanted through her window, dancing merrily around the room: the crayon drawings still taped on the walls, the beanbag chair sitting invitingly on the floor, the magenta streak on her desk from when she had drawn a particularly messy oil pastel scene. Kathy smiled, lost in the deluge of memories. This room was special to her, and yet she would be leaving it forever in two weeks. But there it stopped. The real Kathy gasped. As a nine-year-old, she had written about the very event that was happening to her now! But as Kathy raised her eyes from the page, the world came awake again. The spell was broken. The house was awakening as from a deep sleep. The birds again began to chatter, the scent of lasagna drifted from the kitchen, and Kathy’s brother began once more to whistle to himself. Kathy still sat immobile, but after a few minutes she came to a decision. She turned the page onto a blank sheet and began to write, continuing the story about moving but melding it to the one in the binder. Her neat, slanted handwriting contrasted strongly with how she had written as a nine-year-old, but her style was much the same. Kathy wrote late into the evening, until she was pleased. She read it through once more, checking for mistakes. She didn’t edit the first paragraph at all.
Fiction
The boy stood, facing the early morning. He let the gentle breeze caress his dark skin and play with his hair as he stared thoughtfully off into the distance. Today was the day of his first buffalo hunt. Today he had a chance to become a man. Ten years old, he had been waiting many months for the time to be right. He had been practicing his aim with his bow and arrows and had been working with his pony as well. He was determined that all would go well and he would be given a name by the end of the day. For the young Sioux warrior did not have a name. He would not be given one until he had proven himself in some way worthy of one. All he had was his nickname, Arrow. His friends had named him such because of his keen eyes and sharp hand. He rarely missed his targets. A nickname such as his was better than none, however. His friend, Wet Grasses, was named for the first time he was sent to gather grasses for the fire. He was not supervised, and gathered and dumped armful after armful of wet grass on the fire, causing the entire camp to be encased in smoke for the better part of the night. At the soft step of his father he turned. His father smiled reassuringly at him and moved to stand beside him. His voice was husky in the early morning. “Look, son. See the way the land is in shadow, even though there is nothing to cast it? That is the buffalo, waiting for us.” He looked down at his son and the boy smiled, letting his excitement show. “I am ready.” The sun seemed to burst up from the horizon at the same time as the camp awakened, men and boys appearing out of tipis with the women and girls not far behind. The happy chatter filled the air as the women sharpened their knives for the skinning of the buffalo. The men painted their ponies with their family’s design and made sure that their quivers were full of arrows and their bows were flexible. Arrow smiled up at his father and ran off to bring his pony to the paint. His father watched him go, a proud smile playing about his lips, for he had taught the boy and was confident in his abilities. Arrow reappeared, leading his pony to the paint. Carefully, he selected the same black and yellow paint as his father. Dipping his hand into the wet, chalky substance, he bit his lip in concentration as he smeared the animal’s haunches in the spots and lines of his family. He glanced to the side of him to see Wet Grasses doing the same thing. Arrow could tell from the sparkle in Wet Grasses’ eyes that he, too, was filled with anticipation for the hunt. Breathing deeply, Arrow dabbed his own face with paint as well, before swinging himself up on top of his pony. He looked over the camp and laughed aloud at the cheerful busyness. He could see his mother and sisters preparing for the buffalo, and he waved to them. Most of the men were not yet finished with painting their horses, and Arrow watched them eagerly. He had been watching them for years now, waiting impatiently for when he would be old enough to join them. It was different, watching from the middle of the action instead of the outskirts. He shielded his eyes against the sun and looked for the younger boys that were watching. He waited until he found them and had to suppress a feeling of pride that this time he was the one they were looking up to. At a cry from the leader the rest of the men mounted their horses, yelling and cheering as the horses gradually moved out of the camp to the open plains. Arrow felt a clamor of joy well up in him as his pony’s muscles bunched beneath him, moving into a comfortable canter. Arrow sat tall on the warm back of his pony and whooped. Wet Grasses was riding beside him, and he too yelled out. They were riding in the middle of the pack, real men helping to feed the women and children. They nearly pulled their horses up short, though, when they saw the buffalo. Arrow drew in his breath at the sight of them. Never in his life had he seen a live buffalo before. He had only ever seen the dead ones that the women skinned after the hunt. A surge of energy filled him and he grinned as he urged his pony on. They were downwind, so the buffalo had not seen them yet. He wanted to be right at the front, where he would be one of the ones to actually startle the buffalo into fleeing. He felt for the bow slung across his back. It was still there, in a position where it would be easy for him to reach when he needed it. His arrows, too, were hanging in a tube from his waist. He fingered the feathered tips, longing to pull one out and shoot—but the time was not right. The buffalo were beginning to sense them now. They lifted their heads in uneasiness, then, as they caught sight of the horses, they broke into a run. Like a stream of water they cascaded down the gentle slope. Arrow leaned down over his pony’s neck, forcing him into a gallop. He could sense the other men doing the same. With Wet Grasses beside him, his father somewhere behind him, he surged into the center of the herd. The thundering of hooves was in his ears, and he looked around himself. The completeness of the buffalo was all around him. He was alone. Not truly alone, for there were men all around him, and buffalo in front and to the sides of him. He was
Fiction
Ever wish you were smaller than a grain of sand? Ever wish you could become invisible? Ever wish you could rewind your day? Well, that’s what I wished on my eleventh birthday. “Happy birthday to Dani, happy birthday to you,” they sang as I blew out my candles and made a wish. Then I heard my mother and brother singing, “Skip around the room, we won’t stop ’til you skip around the room.” How embarrassing, I thought to myself. But instead of skipping around and making a complete fool of myself, I simply asked, “Mom, can I get the biggest slice of cake?” The cake looked so good. It was from Buttercup Bakery and was called a Hummingbird Cake. I think it is a cross between carrot and banana cake with some nuts and amazing frosting. I was very excited to have this cake because I hadn’t had it in so long. I had been away at sleep-away camp for four weeks, and let’s just say the food there is not really memorable in a good kind of way. “Dani, will you play baseball with me?” Sam (a pesky seven-year-old boy) pleaded with me, tugging at my sleeve. I was thinking about my favorite cake and then I heard this little kid. Sam loved to play baseball and really looked up to me. To Sam I was a cool, sporty big kid. I, well, I did not look at him the same way at all. I was turning eleven and he was just seven. That can be a pretty big four-year difference. Not to mention that I have been hesitant playing with him since he hit my face with a basketball. Sure, he didn’t intend to hit me. It was an accident, but I’m the type of person who can forgive but not forget. Sam really seemed to like me though. Every time I wanted to do something, Sam wanted to do it, too. I worried that he would never play a game unless I said it was important to me, and that if I said no to baseball, Sam would stop playing baseball. Maybe I was making too much of it, but I felt like if I said no, I would crush a little part of him and I didn’t want to do that. It’s my birthday though! I thought to myself. I should make myself happy today, not him, said the voice inside my head. The choice was clear, me or Sam? I was thinking. I mean, it was classic villain against hero, The Joker against Batman. Which one did I want to be? Flash forward. Could I deal with crushing Sam? Nope. Rewind. Batman it was. “Dani... Dani.” Sam’s loud but tiny voice snapped me out of my conscience games. “Dani, will you play baseball with me,” Sam asked in the sweetest, most innocent voice. “Please...” He gave me the puppy-dog eyes, too. I mean, that’s not fair! I always fall for that. It’s my kryptonite. Don’t do it, I thought. Say no. No, no, NO, I thought. “Yeah, sure, Sam, let’s go play.” * * * “Batter up,” I cried, mounting the high pile of sand also known as the pitcher’s mound. “Let’s do this, Dani,” Sam shouted, eyes twinkling with delight, “we all know who’s going to win here.” He was relaxed around me, but he was always trying to impress me. “Right,” I said, winding my arm up like a windmill. Sam was clearly happy, but he certainly wasn’t smiling. Instead, there was a thin red line, pursed tightly together with a tiny curve upward at the end. I sighed. I was really doing this. Besides, Sam had his game face on. There was no going back now. Whoosh! My pitch flew right past his head. I was being a little harsh. Well, I thought, if I’m doing this, I’m not just going to let him win. No. I never just “phone it in.” I always give it my best. “Ugghh.” Sam kicked home plate in disgust. “Go again, Dani,” he growled. Whoosh! He missed and kicked poor home plate again. Whoosh! Oh, boy. I’m glad I’m not home plate. I would be in shambles. Gone was the little boy who loved me. Here, instead, was the competitive boy who kicks—no, destroys— things. “Um, let’s switch it up, Sam,” I suggested nervously. Without a word, we switched places. I’d like to say it was a cloudy, rainy day, but it wasn’t. It was a beautiful, sunny day. It was my birthday. “Batter up,” Sam shouted. “I didn’t get a run so you won’t either!” “Let’s do this,” I replied. Whoosh! I heard the ball whistling towards me. Crack! I heard the connection of my bat and the ball. I felt my arm surging in the air. I heard Sam cry out, but it wasn’t like before. When I looked over, as I was running towards first base, I saw him lying on the ground, in agony. Just like that, I became the villain. * * * “Sam, are you OK?” I shouted as I turned and immediately started sprinting toward the pitcher’s mound. I, of course, feared the worst. What did I do? How would I get though this? “Owww,” Sam groaned as he lay on the ground, with one hand pressed against his eye. “Sam, are you OK, kiddo?” I kept repeating. “It hurts, Dani,” he wailed. “I’m really sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to,” I said, feeling so bad. I felt my face go a deep shade of pink. “It’ll be OK,” Sam said, removing his hand to reveal a bright red welt that would surely bruise terribly. “Can we keep playing?” he asked. It was so funny and confusing I almost laughed. He was OK... and he forgave me! Sam wanted to play again. Sam, with his flat, dark brown hair and warm affable eyes, wanted to play again. I was about to jump up and down like a little
Fiction
Addie was perched precariously on the edge of her ruffled bed. Her mother was seated next to her, chewing on her lower lip as she so often did when something was troubling her. “Addie,” her mother started, then stopped to wipe her eyes on the sleeve of her red T-shirt. “Mom, w-what is it?” Addie’s stomach was in knots. She wondered if her cat, Pumpkin, had run away again. “It’s Grandma, Addie. She… she…” Cinnamon Taylor drew a shaky breath before continuing. “She passed away, darling.” Addie didn’t—couldn’t—believe what she was hearing. “What?” “Grandma had cancer, Addie. She didn’t want you to know, so she hid it from you. She lost her hair and had been terribly sick. Grandma knew this was coming, but she didn’t want to upset you. You understand, don’t you? I hope you’re not mad at me for not telling you.” Addie stared numbly at her mother, who was valiantly trying not to cry in front of her. For the first few seconds, Addie felt nothing. She wasn’t sad, or happy, or much of anything really. But, as Addie gazed into her mother’s puffy eyes, the weight of the situation pressed down upon her. “No! Why did Grandma have to die? She… she…” Addie couldn’t speak anymore. Tears were flooding from her eyes. Addie grabbed the handheld mirror from atop her dresser and flung it against the wall. It shattered into a million tiny fragments. Addie continued to storm about the room. Her mother just watched, stunned. Addie had always been a calm child, no matter what situation she was faced with. When Cinnamon and her husband had told her of their decision to divorce a few years ago, Addie had just numbly nodded. Cinnamon had never seen Addie rage the way she was now. “Why did she have to die?” Addie kicked the bed angrily, as if it was the bed’s fault her grandmother had passed away. Suddenly, Cinnamon came to her senses and grabbed her daughter’s arm. Addie allowed herself to be enveloped in a hug. “I know, I know,” Cinnamon whispered. “She meant a lot to me too.” With that, the fight went out of Addie and she collapsed, sobbing, on her bed. * * * Addie continued to mope for the next week or so. One dull summer afternoon, Addie was lying on her stomach in her bed. She tried to concentrate on the novel she was reading, but to no avail. Like a boomerang, all thoughts strayed back to Grandma. Grandma had been more than just a grandmother to Addie. When Dad had left to go live in the middle of nowhere, Grandma stepped in. She helped Cinnamon adjust to being a single parent and was always around to babysit Addie or do whatever was needed around the house. Addie and Grandma, who was Dad’s mom, became close friends immediately. It was terrible that Grandma would never be around to talk or laugh with Addie anymore. Cinnamon quietly knocked on the door, then let herself in. “Come on, Addie,” she said softly. “We need to go to the lawyer’s office. Mr. Mitchell’s reading the will today, you know.” Sighing in resignation, Addie dragged herself out of bed and stared in the mirror. She saw Grandma’s dark, thoughtful eyes staring back. Addie wrenched a comb through her black hair. Realizing it was futile to try to tame her hair now, Addie threw the comb back on the dresser and waited at the apartment door. The ride to Mr. Mitchell’s office was long and quiet. Addie stared glumly out the taxi window at all the people rushing to and fro. She chewed the watermelon gum in her mouth without even tasting it. “Here we are,” the driver proclaimed, coming to a stop in front of a tall, glass building. Addie got out of the cab, then looked up and down the building in amazement. This place was nice. Cinnamon purposefully strode into the cool, air-conditioned lobby with Addie at her heels. The lobby was absolutely gorgeous. Addie craned her neck in an attempt to see everything at once as her mother led her up to the reception desk. “We’re here to see Mr. Mitchell,” Cinnamon told the receptionist. “Fifteenth floor,” the woman said, without looking up. “It’s suite 1503.” After the elevator ride, the pair found the office and quietly let themselves in. There was an empty waiting room complete with a dormant television and large leather seats. Addie wished she could’ve stayed home. Just then an adjoining door opened and a well-dressed businessman stood before them. He extended his hand to Cinnamon. “Hello, Ms. Taylor. I’m glad you could make it.” He smiled down at Addie, as one would do if amused by a small child. Addie glared back. She didn’t like this man. He was glad Grandma had died, just so he could get business. When his back was turned, Addie stuck her tongue out at him. Mr. Mitchell led the pair into his office. There was a huge window behind his desk that allowed a fantastic view of New York City. Addie caught a glimpse of water in the distance. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. “Nice view, huh?” Mr. Mitchell was talking to her again. He was seated behind his desk in a large leather chair. She just shrugged at Mr. Mitchell though, to show she wasn’t impressed with his office. “Both of you have been mentioned in the late Andrea Evelyn Taylor’s will. Shall I begin?” Cinnamon nodded, and Addie stared at her sneakers. The man droned on forever about legal stuff, and Addie automatically tuned him out. She quickly took an interest again, however, when she heard her name. “And to Addison Matilda…” At this, Addie winced. Nobody called her by her full name, plus Addie despised her middle name. She had been named after a character in one of Roald Dahl’s books. By the time Addie started listening again, Mr. Mitchell was saying, “…an envelope,
Fiction
“Hey! Hey Cora! Look at me!” I looked up from my paperback. Somehow, Rose had hoisted herself up and into a little red wagon that stood by the fence. The little girl stood there, precarious but triumphant, her small arms stuck out to the sides for balance. I laughed inwardly at the look of mixed surprise and pride on my younger cousin’s sweet face. “Rose, honey, get down from there. Remember what happened last time?” I said, lifting her gently down from the wagon. “Uh huh,” said Rose rather sadly, fingering the small bruise on her forehead, obtained in a similar incident two days earlier. “I just like to be up high.” “I know you do, Rose, but it’s still dangerous. How do you think your mommy would feel if you fell down again?” Rose looked up at me seriously, considering. “Well, first she would be angry at me cause I’m not supposed to climb things. Then she’d yell at you for not taking care of me better. But after a while,” she proclaimed, brightening, “she would say that she was just glad I was safe and give me a Popsicle.” She looked up and grinned. “Can I have a Popsicle right now?” Not for the first time, I marveled at the four-year-old girl’s intellect. She was so observant for her age, sometimes it was frightening. “Not right now. Later, OK?” She nodded, then noticed something. “Cora, you brought your camera. Why,” she wondered aloud, “why did you bring your camera? Were you gonna take pictures?” “I thought I might, yes. Do you want me to take a picture of you, Rose?” The truth was that I had hoped to snap a few photos of my little cousin for my photography class. “Yeah! Yeah!” Scrambling excitedly, Rose ran to the fence. Turning around, she posed, one hand sassily placed on a little hip, the other thrown high, palm up, with the fingers trailing slightly, a movie star smile on her little face. Rose would have been a miniature model, if it weren’t for the knitted red-and-navy-blue sweater hanging around her torso in woolly folds. I resisted the urge to laugh, picked up my digital camera, and clicked. Rose dropped the model stance and dashed over to see the screen. We both laughed at the ridiculously adult pose. “I look funny, don’t I? Like the ladies in Mommy’s mazzageens. Is it later? Can I have a Popsicle now?” Reminding her for the hundredth time that it was mag-a-zines, not mazzageens, I ruffled my little cousin’s hair fondly. “No, it’s not quite later enough yet. Wait a little longer,” I said mildly, and returned to my book. Rose was truly a remarkable kid. For a few minutes, the small novel I held captured my attention. I leaned back in my cushioned lawn chair. Rose had settled comfortably down with a shovel and pail in the patch of dirt designated for her digging. I was sure she wouldn’t move for a while. Then suddenly, the cry came again. “Cora! Cora, lookit! Lookit me!” My head snapped up. Not the wagon again! But it wasn’t the wagon. It was Rose’s tree. Who knows how she did it? But in one way or another, Rose had climbed to a perilous perch again—when I looked up, her little body was wedged in a crook of the apple sapling her parents had planted when Rose was born. This was Rose’s tree, a monument to her life. She loved it fiercely and was never so happy as when she was, as now, nestled in its branches. My first instinct was to jump up and rescue my little cousin, but she looked perfectly safe and happy there in the tree, and I couldn’t resist the obviously perfect photo op. Snatching up my camera, I snapped a quick shot of the scene, then dropped my camera onto a cushion and lightly disentangled Rose from the tree. “Rose, I told you, no more climbing stuff!” I chided, a little more harshly than I intended. I could see my tone have an effect on her, her little shoulders sagging and her normally sparkling eyes downcast. I immediately felt guilty, gathering her up and whispering reassuring words in her little ear. “I’m sorry, Cora,” she said sadly. “I just wanted to see if I could get up by myself.” She brightened slightly. “You took a picture, didn’t you?” “I guess I did,” I said, remembering. Snapping the photo, jumping up and lifting Rose out of the tree were blended in my memory in one streamlined movement. I found it difficult to recall the moment of actually pressing the shutter button. I pulled up the photo on the small screen and looked for a long moment. In the photo, Rose’s knees were hooked over the spot where two of the branches met, her short little legs hooked over each other in a surprisingly ladylike manner. Her chubby left hand was coiled tightly around the nearest bough, and her right stuck out slightly in front, the elbow cupped between knee and branch. Rose’s face was turned straight toward the lens, and her crinkled eyes and half-grin made it seem as though she and I were sharing a secret or private joke—not funny enough to cause real laughter, but full of wit nonetheless. Looking at the surprisingly good picture, I struggled to make sense of my emotions. The picture made me want to laugh, but it strangely seemed to make me slightly sad as well. I knew that it was silly, but I had a sense that the tree, the one object Rose loved most, would one day be cut down. I wondered why this seemed so evident. At that moment, I knew I would save this photo. If future generations asked about it, the most truthful reply would be to say that this was Rose, that the picture summed up her as well as anything could. Because it did. Would Rose even remember this?
Fiction
The smell of baking bread filled my nostrils as I walked into the house, carrying my basket of eggs. “Carrie! Did you bring in the eggs?” Mama called from the kitchen. “Yes, Mama.” I set the basket on the table, where Mama was kneading bread dough. It was strange seeing her alone in the kitchen; usually Colleen was helping her. But since Papa died, Colleen had been spending more time with her friends to avoid the emptiness of the house. Jack took care of the cattle and the horses, and it was my job to look after the sheep and chickens. “Give me that salt, please, dear,” Mama said, nodding toward the can on the table. I scooted the can her way. “Can I help?” I asked. “Please. You can chop those onions and potatoes for the soup.” I quietly went about my work, then asked, “Where’s Colleen?” Mama sighed, folding the dough over once again. “She’s off with Katie and Nancy again.” “Why don’t you make her stay here?” I asked. “She’s seventeen years old, Carrie. I can’t just make her stay in the house.” “But you’re her mother! She should do whatever you tell her to.” “It doesn’t work that way.” I could see the sadness in her eyes as she rinsed flour from her hands. Her body was here, but her mind was far away. With Papa. “Thank you for helping, dear, now why don’t you go outside?” Mama said. I could tell she needed some time alone. I went to the room I shared with my brother, Jack, and grabbed my sketching pen and paper. Once I was outside, I did not waste any time climbing my special tree and beginning to draw. First I sketched the brook running alongside the barn; it was unusually pretty today. Then I began slowly shaping the outline of a pony’s head. Pointed ears, alert eyes, flaring nostrils, streaming mane—when I was finished adding details and wisps of stray hair, I was surprised at how good it had turned out. Some say I should be angry with horses. After all, it was because of one that my papa had been killed. But my love for horses was as strong as ever. Three months ago, my papa had gone with a group of cowboys to round up mustangs. It was the cowboys’ job to round up horses when the herds got a little crowded; the mustangs were then sold. On that particular day, the lead stallion had not been happy with his mares being taken. So he charged around, neighing and bucking, and finally Papa’s horse was spooked. The horse reared, and Papa fell under the flailing hooves of the lead stallion. I sat in my tree, thinking about Papa and how much I missed him. My mind was so occupied that I almost did not notice the beautiful horse on the horizon. But when I did notice it, I was amazed and hypnotized. He was gorgeous. The sun enhanced his golden coat, making it shine like a diamond. His mane and tail were white, pure white. Other than that, he was completely golden, all over his body. I could not resist climbing down the tree to get a better look. He was not any less beautiful on the ground. He stampeded across the earth as if he owned it. I ran inside. “Mama! Mama, you have to come see him, he’s beautiful, it’s…” “Calm down, Carrie. What do you want?” Mama asked. “Just… come outside!” I grabbed her hand and pulled her out the door. “Look!” Suddenly, Mama froze. She became pale, and her eyes glazed over with bitterness. “Carrie.” She spoke sharply. “I don’t want you near that horse.” I stared at her in confusion. “What? Why?” “It’s… it’s that devil horse. Just stay away from it.” She gulped and went back inside. As I watched the beautiful horse galloping around, I tried to understand what Mama meant. Suddenly, I realized. That horse was the lead stallion who had killed Papa. * * * When I walked into the barn the next day, I did not expect to see the palomino stallion munching hay that had fallen from the loft. I had figured by the open the door that Jack was inside caring for the horses, but I was met instead with the surprised eyes of the palomino stallion. When he saw me, he flicked his ears back and took a tiny step backward. Not thinking about the fact that he could easily bolt and mow me over, I slowly held my hand out. With a fair amount of hesitation, he sniffed it. Overjoyed as I was to be petting the mustang, I knew Jack would be coming out soon, and Mama would surely order the horse shot. “You need to go,” I said. I backed against the wall and raised my voice. “Go! Go, or you’ll be killed!” His muscles tensed and, laying his ears back, the stallion galloped past me and out of the barn. As I watched him become smaller, approaching the sun, the perfect name struck me. Diablo. It meant devil in Spanish, and devil horse was how Mama had described him. * * * Diablo did not come so near the house after that; I just watched him on the place where earth and sky met to make a beautiful picture. Each day that I watched him, I developed a stronger bond with him, and I felt I had an obligation to him. It was strange. But I felt we were great friends. Over time, I began to wonder if Diablo had come back to apologize. It sounded crazy, but I thought it was possible. No; I knew it was possible. Something else, too; it seemed that every day, Diablo galloped closer and closer to the house. It was like he was gradually trying to get closer to me. One day, Mama noticed me watching the stallion. Her voice was icy when she
Fiction
Akira was a dog. Nitia was a wolf. Akira never cared to think about dogs and wolves living together. Not until Nitia. Akira always thought about wolves, and why they were hated so much. She watched them run through the woods and heard their howls. Her owner, who was a hunter, often said wolves were a disgrace and should never be alive. Akira decided to meet a wolf. After all, what could be so bad about her wild cousins? The dog was racing happily through the woods when she saw another dog. This other dog was a tawny-colored female with pointed ears and a long bushy tail. No, thought Akira. That is a wolf! The wolf turned and saw Akira. They watched each other for some time before the wolf walked forward. They sniffed each other, smelling where they had been and what their names were. Akira smelled that this wolf was named Nitia. Nitia had been the mate of a leader. Then, the leader wolf had then taken another mate, kicking Nitia out of the pack. She was pregnant with his pups. They were due any day. Akira and Nitia spent every spare moment together. When the sun began to set, Nitia would lead Akira up the mountain and they would howl. Nitia often heard her mate and would howl to him. One day, Akira was headed to see Nitia when she heard a loud whine. She looked around and saw Nitia lying in a patch of grass. Her pups were coming! Akira whimpered. She did not know what to do. What if something bad happened? “Akira?” called the voice of her owner. “Akira, where are you?” Akira’s heart leaped. She smelled his gun. He would find Nitia and kill her! She had to lead him away. The dog headed towards his voice, but it was too late. He emerged from the bushes and said, “There you are! And just as I thought. A wolf.” Nitia closed her eyes. The man drew back his gun, but Akira lunged in front of the wolf. He could not hurt her. “Akira, what is this?” he yelled. “Get out!” Akira did not move. Wolves and dogs were the same. If he could easily kill a wolf, then he could easily kill a dog. She growled. Her owner looked at her, then lowered his gun. “The wolf lives.” He dropped his gun to the ground and backed away. He moved away into the woods and called Akira to come to him. Akira did not. He got her message and hopefully would tell others. Now, Akira would be a wolf. She and Nitia would live together. Wolves and dogs could come together again.
Fiction
Our sleek black Highlander pulls up into the parking lot atop the steep cliff. I open the door and jump out, my feet landing on hard gravel with a soft crunch. The salty ocean air fills my lungs, and the roaring of the sea is faint in my ears. My sisters file out of the open car door after me, while my parents are helping our dog Maddy out of the car while our other dog Lila waits eagerly behind. Had this been a normal weekend, this would just be our average trip to the beach this cloudy afternoon. But it will never be the same. Maddy has cancer. This will be her last trip to the beach. Maddy is too weak to walk, so my dad carries her on her dog bed. After everyone is out of the car, we start the walk down to the beach. The trail to the beach is a sandy one that winds through a small forest at a shallow angle. It is a very quiet walk; even the girls are silent for once. The only talking we hear is when we meet people who are coming up from the beach on the other side of the trail. Some notice the hospital band around Maddy’s leg and feel sorry for us. Some stop to pet her, and others walk by without any notice. It’s all right though; I don’t blame them. It’s hard to understand a type of pain until you’ve felt it yourself. We walk through one more grove of trees and then we are at sea level. We can hear seagulls cawing overhead as my dad finds an empty spot on the beach and lays Maddy down. I can see in her eyes that she knows, somehow, she knows that this is her last visit here. The final ending to her story. The cancer has been attacking her body for weeks now, but Maddy puts that out of her mind for this one time. Slowly, she brings herself to her feet. This is the first time she has stood in three days. Then, when she is steady, she begins to walk. Soon Maddy is trotting around in the surf and burying her favorite tennis ball, which we brought to the beach for her. Like the same old Maddy I’ve known my entire life. Carefree and happy, without a thought of cancer in her mind. It is this sight that makes me feel happiness and hope along with a cold, bitter sadness at the same time. A dying dog’s last visit to the place she loves. Eventually, we have to leave. I can tell that Maddy doesn’t want to, but she accepts it. She knows she can’t stay here forever, and she seems content. But for the rest of time itself, the spirit of Maddy will always live on here at Fort Funston Beach. Maddy is put to sleep the next day. Madison Avenue Dreams Kearns, 1997–2010. My mom’s dog baby, my golden retriever sister, and our family’s protector and companion. I think that losing a loved one is one of the most powerful emotions a human can feel. It leaves you with an icy black void in the pit of your stomach, and you selfishly think only of having that loved one here on earth with you. But it was Maddy’s time to go to heaven. She feels no more pain now; her suffering has ended. And while it feels wrong without her on earth, I know that she is still with us. Still watching over us, guarding us, now as I’m writing this, and for every day for the rest of my life.
Poem
Look up. Can you see the moon? white as snow? The sun, as yellow as a new crayon? A baby blue sky like an ocean? Look down! Cold in one spot, warm in others, the creek is full of amazing creatures Our nets, shaped like D’s scoop up mud puppies and crawdads The still water is a mirror, and tripping on sharp rocks, I scrape my knee, But I am sad only because my teacher calls, “Time to go!”
Poem
Every evening a tumbling, frothy white waterfall cascades over the mountains. Its thick, swirly, blanket settles among the trees, and oozes into the valley. It keeps coming; soft, white and misty. It reaches its tendrils around each tree. You can see it creeping, crawling like it is sneaking up on someone. As the sun sets, yellow rays shine through its top layer of mist. So bright are the sun’s last rays it drowns the mountain’s green Till all you can see is the very outline. The sky darkens. Slowly, the froth pools in the valley and rests its head. One by one the stars come out, shining crisp in the cold clear night. The fingers of mist wake early and start retreating back over the mountains to the sea. Slowly the world wakes up. The sun shines its first blossoming rays towards the sky. The soft blanket slips back over the hills, hoping not to be seen.
Poem
I awake early in our small, candlelit prison a stone tower high above the sands of Crete. Father melts hot wax from his thick candle dripping it on my shoulders his gentle hands press something into place. Wings! Giant, feathery white wings unfolding from my bronze shoulders I stand in awe. Suddenly guards pound on our bolted wooden door breaking the rich silence I hear loud shouts of rage and sharp panic cuts me like a knife. A whispered warning a soft shove I stumble out of the tall window nothing to hold onto and I’m plummeting toward the ground and armed guards my heart pounds wildly I squeeze my eyes shut waiting I’m a heavy stone dropping into the deep death abyss. Then my wings snap up trapping the cold wind I glide softly through the blue sky I’m alive! The wind rushes past me tangling in my black locks and slapping my flushed face exhilaration locks away my thoughts of dark, suffocating towers and nightmare labyrinths. I look down the sea is blue a deep, glittering mass of rolling waves spread forever before me I skim the cool surface feeling the tingling spray breathing in the scent of salt and freedom. Behind me Father whoops loudly “Icarus, my boy! We’re free!” I break into happy laughter, and he smiles. We fly together father and son beating our wings to a lulling rhythm we claim the vast sky. I see the sun a blinding golden sphere hanging high above I can reach it! Up I soar higher and higher leaving Father below passing astonished seagulls the sun burns hotly and my face glistens with sweat I reach out to the bright light. Then I feel it the hard wax softens in the raging heat and trickles slowly but steadily scalding my bare skin I’m terrified. Now I remember Father’s urgent warning Don’t fly too close to the sun! It’s too late. Feathers fall around me drifting away suspended in midair I flap my arms desperately and I scream to my father the harsh sound of sharp chilling fear but all he can do is watch helplessly the seagulls don’t catch me in their beaks and I sink into the black, icy depths of the sea all that is left is haunting silence and floating white feathers.
Book Reviews
After All, You’re Callie Boone
After All, You’re Callie Boone, by Winnie Mack; Feiwel and Friends: New York, 2010; $16.99 “Oh fish sticks, tartar, and a side of fries!” Being called a loser by your former best friend, having to live together with stinking ferrets, and doing one extremely public belly flop is definitely not Callie Boone’s idea of a fun summer. Then enters Hoot, the new kid from next door, who turns Callie’s world upside down and right side up and teaches her the true meaning of friendship. Callie loves the water. It’s the only place where she feels like she can get away from everything and everyone at once. But that all changes when Callie gets banned permanently from the pool for doing a dive from the high diving board (which is strictly forbidden to children). Actually… it wasn’t a dive—it was a belly flop. But it wasn’t her fault… or at least that’s what Callie thinks. The other girls she was swimming with made her do it! But deep down, Callie knows that she did the dive because she wanted to wow the older girls. She wanted to come out of th water to the sound of thundering applause. Instead, she came up to hear the sound of roaring laughter. In addition to being humiliated in front of a gigantic crowd of people, Callie is friendless. Ever since first grade, Callie Boone and Amy Higgins were the best of friends, but just before the end of the school year, Amy started acting weird. It began when Amy no longer wanted to trade stickers with the other kids. Next, Callie couldn’t find Amy to sit with her in the cafeteria. She realized that Amy had gone home with Samantha McAllister to work on an assignment. Although Callie had the same assignment, she hadn’t been invited along. Why? Then on the last day of school, Callie overheard Amy and Samantha talking... about her! Callie feels upset and doesn’t understand why Amy traded her in for snotty old Samantha McAllister. Is it because Callie likes riding her bike better than painting her fingernails? During this whole scenario of events, a new family moves into the house next door. Callie has been crossing her fingers hoping a girl her age will move in who, for some unknown reason, will want to be best friends with her. But Callie’s hopes are dashed when a boy with a large amount of freckles turns up on the other side of the hedge. When Hoot asks her to show him around the neighborhood, Callie is flabbergasted. She can’t be seen showing a boy around town. People might talk and then no one would want to be her friend. Still, Callie and Hoot end up becoming good buddies. In this sense I'm a little like Callie. I also have a good friend who is a boy. We’ve known each other since we were born and are still close. When I was in third grade, my mom decided to pull me out of school and home-school me. When I first started, I didn’t know anyone else and—like Callie—was sometimes very lonely. But all the kids were friendly and nice to me and integrated me into their group. Now I know them well and we have lots of fun together. Through home-schooling I have met many different kinds of people and I’m happy about that. I think friendship is special and it’s important to have friends of different ages, races, genders, and personalities. When things have finally started to look up for Callie, real disaster strikes and she feels like she’s on a high diving board with no way down. But with lots of effort and teamwork, she might pull through. After all, she’s Callie Boone!
