The moon The little moon The lonely uncolorful moon The only friend of earth The moon of its only kind There the moon stand by her only little self The moon The Earth’s only friend The grey boring moon The old rusty moon Andy Wu, 10Shanghai, China
April 2018
The Fence
Ever since I could remember, Momma and I lived alone. Just us two. She never mentioned my Poppa or any aunts or uncles or cousins, so neither did I. We were happy enough how we were. It was 1953, and we lived on the very edge of the Black District of the town. Some thought we were much too close to the White District, because only a tall, wooden fence separated us from their houses. The Fence stretched as far as I had ever ventured, and no one could come or go through it. But that didn’t make any difference; we went our own way, they went theirs. Momma ran a business doing laundry for the neighbors. I would help her wash the clothes in big metal tubs, then hang them all to dry on the long clothesline stretched across the yard. Some days, she would send me to buy more lye soap for her washing. Other days, I would deliver the clean laundry to her customers’ houses. One day, I sat on the steps of our house braiding the long, stringy grass and wishing there was shade somewhere nearby. The hot August sun was merciless. And since Momma had a group of talkative friends over, she had strictly instructed me not to go into the house unless of an emergency. So I was stuck outside. After a few more minutes of this, I made up my mind. I would go exploring. Past the huge hedges behind the house was the Fence between us and the White people. I wasn’t to go near the Fence under any circumstances, Momma’s orders, but I was much too bored to heed that rule. She said that she didn’t want me to get scratched by the prickly hedges, but I knew perfectly well that that was just an excuse. She didn’t want me to see the White people on the other side. After checking that Momma was still safely preoccupied inside with her friends, I climbed into the bushes. So much for getting scratched up, I thought. They’re not even prickly! Just a few feet in, my hands found the rough wood of the Fence. I wriggled my entire body through until I was right up against it. Then I pressed my eye against a conveniently located knothole and peered through. All I could see were the leafy branches of identical hedges on the other side. Leaning forward a little too hard, the board gave way and I tumbled through, right onto the other side. Gasping with surprise, I began to sit up, rubbing dirt from my eyes. Until I heard a voice. “Who’s there?” it demanded. I held my breath, trembling with fright. I didn’t dare go back through. Surely whoever was speaking would notice me shaking the bushes. But if Momma found out I’d been over… I took a quick look, not daring to even breathe. A little White girl was kneeling in front of me. She was so close that I could have reached out and touched her shining golden hair. She peered right into the branches. I made myself as small as I could, but too late. “I can see you in there. What are you spying on me for?” I couldn’t do anything now but answer her nice and polite, just how Momma taught me. “I wasn’t exactly spying on you,” I replied. “I didn’t even notice you was there at first.” “What’s your name?” she asked me. She had lost her commanding voice now. “Ruth,” I replied shyly. “I’m Donna Schultz. Nice to meet you.” “Yes,” I agreed. “Would you like to come out? We can play together, and I will show you my dolls.” I glanced back over my shoulder through the bare hole where the board had collapsed. What on earth would Momma say to see me on the other side of the Fence playing with a White girl? Never mind, I told myself, She’ll never find out if you don’t tell her. “Here I come,” I told the girl, tripping my way out. Donna laughed. It was a nice sort of laugh, not mocking, but sweet and twinkly, just like her. I gave her a smile and brushed the dirt off my knees. “So, how old are you?” she asked conversationally as she led me across the yard. “Eight-years-old,” I told her proudly. “I’m eight and three-quarters,” she responded. I had no idea what three-quarters was supposed to mean, so I kept quiet. “This is my house. Mother and Father aren’t at home, only Jonathan. But he won’t play with me unless it’s baseball, and Mother says baseball is unladylike, so I can’t. I don’t like it much anyway.” I was relieved to hear that this girl’s parents weren’t home because they probably wouldn’t have been very happy with a Black girl like me on their side, the White side, either. Even then I didn’t realize how big of a risk I was taking. But at the time my thoughts were completely focused on Donna’s beautiful dolls and playthings. I was happy just to listen to her talk, lying comfortably in the dappled shade of her yard. Once the sun began to set, however, I told her I’d better get home. She told me that she hoped she could talk to me again soon. “Bye!” I called to her as I scrambled back through the poky branches a little more gracefully than before. “Goodbye, Ruth!” she responded, waving at me. And that was the beginning of our secret friendship. * * * A few weeks later, as Momma and I were completing the noontime deliveries, I asked her an innocent question. “Momma, why do we have to live apart from the White people?” She looked at me funny and said, “Why you asking, girl?” “It’s just that there’s other girls out there just like me ‘cept they have white skin. Why ain’t we allowed to
The Stone Angel
The pewter sky hung like a tapestry over the graveyard, dark clouds spilling across it. The clouds boomed and thundered like an angry beast, releasing torrents of water that drenched the gray headstones below. Lightning sliced through the air like a sword, illuminating the world for a second with its violet light. Libby liked the rain. The way it left her honey hair wet and clingy, the way the droplets slid down her cheeks like cool tears. She knelt down next to her favorite grave in the furthest corner of the cemetery. Most of her neighbors grew up in fear of the cemetery across the street, but Libby loved it. Each weekend she would place flowers on her favorite graves, and she loved calculating the ages of the people on the headstones. Libby peered at the grave in front of her. The cool stone of the memorial was cracked and crumbling, with moss climbing up it, filling in the crevasses. A smiling angel stood atop the base of the grave, holding a harp in its chubby hands. The angel’s face had been worn away by decades in the rain, giving the grave an eerie look. Engraved in the podium was the name of the girl who rested there. Here lies Ada Lee Clemmons 1896-1907 Beloved daughter, sister. May her soul rest in peace. “Pretty, isn’t it?” a sweet voice said from behind Libby. Startled, Libby turned quickly to see a girl standing behind her. The girl looked about Libby’s age, with tawny skin and soft coils of chestnut hair. Her cheeks held a slight rosy blush, probably a result of the cold of the rain. But what struck Libby as particularly striking were the girl’s eyes. They blazed blue against her darker skin, as if holding a cold fire inside them. The girl took a step closer to Libby. “It’s sad isn’t it?” She asked. “She was so young. Only eleven, only as old as I am now.” The girl turned to look at Libby, as if noticing her for the first time. “You come here a lot,” she said. It was not phrased as a question, but simply as a statement. “Y-yes.” Libby stammered. Something about the girl made her uncomfortable. It seemed as if the air grew cooler simply having her around. “How did you know?” The girl shrugged. “I don’t see why that matters.” She knelt down next to the grave, and patted the ground beside her as if inviting Libby to join her. Libby reluctantly obliged. “Someone should clean the headstone,” she said sadly. “But there is no one around to do it. It happened so long ago, there is no one left who remembers the name Ada Lee Clemmons.” “How do you know so much about her?” Libby asked, feeling her fear of the girl begin to be replaced by sympathy of sorts. The words that the girl spoke seemed so heavy, and as if they affected her directly. The girl cocked her head at Libby “I just simply know what the grave tells. Anyone could figure it out.” The girl reached out and traced the lettering on the grave with her finger. “It’s lonely I bet,” she said suddenly. “Can you imagine being forgotten? Alone?” Libby shook her head. She couldn’t envision it. The girl sighed and drew back from the grave. She stood. Libby rose with her. “I have to go,” she said. “But before I do, what is your name?” Libby thought about lying, but the girl’s eyes seemed safe and friendly as she looked her. “Libby,” she said. “Yours?” “Ada,” the girl smiled. Libby felt her eyes widen. She turned to face the headstone and its engraved letters. Ada. “Are you…?” Libby stammered, the words catching on her tongue. Ada smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “For visiting me. It’s not quite so lonely when you’re around.” With that, Ada faded away. Julia Lockwood, 12Bellingham, WA
