A magical trip to Yellowstone, perfectly preserved in the writer’s memory Sunlight pierced the split in the canvas tent, awakening the rustic room. The pellet stove glowed lightly and sounded like afternoon rain on a tin roof. Warmth filled the room. I rolled over lazily and looked at the crowded tent. My brother and I were scared of bears, so we all had to share a single tent. We were scared of a lot of things back then, like the monsters that lived under our beds and in the dark. Everyone was still asleep. I turned to Keane, my little brother, who was peacefully sleeping in my parents’ bed. “Hey, Keane,” I whispered as I shook his arm. “Wake up.” Keane woke up and turned to face me. “What time is it?” he asked groggily. He rubbed his eyes and waited for them to adjust to the sunlit room. “I don’t know,” I said and looked in the mess of covers on the bed for my phone. I then noticed that we had woken my parents up. My dad was checking his cell phone. “It’s 7:15,” he said. “We should start getting ready.” My dad took Keane out of the tent into the cold morning air. The bathroom cabin was a short walk away. My mom picked an outfit for me and put my hair in a braid. We were getting ready to leave our campsite to head again into Yellowstone National Park, where the Grand Prismatic, with its awe-inspiring colors, was waiting for us. * * * We followed a trail to the middle of nowhere. Tall grass brushed against my knees and mud stained my boots. Poppies bloomed from the gravel. A river rushed alongside the trails. The sun glowed like dying embers and painted the sapphire sky. I stared out into the mountains that reached for the heavens. The top of the mountains hid in the clouds and made friends with the birds. It seemed like a whole new world up there. The terrain was rocky. I listened to the sound of gravel cracking below my feet. Birds circled overhead and sang their eerie lullaby while the bison grazed the fields that seemed to go on for miles. Dragonflies hovered around my head and crickets hummed from the trees. The world was buzzing with life. We followed the rocky trail to a narrower one that led through the forest. We pushed onward into the woods. There was something almost magical about the woods. Cold air ran through my hair and danced through the trees. It whispered to me and called me deeper into the forest. Sunlight danced on the forest floor, which was littered with fallen leaves. It smelled like moss and morning dew. A soft fog hovered around the edge of a clearing. I ran my hand over the rough bark of a nearby tree. I breathed in deeply. The tree smelled like fresh rain and pine. A small cloud formed around my mouth. It was so cold I could see my breath. I closed my eyes and heard the sounds of the flowing river and birds flying overhead. The beauty of the forest filled my head with daydreams—daydreams of fairies that rode the frozen breeze and unicorns that hid among the pine trees. I wandered aimlessly around the clearing. Small yellow daisies and dandelions covered the forest floor. I picked up a dandelion and blew on it softly. Then I closed my eyes and made a wish. I wished to stay in that clearing forever. * * * We pushed onward for what felt like an eternity. We climbed deeper into the mountains until we reached a small ledge overlooking the Grand Prismatic. It looked like some kind of jewel. It poured over the barren, burnt terrain like liquid gold. The ground was cracked and burnt. It was strange to see the barren ground after emerging from the blooming forests. Sunlight sparkled on the spring’s colorful surface. It looked so shallow even though it was hundreds of feet deep. It was a deep blue in the center, but it turned into an emerald green around the edges. Silver steam hung above the spring. Even with the vibrant colors, the water was crystal clear. “Wow,” I breathed. * * * We drove back to the campsite in a dark-grey Jeep. The window was freezing cold, but my brother and I had turned on the seat heaters and were blasting the hot air. We slowly pulled into the campsite parking lot. I hopped out and ran to the tent. “I bet you can’t catch me!” I called to my brother as I ran to the tent as fast as I could. He ran behind me but never caught up because I was older. I slammed my hand on the sign that read “TENT 13.” “No fair! You cheated! You had a head start!” he complained. “Did not.” I laughed. Then I noticed a grass path near our tent. “Let’s go exploring.” I walked to the path and began to follow the winding trail. “Wait up!” he called and ran up next to me. We went down the muddy path and hopped over a muddy ditch. My boots were stained and Keane’s pants were covered in streaks of mud. There was a sense of adventure in the air. We followed the grassy path until we could barely see the campsite. At that moment, we were in our own world. We let our imaginations run wild. It’s strange—when you’re little, the world around you can be anything you want it to be. We were pirates and mermaids, explorers of strange lands; we would fly to the moon and back, or save the world. We came upon a sparkling river. Tiny islands sat in the center, and flowers scattered the muddy islands. Green grass lay
January 2021
Spring
Oil Sloka Ganne, 10Overland Park, KS
A Place in the World
Desperately missing his homeland and sick of moving every few weeks, Orson decides to run away “Welcome to Brooklyn: Home to Everyone From Everywhere!” read the sign as Orson and his family approached New York City in their beat-up, gray minivan. Most people would have been amazed by the breathtaking sites of the Big Apple, but Orson merely sighed as he glanced over at the Statue of Liberty. Both his parents attempted to muster a smile, but they too were pained as they drove to their temporary apartment. Orson had first believed that America would be full of opportunity. At least that’s what his parents had told him. But ever since his family had moved to the States, everything had gone wrong for them. Orson’s parents couldn’t maintain jobs for more than a month at a time; they were forced to move across the country every few weeks, and Orson was placed into school after school, never having time to make any sort of friend. Orson had stopped attempting to even talk to any of the kids in school after moving for the eleventh time in a row. Orson and his family opened the door to their new apartment. They all frowned as they were greeted by a worn-out “WELCOME” mat with mold growing between the letters. Orson was the first to step into the apartment. He stared at the floor, immediately noticing several black burns on the wool carpet. The apartment was full of the stench of smoke, making him cough until he adjusted to the unfamiliar smell. The walls were faded, and as he got closer, his nostrils were assaulted by a foul odor that made even his parents cringe with disgust. Orson had seen some terrible apartments before, but this one definitely took the No. 1 spot on the list of most awful places he had ever had to call home. Normally, every time they moved, Orson’s mother would have reassured him that everything was going to turn out fine. But this time, she weakly put her hand on his shoulder, walked past him, and dropped onto the couch, passing out from exhaustion. The fifteen-hour drive had definitely taken a toll on the family. Orson’s father groggily placed a blanket and pillow by his wife’s side and turned to Orson. “Hungry?” he asked. Orson nodded, just as his stomach loudly rumbled in agreement. Orson and his father left his mom on the couch and took to the streets of New York in search of food. It turned dark as Orson and his dad walked. Orson barely took notice of the shining skyscrapers, the blaring horns, or the people shouting. Instead, he was daydreaming of a life where he and his family were happy and comfortable. A life where Orson could make friends at school and have a home that didn’t have cigarette burns and sickly stenches. But Orson was brought back to reality as his dad nudged him, pointing out a convenience store. There, they purchased enough food and snacks for the rest of the week and headed back to their apartment. Orson and his dad crept back into their room with the groceries. They found Orson’s mother still fast asleep on the couch. Orson’s dad pulled snacks out of the bags and beckoned Orson to take a bag of chips, but Orson shook his head. He had lost his appetite upon being snapped back from his perfect, imaginary world. “No, I think I’m just going to go to bed,” Orson mumbled. He turned from his father and began to walk toward the bedrooms. “I know how you feel,” his father suddenly said to him. Orson stopped mid-stride. He turned around and looked his father straight in the eyes. “How would you know how I feel?” Orson blurted. His words came out cold and harsh. “Do you know how it feels to be the outsider everywhere you go? Do you know how it feels when every time you finally think you’ve found a friend, you’re forced to let go? Do you? Because that’s what I feel every day. Every time you can’t keep a job. Every time we move. That’s how I feel.” Orson turned and pushed the door of his room open. He slammed it shut and threw himself onto the bed. Even through the door, Orson heard his father sigh a heavy sigh, turn off the lights, and go to bed. Orson sat up in his bed and looked out the window. His sudden outburst of emotion had surprised even him. Orson began to contemplate what he would say to his father in the morning. As he thought, the lights of the city gleamed into his room. He began gazing down at the people roaming the streets. Many walked in groups, several walked alone, but almost all of them moved with purpose, as though they knew just what they were doing and where they were going. “All those people down there have a place in the world,” he whispered to himself. “So why shouldn’t I?” Orson quickly slid out of bed and planted his feet on the floor. He quietly creaked open his door and slipped into the living room. Orson tiptoed toward the kitchen counter and snatched the bag full of food. He then emptied the snacks and a few other necessities into his backpack. Suddenly, he heard movement and froze. He directed his gaze toward his mother. He had completely forgotten about her. Luckily, she was still asleep, but it was clear she was disturbed by the noise Orson was making. She yawned and stretched her arms. As she slowly sat up, Orson hurried back into his room. He glanced frantically around for an escape route. Unfortunately, the window seemed to be the only option. He pushed it open with some difficulty and slung his bag onto his back. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the bars of the fire escape. “Ohhh, no . . .” Orson groaned as he
