fbpx

January/February 2001

Good-Bye Jack

I am writing this story to tell you about a little orphan boy. His name was Jack and he was my foster brother for two years. When Jack first came to live at our house, he was small. He carried his belongings in a laundry basket and wore jeans with holes in them. He had a scraggly mushroom haircut. When Jack was nervous and scared, he stuttered. He also was confused. One time, we went to my violin lesson at a church; he asked, “Is this my new home?” He would get mad a lot. He’d have temper tantrums and yell. I think he was mad because he felt that nobody wanted him. When Jack first came, I was worried that Jack might have to go live somewhere else, because he had lots of problems. I was afraid that he might hurt somebody. He broke many of my toys. I didn’t know what was going to happen to Jack. I didn’t think he would be adopted. I reassured myself, “Miracles can happen.” One Mother’s Day we were eating a big dinner. I looked over and Jack was hunched in his chair. My mom asked what he was doing. He looked up with tears in his eyes and said “I . . . I lost my mudder . . . I lost my mudder . . . I’ll never see her again.” His face was pale and he was crying softly. After that, none of us felt like eating. I never had a foster brother before. All I could do was be a big brother to him by teaching him and helping him, by playing with him, and by reading books to him. I showed him the real way to play. I made real truck noises—I pretended to make roads At first when we played trucks he would pull his truck off the ground and make a whooshing sound. He didn’t know how to play with trucks. I just played the way I knew how to play and he copied me. I showed him the real way to play. I made real truck noises—I pretended to make roads. With the bulldozer we made ditches near the road and put sticks in for pipes. Jack and I pretended to go on trips and go to houses. We dug holes with trucks. One time we wanted to dig to water so we could have our own swimming pool. We dug and we dug until it was up to Jack’s waist and then we gave up. We were pretty mad. In the summer, we’d go swimming at a little pond about two miles down the road. We liked to play an imaginary game called Dragon. Jack and I would get in the shallow water and we’d splash water on each other. If somebody got splashed more than five times he would die. I often let Jack win. Over the months, Jack started to get better. His speech got better, his imagination improved, he learned to draw, and he didn’t have as many temper tantrums. One day an adoption worker came and talked to Jack about adoption. They looked all over Maine and found some nice people who liked kids. When Jack met his new parents, it was a happy day. They introduced themselves and gave big hugs. His new parents were cheerful and bouncy. His dad had a big laugh, curly hair, and small glasses that sat on the end of his nose. His new mother had big brown gentle eyes, laughed softly, and had a flashing white smile. They talked, gave presents, and looked at Jack’s photo album. Jack played Legos on the rug with his new dad. That night when we were going to bed, Jack walked over to my bed and said, “Peter, I’m going to miss you and I don’t want to leave. I’m scared of moving.” Then he started to cry. He gave me a hug. I said, “They’re really nice people and they’ll be your real parents.” I think that made him feel better. He cried a little and went to sleep. We went on a visit to Jack’s new house. It was a big farmhouse with lots of windows which made a bright feeling. They kept a little turtle in a tank and pottery on tables around the house. I went up to Jack’s room and saw his comfy-looking bed with lots of covers. The house was near the ocean. The day Jack left, his parents arrived in a pickup truck. We had juice and doughnuts. Jack gave me a hug. I looked down and saw my trucks where we used to play. I walked up to Jack and put all my trucks into his bag. Jack jumped into the truck and drove down the driveway. I had my eyes fixed on the truck as it disappeared behind the trees. I kept looking where it had disappeared. There was a long silence. That night in bed I thought about all the good things we did together. I thought of trucks. I thought of swimming. When Jack first came he was just a kid to play with, but after two years living with him, he was my real little brother. Peter Swegart, 10Rome, Maine Lucy Strother, 11Milwaukee,Wisconsin

The Chase

Dust twirled up into the sky as the mother cheetah chased after the young gazelle. Like all cheetahs, she had a flexible spine, enabling her to cover the ground quickly by taking huge strides. Using her speed as a weapon she took a leap and brought the young animal down, then, taking it by the throat and piercing its windpipe, she suffocated it. Then she gulped down the bloody flesh quickly, for fresh meat soon attracts scavengers; a vulture, a jackal, a marabou stork, it seemed everyone had a share in her well-earned prize. After pulling most of the red bloody flesh off her dead animal she lifted her graceful strong head and raced off toward her den, which was holding two cubs. As she came to a halt at the den, a huge flash of lightning struck the ground, and the sound of thunder cracked in the dark sky. A hyena screamed and ran from its hiding place, and a small herd of gazelles stood shivering, like a shimmering water hole on the grassy plain. The first drops of cold rain splattered onto the cheetah’s nose and descended slowly onto the bloody scruff. She stood with her head up, sniffing the gusty air; for a second she stood frozen, then backed slowly down the passage to her screaming cubs. Slowly, slowly until she hit the tunnel end and found her pups. They lifted their tiny noses to her mouth and made worrying noises up to her. The regurgitated food dropped onto the sandy floor. The pups exploded with excitement and pushed their way toward it; their eyes were already open, and the stronger cub had dominance over the smaller, weaker one. Their mother lay down and started grooming her sandy brown fur. A bolt of lightning flashed down to the ground just near enough for them to see the sparks of fire, but with their eyes closed in pleasure they saw nothing. She gulped down the bloody flesh quickly Suddenly the grass was a licking amber flame. In an instant the frightened cheetah picked up the stronger cub and rushed to the entrance. The fire licked into the den as they proceeded up to it. Her strong back legs bunched under her and the rows of well-built muscle that had been developed for sprinting at ninety kilometers per hour were now all used to jump high into the air with the cub. The flames engulfed her like a lion jumping through a hoop of fire. They made it with ease and ran off through the golden grass. The tiny cub screamed and dragged herself up to the entrance of the earth. The flames were too intense for her and they burnt her little whiskers and quivering wet nose. The frightened creature scampered helplessly back down to the chamber, her tail between her scrawny legs. The earth fell away as she scratched at the soil. Every time her paws hit the solid wall she whimpered painfully. Where was the emergency exit? She tried in vain to cast her mind back to when the lioness had attacked them; her mother had saved them by blocking up the entrance. Now the soil that for so long had been her friend held her back. There must be a way out. She was sure of it! Glancing back to the entrance of the earth she saw, to her horror, one of the longer roots had burst into glowing flames. Frantically she started to dig. Her baby paws scrabbled at the sides of the tunnel, sending sheets of earth flying behind her. She battered at it with her head, desperate to force a way through. Earth clogged her eyes and nostrils. The large root had glowed dangerously for some time, now it burst with light and golden colors—flames! The cub’s paws broke through the sidewall. She slid halfway down a sooty tunnel and stopped. Behind her the bedding had caught fire. Breathing hard she kicked at the soft earth; the air was full of drifting dust. Her long pink tongue and throat were coated in sticky sand, and as she broke out of the tunnel a fine drizzle started, wetting her face. Bedraggled, disheveled and soaking wet, she struggled on, following the telltale scent of her mother. She screamed in triumph as the dark silhouette of her parent came into view. She scampered happily up to her, wagging her tail and purring in delight. They curled up with the older cub and closed their eyes in pleasure. Outside the wind howled round and the rain pelted down, while lightning lit up the sky. They were cozy and warm in their new-found den; it was small but comfortable with the small amount of bedding they found. The dawning was wet, but with happiness for all animals that gathered. Herds of hundreds grazed on the grassfilled plains. Wildebeest, gazelles and large families of warthogs—they all scurried around a fallen tree finding food, and so did the cheetahs. Silently the two cubs and the long-legged female perched on the top of a warm, gray rock. The youngsters were too interested in the family of wobbly quail that were pecking at the long grass seeds. They never noticed the small herd of gazelle. Her speed was tremendous, like a blurred object The mother cheetah, although young, was too wise to be distracted by such a small meal. The pickings she was focusing on were larger, stronger and faster; also, they were much more nutritious and rich in goodness and would help her produce better milk, so her cubs would grow stronger. Taking no notice of the noisy creatures, she padded down the rock onto the grass. She crept along on her tummy until within three meters, then sprang forward. It was a good take-off, and she was catching up with the young buck that she had being observing for some time. Her speed was tremendous, like a blurred object—faster than the eye could follow; she gripped the hard

The Berry Patch

I have always been an early bird. I love to wake around 5:45 AM every morning, even on weekends. Mom says my early-birdness comes from Nanna Mary, but I’m not sure about that. I felt so alive this morning, energy climbed and slipped all throughout me, like a bird waiting to be let out of its cage. Normally I just end up standing by the window looking at the street lights, watching the different-colored cars pass with yawning drivers blinking at the rising sun. This morning was different for me. I crept downstairs, keeping myself on tiptoes and taking river steps (Momma’s name for big steps) until I reached the doorknob of the back door. I twisted it very slowly, sucking in my breath. I didn’t want anyone to hear me leave. The door opened and cool morning air hit me. I was only in my nightie and it grabbed me like an unknown stranger. I could almost taste the dew in the grass, and I could feel the flowers opening to the rising sun. I can feel a row of ants march across my leg, and I can hear the birds begin their song I slid my old sneakers on and started walking to my secret berry patch. Leaves brushed against my face, whispering to me playfully. The berry patch is my thinking spot. I first discovered it when I moved here from Florida. I think the berries represent me. When we moved here the berries were all tiny, hard, and green, innocent, not knowing what life had to offer, just like I was, stiff and tense from the move. As the months passed, the berries developed to become big, black and juicy, full of life, full of knowing. That’s how I felt, I had opened up and met friends. I was no longer hard and green, I was soft and juicy. I can feel a row of ants march across my leg, and I can hear the birds begin their song. The sun is up now; it’s dancing on my face. I know it’s time for me to get up and go to school. Mom is probably in the kitchen by now, cooking pancakes in her chewed-up moccasins, and my sister is probably skipping around her begging if she can help pour the batter into the pan. I start to walk home and as I look back I see a big black berry. I smile to myself and, of course, I pick it . . .   Lia C, 13, author British Columbia, Canada Hannah Richman, 13, Kittanning, Pennsylvania