It was spring in the mountains of Washington—a time of beauty and change. The heaviness of the snow was melting away, flooding the brooks and allowing the pines to stretch their branches once again after a long winter. Leaves were budding on the trees, no longer icy and dead. The whole world, it seemed, was slowly turning colors. Anne was sitting in the majesty of it all, lying back upon a rock and watching the geese disappearing into the clouds over the distant horizon. There was warmth from the sun and splendor all around. A woodpecker’s tapping, a firm rhythm, was the only sound in the silent mountains. The creek below slid easily by beneath her over the shining rocks lining its bed. The wetness of spring hung in the air, soft to breathe and alive with the scents of nature; there was wood and soil and moss. Tall grass waved in sprigs, jutting out of cracks in the rocks that tumbled over a steep slope. It was the place Anne called her Thinking Place, where all was peaceful. It was Anne’s last spring in the mountains There was much thinking to be done that spring. It was Anne’s last spring in the mountains. That very day she would be leaving the years behind, shedding them, and departing her aunt’s house to rejoin her family in California. She had been staying to finish the sixth grade while her parents readied their new home, but the signs of approaching summer—the fresh greens and budding flowers—signaled that it was time for her to go. Anne drew a wrinkled and fading photograph from her pocket, where it had been since she arrived at her aunt’s house. It showed her and her parents, with their home and the mountains in the background. She was eager to return to them, but they were like the flowers of summer—seeing them meant new beginnings, and new beginnings can only follow an end. Anne willed through the stillness of the forest that her aunt would not call her back too soon. There was a presence beside her. Anne glanced to her left. It was another girl, with black hair and soft blue eyes that were quietly staring at her. The girl met her gaze gently and turned back to the sketchbook on her lap to continue a drawing she was working on. The stillness continued, and neither said a word. They sat on the rock together and let the magic of the place engulf them. It was a long while before the time was right to speak. The first words came from Anne. Her question seemed not to cut through the silence but to blend with it. “Is this your Thinking Place too?” The other girl nodded and smiled, just a little. There was a piece of sadness, Anne realized, in the blue eyes. There was more silence. Then the girl’s question came, almost a whisper. “What are you thinking about?” The eyes drifted to the tear still clinging to Anne’s jaw. “I love this place,” Anne said simply. This was the truth, and it was all that the other needed to hear. A comforting arm reached around Anne’s shoulders. “Me too.” “What are you thinking about?” asked Anne, remembering the sadness in the blue eyes. “My parents split up… we’re finding a new place somewhere.” Anne understood. It was her turn to extend a comforting arm. So the two girls sat, each with a shoulder to lean on and one to hold. All was peaceful in their Thinking Place. The rocks stood firm on the slope, the grass waved about them, and the stream kept sliding by while the woodpecker tapped at its tree. And slowly, the world was spinning… time was slipping by. The sun began to disappear beyond the curve of the horizon. It glowed pure and red, leaking its color into the sky. There was soft golden light enveloping the mountains of Washington, bathing the Thinking Place and the girls in its pleasant warmth. The very dome above them shone with the glory of the setting sun. The whole world, it seemed, was turning colors. The girls leaned against each other and the orb sank lower, its color dappled by faint clouds. Then that sliver of scarlet disappeared, and there was a flash of brilliance. The girls couldn’t see it, but they felt it in their hearts… the assurance that the sun would return to glow over the Thinking Place—that the end of that day would make way for a new sunrise. * * * The voice of Anne’s Aunt finally cut through the silence. It was time for Anne to leave the mountains of Washington. The girls stood together and gazed out over the rocks and the brook and the forest. A bright sun dappled the entire page in a hopeful gold “Here.” The girl removed her drawing from the notebook and handed it to Anne. “Remember this moment.” “I will,” said Anne. She placed the photograph of her family in her friend’s hand. “Me too,” said the girl, and closed her fingers around it. Then Anne turned away from their Thinking Place, towards a future in California. She glanced back at her friend, standing on the rocks in the mountains, then examined the drawing. It showed the magic of their friendship and the Thinking Place in swirls of brilliant color. A bright sun dappled the entire page in a hopeful gold. Walking through the forest toward her aunt’s house, Anne turned the sheet over. There was a telephone number written on the back. Katie Mercer-Taylor, 13St. Paul, Minnesota Abigail Schott-Rosenfield, 13San Francisco, California
January/February 2010
Rumor
Frigid wind whips through my long brown hair and bites me with cold teeth. It carries the strong smell of the sea in it, which stings my nose. Gray, salty water is churned into waves by the gale and sprinkles my chilly bare feet that are sinking into the wet sand. A seagull struggles to fly to its nest. I watch the large bird as it finally defeats the wind and lands in a small hollow high on a weathered rock. I sniff, disappointed by the wind, then turn around and walk up the beach, avoiding flurries of gritty sand. Huge rocks like the one the seagull is perching in stud the beach and reach into the sky like the rough fingers of an old man. I come to the gravel road leading away from the beach and the sea and awkwardly hobble across it, not wanting to press my feet too hard against the sharp little rocks. I walk across a lawn of grass that is long and plush like a carpet. As I enter my small house, I welcome the warmth and savor the familiar smell. “Is that you, Nicole?” my mom calls from the kitchen. “Yes.” I enter the steamy room and sit at the table. My mom is at the stove, grilling the sea bass my brother, Brent, caught that morning for dinner. “Why back so soon?” She starts humming a pretty tune as she adds spices from glass shakers. “The wind is too cold,” I groan miserably. “I thought it might be,” Mom says knowingly, looking at me. I see that she is wearing her peach-colored apron. It has the handprints of Brent, Zoe, and me on it in red paint. Mine are smaller than my two older siblings’. “Well, that’s Maine’s beaches for you,” she sighs. I nod in agreement “It seems it always is,” I say, fiddling with the zipper of my jacket. “Well, that’s Maine’s beaches for you,” she sighs. I nod in agreement. Maine’s beaches are always cold and windy. I get up from the table and walk down the narrow hallway that leads to my room. School pictures of us three kids hang on the walls alongside my dad’s fishing boat, a large, proud vessel. Mom and Dad are standing next to each other in the bow of the boat, squinting in sunlight yet smiling. I enter my room, which is small like the rest of the house. Sand dollars of various sizes and hues are tacked to the walls, and the bedside table, desk, and dresser are all covered in dark, glossy seashells which I have collected along the beach and in tide pools. Several of my watercolor paintings add to the decoration, resting on the seagreen walls. They are mostly of the sea, but there are a few lighthouses as well. My bed is messy and unmade, as it usually is. I let myself fall onto it. I punch my pillow a couple times and lay my head down sideways. In this position I can see my painting of the large sky-blue lighthouse. It is taller and wider than most lighthouses, and unlike the rest of my paintings, it actually exists. I discovered it one day while exploring along the beach. It is old and rickety, abandoned, with wide sheets of wiry ivy growing on it. I think the ivy looks like it’s strangling the lighthouse, so I left that part out when I painted it a few weeks ago. That night, after dinner, and after I have brushed my teeth with thick toothpaste, my sister, Zoe, and I sit in the living room and look out the big window. We stare at the choppy waters, illuminated by the pale moon that sits in a throne of twinkling stars. The light of the moon dances on the water, glittering brightly. “The sea is so beautiful,” Zoe murmurs, tucking a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. I pull a blanket draped over the back of an armchair and wrap it snuggly around myself. * * * “I know,” I agree, “especially in the night.” The next day the wind has stopped. I am relieved and return to the beach, after Mom tells me to stay away from the water and be safe. Despite the wind’s absence, it is still cold. The sun shyly peeks through thin, stretched clouds, providing no warmth. Instead of heading back home, I start the short journey to the blue lighthouse. It is hidden in a small bay that has huge boulders blocking the entrance from the sea. Large trees grow around it, hiding it like a leafy wall. There is no door to the lighthouse, just rusty hinges connected to an empty frame. The sky-blue paint is faded and peeling, revealing cracked wood and rusty nails. The inside of the lighthouse is hollow and dim. I am sure there used to be doors and floors, but now it is just one large room that leads up to a glass roof, for the large light is gone too. A few bird nests are built on the wall, but I don’t hear anything from them. If ferrets smile, I’m sure that is what Rumor is doing A squeak brings my attention to the floor of the lighthouse, which is dirt and weeds now. A small ferret is looking at me cautiously. I can see its small legs are tensed, ready to run. I freeze, not wanting to scare it or make it angry. I am afraid it might be rabid. The ferret takes one step nearer to me. It seems to relax. It is brown and skinny with a long tail tipped with black. It has dark eyes ringed with white fur, as are its ears. I’m not sure if it is a boy or a girl, but I’ll pretend it’s a boy. “What’s your name?” I ask thoughtfully. My voice echoes in the lighthouse. “Is it… Rumor?” I realize using the word
Writing Is Like Knitting
Writing is like knitting. When you write or knit properly and take time to learn the craft, you can enjoy hours of pleasure from doing it. However, if you don’t take the time to learn the skill carefully, the needles or pen can be your downfall, stabbing away at your heart and making you angry or upset. It just depends on whether you’re patient. These words ran through Ruby McClure’s mind as she typed away at her old-fashioned typewriter that her grandmother had given her. Click! Click! Click! She pulled the page out of the typewriter and quickly re-read what she had written. Of course, she wasn’t nearly satisfied. Scowling in frustration, Ruby ripped the page into pieces and tossed it in the direction of the garbage can, where the pieces floated through the air and landed on the floor. Ruby’s deceased grandmother’s words came back to her as if her grandmother whispered them in her ear. Ruby knew that writing took time to learn, and you have to practice to master it. But, Ruby thought in exasperation, I have practiced, and if my writing doesn’t get accepted, how will I pay the bills? This was true. Ruby always knew that she wanted to be a writer, and she had always thought about that as she went through middle school, got her high school diploma, and graduated from college, but none of her novels had been accepted for publication. When she gave up her full-time job as a receptionist to become a freelance writer, acceptance became critical. Ruby’s only source of income came from writing short stories and submitting them to contests and magazines, but that wasn’t enough. After watching bill after unpaid bill stack up on her kitchen counter, Ruby started to doubt herself. She began to write more and more, which was good, but, reading it over, she recognized a forced quality in her writing, something that she had pointed out in a piece by a critiquing partner in a writing club that she had abandoned a few months ago. And nothing had been accepted. Ruby stared at the letter, not daring to believe it Ruby was sure she had taken time to learn the craft, but she knew that she couldn’t spend her life trying to convince herself that her novels were being rejected by numerous publishing houses because she hadn’t taken enough time to practice. Be patient, her grandmother would say. Ruby rubbed her temple wearily and decided to take a break to go check the mail. She stood up from the old swivel chair that she spent many hours of her day in. Since the extra bedroom that she called her office was so tiny, Ruby didn’t even have to turn to open the door that stood to the left of her desk. She cast one last glance behind her shoulder at the office as she stepped out the door, taking in the shelves, packed with books and papers and threatening to collapse any day, the card table that she called her desk, and the typewriter sitting upon it, an old, manual Underwood with a few broken keys, the only possession of her grandmother’s that Ruby had left. Ruby blinked in the bright light that came through a small window on the opposite wall and shut the door behind her. She walked down the hallway, enjoying the familiar sounds of creaking floorboards under her feet. Ruby opened a door and stepped onto a small porch. The paint was chipping off at the edges, and one side’s rails had already begun to rot. Ruby ambled down the driveway, blinking in the bright sunlight and enjoying the feel of fresh air on her skin, and remembered that she had to mow the lawn as soon as she got a chance, which, with her busy writing schedule, could take as long as two weeks to get to. She pulled open the mailbox and sorted through the envelopes, mostly magazines and junk mail, including one bill that Ruby opened with dread. She gasped as she read her electric and water bills. How can I ever pay this off? she thought. A knot grew in her stomach. Ruby pursed her lips and closed her eyes, wishing for the thousandth time that her novels would get accepted and she would be able to pay off the bills. One more letter still sat in the back of the crooked mailbox, a letter in a fancy envelope with curly cursive writing on the front that said: Ruby McClure 13330 Beach View Lane Brasewater, MS The return address was the one of a publishing house in North Dakota that Ruby remembered she had submitted to about a month ago. Ruby opened the letter casually, as she was sure that this was just another rejection letter. She didn’t even want to see what suggestions the editor would have for her novel. Only one sentence caught her eye: “Your novel, The Mage of Malilea, has been accepted for publication.” Ruby skimmed through the rest of the letter as it went on to explain what the editor liked about the manuscript, things that the editor would like to improve, the publishing contract, and so on. She barely processed the words, as she was absorbed in her success. Ruby stared at the letter, not daring to believe it. She lowered her hand and pulled out the enclosed contract that was also in the envelope. There it was, real, solid proof. Ruby raced back into her house, threw the letter onto the kitchen table, and, grabbing her cell phone, proceeded to call all of her friends. “Guess what, Becca?” Ruby nearly shouted into the telephone. “What?” “They accepted my manuscript!” “They did?” “They did!” Becca let out a shriek on the other end of the phone. “This is amazing, oh my gosh, oh my gosh, they’re going to publish you!” A few minutes later, after Ruby called everyone she knew to celebrate, she dropped into a comfortable leather
