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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

January/February 2017


By

Family

The thing about family is, they’re always there for you. No matter the circumstances. They don’t care if you’re ugly, or dress right, they just care that you are you. They love you. I am searching for my family. I have lived in different houses, with different mothers and fathers, uncles and aunts, but I still haven’t found my family; but I know, one day, I will find them. *          *          * As I look out the window at the passing fields with blue skies hanging above them like blankets to keep them safe from the fiery red sun, I think of my new home. I wonder if it will be like the last, happy and cheerful on the outside but dark and secretive on the inside. Maybe it will be like the one before that, crusted and falling apart, with small children crunched tightly in every crook of the house. Or the one before that, my mind cringes at the thought of it… no, it can’t be like that house. Maybe this house will be my dream house, with my perfect family inside. I just don’t know what my dream house is, but I know that I’ve never come close to it before. Maybe this time… My thoughts are interrupted as I hear a sputtering coming from the back of the silver minivan as we slowly drive to the side of the highway. My driver mutters something under his breath and gets out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Tentatively, I follow him out. He sees me but, other than a glance, does not acknowledge that I’m there. “Hi,” he briskly speaks in the phone. “Is this AAA?” “Excuse me, sir,” I ask, slowly at first, “what is wrong with the car?” He gives me a condescending look. “If I knew, we would be on the road right now,” he answers, as he pops open the hood. He walks over to the front seat of the car and rummages around for about five minutes. Finally he comes out with something in his hand. “Aha!” he says, as he pulls out his phone and begins dialing. He puts the phone to his ear and paces back and forth in front of me several times. “Hi,” he briskly speaks in the phone. “Is this AAA?” I decide not to listen any longer and to go into the van to sleep. I’ve had a long day anyway, I guess it’s just like any other day… *          *          * I wake up to the sound of the front door slamming. I look up at my driver expectantly. He takes a deep breath and begins speaking. “Well, we’re gonna be here for a long time, Angela.” He takes another deep breath, as if he’s tired from this short sentence; then he continues, but I’m not sure if he is talking to me or himself. “AAA can’t come for hours, and foster care can’t come for longer, so we’re stuck here for who knows how long!” He hits his head with his small fist and sinks into his seat. I bring my knees to my chest and try to fall asleep again, but I’m already thinking. “Ummm… mister?” I say, not knowing his name. “Yes?” he says, looking up. “And it’s Chris, by the way.” “Chris?!” My heart leaps at the name. “I know a Chris!” Chris’s eyebrows rise. “You do?” He seems surprised, like he’s never met anyone with the same name as him. “Well… I did.” As I say this my heart falls deeper than before, into the darkest of oceans. “Not anymore.” I look at my feet. Chris was a friend I had met at my first foster home, when I was just five. He showed me around the house and told me everything there was to know about foster care. He was there for me when I became an orphan, and I trusted him with my biggest secrets. He was my best friend. Then, one morning, I woke up and he was gone. No goodbye hugs, not even a note. He was just… gone. For more than a year after that, I couldn’t sleep without him wandering my dreams, and waking up crying with no friends to comfort me. I was alone. Now, eight years later, it still hurts to think of him. My only friend. I bury my head in my knees but don’t cry; Chris silently stares ahead at the tall grasses, swaying in the wind. “Wanna sit up front?” He pats the seat next to him. “There’s no point in having you back there anymore, it’s not like we’re moving or anything. Plus, you’re thirteen!” I am shocked. No one has ever asked me to sit in the front seat in my entire life! But he does have a point, I am thirteen. I slowly climb into the passenger seat and am surprised by how much more comfortable the front seats are. Now that I am next to Chris, I take this silent moment to study him. He wears a red-and-gray-plaid shirt, with blue jeans and a pair of sneakers. His dark brown hair is parted to the side, and his eyes remind me of the bright blue sky outside; his skin is creamy white, like freshly whipped cream, and he has freckles dotted around his face. He looks young, around eighteen, but I’m not sure… “Do you want to listen to music?” Chris asks, reaching for the radio in the car. “Sure,” I agree politely, although I never seem to like the same music as my drivers do. Chris presses the power button but quickly puts his hands up and turns to me. “You have complete control over the radio, Angela,” he smiles, and I smile back. “You can call me Angie,” I say, as I begin scrolling stations. I watch Chris’s face cringe for every disconnected station we pass, and I try to find a good one soon. Finally, after about five minutes


By

The Search for Literature

I run my fingers across the shelves Waiting for one to catch my eye Row after row my fingers run Failure takes a step closer But there in the dusty corner Hidden by the screen of forget Lies the love of my life that will only last a couple of hours Bright red with gold lettering A hard skin protecting its insides No telling what it’s like But I have a good feeling Gently I pick my discovery up To me, it’s a block of gold My breath stirs the grime on top I back up slowly and sit on the carpeted floor Ready for an adventure, I lift the hard cover My eyes move from left to right As the personality of the book in my hands is revealed Connor Park, 12Mukilteo, Washington


By

Lost by Liberty

TODAY It’s an almost perfect day. The sun has just come out after a long lazy nap in the clouds. It’s the kind of day when elves and unicorns and faeries can be found. And if you climbed to the very top of the largest oak you’d see a rainbow. It’s the same kind of day that I first met Oliver. I was four, and I hardly remember anything from back then, but that day I clearly remember. I was helping out in my father’s printing shop. I watched in fascination how he set the letters on the press. It was then that Oliver came in. He couldn’t explain why he came by himself here, and he insisted that he wasn’t lost. Soon he went out, and when my father wasn’t looking, I ran out after him. It turned out we both loved exploring and magical creatures, and both of us wondered why the sky was blue. We were friends. Today, we should have been running through the woods, or seeing who could swing the highest and then jump. It’s a wonderful day for that. But we weren’t.   THREE YEARS AGO I’d just turned nine. He was going on ten. I was up in that highest oak, he on the same branch. We were racing to get to the top first, and as usual, we tied. As usual, my dress got torn, although I had promised my mother to be more careful today. On the very last branch, where the leaves teased and tickled our arms, we sat down to take a rest. I took a newspaper out of my pocket, for lately I had taken a liking to the news. It had a stamp printed in the right corner. I started reading. “Taxation without representation is tyranny!” “Parliament Passes Stamp Act.” I waited for his response. He didn’t say anything. I continued reading. “We did not consent to this. Taxation without representation is tyranny!” I especially enjoyed the way the last sentence felt, how the letters bounced with energy on my tongue. Again there was silence. Then he spoke, slowly, a pause between each word. “I think… it’s… only natural that we should pay taxes. After all… we are subjects of King George.” This time I didn’t say anything. This was the opposite of what I was hearing at home. Since my father was a printer, the Stamp Act affected him very much. He had to pay a tax for every paper he printed. None of my family liked it. Why should we pay the Parliament if we couldn’t elect its members? But what worried me more was that this was the first time we didn’t agree on something. I didn’t like this painfully loud silence, so I suggested we look for gnome homes. Neither of us particularly wanted to do that (we were much too old, it was more like something my little sister would do), but it was better than silence, so we did it anyway.   THE NEXT DAY We were walking to the woods just like any other day. It was cloudy, just like any other day. But it was different, different in a way that I didn’t want to think about. I took off my shoes and went into the creek. The water stung. I saw a tadpole, reached down to catch it, but I noticed Oliver wasn’t there. He was sitting on a cool gray rock behind me. I turned to him. “Would you like to catch tadpoles?” He looked at the water. His shoes were still on. “Well, I talked to my father about the Stamp Act.” “And?” “He said that anyone who opposes it is a traitor to Britain.” That my father, and even I, might be traitors wasn’t something I’d wanted to consider. But Oliver’s father is different from mine. His father is a governor, appointed by King George. He’d never approved of us being friends. I didn’t know what to say. Before, I always knew what to say to Oliver. He continued talking. “And… he says he knew something horrid would result from us… mingling. He says that we ought not to be friends anymore.” The water stung even more than before. I’d read books about friends being driven apart, but overnight? No, it couldn’t happen. Never. “Oliver, surely you wouldn’t listen to him?” I looked in his eyes. He seemed as confused as me. “I… have to go home,” he said, softly.   AND THE DAY AFTER THAT Three o’clock. I quickly put down my books, said goodbye to my parents, and then ran out the door. It was only after I got to the hickory tree, where I met Oliver once he came back from his tutor’s house, that I remembered. Oh, I remembered. But I waited anyway. What was the worst that could happen? Sure enough, I saw him coming down the road. He didn’t look at me. “Oliver!” I yelled out. Nothing. “Oliver!” “I’ll never be friends with a traitor!” Down the road he went. Soon he disappeared from sight. I could only see the emptiness, his shadow lingering long after he had left. Two days ago, I disliked the Stamp Act. Now I hated it. One tax and two friends driven apart? I raced away, all alone.   ONE AND A HALF YEARS LATER I was at the harbor with my father. I wasn’t entirely sure why we were there. Earlier, that’s where my father would pick up shipments of ink and paper. But now we were boycotting English goods, instead making our own printing supplies, so why…? Looking back, it seems too odd of a coincidence. I stood there, looking at the ocean, thinking of England on the other side. The breeze observed me for a while. It saw I was far too happy and decided to show me some sadness. So it crept up and blew my newspaper, and I ran for it. It blew off into the harbor, and