January/February 2017

My Deepest Desires

I want to be one with the earth I want to sink my feet into the soft dirt and feel no difference between myself and the world      around me. I want to slip into the cool river water and float as if I am made of it. I want to climb the tallest trees and daringly sway in the breeze. I want to look into a wolf’s eyes and feel no fear at all. I want to be one with the earth. Isabel Taylor, 13Royal, Arkansas

The Boy Fictionalist

For all my life, I had hated writing. In fact, I had loathed it. When we were at school, our class would have to do writing exercises every day. My teacher, Ms. Sanders, would write a seemingly random topic on our whiteboard every morning. Before the end of class, each and every one of us had to write at least ten sentences about it. I remember doing this day after day, and I found it tedious and time-consuming but also quite pointless. Although I didn’t like it, I would write my ten sentences anyway. This continued for the first couple months of the school year, and after a while, it wasn’t so bad. One day, I came into my classroom. There was change in the air, and I realized what it was very quickly. Rather than “Current Canadian Holidays” or “Early Wind Instruments,” there was something unusual written on the whiteboard. It said, in large lettering, “Free Writing—write whatever you want.” I wasn’t going to waste any time. I expeditiously began writing a short story that I called “The Ghost Child.” As I sat at my desk and commenced work, a boy named Robert walked up behind me. Robert was fairly tall for his age with a pasted-on smirk, jet-black hair, and constant bad breath. “The Ghost Child,” he said mockingly, leaning over my shoulder. “That has to be the stupidest name I’ve ever seen. Out of all the kids in this room with cutesy titles like ‘Little Dead Hiding Wood’ or ‘Jack and the Leanwalk,’ yours is the worst.” While I don’t want to call anyone the meanest kid, Robert was pretty mean and quite annoying. “Mom, I wrote this, and I thought you might want to read it” I rolled my eyes, the best tactic for getting him to leave me alone. “Robert, please just do your writing.” “Ha!” he scoffed. “Let me get right on that, Griffin Boy. What should mine be called? Hmm… How about ‘Peter Griffin Writes Hit Story!’ But I’m sure my lowly writing could never compete with ‘The Ghost Kid,’ could it?” I rolled my eyes again. “Very funny. And it’s ‘The Ghost Child.’” I resumed writing my story as Robert walked off to find someone else to put down. For the rest of the week, Ms. Sanders would write the same thing on the whiteboard: “Free Writing—write whatever you want.” Working in the mornings, after completing lessons, and sometimes at home, I was able to finish writing “The Ghost Child” over the course of the week. Creating that story, I was opened to a better and more enjoyable side of writing—fiction. I decided to show my newly written story to my mother, Anna Griffin. She has curly brown hair and beautiful green eyes. She is a fantastic singer, would eat key lime pie every day if she could, and loves the color yellow. She’s also the sweetest, most encouraging mother in the entire world. Once I finished perfecting the details of my story, I went downstairs and walked into our living room where my mom was sitting on a red chair, using her computer. “Mom,” I said. She looked up from her computer. “I wrote this, and I thought you might want to read it.” I held out the papers that made up my story. “Of course I would, honey,” she replied as she took the papers. I watched as she adroitly scanned the page. When she finished reading, a smile emerged on her face. “Wow!” she exclaimed. “This is really good! When did you write it?” “I started about a week ago at school, and I just finished.” “At school?” She looked taken aback. “I thought you didn’t like the writing that you did at school.” “That was before,” I said, “back when all we wrote about were Prehistoric Amphibians and Civil War Leaders.” “And that’s not what you write about anymore?” “That’s right. One day I walked into the classroom, and Ms. Sanders had written: ‘Free Writing—write whatever you want.’ I think she might do that for a while because that’s what she’s written this whole week.” “Well, that’s fantastic! Promise me you’ll write another story soon. I really like ‘The Ghost Child.’ It’s hard to believe that a ten-year-old wrote it!” “I’ll write another story soon, Mom,” I replied. “I promise.” “Great!” My mother leaned over her computer and kissed me on the forehead. “I love you, Peter. More than you’ll ever imagine.” *          *          * Over the next few months, I was able to write five original short stories. My mom would always love them no matter what and encourage me to write more and more. The only conversation I recall from that time period occurred when I was feeling discouraged about my writing. “Mom,” I said, “it’s not any good.” “Of course it is, Peter,” she replied. “It has to be good. It was written by you, after all.” “OK, whatever,” I said, handing her the sheets of paper. She took them and began reading. As she finished, I anticipated her telling me that my story was great and I was kidding myself to think that it wasn’t. That didn’t happen. “Peter, you see only the bad things in your writing. You may think that it’s bad now, but when you’re my age, you’ll see how good it truly is.” “When I’m your age,” I said, “that story will be somewhere underneath a golf course. There’s no way I’ll still have it for that long.” “Then let me word that differently. Your children will surely write stories, and sometimes they will only see the bad things. At that point, you’ll be my age, and you will see the good things.” That actually made a lot of sense. “I guess I see what you mean.” “Hopefully, you can see the good things about your story now. Just try looking as hard as you can.” I began to notice some small details, little snippets of writing that were

Adopted

We walked home together. We talked about schoolwork,    and then you said, “You are adopted. I’m sorry.” Sometimes you commented on the dirt on my clothes    as we walked out of school. But this felt different, like we were at a party and all of a sudden    the music stopped and everyone stared at me. The words take me back: You’re adopted. I’m sorry? What did you say? These words make me feel like I should hide in a box    and never come out. I am utterly quiet while my hands clench into fists. You shattered the moment, the laughing, the talking, everything. And you know it. I am like a rope held together by trust and care.    That rope has been severed— A rope made of tiny threads that wear out if you use it too much—    by you. And you can say “I’m sorry” because you do not know what it is like To feel the shadow of hurtful words. To feel small    Because you cast the shadow. Now think    Deep       Deep          Deep Could you say that now? Would you say that now? All those times you were mean this is just hurtful. Zoe Savishinsky, 12Seattle, Washington