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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

July/August 2017


By

Softball

I had only one thought in mind, and that was: Get. To. First. I stood in the box, wriggling my toes around in my cleats along with the sand that had somehow managed to wedge itself in there. It was a hot, cloudless summer day and I regretted wearing long wool knee-high socks, though they were part of my uniform. The green-and-white bat felt heavy in my hands, as well as the large purple batting helmet atop my head. I looked nervously at the pitcher’s mound and watched as she wound up… and threw. I watched as my teammate swung…and missed. Another hit, and I’m up, I thought, another hit and all the pressure is on me. It’s not that I don’t like softball, because I do. I love throwing and catching with my teammates, going to batting cage. But the prospect of batting in a real game makes me want to crawl under a rock for a few weeks. Behind me, in the dugout, I could hear my teammates cheering. That gave me a little courage but not much. Clang! I watched the softball sail through the air. An outfielder lunged but missed the ball and it rolled neatly onto the ground. She snached it up and made a wild throw to first as my teammate rounded it then touched second. “Safe!” called the umpire, though distantly in my head. More sharply did I hear, “Batter up!” My stomach flopped around and then violently tried to eat itself, but I forced my quivering legs to walk the couple yards to home plate. It felt like miles, especially with the ump and pitcher watching expectantly. My team really needed a hit. The score was one-to-two, in our opponent’s favor. We had runners on second and third, there were two outs. My nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point, I wished someone—anyone—would do it instead of me. But nonetheless, there I was. It didn’t help that I hadn’t gotten a hit all season. My only experience with batting was swinging and missing, swinging and missing. I shouldered my bat, lined my feet up with home plate, and concentrated on the pitcher. If I was going to have to do this, I might as well try as hard as I possibly could. The pitcher wound up, and threw. I panicked, trying to remember everything I had ever learned about batting in a split second. The ball landed short at my feet, but I still made a wobbly swing. “Strike!” called the umpire. I winced. No! You knew that was a grounder, I thought, why didn’t you leave it alone? I promised myself that I wouldn’t swing at any more balls. (A ball in hitting terms is something to avoid, something unhittable.) Next pitch the softball whizzed by my shoulders and I didn’t do anything. “Strike two!” But when the next ball rolled my feet, I was ready for it, staying stiffly where I was. Three more softballs hit the dirt and my bat didn’t move. I looked up in surprise as one of the coaches rolled out the blue pitching machine. Had I really gotten four balls? Something like hope stirred up inside of me. The pitching machine! In my league, that’s what they brought out if you had four balls. It always threw perfectly, you could always swing at it. “You ready?” asked the coach.I nodded stiffly, my helmet bobbing up and down on my head. The coach brought his hand up and around, just like a real pitcher, and released. I tensed and then something inside me clicked. I was going to swing at that ball and hit it. The ball was almost upon me, I tensed, waited for just the right moment, and then swung. Hips first, then elbows, then bat just like my coach had taught me only twenty minutes before. Ball hit bat. The clang echoed around in my mind. I had done it! I hit the ball! Then the more sensible part of me reminded myself that I still had to get to first base. I dropped my bat and was off. I ran as hard and fast as I possibly could. I had only one thought in mind, and that was: Get. To. First. Adrenaline raced through my body. I wasn’t tired, or if I was I couldn’t feel it. I didn’t have time for that sort of nonsense. In seconds, I was running through first as the first-base player ran to get her missed ball. I looked to the right and saw my dad (who was also the first-base coach), a gleam of excitement in his eyes, waving his arms in an ecstatic windmill-like fashion. I knew what that meant. Keep going. I turned, dug my cleats into the dirt, and began to run to second. As I ran, I managed to turn my head a little to see what was going on in the field. One of the girls on the other team had the ball and was winding up for a throw to second. I sped up with all the strength I had left, my arms pumping at my sides. When I was only a few feet from the base, I dropped to my bottom and slid. The front half of my foot touched the base. Ball hit glove. “Safe!” called the umpire. Sonja Skye Wooley, 12Berkeley, California Caroline Troll, 11Somerset, Pennsylvania


By

Not Just a Dream

I knew that the memories of my mother would burn on forever Wind rushed through my long hair as I ran through the spring-green grasses of my mother’s farm. I was the happiest I had ever been. I ran through fields, picking flowers and tucking them behind my ears. I felt like a little girl again, so free, so wild. I ran with the birds, flying high above me in the sun. I felt like I could just jump and I would fly. I tried. I was flying, flying higher than the sun; leaping, bounding, laughing. Then, I woke up. My laugh faded, I looked around at my closet of a room and sighed. I was still in musty, dirty, and polluted New York City, in my small apartment, living with my absent father. When was I going to get out of here? I couldn’t stand it any longer! After my mother had died, my father had hidden any remembrance of her. He sold all of her clothing, sold all her trinkets from around the world, and sold her books. She had a whole library filled with books. Her books were historic, she got them from her travels: Egypt, Asia, Greece, everywhere! Now, there was nothing left here, except for her memories. The memories of her singing Joni Mitchell out of tune in the car, the memories of her teaching me how to ride a horse, pressing flowers from the garden, and learning to read books. These memories brought tears to my eyes. I jumped out of bed, put on my favorite dress, although I didn’t know why. I slowly walked into the small kitchen that held only a microwave, a minimum amount of cabinets, and a miniature table. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat down at our table to eat. My dad was at work, like he always was at this time. It was still summer, so I sat at the small table and waited. Most kids my age dreaded the day school would start, but I couldn’t wait. I had nothing to do. At the farm I had everything in the world to do: I could explore, I could pick flowers, I could help my mother cook our meals, or I could ride my horse, Rose, a mare with beautiful spotted white hair. I remember my mother asking me what I wanted to name her. I decided as quick as I could on my last name, Rose. Cecilia Rose, that was my name. I hated the name for myself, but it suited her just fine. Rose was another treasure my father sold when my mother passed away. I continued to sit at the table, waiting for my father to return. I walked around the very small apartment and waited…and waited. At 5:45 p.m., my father arrived. His face was encrusted with dirt and his hand was bleeding heavily. “Dad, are you OK?” I asked, concerned. He didn’t answer, he just walked straight into his room. I went to bed that night with no words spoken. My father had disappeared into his room and had not returned. That night I had a different dream. I was running, leaping, and picking flowers. I was happy, like in the other dreams I had in the past nights. Then, in the distance, I saw my mother. She was walking closer and closer. She was beautiful, her long white dress cascaded down like a waterfall, gently flowing until it reached the ground. Her face shined bright like an angel. Her golden locks blew in the wind. She walked closer and closer. As she approached I was filled with a warm sensation of new comings. I woke up and knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to cry. I sat on the edge of my bed and I cried. I cried for joy, I cried for sadness, I cried for letting go, and I cried for moving on. I thought of all the things I would do and all the things I would miss. Stella Keaveny Haapala, 12Portland, Oregon Viktoriya Kukarekina, 10Flower Mound, Texas


By

Goodbye, Mr. Semach

The air smelled of sea salt and the day was as bright as the sun I hopped into my friend Teddy Ertel’s white Honda Pilot SUV on July 26, 2016. My friends Jonny, Teddy, and Mir were there too. We were going to Teddy’s beach club, Catalina, which was located in Atlantic Beach. We all squished into the back seats, fighting for room. As I banged into Teddy, I heard, “Ow, that hurt.” The only thing that was more uncomfortable than my tight swim trunks was realizing that Jonny Semach, one of my best friends, would be moving over 5,000 miles away, back to his home country of Israel, and this was the last day I would be seeing him. He would be on a flight to Western Israel on July 28 and I wasn’t going see him again before he left. Usually the beach is the one peaceful spot that can soothe my problems and stress. However, on this day it felt dreary and dismal. I knew it was going to be an agonizing day but also knew that spending it with three of my best friends would make it a little more bearable. I’d known Jonny for a long time. I met him during the first grade at PS 158 and we became instant friends. As soon as I saw him, standing in the corner with his eyes opened wide, I realized that he looked petrified to be joining a new school. Right then I made the decision to introduce myself. I scooted over to him and said, “Hi, I’m Tyler. Do you want to be my friend?” He answered me in a shaky voice and said, “Yes, my name is Jonathan.” I don’t know why, but from that moment on I started calling him Jonny and it stuck. We bonded while playing with the trains during choice time and that bond grew stronger through the years. In addition, I also knew Mir for a long time, even longer than Jonny. Teddy and I became close friends in fifth grade. The car ride to Catalina Beach Club was both a depressing and bittersweet experience, because, even though we all knew Jonny would be leaving, we also knew that we were lucky to be able to create one last memory with him at a place we all enjoyed, the beach. Once we got through the arched, tremendous entrance and signed into the beach club, we sprinted toward the ocean. My all-time favorite place to be is the beach. The sound of the waves was extremely peaceful, so I started to relax a little. In addition, the waves seemed as huge as a gigantic waterfall, just like the first time I went there with Jonny the year before. That time it was only he and I. There was a carnival at the beach that day which included a dunk tank and an extremely tall water slide that towered over us. Jonny and I took turns in the dunk tank and laughed like hyenas when we hit the target, sending each of us into the dirty, sandy water. We raced down the water slide again and again, and whoever won got bragging rights to say who was the fastest. Since we were such good friends, it never mattered to either of us who won. The flow of our conversation was always calm and easy. Getting back to my last hours with Jonny, the air smelled of sea salt and the day was as bright as the sun. The ocean was clear, not a piece of seaweed to be seen. As we approached the water, Jonny asked in a depressed, glum voice, “Is today the last day I’m going to see you?” I responded by saying, “No… it won’t be, so don’t think about it,” but in reality I really didn’t know if I’d ever see him again. I was reassuring both myself and him.It was like I was sugarcoating the truth for us, because I couldn’t bear the thought that this could actually be true. Then we all raced into the ocean, charging through the water like military soldiers charging into battle. Minutes later, we stopped and looked up and saw that there was a gigantic, eight-foot wave standing over us, making us look like we were ants. All of us said in unison, “Uh oh, we better brace ourselves before it knocks us under the water.” That gave me a funny sensation, because I felt like Jonny leaving was knocking the wind out of me, but I laughed along with the other guys, while I felt like crying inside. Crash! Bang! We continued to get knocked around, pulled under the water, and pushed onto the beach, which took my mind off everything temporarily. We were all chuckling hysterically as we swam back out for the next huge wave to overtake us. I was glad that we had this amazing time to add another farewell for Jonny to remember us by. After about an hour we left the ocean to have lunch with Teddy’s parents and his siblings. We all argued about who would sit next to Jonny. In the end I plopped onto the chair next to Jonny on one side and Mir sat on the other. We had Jonny’s favorite food for lunch, which is pizza and then cookies for dessert. Lunch was calm and silent, which was very strange for us. In the past, we were never silent, therefore I realized everyone was just as depressed as I was. Eventually, we faced the elephant in the room and talked about how each of us was going to miss Jonny. After lunch we headed back to the ocean. We continued to get knocked over by the waves. Boom! A gigantic wave overtook me and knocked me back to the shore. I was hoping I would be comforted by the sounds of the ocean, but unfortunately, that didn’t happen because deep inside I knew I would miss Jonny’s friendship