Mikon smoothed on the creamy white paint. It was cool to the touch, and felt like powder on his cheeks when it dried. Giving a smile in the mirror, he squirted red paint onto his palette. Ever so carefully he picked up his brush and began to paint a thin line around his mouth, nose and eyes. Gently he pulled a yellow lipstick out of his pocket and smoothed it onto his lips. He picked up a red wig, a jacket with a large star on the back and a pair of blue shoes, that squeaked when you stepped on the toe. There came a purr from behind him. He turned to face the direction from which the noise came. There on the floor, his tail swishing like a flag on a March day, was Kipper, Mikon’s better half. Kipper was an Asian leopard. He was called that because he was born and raised in captivity in Asia, and then sent to a zoo in New York. Kipper had been part of Mikon’s act for three years now. At the zoo they were going to put him down because he had a highly contagious virus that seemed fatal, but Mikon saved him. He bought him off. Yeah, he was still making payments on him, but he was worth it. Mikon was able to train him and make him part of the act in New York, and he’d been a shadow ever since. Mikon squatted down and fondled his ears. He gave a “thank-you” purr and jumped onto his front paws to do a headstand. Mikon clapped and whispered in his ear, “Now do the trick just like we rehearsed it; don’t ad lib, ‘K?” There on the floor, his tail swishing like a flag on a March day, was Kipper Kipper understood. He turned, squatted and pounced toward the wall. Standing up for the whole world to behold his skill, Kipper displayed a mouse he had just caught, and prowled out the big orange curtain separating Mikon’s dressing room from the big top. “Blech!” Mikon gagged. “That’ll definitely have them rolling in the aisles.” Opening day at a circus was never easy. New town, new faces, new funny bones to tickle. Every one was different. You get used to one town, then you’re leaving to go and get used to another one. The circus was a never-ending cycle. To Mikon, the only thing he enjoyed more than rehearsing a routine with Kipper was performing a routine with Kipper, making children laugh. To make children laugh was his lot in life. Mikon snapped out of his daydream and slipped a flower into his coat lapel. Slipping out of the orange curtain he signaled the ringleader that he was ready. He waved to Kipper on the other side of the ring. He pawed at the ground to gesture a reply. Mikon heard over the loudspeaker, “And now the amazing Zonko the Clown, and his confoundingly cute, hairball of a partner, Kipper the Asian Leopard.” At the sound of this the crowd’s laughter immediately died down and the roar and applause increased tenfold. He felt invigoratingly happy, and proud to be a clown. Mikon made a mad dash for his juggling rings. It was time to start the show. The sound of the crowd increased another tenfold as Mikon rolled out on his little unicycle, and began juggling his gray pins. He watched the other door intently, any moment now Kipper would roll out. He was right, because out he rolled. The crowd whooped and hollered. Kipper was coming closer. At that moment, something dreadfully horrible happened. The ball that Kipper was rolling on popped, sending him soaring into the air. He collided with the gate of the tiger’s cage. The lock ruptured open and the tigers began to escape. The crowd screamed and began to flood out all of the exits. Five minutes later they were pillaging hot-dog vendors and looting the ice-cream stand. Mikon spotted a group of them hemming Kipper in. They were surrounding him. Mikon grabbed a hefty club, belonging to the strong man, and began to beat the tigers away from Kipper. One of the tigers came around back of Mikon and brought his claws down on Mikon’s shoulder. Mikon gave a yelp of pain, which equally matched the ones coming from Kipper’s direction. It was too late. The screams coming from inside the circle of tigers were horrific. Yowling probably could have been heard all over the town. In the end, Kipper’s lifeless body lay limp on the floor of the big top. Mikon was crushed. Literally. His broken body and spirit were ordered bedridden by the circus doctor. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t sleep, could- n’t eat. He was hopeless. The circus manager, Ronan, had to do something about it. He was losing money, and losing it fast. Without Zonko, the whole show was a laughing stock. Ronan figured it was time to give Zonko a break. “But Ronan, I can get better, I’ve just gone through a rough patch, I’ll get better,” he repeated the second time. “I know, Micki,” he called him this, often, “but the circus is really suffering with you not on stage. It’ll be better if you go home to the farm and relax.” “Relax?” Mikon questioned amiably, trying to keep his composure, “On a farm??” “Look Micki, it’s almost Christmas and . . .” Ronan paused, thinking of a sweet way to seal the deal, “. . . if you want I’ll keep your space hot, until you get better.” Keeping a space hot meant that if and when Mikon felt better and wanted to come back, his old billing and stage name would be waiting. “But . . .” “No buts, kid; now go and get your stuff ready. Hank’ll help you pack. Have a holly, jolly Christmas or whatever.” Ronan turned around and went to sit at his desk and began to mumble to himself. “Oh yeah,
March/April 2003
Canoeing
It was early in the morning with a nip in the air when my dad and I went canoeing. We were on Boot Lake at Half Moon Trail Resort, going canoeing to see the beaver and any other morning animals. When we were walking down to the canoe everything was calm. I felt peaceful. Fog was rising off the lake, some birds chirped, and everything was still. It was very pretty out. “Look,” my dad whispered We got to the lake and pushed the canoe into the water. Then we climbed in. We sat for a moment. Then my dad whispered, “Paddle silently.” It felt as silent as a classroom during a test. I watched the calm water turn into ripples as I pushed it away with my paddle. I still felt calm and relaxed gliding over to the beaver dam. “Look,” my dad whispered. I looked up in the sky. Spiraling over the trees was a hawk searching for something to eat. Then a loon called out, breaking the silence. The loon was a few feet away. All of a sudden the canoe slowed to a stop. I looked over at the shore. There was a pile of sticks. “The dam,” I exclaimed. My dad held a finger to his lips and pointed to the water. A beaver was swimming toward the dam. I held my breath and watched. SLAP! The beaver suddenly slapped his tail, warning us. Then it sped off into the dam. I let out my breath slowly, feeling safe and calm. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon when under my breath I said, “Wow.” Heather Goff, 9 Eagan, Minnesota Ksenia Vlasov, 11Katonah, New York
Snowmen
Winter is the grain of sand in an hourglass falling from one end into the other, but not at either. Winter is the dark god dressed in black coming to clasp his tight, choking hands on a blade of grass or a maple leaf. Winter, in Michigan, is snow. And thus it snowed. Blinding whiteness stretched as far as the eye could see. Sunlight reflected off the many facets of these crystals of ice, each snowflake like a work of art. Indeed, it seemed like a winter wonderland, the realm of every child’s dreams. I sat cross-legged next to the porch window that provided a view of the landscape around me. I had long since become used to snow such as this, but it never failed to take my breath away. I heard my mother groan as she saw the driveway covered in two feet of snow. By now, all the roads from here to Kalamazoo would be completely submerged under the same whiteness. It would not be a fun day for driving. She sat there quietly, the annoyance on her face suddenly turning to a mixture of regret and serenity. Her eyes looked at everything yet saw nothing, as if drifting off to a world of her own or remembering long-lost memories. “I wonder if there are snowmen out there today,” she mused. “What?” I asked. What on earth was she talking about? Of course there were snowmen. All little kids built snowmen. But it was uncharacteristic of my mother to care about things like that. Indeed, it seemed like a winter wonderland, the realm of every child’s dreams “Snowmen,” she replied quietly. She seemed to go into a trance. “I remember the first time I met the snowmen . . .” I raised my eyebrows. She met snowmen? This was something that I wanted to hear. “Go on,” I coaxed, interested. “You met snowmen, and then . . .” I gestured for her to continue. It turned out that she was more than eager to tell her story. Sipping a cup of hot chocolate, she began. “It was a winter just like this one. As far as the eye could see, there was only snow. Miles and miles of endless whiteness that engulfed everything. The traffic on the roads was so terrible that it practically drove me nuts. Back then, your father went on business trips often. One day, a phone call came from the airport. It was your father calling for me to pick him up. “There had been a blizzard, and everyone had been locked up in their houses for practically a week. Since then, it had been snowing continuously. Though the snow-plowers worked twenty-four hours a day, the road conditions were far from good. The worst part was that I could not see clearly. The wind howled and brought whirling snowflakes onto the windshield, hitting the glass at fifty miles an hour. Though I knew that there were a couple of cars in front and behind me, it was as if I was separated from them and in my own little realm of nightmares. “Suddenly, the car stopped moving. The engine was still wheezing, but the vehicle just would not budge. It had just gotten stuck on a slope, wheels unable to move through two feet of snow. I felt a terrible frustration well up inside of me. I had to get to the airport soon! How was I supposed to do that when I couldn’t even drive? “I heard a sound. Looking, I saw someone knocking on my window. It was a couple dressed in heavy overcoats and wrapped in scarves. They had obviously been out in the snow for a long time, for they were covered in white. Moving clumsily due to their heavy clothing, they truly seemed to be snowmen. “The woman who had knocked smiled warmly. Her husband, a middle-aged man with black-framed glasses, asked if I needed help. I nodded fervently. + “The two went to the rear of the car and began to push with all their might. Despite the harsh weather, they did not pause. In a matter of minutes, my car was functioning again. I wanted to thank them, but they were nowhere to be seen. “Remembering your father waiting for me at the airport, I rushed to the center of the city. Once there, I excitedly blurted the whole story to him. I also expressed the fact that I was eternally grateful, but that I regretted not being able to tell them thanks. When he heard this, he smiled. ‘I know exactly how to thank them,’ he said. “The next Saturday, we walked up to a snowy mountain slope through which a single narrow road winded. It was freezing cold, but the warmth in our hearts was enough to keep us sustained for a lifetime. “By and by, a car drove by and got stuck in the snow. I knocked on the window and asked the woman inside if she needed help. She nodded. We went to the back of the car and pushed her out of snow. “Once she had left, I turned excitedly to your father. ‘She was one of the snowmen,’ I told him, proud of my discovery. “He looked skeptical. ‘How would you know that?’ he asked. “Because of her warm smile,’ I replied. Seeing that there was another car that needed help, he did not reply. “He had glasses; he was a snowman too!’ he exclaimed, teasing. I did not find it a bit funny. “That day, we helped many people get across the rough path so they could go to where others needed them. And I knew that this was the best way of all I could repay the snowmen that rescued me.” My mother stopped talking, the story having ended. An hour had gone by since she started, and the main roads were miraculously cleared of snow. “Did you ever find the original snowmen?” I asked, curious. “No,
