The soaring red sparkler flew over my head with clouds chasing behind. I gazed up and pondered what it would be like sitting in the Red Comet, wind rushing at your face, an old greasy leather cap on, with goggles bigger than your eyes, and you’re just looking ahead feeling so free. My granddad landed the plane as smoothly as a feather falling. When he was gliding down the engine purred like a cat. He hopped out of the plane he received as a gift from the Air Force, the Red Comet. No one ever was allowed to ride in it because he wanted it to be so clean because he believed that it’s important to take care of things close to you. The Air Force gave it to him because he was the best pilot in the world. At least that’s what he said. He did many tricks that would make your stomach fall like you were on a roller coaster. My granddad and I are more like friends than family. He always says I’m his favorite grandson because I’m his only. We always watch TV together. We love to watch basketball at night, especially when the New Orleans Hornets play. I feel bad for my granddad not only because Grandmom died last year, but because he has cancer. He knows it but he’s trying to make the best out of it like very few people would which is what I look up to. He said he doesn’t worry because he’ll see Grandmom in the heavenly skies above. Questions fly through my mind when he says that. I wonder things like are you sure? I also wonder what is heaven? I want to ask will you come back later? It’s tough and I’m scared. We went out fishing in the great Mississippi woods Granddad lives across the street so I go over a lot. It’s great living close to your family. We went out fishing in the great Mississippi woods. Fresh pine smell swirled in my nose, sticks tangled in my laces, and branches clung on my raggedy hat that had a little fishing hook stuck on from when I caught my first fish. Granddad gave it to me. When we got to our little lake the log that we sat on was like a couch with no back because of all the moss grown on. Granddad said it was a birthmark of the forest. As I cast out, glimmers from the fishing line sparkled into my eyes as the line sank into the water. When we finally finished we caught twelve fish. He said I caught more than him, but I saw him add to my pile. That night we had fish. It was great. Hard work would fill in my mouth with every bite I took. I asked my mom if I could sleep over because it was a Friday. She said, “It’s perfectly fine.” When I was tucked into bed I remembered the wetness of the lake below my feet, the moss couch where I sat, and the delicious fish still in my mouth. Wilderness was still around me even in my sleep. When Granddad tucked me in he said something very serious, “Your parents probably told you I have cancer, but I really don’t want you to worry because at this age you already have enough things to worry about. But when I do go will you promise me you’ll take care of my plane in the outside shack?” At that moment my emotions were jumping everywhere from happy because I get to have his plane to an all-time sad because he was slipping through my fingers and I couldn’t let him go. But I replied with a tear hanging in my eye, “Yes.” The next morning I walked down the cabin floor and into the kitchen where I saw Granddad cooking me a slapperjack, which is two pancakes smashed together with jelly and syrup in the middle. It’s kind of like a morning sloppy joe. It’s our favorite. While we were eating breakfast I thought about what he had said last night and it made me really uncomfortable. Granddad looked at me and questioned, “Why do you have that awful stare? Was it about what I said yesterday?” I lied, “No.” After I gobbled up my slapperjack, my granddad guided me to the shed and slid open the creaky old wooden door. The shine from the polished red plane gleamed into my eyes like the morning sun. A thick-knotted rope was tied to the plane so my granddad could pull it out. When he took it out on his runway he said to me something I will always keep in my heart, “Hop in.” My eyes smiled with my mouth as he spoke those words. He tossed me an old greasy leather helmet and I put it on. I slid right in the cockpit while my granddad’s arms secured me as we headed for takeoff. My fingers were shaking with joy. The pitch-black runway streamed by us while the glistening propellers started spinning faster and faster as the front wheels rose. My stomach rose with them. I looked up in the brilliant blue sky as if heaven’s hand was reaching down to touch me. The wind tickled my face just like how your mom would do when you were a little baby. I felt like I could do anything. I could grasp my dreams. It was the most magnificent thing I have ever felt. My soul just soared. A little bit of my soul would be contained in this plane forever. I looked over my shoulder to see my granddad. He looked like a kid again because of how much fun he was having. His soul soared with mine. We just looked at the tiny cars below our feet and the tall business buildings starting a new day. Eventually we landed the plane. The tires screeched as they tapped the ground. Then we
March/April 2004
The Sight
The Sight by David Clement-Davies; Dutton Books: New York, 2002; $21.99 When I sat down to read The Sight, I was expecting a predictable good-against-evil, weak-against-strong, love-against-hate type story. Boy, was I wrong. As a writer, I find the greatest challenge in writing stories is developing a plot that is unpredictable, unique, and fraught with problems for the characters in order to leave the readers wondering what happens next. This is clearly not a problem for David Clement-Davies, the author of The Sight. From the opening scene where the alpha wolves Huttser and Palla are searching for a place to den to the poignant and dramatic conclusion, the wolf pack encounters problem after problem. The way that these obstacles are presented does not frustrate the reader: it excites him or her. Larka, Huttser and Palla’s female pup, is the main character of the story. As a well developed character should, she has some trouble dealing with the hardships she encounters. Larka grows and she begins to show signs of having the Sight, a mysterious and rare gift possessed by only a few wolves. Morgra, the villain of the story, is a loner with a dark past. She is one of the few wolves with the Sight. Morgra is determined to take Larka and use her to fulfill an evil prophecy that would change the life of all wolves. If I was Morgra and I was lucky enough to have the amazing gift of the Sight, then I would not waste it on fulfilling evil prophecies. In the story, however, that is Morgra’s goal. The wolf pack refuses to admit Morgra into the pack, as any sane human or animal would do. Unfortunately, Morgra curses them. Palla and Huttser are sure that this so-called curse is not real, until the pack begins to fall apart. The wolf pack faces trial after trial, and eventually only a few wolves remain. As the small pack traverses over icy, barren land, they are forced to walk over the ice, which is thin in some spots. Fell, Larka’s brother, falls through the thin ice, and ends up underneath a transparent pane of thick ice. Huttser is forced to watch his son die, literally in his grasp, because the pack is unable to penetrate the ice. I can relate to this situation, because when I got my braces, it was hard for me to play my flute. Songs that had been so easy for me were a struggle to play. In this way, I have had my own goals be very close, but I was temporarily unable to reach them. I was able to play my flute properly very quickly, so the ice separating me from my music was thin. I am sure everyone has come up against an imaginary wall in which the goal or reward is in sight, but getting to it is like trying to get through the thick ice that separated Huttser and Fell. Larka, who blames herself for the pack’s corruption, runs away after the loss of her brother, Fell. If I was Larka, I would not blame myself for what was not my fault. I might feel bad if I knew that the root of the pack’s problems was Morgra’s coveting my gift, but I would also try to understand that I could not help being what I was. Another brilliant twist in The Sight is the ending. In most stories, the hero or heroine is completely victorious. The Sight includes a dramatic and stunning conclusion that keeps you on the edge of your seat until you read the last gripping words. Talia Lester, 12Los Gatos, California
Piccadilly Dreams
I walked through the aisle of a stable called Danbury Farms. It had once been well known to everybody in this county who jumped, a place where young jumpers dreamed of riding. However, the farm had fallen on hard times. The manager had moved to England to be with his girlfriend, and the farm had collapsed. As a result, the owners of the farm, Mr. and Mrs. Smith-Jones, were selling all of their top-flight jumpers dirt cheap, and my mom had agreed to buy me one. My mom, who was calling me over to look at another horse, interrupted my thoughts. “Jessica, dear, come and look at this Arabian mare, Silvershadow.” I started to turn toward her, but another stall caught my eye. It looked empty at first glance, but when I walked over to have a second look, I saw that a little colt, his coat a fiery chestnut, almost red, occupied it. I read the stall plate. “Piccadilly Dreams,” I said to him, “Quite a big name for such a little fellow, isn’t it?” Despite being a year old, according to the birth date on the stall plate, he was rather small. He stretched his neck a little so he could put his head over the stall door, and I put my hand on his forehead, covering the small, white, lopsided circle that was there. Looking into his liquid brown eyes, I knew that this was my horse, my partner. “Excuse me,” I said to a passing groom, “could you tell me about this little guy?” “Sure,” he answered, putting down the water bucket he was carrying. “He’s half thoroughbred, half Arab, bred and born right here on Danbury Farms. His dad was that massive stallion we sold to Whiteberry Stables, remember him?” Looking into his liquid brown eyes, I knew that this was my horse, my partner I nodded. I remembered seeing him unloaded while I was doing my job as a groom there. He was a fiery red terror. Whiteberry was just down the road from my house, and the owner, Lydia Carpenter, taught me to ride in exchange for work. “His mom,” the groom continued, “was that pretty girl over there.” He pointed to Silvershadow, the mare my mom had wanted me to see, and I looked at her in a new light. She was dusky black, with the dished face that was typical of Arabians, strong hindquarters, and an intelligent look in her large brown eyes. She would be a good jumper, I thought. “May I go into his stall?” I asked. “Sure,” the groom said again. “He got his dad’s color, but his mom’s temper, thank goodness, or he’d have been a holy terror.” I opened the stall door carefully, so I didn’t scare him, then let him sniff my hand. After he could recognize me by smell, I crouched down and ran my hands over his legs, checking for straightness. Good. They were straight. Sloping shoulders? Check. Strong hindquarters? Check. Good attitude? Check. He had all the things he needed to be a champion jumper. I stood up again, and looked right into my mom’s face. “Mom,” I said. “This is my horse.” “No,” she answered. “He’s too young, untrained, and you won’t be able to ride him for a long time. No. I’m sorry but this is the way it’s meant to be. There will be other horses.” I wish my mom wasn’t so superstitious. Sometimes, when she thinks something’s “meant to be,” there’s no way to change her mind. There was nothing I could do. I walked away slowly, every step taking me further away from my horse. All the way back home, I sat in stony silence. I was sorry to make such a big deal of it, but she was wrong. As soon as the car stopped, I ran into the garage and grabbed my bike. I got on it and biked swiftly to the end of the road, to Whiteberry. Lydia was waiting for me. As soon as I had stopped, I said, “Lydia, I found the perfect horse, but my mom won’t let me buy him!” While I was saying that, she said, “Jessica, I found the perfect horse for you!” I stopped talking. “You go first,” I said. “OK. You know that barn across town, Danbury?” I nodded but didn’t say anything. “Well, they just closed down and are selling all their horses real cheap. You know that massive terror of a stallion I bought, Piccadilly’s Devil? He was from there. “Anyways, I went up there again to look at a mare of theirs, and I found out she had a colt! He’s one year old, which is a bit young, but I can help you train him. He’s also actually the son of my stallion! Isn’t that cool? Now, what did you say?” I stared at her. “Well,” I said, “I found the same colt, but my mom won’t let me buy him. I’m sure he’s the horse for me!” While Lydia was speaking, my face had flushed with excitement that she thought Piccadilly was a good horse for me, too, and I had had to resist the urge to jump up and down. I needed a breather. “Wait a sec,” I said, “I gotta run to the bathroom.” When I got to the bathroom, I splashed my face with cold water, glad that Lydia had forked out the extra money for running water. In despair—I wasn’t going to get to buy my horse, after all— I stared at the pictures of Lydia jumping her horses. A spark of an idea formed in my mind. The question was, would it work? I ran back to where Lydia was standing. “I have an idea,” I told her. “What?” she asked. I told her my idea. “Yes!” she said. “Go for it!” I biked home in the gathering darkness. When I got to the house, I went to bed, falling asleep instantly. * * *
