When I grabbed my sweatshirt and started running out of the house, there was no rational reason for it. I wasn’t sure where I was going or why I was going there. I just needed somewhere to escape to. I felt so out of place in my house. What I was so sick and tired of, I wasn’t sure. All I knew was that if I stayed at home any longer, my heart would burst and the jelly of me would spill all over the creamy porcelain kitchen tile. Running can make you feel like you’re not even in your own skin. You’re not stuck in a body, your mind is free to go wherever it wants to visit. My legs kept moving, moving, moving, and my destination was like the leaky faucet in the guest room bathroom that you never think about: lost in the tangle of thoughts that infest minds. Actually, I didn’t care where I was running to. The wind brushing at my face was soothing, and as my legs moved in a rhythmical motion I could feel my feet pushing off the ground with every step. As I ran, I closed my eyes and let my feet absorb everything that surrounded me. There was welcoming, cake-batter-like ground, lumpy and soft, that made my feet dance a shhp shhp shhp dance. Then there was the thud thud thud of my sneakers on cold asphalt, the yellow brick road of city people. Pebble Beach: Welcome! The sign surprised me because my house was eleven miles away from the beach. Slowing to a walk, I kicked off my shoes and carelessly left them in a pile by a piece of driftwood. The beach isn’t all seashells, sand, and water It’s a whole world… Along the seashore, I observed all of my surroundings. The beach was an incredible place. The ocean had always been stunning to me, because it’s always there. No matter what’s happening in the human world, you can count on the salty seawater tickling the shore to be there. Little holes in the path I strolled gave a preview of the crab life beneath all of the caked sand. I had always wondered how the creatures breathed down under the ground. Did they get claustrophobic? Were there oysters on the seashore? My little sister Leah had always wanted a pearl in its shell. Since I was in a pondering mood, I let my mind wonder and wander. Didn’t the grains of sand that came before a pearl could be made hurt the oysters? Wouldn’t it be like a permanent itch? The oysters couldn’t do anything about it. If I were an oyster I would just want that grain of sand out of my shell. Out of my life. But if I couldn’t get it out, what would I do? I would… try to make the best out of it. Maybe that’s what a pearl really is. A result of patience, endurance, and finally, a beautiful, smooth treasure. I had never really become conscious of the fact that the beach’s beauty wasn’t all in the view. The beach isn’t all seashells, sand, and water. It’s a whole world, from seaweed cartwheeling onto the shore, to the symphony of seagulls’ shrieks. And, like so many other things, it has meaning behind it. The ocean’s steadfast trustworthiness and an oyster’s patience, labor, and finally triumph were examples of what could happen in my life. Next time my sister clung to me like a wet swimsuit, I wouldn’t shrug her off like usual. I would listen to her and help her feel less insecure, even if she was irritating. I’d make the little things in life become my grains of sand, and I’d turn them into pearls. A day at the beach, exposed to nature’s examples of patience and dependability, had eroded all my frustration at city life away, and with a fresh perspective about my world, I was ready to go home. Katharine Pong, 12Burlingame, California
March/April 2008
Phoebe
It was a quaint little backyard, not much, but cozy, a haven for many strays. With pretty, plump azalea bushes to dash into, and a soft, ivy-covered ground to sleep on, a homeless kitty could spend a few comfortable nights there. Of course, it was never a permanent home of any stray, but there was one who was different. She was not quite full-grown, but not a kitten either. Her stomach was as white and fluffy as a cloud, but her tail, back, and the top of her head were a thunderstorm gray. She had petite paws and innocent features. Her face consisted of glittering, clever, but frightened eyes and an adorable little pink nose that almost sparkled in the sunlight. She had obviously had a previous home, because there was a silver bell attached to her neck by a red velvet strap. Unfortunately, her previous owner had most likely abused her; she was petrified of humans and always had that anxious look in her eyes. She was not quite full grown, but not a kitten either She had certainly taken quite a shine to that garden, and had seemed to settle there, but she took care not to venture near the crusted old brownstone that towered above her. Little did she know, the woman who lived in that house was interested in her, she was curious about the cat that lived in her yard. She also took pity on the poor thing; she was scared the kitty might starve. Every time the cat tried to sneak up on a bird or squirrel, her bell would jingle, scaring the critter away, and leaving her hungry. She was beginning to grow slim and slightly weak. The woman thought the cat was adorable, but didn’t even consider taking her in. She still hadn’t gotten over the recent loss of her pet cat that was very dear to her, Robert. He had been a unique cat, playful and mischievous, but all the more lovable. She still wanted to do something for the young kitty, so she decided that she would try to take her bell off. She stepped gingerly into the yard, trying not to make too much noise. But the second the cat caught a glimpse of the woman, she darted behind a tree, not wanting anything to do with people. The woman was determined to get that cat something to eat, and she had an idea for the next day. When she got home from work, she carelessly tossed her bag aside, eager to help the sweet young cat. She grabbed a paper plate and poured some cat food on it. Again, she stepped outside as gingerly as possible, but the cat sprung into the azaleas. From the fragments of world visible from in-between the dense bushes, the cat saw the woman put something down on the ground and walk back into the house. The cat was puzzled. Why would the woman put down a white disc with little brown circles? she thought. Intrigued, she slinked out of her hiding place and over to the unknown object. She sniffed, and a wonderful scent (in her opinion) erupted from the plate. She inhaled deeper and deeper until she was scarfing down the food. She knew the meal was from the woman, and she assumed she was kind, but felt she couldn’t trust humans yet; ugly flashes of her old life still remained in her mind. The woman’s interest in the cat had turned to a love for her. She had fed her and watched her in a motherly fashion for a couple weeks, and was almost sure she could welcome the beautiful creature into her home. But sorrowful memories of poor Robert’s death still lurked in her mind, and she didn’t know if she could handle taking in another cat. As she debated with herself, she practiced her routine of pouring some cat food onto a plate and toptoeing outside. The cat cleansed her paws with her rough little tongue as she, too, thought about whether or not she would like to live with the woman. After the woman had given her several meals, feelings of affection for her food supplier had grown. She stopped, alert, with her ears perked up as the woman stepped outside to give her food, but she did not run away. The two maintained eye contact right until the minute the woman walked into her home, but didn’t close the door. The cat looked at the food, then at the awaiting open door, and listlessly but surely walked into the house. Thirteen years later, a plump, aged, affectionate cat named Phoebe purrs relentlessly as she nuzzles the sleeping daughter of the woman who took her in. Erin Cadora,10Brooklyn, New York
Cape Cod Bay Tide
Our suspicion grows as the tide rises. The path is gone along with the beach, blocking our way. The marsh has disappeared, the sand a new brown, the sky a pale gray. Ice chunks linger in the ever flowing waters. The bird cries are far out on the bay where the ice banks end, where open water lies. Jump from island to island, making sure not to get splashed by the freezing salt water. Our dog runs out onto the icebergs, and then comes shivering back to our heels. The cold wind blows and seems to push the tide in. The trunks of the pines touch the bank, inches away from the sea. The sun hides, and the hills seem to grow with the shadows. The eyes of little crabs come from holes along the beach, and scurry to higher ground. This is high tide. Sophie Anne Ruehr, 11Brookline, Massachusetts
