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March/April 2010

Hope

On the dark wood table, a plain plate lay inches away from Abigail. Her blond hair flounced around her shoulders. Her light blue dress with darker flowers brought out the bright blue in her eyes, which contrasted strangely with the rich brown of Hope’s. Hope, on the other side of the room, was sweeping the grimy floor with a homemade broom of stiff bristles. Abigail was watching Hope’s every move disconcertingly. Suddenly, she ordered, “Fetch me that plate.” Hope’s eyes bore fire into Abigail’s. Abigail ignored Hope and her smug nose tilted up into the air as Hope replied with no choice, “Yes ma’am,” though Abigail was only a year older than her. But Hope did as she was told. After Abigail had the plate in her hands, she leaned against the kitchen wall, holding it. Hope could feel her disapproving gaze upon her working back. “Abigail,” someone said in a harsh voice from another room, “are you doing your embroidery?” “Yes, Father,” Abigail replied stiffly, reaching for her sewing on the chair. Hope’s gaze averted to the floor and she swept faster. “Good,” the tall man said as he came into the room. “I am going into town,” he declared, straightening his overcoat. “Be good. I’ll be back soon.” Abigail gave a small nod and looked into her busy father’s eyes. He left the room briskly and it gave way to silence. Then all Hope could hear was the scratch of the broom on the floor. Abigail was watching Hope’s every move disconcertingly *          *          * Later that evening, Hope was pouring water into tall, thin glasses for her master and his guest. Sitting down beside her, grasping a fork elegantly, was Master Thompson. He was talking to Mr. Stevens, a fat, jovial man who Hope couldn’t imagine would own slaves. Spread across the white tablecloth was a large, colorful array of soup and turkey and vegetables prepared carefully all day by Auntie Edna, who would only get to try the leftovers. Steam rose from Mr. Stevens’s heaping pile of food. A warm, meaty aroma wafted through Hope’s nose. But she did not care to envy this small advantage she did not possess—there were many things far worse, and anyway, her concentration was now on only the plump, stout silver jug she held coldly and tightly against her creamy brown palm. That is, until she heard something distressing. Master Thompson was talking about selling someone to Mr. Stevens! Grimly, she considered who might be leaving. Could it be Sarah, the twenty-something-year-old woman who worked here? Or Sam, the hardworking young man who tended the horses and brought in the firewood, who had taught her jokes and riddles? Might it be Auntie Edna, who had cared for Hope when she was sick and her mother was working, gathering cotton or fixing clothes, a grandmotherly old woman with a kind nature? Hope would miss anyone who left so! She fought her thoughts and tried to listen quietly to the conversation. “She is a hard worker. She could help you with many things. She knows how to patch things up and sew well,” Master Thompson insisted in a businesslike way. Oh no. Is it Sarah? Hope pleaded, not Sarah, oh please no! Hope dreaded the thought of the woman who had acted as an older sister to her leaving. “But she would be willing to go alone?” Mr. Stephens inquired. Hope grimaced. Master Thompson wouldn’t mind. She had seen him separate families. “We could arrange it,” Master Thompson assured abruptly. When Hope had refilled both glasses, slowly so she could hear what the men were saying, she went into the kitchen. Edna was there, washing dishes. “Oh, Auntie Edna,” Hope cried. “Master Thompson’s gonna sell someone!” “I’m sorry, baby.” Edna opened her arms. Hope flew into a hug. Sobbing, she told Edna what she heard. “I think it might be Sarah!” Hope wailed. “But I don’t want none o’ ya to go!” “Shhh,” Edna soothed, rocking Hope back and forth. “Shhhhhhh.” “Girl,” Master Thompson ordered sharply minutes later. “Take away the plates.” Hope went into the dining area and lifted up the plates, stacking them. When she was back in the kitchen, she saw that Edna had left. But Sam was there, with wood for the fireplace. “Sam!” Hope said. “I heard ’bout the sale,” Sam said, glancing at Hope grimly. “But I’m afraid it’s not Sarah.” “Hope, we’re gonna have tuh run” “Afraid? Why, do you want Sarah to go?” demanded Hope. “No, no, no. I’m worried who it might be.” “Who?” whispered Hope anxiously. Sam hesitated before responding. “I think it might be your mama.” Hope gasped. Gaping at Sam, she asked why he thought so. “Well, Master Thompson said whoever it is, is a good seamstress, can cook, and can’t read, and you know yo’ mama can’t,” Sam answered, concern and sorrow in his eyes. “But he said she ain’t got family!” Hope remembered in horror. Sam stacked up the wood on the ground next to the fire. Avoiding Hope’s eyes, he said, “I heard him say they could arrange fo’ her tuh leave. Not that she ain’t got no family.” “B- but!” Hope stammered. “He can’t do that!” Sam stood up and brushed himself off. He looked at her as if to say, do you think it matters to him? Hope ran to the living room, where her mother was calmly stitching up a sock. “Mama, oh Mama, they… Master Thompson… he gonna sell you!!!” she panted desperately. Hope’s mama, Caroline, froze. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide. Her hand was still clutching the needle when she said, “When, Hope?” sharply. “I don’t know! wailed Hope, feeling helpless. “Soon!” Caroline rose from her seat in a wooden chair. She held Hope close to her and whispered, in perfect, quiet diction, “Hope, we’re gonna have tuh run. To the North. To Philadelphia, or Canada, maybe, I don’t know where ’xactly, but I can’t let you stay

Flying Against the Wind

In a marsh, long green grass reaching up to touch the sun swayed slightly in the cool morning breeze. The marsh was teeming with animal and insect life. A snake slithered through the grasses looking for mice while an osprey swooped low overhead, wind ruffling its feathers. The osprey was looking for an animal to catch; a fish was on the main course for today. He needed to find a big fish or several smaller fish to feed his mate and chicks. He headed towards the river, wind pushing him forward like an arrow shot from a bow. The osprey was happy; he was always happy just flying, hunting, sleeping, and mating. A powerful hawk, he didn’t need to worry about being the prey to some bigger animal. His chicks, on the other hand, did. Eagles were known to come flying by and snatch hatchlings to eat. The osprey promised himself that he would never let that happen to his chicks. He loved his chicks, and would easily sacrifice his life for theirs, and so would his mate. She would fly out of their nest and peck and claw an invader until he retreated, defeated. Ground animals couldn’t get to their nest because the tree they picked was about twenty-three feet high and had sharp branches jutting out from the base. His mate always stayed with their chicks. Often when he came home he would see their chicks huddled under her warm fluffy wings. He was going to catch a big fish worthy of his wife and three chicks He finally arrived at the river. It was fast moving and clear. He felt the thrill of excitement he always felt when he was going hunting. He was going to catch a big fish worthy of his wife and three chicks. He swooped into a dive. He loved the sensation of the wind rushing past his head. He pulled out of it about three feet from the surface of the water, looked quickly for a fish, and then swooped in. He dove quickly and made a splash as his talons entered the water. The fish, alarmed by the commotion from the ripples, tried to get away. Too late. The osprey speared the fish with his talons, piercing through the scales and deep into the flesh. He quickly flew up, the fish’s head dangling in the air. With a tight grip, he headed to his nest where his chicks would be with his mate. He was flying against the wind, which made it harder, but he prevailed. He finally reached his nest. He saw his mate, with their chicks under her wings, and felt happy that he had such a good family. That night they ate well. Christopher Fifty, 13Churchville, Maryland Sarah Emig, 13Fort Belvoir, Virginia

Someone Absolutely New

A dull, cloudy morning, On the couch with my parents, Cozy, like the three little bears. My dad holds the camera, …Why? An unexpected turn in the lethargic morning conversation My dad tells me to look at some papers, Confused and unsure, Why are they meant for me to read? All the words on the paper were blocked out, Except for one—like a lighthouse, flashing news… PREGNANT My legs jump in the air, My feet tap out the sound of joy. Then I know what the camera is for. These new and different feelings and thoughts Crowd my head Like a crowded pack of people at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. I would have to take care of someone Small, gentle, and fragile like a feather. What to do, what to do? This new baby—new person in my life Will change the way I think of others, And will change the way I care for others. A baby brother? A baby sister? Someone I am excited about, Someone I’m looking forward to—someone absolutely new. Imani Apostol, 11Seattle, Washington