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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

May/June 2016


By

The Foal

Hidden in the early morning Virginia gloom, I crept into the stable a few minutes before dawn, opening the door quickly to stop the sound of creaking hinges. My riding boots made a crunching sound with all of the hay underfoot, and I slowly walked past the five horses in the stable. Two horses, the ones we were currently training to sell, shied back a little, but the three horses my family owned leaned over the oaken half-doors. They nuzzled my warm cotton jacket like they expected me to hand out sugar lumps as I normally did. But today wasn’t a normal day. This whole week hadn’t been a normal week. When I reached the last stall, across from my brother’s white Welsh pony, it was empty. Nothing remained in there except for a bucket and a blanket draped over the door. Sinking to my knees in hay, I shut my eyes and slumped my head against the door. My hands clenched and unclenched uncontrollably as I thought, I failed you, Dory. I am so, so sorry. Six days ago, around this time, the horse who had virtually been my second mother had breathed her last breath. I breathed in, trying to stop the tears that were already burning at my eyes, but I couldn’t. The first salty tear hit my knees, making them feel cold in the morning air. I wept silently at first, then gave in to the huge gulps that stole the air from me. My nose started to run, so I wiped it on my warm, woolen nightshirt. “Honey, you really shouldn’t be out here” I glanced at the haystack behind me. It still bore the impression I had made, sleeping there six days ago. I had woken up to the anguished moans of Dory and had instantly rolled off of the haystack, screaming to anybody awake in the house. “Call Doctor Jennings!” But when the doctor had finally arrived, he announced it was too late for Dory. I had turned my green eyes into her deep black irises the whole time, petting her white-and-black head until the life drained out of her. Those eyes still haunted me, calm and full of love one moment, then like lifeless marbles the next. I could still see them when I closed my eyes. Dr. Jennings and my whole family told me it wasn’t my fault Dory had died. They said it was the tumor’s fault. But no matter how many reassurances they gave me, I knew it was my fault. I had been riding her since I was two, and she had helped me do so much, so many things. And when it really mattered, I couldn’t give back. And now we were going to Chincoteague Island in two hours, to get me a new pony, to replace her. A giant knot formed in my throat, a sensation that was all too familiar to me now. The pain would lessen, everyone said, but I didn’t believe them. Although sometimes I forgot about Dory the pain would always return, as fresh and sharp as mint tea. I heard the door of the stable creak open, but I didn’t look up. I couldn’t be distracted by anything. Not now, when I was grieving for Dory, grieving when nobody else had tried. Soft footsteps arrived by me. I heard an intake of breath, and then my mother’s voice. “Honey, you really shouldn’t be out here,” she said. “You could get sick in this weather.” I glanced at her. “I don’t care about getting sick. I’m mourning Dory right now. Mourning how I couldn’t save her, and how we’re going to replace her in two hours.” Sure, I was sounding like a stubborn, spoiled teenager, but I really didn’t care about that. And anyway, at least I was acting my age. Mom sighed again. “Abby,” she told me firmly. “Dory wouldn’t want you to be like this. Sure, she would like you to remember her and mourn her, but you’re dedicating you whole life to depression.” She was sort of right, but I wasn’t going to tell her so. My fingers automatically went to the tuft of hair and picture in my pocket. “But everything reminds me of her,” I said softly. “Life reminds me of her. And the way everyone is acting, it’s like they didn’t even love her!” I knew they were the wrong words to say. I knew my family loved Dory. I paused, waiting to be reprimanded. Mom went quiet for a moment. “You know I loved her,” she said. “You’re just experiencing her death differently from the rest of us, since you two had a special bond.” “I loved her so much!” I cried, the lump in my throat tightening. “And I can’t touch her anymore. I can’t ride her anymore.” Mom sank down to her knees and hugged me to her chest, letting me sob into her shoulder and long red hair. “You can see her,” Mom said, “in the sky, in the stars hiding behind the clouds.” “What does that mean?” I asked, gulps stealing my breath away. “You know how many stars there are in the sky?” “Nobody does. It’s impossible to count.” “Then who’s saying that some of them can’t be ponies watching over their friends?” Mom stroked my russet hair. “Getting a new pony isn’t replacing her, Abby. No one can replace her, you know that.” I swallowed and looked up at her. “Mom,” I said, gathering all of my courage. “Thanks. I think I’m ready to go to Chincoteague Island. I’m ready to get a new pony.” “That’s the spirit!” Mom said, smiling. “Dory would like this too, I think.” I saw my white-and-black horse inside my head, butting me with her head, eyes smiling. “I think she would like it too,” I said. *          *          * As the car stopped in the parking lot of Chincoteague Island, I immediately got out and thudded into a person walking towards our


By

A Swing??

“Creak!” The old house’s door swings open as I push it. The air smells of freshly cut grass, and, sure enough, the growl of a lawn mower can be heard, coming from the house next door. I leap out the door, over the steps, and land with my pink, flip-flopped feet in the sandy gravel. The sun is smiling down from up in the clear blue sky. I bound through the stubby grass, heading for one of my favorite places in all of Port Austin—the backyard. I turn the corner, pass the shed, and get a rock stuck in my shoe. Panting, I look around. Disappointment wells up inside of me. Nope, not here. Then an idea comes, and I dart back around the shed, past the corner, and into the garage. The first thing I notice as my eyes adjust to the darkness is the buzz of a saw. Then I feel sawdust spraying my bare legs, and then I see him. Clad in a protective face mask and thick gloves, my grandpa appears somewhat like the Terminator. When he sees me, he stops the saw and flips the face mask up. “Hello, sweetie!” he exclaims. “Hi, Grandpa!” I respond and start to step forward, only to be stopped by a box of stuff. I scooch around the box and ask, “What are we going to do today?” He ponders this for a moment. Flying through the sky, with the wind whistling through my hair, I feel like a bird “Aha!” Grandpa exclaims, surprising me. “Today,” he says very matter-of-factly, “we are going to make… a swing!” Before I can say something, he snatches his silver, wire-rimmed glasses out and fumbles to put them on. He shuffles around boxes and beach toys and then opens a cabinet. He pulls a long, red-and-white, tightly coiled rope out, muttering to himself. “And this, and this, and this, and then we’ll take that board I just cut, and then…” He shuffles around some more, gathering boxes and ropes in his arms. He strolls outside the garage and plops his armload onto the glass patio table. “So…” I start to say but am interrupted. “Aha!” Grandpa interjects. He dashes into the garage and soon arrives with a bow and arrows and a spool of wire. I clear my throat and start talking. “So, what on earth are we doing?” Grandpa continues tying the red-and-white rope to the wire. “Grandpa!!” I clear my throat again. He glances up. “Oh… sorry. Um, well, this arrow,” my grandpa reaches over and grabs one of the arrows, “is going to soar over that tree limb.” He points toward an old tree limb growing off of an old tree that towers above us. “Then?” I ask. “Uh-huh,” he continues, “and the arrow will have that wire attached to it. Then, we’ll pull all the ropes over the limb and tie it to the seat.” “The seat?” I question. “The wooden board,” Grandpa tells me. By the time he’s done saying that, the rope/wire is tightly tied to the end of the arrow. I leap up in anticipation. He smiles as he tucks the arrow tightly into its nock and raises the bow. Tufty and gray, my grandpa’s hair is a mess, as usual. Grandpa closes one eye, squints, and bites his tongue as he carefully takes aim. He pulls back, lets go, and… whoosh! The arrow soars through the air and I run underneath with my arms extended, like a football player ready to catch a pass. There is a crinkle and a ripping noise of leaves, but the arrow is too low and strikes the ground with a dull thud. We nock the second arrow. Pull back, let go. It soars, straight and true, but again is too low. Crack! The arrow lodges itself in the tree. Holding our breath, Grandpa and I stare intently at the arrow, and, sure enough, after a few seconds, it falls to the ground. The tree limb towers above us, intimidating as ever. Third arrow. Nock it, pull back, let go. It soars higher than the rest, over the branch, a blur of silvery wire. Red and white, the rope follows closely behind. “Yippee!” I cheer, jumping up and down. “Don’t get too excited,” Grandpa warns me, “we’re not done yet.” Yanking as hard as we can, we pull the rope over the tree limb. I dash to the patio table and grab the wooden board. Two holes have already been drilled in it, so we thread the rope through them and use metal fasteners to secure the rope. Finally, the swing is done. I hop on the swing and push off as hard as I can. Within minutes, I am up high. Flying through the sky, with the wind whistling through my hair, I feel like a bird. I can see the sun smiling down at me and hear the lawn mower from next door. I can see my grandpa standing there, gazing up at me as he gathers up the spool of wire and the fasteners. He has a twinkle in his blue-gray eyes, and it isn’t hard to realize that he was once an engineer and is proud that I take after him. He grins at me and I smile back, lovingly. Gracie Shapiro, 12Bloomfield Hills, Michigan Kayla Bjorn, 11Orem, Utah


By

Echo

Echo, by Pam Muñoz Ryan; Scholastic Press: New York, 2015; $19.99 Pam Muñoz Ryan’s book, Echo, weaves together three compelling stories, all centering on a single harmonica and its owners around the time of World War II. The book is long, almost 600 pages, but I enjoyed every second of it. The book presents, in chronological order, three main characters: Friedrich Schmidt, Mike Flannery, and Ivy Maria Lopez. Each story is told with extreme finesse, leaving the ending of each story until the book’s conclusion. A total of three brilliant cliffhangers left me wanting desperately to know more, until the new story swept me up, leaving the old one almost forgotten. Friedrich lives in Germany, where he and his father work in a harmonica factory. When Friedrich’s family opposes the Nazis, they have to escape the country to save their lives. Mike and his brother, Frankie, are orphans, and their worst fear is being separated. When the brothers are adopted, it seems like a miracle, until they find out that their new parent doesn’t even want them there. Ivy and her family are constantly searching California for a real home and a permanent job for Papa. When an opportunity on a farm finally comes, Ivy hopes their new house will help keep their family together. Mike and Frankie’s story was my personal favorite. The brothers were realistic, lovable characters, with flaws as well as virtues. As an older sibling, I can say that their relationship was also realistic. Mike and Frankie had arguments and fights, but there was never any doubt that they cared for each other. I identify with Ivy the most, but not only because she is a girl. She values friendship, has to overcome stereotypes, and loves music. Friedrich was also an interesting character, although his story was the least original. Personally, I think the subject of Nazi Germany is overdone in children’s books, but I was able to forgive the plot because of Friedrich himself. Friedrich was born with a giant birthmark on one side of his face and has always been pitied and teased because of it. He dreams of being a conductor, and his love of music is supported by his father, who plays cello. Friedrich’s narrative was honest and refreshing, and I enjoyed it as much as the rest of the book. All of the characters in this book are drawn together by a single instrument. Friedrich finds the harmonica in the factory where he works, it is a present to Mike, and Ivy receives it from her teacher. However, the harmonica was not the only thing these characters had in common. Each of them lost a home, and each of them struggles to find their new place in the world. And, while their journeys were not easy, each of them finds a place where they belong. I believe that music has the power to bring people together, cutting through age, race, and culture. I play flute, and I have always thought that many instruments working together to create music with different layers is a beautiful thing. In fact, this book reminds me of a piece of music; many stories interweaving, coming together in one wonderful, musical book. Sonja Benjamins-Carey, 13Ann Arbor, Michigan