We were at the airport. We were there for a good reason. To go to America. My dad had stayed in America for two years.The reason for this was to get a job and be able to take me and Grandma Nicole there to live. But while he was there, the stock markets crashed and Dad lost a lot of money. But he did find a job eventually, so we are moving there now. The reason we were moving is because my dad had little money, and, before staying in America for two years, he got fired from his job. Grandma, Grandpa, and I had to work at great-uncle Bill’s sausage factory to get the money for our family while Dad was away. In the sausage factory, it was hot and the pay was not quite enough to sustain four people. While I worked there, I always felt the sweat cling to my face after only one hour of work. We had to carefully place the sausages into the boxes, then tape the boxes shut. It doesn’t sound like much work, but doing it nonstop for long amounts of time is tiring. We were so grateful when Dad returned from America! But, as soon as he got home, we had to get ready for our trip. We were at the airport security desk, getting our passports checked. “Hello!” my dad said in Polish. “This is the Berkes family. I’m Jim, and this is Nicole and Zach. We are here for our flight to America.” My legs were bouncy, and I was biting at the sides of my fingernails, which I do when I’m nervous. And I was. I didn’t know if America would be a good place to live or not. And even if it was, there might be other dangers waiting. Actually, I was probably getting too nervous. We were apparently moving to a place called Miami. The temperature there is always hot or hotter. Here in Poland, it’s usually cold, so I wasn’t sure if we were going to be able to stand the heat—especially because we were moving in spring, the second hottest season. We were taking clothes, money, and a plastic sword I got when my dad started his two-year staying period in America. When Dad went to America for his job finding period, I was worried that he would stay forever, not get a job, and not be able to come back. My friend Tim got the plastic sword for me to keep me from thinking about Dad. I have always admired the sword from then on. I wished Tim could go to America with me. I wished everyone could come. The security person checked our passports, wished us good luck in America, and we were on our way to the other security, like the scanners and the bag checks. At the bag checks, the worker reluctantly informed us that we would have to wait so that they could make sure the plastic sword was safe. It took half an hour, and we almost missed our plane, but we made it. I hoped everything won’t be that challenging in America. We had never been on a plane before. We had to look around and figure out where the bathroom was. Another downside of this plane was the disgusting smell of rotten peanuts. I found a pretzel wedged into the crack of the seat that looked like it was two-years-old. These things would have made me gag, but working in a sausage factory that can’t afford fresh meat most of the time drastically raises the strength of your gag reflex. After a little while, the plane started moving. The unsettling sound of the wheels on the runway tortured me. Luckily, a safety video started playing, so I could listen to that instead. The video talked about what would happen if a plane crashed in the water. The video ended when we were in the air. I was afraid that the plane would fall out of the sky. How does a giant metal tube support itself in the air and not fall? When the plane was flying straight forward, the flight attendant came down the aisle and handed out peanuts. I heard him mumbling about how he hates his job. “Do you even want peanuts?” asked the attendant very rudely. “Yes please,” I responded. “Do you have them salted?” “If you want them salted, put salt on them.” “I’ve heard that planes offer a choice between salted and unsalted peanuts.” “Uuugh. Fine. We have them in the back,” he finally admitted. He was extremely rude. I felt my fists clenching, and I even bared my teeth a little bit. I hoped people wouldn’t be this rude in America. It had been two hours on the plane. I really needed to use the bathroom. I tried to walk over to it, but I couldn’t remember where it was. I eventually found it, but somebody was in it. My legs were crossed, and there was sweat beneath my eyes. But it finally opened! Huzzah! I walked in and… All my senses except for my sense of smell momentarily stopped working. I can’t describe the stench that invaded my nose. It was foul. What I smelled was a mix of basically everything that smells disgusting in the entirety of Poland. I gagged, and I kneeled to the ground. I also almost threw up directly onto the floor, which would have made the stench even worse. Yes, even with my enhanced gag reflex. I hoped it wouldn’t smell that bad in all of America. After I was done, I went back to my seat and ate more of my peanuts. The bag said the peanuts were “salted to the finest degree,” but what it actually tasted like was a bag of salt with peanuts dropped into it. If all food in America was like this, I wouldn’t be able to survive. Sometime in the middle of the ride, Grandpa
October 2018
A Field at Sunset
Nikon Coolpix L830 Hannah Parker, 13Burlington, VT
A Child’s Memoir
The sky’s vibrant gray was an embodiment of metallic hues colliding. Smothering the arid landscape like a hazy hand. The shrill, choppy thrilling of the desert songbirds forewarned of night’s arrival. It would soon engulf the soothing ash-stricken contour in its obsidian abyss. A boy treaded through the sandy asphalt of the neighborhood, shoes clomping steadily in a monotonous rhythm. He wore an apparent trait, weariness. His cheeks were pinched in a nostalgist manner. His wiry silhouette was accompanied by a downcast shadow. Willow-worn and sallow, his facial complexion was pleasant and provided an atmosphere of easy-goingness not displayed in his current state. Even his rounded, melodious, Tuscan-brown eyes, were glassy and non-talkative. Taut palo verde trees shimmied their decumbent leaves in the brisk breeze, waving at the youth, clearly unaware of the flora. The boy’s fervent forehead glistened with beads of sweat, which threatened to cascade in a trickle of perspiration. The malicious heat was exhausting him. He trembled back home; the impulse of a phantom burden suddenly seized him. “Gabriel!” A gasp of distress from afar jarred him. His puffy, crusty eyes unfurled a minuscule sliver. The comfort that pulsated from his body relieved him like a tight fist blooming into a hand. He sighed. “Yes Mom?” Gabriel skimmed his bronze-skin hands across bedhead eyes. Wiping the discomfort away. “It’s time to go to school, son.” Gabriel groaned in displeasure. In a relieved-but-sleepy-and-grumpy manner. He was a forthwith Pennsylvania native, after living six years in a cramped, but comfortable apartment. He hailed from Phoenix, Arizona however, and his childhood was a bustle. He had lived in Caborca and Chiapas, Mexico. His lucid flashback as a flourishing five-year-old living in the Sonoran Desert seemed all too genuine. Real? Not real? Somewhere in between? Answers to questions lost in the dusty catacombs of time. * * * Hawkins Middle School of Lebanon, Pennsylvania. Gusty, frost-heaved riptides of a draft wavered across strikingly lofty oak trees. Crisp, autumn leaves crunched into multicolored ash under Gabriel’s feet. Steam-like figurines spatially billowed from his mouth. The suggestively glacial weather exposed the middle schoolers to a seductive quantity of indoor time. No recess. Gabriel felt enclosed and captive; his school’s vicinity was restricting to him. He was accustomed to swaying freely with the frisky undergrowth caressing his liberated feet in a tender embrace. Gabriel was heartfelt about nature and its conundrum. He was captivated preeminently by insects and akin. Abounding ubiquitously, he was obsessed with every nook and cranny of their existence and strived to unearth their every secluded perplexity. Winter was agonizing to him. A full six-month period without a trace of an insect. Eradicated. Vanished. Like a potent existence switch, winter blanked them. Mrs. Roseté, his superb science teacher, comprehended. She was a captivating reliance to him. Their prominent similarities encompassed them. His vision fazed and sputtered. Daydream. Gabriel gasped: A hollow sound that momentarily resonated against the dingy cut-rate aluminum lockers. He remarked grainy rubber gaits on the azure and cyan filamented tiles of hallway 300. He bolted to homeroom. He roughly gripped the doorknob in his right hand, gingerly turned, and winced as the bulky, birch-wood door chirred. “Take a seat, Gabriel. Glad you’re on time.” Gabriel’s mind churned as Mrs. Young, the mathematics teacher, coursed through algebra “…And so, the domain of a parabola…” Boredom beckoned with succulence. Its enticement held affiance. Gabriel endured, aggravation vexing to reign. Despite struggling to stay on task, he felt satisfied in school for the most part. But all this would corrode to an abrupt halt. * * * A pace from bus 40’s stationing was their corrivated home. A rusky apartment with crude clay-mound bricks as the structure. He clutched the hand-polished bronze handle on their door and jerked. His dad’s concern radiated as he talked to his mom from the meager living room, a formal silence of speech that barricaded any suggestive normality element. This altered him, although he blundered mentally to comprehend. He noisily trampled inside, hoping for his parents to perceive him. To no avail. “Hello Mom!” He was answered with a concerned smile. A phony, concealed grin. Dinner was eaten in the quietness of secludedness. Gabriel merely an eyewitness account of an unprovoked speech. He felt his parents’ selectivity of words. As though they strained their words. The exchange of words, or the lack of it, left him on edge. Stress overwhelmed him in a void of isolation. * * * A discussion took place that night. A finalizing, executive meet. They took in consideration their social position, their experiences, and especially Hawkins Middle. The stale bitterness of Lebanon’s wind rimmed the fleur-white stalks of their windows with coincidental gloominess. A crest-fallen Gabriel contemplated the memories he constructed. Snow, friends, school. Fuzzy brightness flooded him. Ghosts, reaching their tinge of liveliness in limbs of animation. Things. Gained, earned, made. Fairytales of whimsical aspects. Summarized as his memories. * * * “Son, it’s final. We’re moving to Florida.” Gabriel managed a faint nod. In time, the rhythm of tempo paved weeks beyond seeming. May brought a floral boutique of daisies, cherry blossoms, and cul-de-sac poppies. Gabriel felt equilibrated and integrated with the time he had left. He chased and tumbled around the foliaged hills he had come to know. The earthy soil a hearty perfume. Walnut trees loomed atop. Their ridged trunks a nutty brown. June fletched into view, the vastness of May dominated by its upheld viewpoint of expectations. An act of kindness was shared by Mrs. Roseté and her alumnus. A beautiful necklace of enlaced golden hoops and a hug were exchanged between the two. The last day of school curtailed. Gabriel and his parents snugly lodged their possessions into the truck and drove into the amber dusk. Farewell Lebanon. Alejandro Lugo Saavedra, 13Lithia,
