When Mr. Vankos painted a giant portrait of himself on the side of his house, I heard many mentions of him being totally out of his mind. Everyone in my neighborhood had a house of solid color with shutters of the opposite shade. It seemed to anger them that someone would paint their house more than two colors, like it was a sacred tradition to be dead boring. With so many people against him, I had no reason to disagree with the statement. My natural curiosity got the better of me, though, as usual. For as long as I could remember I had been expected to find things to do, to play by myself if I must. My parents were always working and I was left alone with Anita, who had her hands full with all the housework, and my three younger brothers. When my friends weren’t available, or when no one could drive me somewhere, I would just wander around and try to catch pieces of conversations between the neighbors or see who was putting a new addition on their house next. So I have always been extremely curious—even nosy—and I was no less than captivated by the strange man with the colorful house. “Who would do such an absurd thing?” my nanny Anita muttered early one morning as she was ironing my shirt. “That lunatic was slaving over some portrait for weeks, knowing the only thing he’ll get from it is the whole block thinking he’s nuts. Well, I tell you,” she continued with a littie smirk, “he succeeded in doing that.” She pressed the last crease out of the shirt and handed it over to me, sighing. “That house was so nice before he moved in,” she breathed, putting her hands on her wide hips. “He must have been a very deprived child, wanting all this negative attention. Why doesn’t he move back to the city where they’re used to all this weirdness?” “Who would do such an absurd thing?” Anita muttered early one morning as she was ironing my shirt I took the shirt and scampered down the hall to my bedroom. I flicked on the light and changed out of my pajamas into my school clothes. Ignoring Anita’s cries to hurry up, I crossed the room and pulled back a lacy curtain. A soft morning glow came filtering through as I peered out the window and tried to get a glimpse of the painting. Mr. Vankos’s house was two away, but it was set back farther than the other houses, so I could see the side of it. Unfortunately, the only thing visible above the fence at the edge of his yard was what seemed to be the forehead of a giant face, topped by a disheveled mass of black hair. It seemed to be slightly grainy in appearance, as if not all the colors had totally mixed. I stood on my tiptoes to get a better look, but just then, Anita hurried into the room. “Lynn, speed it up or you’ll be late for school,” she hissed impatiently. “Your mother will have my hea- . . .” She suddenly saw me craning my neck toward Mr. Vankos’s house. “Sweetie, you stay away from that loony Vankos or you’ll never leave this house again on your own. Understand?” “Oh yes, Anita, I was just curious about that big picture you were talking about . .” I replied, trying to sound as if I wasn’t truly interested. “Well don’t be,” Anita snapped, pulling the curtain closed in one hasty motion. “Now slip your shoes on and let’s go!” My nanny waved to me from the window as I began the walk toward school. I could see the tiny form of my friend Jill waiting for me at the corner. I picked up the pace, my breath fogging up the frigid air in front of me. My backpack bounced along on my back, my cold feet tingled as I splashed through a slushy puddle, my hands swayed unsteadily as I tiptoed around a patch of ice, until suddenly, I halted. I had arrived at Vankos’s house. It looked pretty normal with its white shingles and black shutters, but as I took a step backward I could see the left side. The painting was gigantic. I stood there in awe and gasped. Below the hair and the forehead were two sharp green eyes covered by tiny gray glasses with a long, pointed nose between them. Two thin black lips were frowning near the bottom of the waxy, white face. For some reason, the whole thing mesmerized me. I stood there and gaped, breathless. “That is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen. How can you even look at it, Lynn?” a girl’s voice moaned. I hadn’t realized Jill had walked up beside me. I jumped slightly at her words. “Wha-?” I asked in confusion. “I said that thing on his wall is gross,” Jill complained. “Vankos looks like a madman.” “How do you know it’s a picture of him?” I asked, my eyes still glued to the house. “I mean it could be anybody— no one’s ever seen him, have they?” Jill shrugged carelessly and said, “C’mon, let’s get to school.” With one last glance at the painting, I reluctantly followed her down the street. All day I couldn’t concentrate. I kept thinking about the evil green eyes on that horrible pale face. Although frightening, the portrait intrigued me and I had to know more. I knew the only way to calm myself was to knock on the lunatic’s door and ask him about the portrait. I was wondering if he really was insane and he’d try to attack me or something when someone asked me, “Lynn, do you have a story for your newspaper article?” I took a deep breath and glanced around the room. I was in my Young Reporters class and the teacher was making sure we were preparing for our articles. “Yes I do,”
September/October 2000
Evening on the Fish Pond
The fish pond lies embraced By a cradle of stillness . . . Gentle autumn winds Rustle through its lacy reeds, Rippling the cool water, Caressing the banks As tenderly as a finger on a rose. Rushes adorned with Shimmering water-pearl dresses Bend over the still water, Peering at a wavy reflection of A gold and crimson sky. The soft blanket of night Gently lays its cheek onto the pond As sounds of crickets herald A warm, serene night. Danny Musher, 11Bethesda, Maryland
A Crimson Glimmer
The air was cool, and leaves had departed from their shaky branches. Early October had come. Ansadore, the old chestnut mare, was rolling in the browning grass. She snorted, rolled over, and stood up. Not to say standing up didn’t take much effort, though. She was, indeed, very old and it took more than a mere push to rise to her feet. After the grunts of weariness, however, she did manage it and was standing on her sleek legs. Mary, tired after school, was just walking up the hill to the paddocks. Her light brown hair had been placed neatly into two braids that morning but was now in an absolute wreck, looking somewhat like a dead rat sitting atop her head. Her blue-green eyes were shielded off by round, silver-rimmed glasses which she ripped off so suddenly that they scraped her forehead. She hated the glasses. She was certain she could see perfectly fine without them, but her mother had insisted, and she never argued with her mother. It was nothing more than a quick blur, a glimmer of an intense crimson color She sighed dramatically as she approached Ansadore. “Oh, Any,” she called to the horse by nickname. “I hate it here! I want to move, run away! I want to ride you across the country and back, then fly to London, Rome, Paris!” She collapsed, caught up in her own drama. The horse stared back at her with large, understanding eyes. Mary stood up again. “I’m gonna go for a ride,” she said. She crawled under the wooden fence, dropped her book bag, and put her hands on Ansadore’s back. She pushed up and swung a leg over the horse’s back. Once on and balanced, she tapped the horse’s belly with her sneakers. The well-trained horse immediately took the signal and began trotting down the hill. Near the bottom, something flew up in front of them. It was nothing more than a quick blur, a glimmer of an intense crimson color. Ansadore spooked. She reared, whinnying, something she hadn’t done for over ten years. Mary slowly slid off the horse’s back and into the dirt, while Ansadore took off up the hill. Mary, shaking her head in discomfort, caught another glimpse of the crimson glimmer. It was far above her head for a moment, then swooped down into a shrub. Mary leaned forward to get a better glance. There, on a branch, was the object that had caused so much confusion. It was beautiful, Mary had thought. It was the crimson glimmer. It was . . . a butterfly. Chappell Sargent, 10Charlestown, Massachusetts Lainey Guddat, 11Kent, Washington
