The place was deserted, an abandoned ruin of what used to be. A victim of the slow ravages of time. Ever so slowly fading away, into nothingness… At least that’s what it seemed, until our aunt had to abruptly ruin it by adding, “It may look deserted, but that’s just because people don’t come on the weekdays. On the weekends, it gets really crowded and busy.” That’s a joke right? I thought, seriously doubting that this dumpy old amusement park sitting in the middle of nowhere on one of the many lonely dirty streets in India could ever possibly be “crowded and busy.” I mean, there are literally no signs of life here, except some stray dogs of just skin and bone and the usual hoard of midnight-black crows that perch high in the coconut trees, and peer down at whoever may be passing by, like kings surveying their kingdom. This is pathetic! As I was talking to myself, they—my sister, Ava, my dad, and my aunt—had already moved on, so I had to run to catch up. As we walked, I looked around, trying to appreciate the cool breeze that hadn’t seemed to stop blowing since we got to India from the US, a glimpse of light and freedom in a dark endless tunnel, rather than dwell on the burning heat that beat down on us unmercifully like a slave driver, bringing down the whip on an out-of- line slave. As we wandered around we saw empty food stalls and forgotten ride parts lying discarded on the ground. The ride operators weren’t even at their operating booths, but rather grouped together under trees, talking, looking surprised when they saw us approach, and giving off the immediate impression that even they didn’t expect people to be coming. As we approached, one of the guys stood up with a pained expression, seeming to ask us not to make him get up and go do his job. Honestly, I’d say they got it pretty easy. Getting paid for sitting around, talking, and occasionally pressing buttons or pulling levers. He led us over to the Ferris wheel without even asking whether we wanted to go on, thus solving the problem of “Which ride should we go on first?” Ava and I got in the first cart that came by, and as we closed the gate, the wheel rotated upwards, so that our dad could get in another cart. We zoomed upwards, back towards the pure, peaceful blue sky, free and safe “These are sooo not safe!” Ava exclaimed, as we noticed that there was no seat belt, restraining bar or anything whatsoever to keep you from falling out, aside from the floor and the about threefoot gate that you could open from the inside. As the huge wheel slowly and cautiously pulled us up, like a scared puppy first entering its new home, Ava and I just sat there feeling more bored than ever. So, to make some fun, we began leaping from one side to the other to get the cart rocking. “CREAK… CREAK…” the joints groaned as we pushed them back and forth, back and forth. We continued to torture the poor flimsy wooden boards, with no apparent alarm or even the attention of any of the few surrounding people. No one even seemed to give us a second glance, which was rare considering that ever since we got to India, people had been staring at us because of how we looked and dressed. As we were cruelly punishing the sides of the cart, the cart started to sway to each side. And not just swaying like a young tree’s new branches gently quivering in the breeze. More like rocking hard like a tree caught in a thunderstorm with no way to shield itself from the harsh blows it was receiving. As the cart continued to swing from side to side, quickly gaining speed, we looked down over the low wall, at the rapidly approaching ground. “SWISH… SWISH… WOOSH… WOOSH… CLANG… CLANG…” shouted the gears covered in a thick layer of mud-brown rust; I could practically hear the CRASH! that was certain to follow. I shut my eyes and gripped the side of the cart, holding on for dear life. “Ahhhhhhhhh!” Ava and I screamed, only to have the air rush up our throats and drown out all the sound we were pouring forth. We got closer and closer, until I could see the very patterns of the bricks on the ground… and then we zoomed upwards, back towards the pure, peaceful blue sky, free and safe, like new-born birds learning to fly. Life was bliss. Kaylyn Kavi, 12Bridgewater, New Jersey Sora Nithikasem, 10Livingston, New Jersey
September/October 2008
Back Down to Earth
The wind is in my hair as I kick with my foot The rhythm of my wheels on the cracks of the sidewalk Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump The curb is coming to meet me at the end of the block It draws closer and closer Its short drop seeming like a cliff I lean back slightly, about to go off And then it happens That sweet split-second in which I am flying, untouched by worldly problems Just flying Then, as my wheels touch down, the entire world comes back in a single gust of wind Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump Back down to earth on my skateboard Jacob Dysart, 13Long Beach, California
Wings
I was startled. I really didn’t know what to think. I was so sure that I would get the job. The idea of not getting it had never even crossed my mind. I could hear the baby crying outside and Molly was singing to it. Hush my dear, The galloping men ride through the bracken, and ride o’er the ben, Mummy will watch her sleeping hen, So close your e’en my dearie She had a beautiful voice. It was clear and pure. The fact that she was so skinny and pale that you could almost see her skeleton didn’t affect her voice at all, it made it all the more beautiful. Ever since it began nothing has been the same. I remember it well. The awful smell, the black veil covering everything, oh yes, the potato famine is absolutely terrible. I walked outside. I had let my whole family down. I couldn’t even get a job to save my own family. If only we could get enough money to go on a boat. Then we could escape to America. America. That word fills me with a sort of hope. The land which has streets paved with gold. “The land of opportunity,” people say. I would have traded my right ear just to put one foot into the country. All the people in Ireland would. Not just me. Molly looked at me and I shook my head. She let out a moan and we started walking home. She stopped and laughed as some birds flew by inches away from her bonnet. They called to each other, flying from place to place. If only we had wings. We could fly to America. I looked down, the baby was screaming. Problem is, I thought, we don’t have wings. If only we had wings. We could fly to America It was a dismal journey, and we were very glad when we saw home at last. Mama was at her knitting. She is a magician with those needles of hers, I tell you. She was making a beautiful shawl for Molly, with reds and whites and blues. It was fit for a king. Or a president. “Any luck, Tom?” she looked up at me, but she could tell from our faces. None of us slept. We were all too hungry. Next morning, Molly came skipping in, humming a tune and holding a large fish. “You naughty child! Whose river did you steal it from this time?” Mama chuckled. Molly laughed, her hair blowing behind her. She looked lovely with a flower tucked behind her ear. “Never you mind, Mama,” she said, and she set herself by the stove. Minutes later wonderful smells filled the house. We couldn’t survive without Molly. It was January fifteenth and I finally got a job. We broke up stone and made roads that go from nowhere to nowhere. Absolutely pointless. It was just a way for the government to make more jobs. You’d think they would think of something better than that. Something that would help make the famine go away. At least it would pay the rent of the house for a while. In the night Molly fell on the floor, coughing. Mama lit a candle and the orange glow filled the small room. I could just make out Molly on the floor, bright red in the face. We helped her back into bed, but she was still coughing. For the next few weeks it went on. “It’s TB,” said the doctor as he examined her. He was a very good doctor, we knew that, and we believed him. Molly was so weak, if she put even a foot out of bed she would topple over coughing. But we did all we could to help her get better. We gave her three-quarters of the food, and Mama never left her side. We all thought that she was going to get better. My job was awful. It wasn’t so much the work as the children there. They were starving. Their once young, happy faces as they paddled in the river or laughed with their friends were gone, replaced with a sad, worried expression more fit for an old man bowed down with worries than the young children they were. All they had were memories, which they would swap for a single crumb of bread if they could. Even when we had the small amount of money that we earned, there wasn’t any food to buy. St. Patrick’s day came again. We went to church and then joined in with the parades. Mama bought some beer and dyed it green and more fish was stolen from the rivers than ever before. We chopped wood for the fire, and I helped Josie, next door, to look for leprechauns. We had Josie and her family around for a dinner of fish, beer and even one or two potatoes that we managed to find. It was a wonderful day. The landlord has to feed us. It makes him very angry, but it’s a fact. He is going to shove us all out of our own Ireland. Hopefully soon, though I feel sad to leave this country, famine or not. Molly was up all night coughing. When morning finally came and the birds called to each other, Molly was coughing so hard you couldn’t hear yourself talk. Then, all of a sudden, she stopped. The birds outside flew away. Mama rushed over. Then quietly, Mama began to sob. * * * I looked back over Ireland. The boat was rocking softly. I would really miss Ireland, even with the famine. Mama and the baby were playing with a piece of string. Everything would be all right. We were going to America. Eleanor Holton, 10Cambridge, Massachusetts Daria Lugina, 12Northboro, Massachusetts
