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100% written and illustrated by kids ages 6-13

September/October 2010


By

Lost

It was one of those moments where everything seemed to happen in slow motion Waves pounded on the sides of the boat like relentless punches, throwing the large craft off course. My uncle regained his footing on the drenched deck and forcefully guided the boat through the tormented sea. His black hair whipped around his face and his lips were set in a hard, thin line. All around me crates of life vests slid around the ship. I sidestepped one and lost my footing, tripping over the box. Above, lightning arched across the gray, stormy sky. I scrambled to my feet and glanced around, my senses alert. I spotted my cousin Trent twenty yards away. I ran up and helped him pull a long rope, trying to steady the sails from losing control in the wind. It was like playing tug-of-war with the Empire State Building. I firmly planted my feet on the deck and pulled with all of my strength. No use. Without my uncle it was hopeless. We both let go, defeated. I studied my cousin’s face among the blinding mist. He looked worse than me, almost. His entire body was flushed from strain and his eyes told me that he was on the verge of fainting. Just then, the boat lurched and dipped, threatening to turn over. A mountainous wave swelled next to the ship and crested, higher than the deck. It was one of those moments where everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The tension of foresight tightened my chest as the wave stumbled, losing its balance and crashing down onto the deck. I was flung, powerless, from my cousin, tumbling through the churning wave. I fought to gain control, but my minimal strength was nothing compared to the smashing force of the water. When the wave receded, I found myself lying face down near my uncle, who was clinging to the wheel. “Go!” he shouted through the howling wind. “Wha-?” I started to say, but then I saw what my uncle meant. Trent was clinging to the back of the mermaid statue protruding from the front of the ship out over the water. It didn’t look like he was going to be able to hold on much longer. I raced to the prow, slipping more than once. With no energy left, I hoisted myself up onto the mermaid and, promising myself I wouldn’t look down, crawled slowly towards my cousin. He was straddling the statue, his arms wrapped around her neck. I prayed I’d reach him in time; the wooden ship had become so slippery it was a wonder he was still with us. I moved slowly out over the water. I couldn’t help looking down, despite my promise. Fear gripped me in a choke hold. My stomach seemed to be trying to throw itself up, stuffing itself in my throat. I couldn’t do it. Then, a second tidal wave hit the craft. The ship bobbed threateningly and I lost my grip, slipping off the statue. I closed my eyes, and I couldn’t breathe. Instinctively, I swung my arm backward for support and managed to grab the ship. Digging my fingers in the wet wood, I used the siding of the boat to support myself while I swung my free foot over the railing of the boat. When I was safely on deck, my next thought was about Trent. There was no way he could have made it. I stared into the crashing sea and knew what I had to do. I rushed over to the emergency life craft and struggled inside. Then I took a life vest and secured it on my shoulders and took out my pocketknife. Furiously, I worked on the ropes suspending the small craft until finally they snapped and sent me plummeting down into the violent waters of the sea. I spotted Trent a few yards away in his neon-yellow shirt. I paddled furiously with paddles from the lifeboat, but the waves, which now seemed to have tripled in size, consistently sent me spinning off course. Blinded by fatigue, I gave one final push before I reached him, gliding next to him among the choppy waters. I extended one hand out to pull him toward the lifeboat, but I realized I had no strength left. I barely had enough to breathe. No, I told myself, neither one of us is going to die. My fingers felt the fabric of his shirt. Come on, come on, come on… *          *          * The next thing I knew, I was lying in the bottom of the lifeboat, Trent next to me. I immediately bolted upright, but a sharp pain in my head made me stumble backward for support. I looked around. Everything was blurry but coming back into focus. The storm seemed to have subsided, but I had completely lost my bearings. All around me was open sea. There was no sign of my uncle’s ship anywhere. Strike that. There was no sign of life anywhere save the unconscious form of my cousin lying unceremoniously in the bottom of the lifeboat with me. The lifeboat was a tiny, sleek design painted white. It had a small, weak motor in the back and a small tin box with first-aid equipment. I turned back to Trent. He was starting to come to, shaking his head slowly. His eyelids fluttered open and he too was greeted by a splitting headache. “Ahh, ow!” he said. “Trent,” I breathed, relieved to see him awake. “I… not…” “Calm down,” I said gently. “We’re OK.” “Is Uncle Frank…?” “I don’t know. I don’t know where we are or he is. I was out cold too for a while.” “We’re lost, aren’t we?” It was quite the inconvenient truth. I slumped over, defeated. This was not how it was supposed to be. When Uncle Frank suggested that Trent and I come along in his authentic 1700s-design tourist ship for a spin a few miles into the sea, getting lost


By

The Way Life Should Be

Secluding ourselves by a fire, Cherishing a novel. Burning rubber under us, As wind whips our face. Embracing in a hug, When one has not seen The other for years. Smiling, laughing, splashing, As icy water slithers up our bodies. Savoring arctic-cold lemonade, On a blistering summer day. A refined voice departing your throat, As a thunderous boom of applause Emits from the audience. Doing whatever appeals to you, Without any consequences. This is the way life should be, This is the fictional world That we pray becomes reality. But an alarm rings madly, And my wondrous dream comes to an end. Nicky Cannon, 12Dallas, Texas


By

Cry of the Wild Heart

For a minute there was no sound except for the cold breath of the wind The small, ragged fox trotted along in the dry brush near the train track, head low and ears flattened. His scruffy, dirty, brown coat ruffled slightly in the cold mid-October wind. His alert, dark eyes were half-closed, giving the fox a sharp, hooded gaze. Though barely a foot-and-a-half high, everything about him was tough and quick. He was hungry. The fox lifted his slim muzzle to the wind and sniffed deeply, hoping to catch the whiff of a mouse or a fat starling waddling along the tracks. No other animal was nearby, but there was something tantalizing in the air… He leaped out of the dry bracken and onto the great ridge of white gravel, upon which the railroad tracks lay. Here the fox could have a better view of his surroundings and could better smell more distant odors. Again he snuffed the breeze, short, stiff whiskers trembling. Yes, he could smell it, quite clearly now. It was coming from a small grocery store, from its open garbage cans. The fox left the tracks and with a steady, quick dog-trot headed towards the store. He didn’t mind scavenging—it was certainly easier than hunting, but he preferred fresh meat any day. Still, there were some foods in those garbage cans that he couldn’t get enough of—like the salty potato chip crumbs at the bottoms of those funny crinkly bags. As he neared the grocery store, his ears pricked at the sound of a terrific crash. The fox pushed aside the dry brush, rather startled, but curious. A big male raccoon sat in a jumble of aluminum canisters, banana peels, old eggshells and moldy bread. In his paws was a half-eaten ice cream cone, which he gnawed on with relish. Glancing up for a moment, the raccoon spotted the fox standing in the bracken. He dropped his treat and growled, ready to defend his supply of food. The fox barked back his challenge, teeth bared, and moved forward. Brute strength would not be enough in this battle, he knew. The raccoon was much larger than he. But wit and agility were also valuable traits, and these the fox had. The two wild creatures circled each other, occasionally making experimental snaps and lunges. The raccoon was stronger, younger, and larger than his adversary. But the fox was wiry, swift, and experienced in fighting. For a minute there was no sound except for the cold breath of the wind. Then the raccoon sprang. The fox easily evaded the attack with a leap of his own. He sailed clear over his enemy’s head, landed on the other side, then whirled back and nipped his hindquarters. The raccoon squealed. Claws out and ready, he made a swipe for the fox’s head. But it only connected with hard ground. Again the smaller, quicker creature spun about, then returned, nipping and tormenting. A second time the raccoon dashed to get away. Then, he made a maneuver that was surprisingly quick. He turned swiftly and made a dart at his rival’s side. Teeth sank into the fox’s leg and warm blood spilled onto his paw. Wrenching himself away, the fox leaped on the coon’s back, clawing and snapping. Suddenly he was rolling over and over, gray fur in his mouth, claws in his face, teeth in his shoulder. He lashed out with one front paw, but it found nothing. Then he kicked sharply with both hind legs, slashing the raccoon’s belly. There was a sound somewhere between a growl and a shriek. The coon untangled himself from the fray and bolted for the underbrush. The fox stood still for a moment, panting, as he watched this retreat. When he was sure that the enemy was not returning, he licked his new battle scars and settled himself down for an excellent meal. *          *          * It was a quiet, misty autumn twilight when the fox began to make his way towards his den. All day he had scouted his territory, checking boundaries and making sure that no intruder fox had invaded. It was not a large territory, but he knew every inch of it well—the best places to hunt, the deepest shadows where he could lie undetected, the busy streets where cars roared constantly. The latter he avoided. The fox only saw humans at a distance and concluded that they did not concern him much. He pressed on, paws flashing back and forth in that mile-eating dog-trot. He sniffed the fine drizzly rain, listened to a few bedraggled sparrows chirping in the brush nearby. He did not stop to hunt them, though. His belly was full. As he approached the small tangle of young trees, the fox halted and peered nervously over his shoulder, making sure no creature saw him. But he was alone. The fox gracefully leaped through a gap in the thicket and tumbled into his close, grassy den. After a moment, he lay down and curled into a ball. He nosed at the rags and dry leaves on the ground, tucking them around his ragged fur to keep warm. Finally, he fell into a deep sleep. *          *          * The next morning, he slowly awoke to sunlight filtering into his den. Rising, and shaking his fur free of dried leaf bits, he stepped freshly out into the cold early morn. A silver fog blanketed the world. No birds twittered; not a breath of wind stirred the fallen leaves scattered about the ground. The dry, bare plants seemed to shiver, though they did not move. At that moment the sun’s edge peeked over the horizon, tinting the eastern sky with gold. The light spread wide into every corner. The air itself glittered, as if thick with golden dust. The fox lifted his head, breathing in the magic of the silent dawn. A late robin suddenly let his flowing melody loose. It was as if a cord had been snapped. The mist cleared,