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September/October 2014

Words

This year, for a school project, Lilly was volunteering at a nursing home, or rather, she had been volunteered. It was not a pleasant prospect. From what she had heard from her older sister, Rose, it was basically just sitting around and listening to old people talk, talk, talk. Rose was the exaggeration queen, so you could never know if you could trust her, though. So that’s why, on a balmy Sunday morning, Lilly was standing on tiptoe at the reception desk and trying to read the very high up copy of the list of people, whens, wheres, hows… Lilly pulled out her notebook and her purple pen and started a new page. Mrs. Riley, she scrawled in her sloppy cursive, formidable, splendiferous. Lilly kept logs of everyone she met in that notebook, their eccentricities, faults, strengths, and wonderful adjectives galore. Mrs. Riley had the eyes of a warrior, with stories etched into every line and bravery stitched around the edges. Lilly liked her at once, from the moment she stepped into her room. She seemed impossible to defeat, Lilly thought, with the air of a general. She talked with an odd accent sweeping the edges of her words. Mrs. Riley had memories. Lilly could see them in the stories she told, of cool beaches, waves pawing the shore, wind whispering, and fresh, sweet mangoes. “Do you really remember these things?” Mrs. Riley laughed, not a creaky old person’s laugh, but one like bells that didn’t match her wrinkly outside. “Unfortunately, I have no children to pass it on to” “No, non, non, Lilly, I make it all up, pure imagination, but sometimes I feel like I was there.” I know what you mean, thought Lilly, as she exited the grove of mangoes and stories. Miss Ashley: loquacious, gregarious. Miss Ashley was more blunt about things than Mrs. Riley and chattered like a group of squirrels. Lilly tried her best to keep up with the constant stream but soon gave up and pretended to be listening. When she was leaving, Miss Ashley gave her a big hug and said, “Thank you, sweetie, nobody ever listens to me!” and Lilly felt a little ashamed that she hadn’t really, but smiled and hugged the old lady back. Mr. Joseph: __________ ? Mr. Joseph was so indescribable that it gave Lilly a shock. When she walked in, he asked with no hesitation, “What’s your favorite word?” Lilly’s words, her giant vocabulary, blanked. Then she said loudly, “Pulchritudinous!” He nodded, then calmly replied, “That means beautiful.” Lilly’s heart stopped, almost, and then she stuttered, “H-how d-do y-you know th-that?” Mr. Joseph smiled warmly and whispered, “The same way I think you do.” Lilly thought back to cold nights in front of the fire, flipping through the dictionary and pointing out interesting words to her family, Mama, Papa, Rose… She grinned back at Mr. Joseph, and he took out a worn book, the cover a rich red leather, and he held it up. Merriam-Webster’s English Dictionary, First Edition. Lilly gave a breath of awe. “Is that, like, one hundred years old?” He seemed pleased at her reaction. “Indeed.” Mr. Joseph stroked the cover gently and said, “It was my father’s, and his father’s, and so forth. Unfortunately, I have no children to pass it on to.” Lilly stared deep into his ocean-blue eyes. “You know,” he contemplated, “you are one of the only people I have met who I feel really understands me.” Lilly felt the praise swirl in her stomach and waved goodbye to Mr. Joseph. “Adieu.” “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Lilly’s mom asked, helping Lilly pull off her jacket. Lilly shrugged. She didn’t want her mom to know how much she enjoyed it because… because it was her moment, and she wanted to hold onto it a little longer. *          *          * Next Sunday was cool and brisk. Wind whipped Lilly’s cheeks as she skipped along to the nursing home. She skidded to a stop in the warm reception room, shimmied out of her coat, popped off her hat, dashed up the stairs, and slid, breathless, into Mrs. Riley’s room. Mrs. Riley laughed. “You look like you have run a mile or two, Lilly!” She patted the side of the bed. “I’m glad you came. Come, have a seat.” Lilly sat, and breathed Mrs. Riley’s warm, clean smell, like soap and lavender. “Today, Lilly, I want you to tell me a story.” Lilly almost fell off the bed. “What?!” “I said, you tell me a story,” Mrs. Riley calmly replied, taking Lilly’s hands in hers. “B-but I don’t know any stories.” “Make one up. It doesn’t matter if it’s good.” Mrs. Riley tapped her temple with a long, pale finger. “Use your imagination!” So Lilly took a deep breath and began. “Once upon a time, there was a creek full of splashing, glittering water, babbling, stories flowing out from every drop.” She was surprised she was sounding like Mrs. Riley. “The creek was in a wood, light and green, the sun catching big, fanlike leaves, glimmering like emeralds. Through the wood, there was a house like a cottage, gardenias placed meticulously in the window boxes, and daisies, roses, and violets scattered around the yard in clumps.” Lilly paused. “I don’t know what comes next.” Mrs. Riley clapped her hands. “Superb, Lilly, don’t worry, I’ll tell you the rest next week.” Lilly was baffled. “You’ll tell me the rest?” Mrs. Riley smiled at her. “Yes. You started a story, I’ll finish it for you.” She then pulled Lilly into a strong embrace for someone of her age. Miss Ashley was having a talk with a friend from next door so Lilly’s company was unneeded, thus she skipped over to Mr. Joseph’s room. “Remuneration,” Mr. Joseph said as she walked in. “Reward, or payment. Her remuneration was a trophy and a medal.” Lilly replied automatically, sounding like she had swallowed the dictionary. He grinned. “Good!

Listen

“Grab on!” I told it, though I knew it couldn’t understand me The sun slanted through the trees, lighting the forest with a warm glow. The day was surprisingly warm, being the middle of autumn. I climbed a sun-warmed boulder and stopped to catch my breath, letting my gaze drift through the part of the small forest I knew so well. Every day I would come here and listen to the river chatter, listen to the wind rustling the leaves of the mighty oaks and huge sycamores above my head. Since I had no friends, I spent all of my time after school here, in the forest not far from my house. I didn’t feel so very lonely here in the forest. I sat down on top of the boulder and closed my eyes. The sounds of the forest blended together in a beautiful song; wind whispering, river splashing, birds twittering, squirrels chattering. I frowned as suddenly a new, unfamiliar sound drifted on the breeze; a shrill mewling sound. I stood up and gazed wildly about. What is that? I wondered. It sounded like a small animal in pain. At first, I saw nothing unusual in the clearing around the boulder. Then something caught my eye—something in the river. A black shape was being carried downstream by the river currents. As I watched, a strong current pulled the thrashing black shape underwater. I scrambled down the boulder and raced to the bank of the river, a bit downstream of where the black shape was floundering against the river. I gasped. The shape was a kitten! It broke the surface of the water, its jaws gaping as it let out a shriek of terror. I spun around and spotted a hollow log nearby. Attached to its mossy trunk was an old, rotted stick that once was a strong branch. I raced over to the old log and snapped the branch off. Hurry, hurry! I told myself. Back at the river, I crouched down and stuck the stick out as far as I could reach, right in the path of the kitten. “Grab on!” I told it, though I knew it couldn’t understand me. The kitten looked at me, and I wondered if it knew what to make of me—a thirteen-year-old girl holding a rotting stick out to it. The current tossed the black kitten against the stick. The kitten scrabbled feverishly at the rotting wood, its tiny claws gripping the bark. It could hold on for a while, but probably not very long. I had to act quickly, before the current could pull the kitten away again. I pulled the stick back, not too fast in case it jerked the kitten off. Once the stick was close enough to me, I stretched out my left hand and plucked the kitten off the branch. He clutched my hand and meowed with an almost relieved tone to his voice. My heart pounding, I drew the kitten close to me and dried his soaking pelt off with my jacket. He shook his head fiercely, scattering drops of water. He began to purr as I dried the fur behind his ears. “I think I’ll call you Splash,” I said, smiling. The kitten looked up into my eyes—and I knew. I’d found a friend. Montanna Harling, 13Valley Center, California

Salty Air

My sister and I Scramble up the jagged rocks Our pockets full of shells, rocks And the occasional sea glass. My mother sits by the fire, Reading peacefully We grab sheets of paper towels On the windowsill, a menagerie Of tiny ocean creatures Unmoving now, glistening in the sun They sit there all weekend Until it’s time to Go. The sea glass is the last act in the show All others packed up Shoved into bags and jackets We always leave the best for last But when we get home, Exhausted in that exhilarating way, The memories are drawn out of our things We lock them in our minds And all that’s left is dull rocks The magic somehow all gone. They were always more beautiful When you had the ocean behind them The waves pounding the shores The earthy damp scent And the fireplace, crackling all night. Pearl Tulay, 12Amherst, Massachusetts