Flamethrower Jacob Chan, 11 I was almost 11 in the warm windy fall of the year 2019, when my baseball team, the Bulldogs, were playing in the little league semi-finals. But still, I couldn’t help but want to crawl under my bed, where I would be safe. I couldn’t even bear to glance at the opposing pitcher’s deep blue eyes. His fastball was so fast that if you rode on it around a highway, you would get fined for speeding. My team crammed in the dugout before the game started, each of us getting to know one another way more than we wanted to. I swear I smelled vomit on the jersey of one of my teammates. “Listen up, Bulldogs!” My coach Adam began to yell. “It’s the semi-finals—if we don’t win this, each of you owe me five laps around the field!” Everyone groaned. Everyone, with the exception of me, and a few other boys. Not that we wanted to run laps, mind you, but because we were staring at the five-foot-seven kid on top of the mound warming up. He was literally throwing fireballs into the catcher’s rusty old, well-patted, brown mitt, with the glove strings tightly knotted. For a second, I didn’t care about the 10 pound gold trophy sitting on the table behind the dugout that would be handed out to the winner. I just cared about not getting plunked in the face by a 70 mph fastball thrown by the 11-year-old Godzilla. Alright, alright, call me a scaredy cat, but let’s face it—you would be freaking out, too. The tap of Bowen Orberlie, one of my teammates, brought me back to reality. “Earth to Jacob!” he said into my ear. I shook, and glanced up at my coach who was throwing darts out of his eyes to every single one of my teammates. Glancing down at a torn up sheet of paper, he began to scream the starting lineup aloud, with little tiny molecules of spit coming out of his wide open mouth as he spoke. “Chan, leading off!” he yelled at the top of his lungs, so loud you would have thought he was my cousin after watching the New York Mets lose. I froze. To be honest, I should have been proud of my nearly .370 on base percentage that got me the role of batting leadoff in the semi-finals, but–I. Did. Not. Want. To. Face. This. Pitcher. The rest of the lineup was a blur. I couldn’t think straight. Trembling, I grabbed my Rawlings blue and silver bat and stepped outside the dugout. I began to take some dry swings, you know, the swings that coaches and parents always say will “help you get better.” I tried to time my swing perfectly so I wouldn’t get embarrassed too much. I looked up at the crowd; they were whooping and whistling. I overheard a dad with a Bulldogs sweatshirt on yelling comments like, “Dang, this kid throws hard!” I rolled my eyes nervously, and glanced up at the pitcher. I swear he smirked at me. I sighed, and tried to not make eye contact. I watched the umpire take off his blue and black mask and bend down to clean the plate off with his dusty old brush. “Play ball!!” he screamed. I jumped. I shook my head. There was no way I was going to hit this pitcher. “Let’s go Bulldogs!!” someone yelled from the crowd as I stepped into the box. I took a deep breath. Slowly, I turned my head that was in two different realities. One side wanted to run away screaming and forget about everything I had ever done to be on this team. The other side wanted to suck it up and try to be the hero. Anyway, I stared at the pitcher with my shaky, dark brown eyes, and he stared at me with his confident light blue ones. And oh my, if eyes could kill, I would be on the ground dead. I swallowed hard. I might’ve swallowed my gum that I was chewing since warmups, and I wouldn’t have realized. Heck, if green aliens with one eyeball took over the earth right then, I wouldn’t have noticed. “Time!” I yelled to the ump, even though it wasn’t even half a second after I stepped in the box. The umpire scrunched up his eyebrows like he was confused. I couldn’t blame him. The pitcher looked somewhat annoyed. I stepped back into the rectangle-shaped batters box after trying to calm myself down and taking some more swings. The pitcher shook off a pitch from the catcher. Again. Again. Again. And again. I’m willing to bet money that he was messing with me. He had a little smile while he shook off the pitches. Finally, he selected a pitch. Fast ball maybe? Curveball? Changeup? Maybe he had a splitter? My head was spinning in all different directions. His face looked furious as he threw it as hard as he could. Life seemed to be moving in slow motion and then fast and furious when the ball came out of the pitcher’s hand. The ball was already in the catcher’s mitt before I even began to swing. The loud thud of the ball landing in the catcher’s mitt made me jump. My eyes went wide. The crowd even sounded shocked. People were even making comparisons to him and Aroldis Chapman. I started to panic even more because if there was one thing I knew about Chapman, it’s that he had no control of the baseball. I might get plunked! I stepped out of the box and took a practice swing. My hand trembled so much that I almost let go of the bat. “Stay in there!” A dad from the stands yelled. I stepped into the box. The crowd was yelling, screaming, chanting, you name it. As the pitcher selected another pitch, I blocked out every sound in the ballpark. The cheers, the insults,
Young Bloggers
Covid, a poem by Melanie, 9
Covid Melanie Delfina, 9 It was hard to see the light at the end of the tunnel, when it felt like the sky was beginning to rumble. The sky faded dark. I saw no hope, for this Covid had just begun. Places getting closed students at home hotel rooms left alone. Days passed. Still… I saw no sign of light. Days turned into weeks turned into months. I was still losing hope that this storm would ever pass. It was hard to see how this would end when all I could see was a screen. But, one day I saw a crack of light and soon that light turned bright. The sky stopped rumbling. I wasn’t alone anymore
A Secret Beauty (Mona Lisa): A Series in Ekphrasis by Ella Yamamura, 14
I was tired of convincing Lisa to smile. Every time we sat down with her, she simply crossed her arms and stared at me through a set of deep, solemn eyes, her mouth refusing to curl into a smile. It was a shame, really. She had a plump figure and a lively blush on her cheeks that suggested she was really someone enjoyable to be with, however, her permanent frown told otherwise. I tapped my foot impatiently on the intricately designed carpet, frustration slithering around in my head like a serpent. Lisa was yet again assuming her position with her crossed arms and her defiant gaze. I refused to give up. I wanted nothing more than to paint her wearing a smile. I was confident that I could create a masterpiece out of her—A Secret Beauty—only she didn’t realize it yet. “Miss.” I fidgeted with my paintbrush as I looked into her serious brown eyes. “If you would just smile a little–” “I’m quite alright, thank you,” Lisa said, and her fingers twitched in irritation. I shut my mouth immediately and gave a single nod. “That’s fine,” I replied in disappointment. I started mixing my colors, glancing back at her hopefully as if suddenly she would change her mind and turn towards me with a bright smile on her face. It didn’t happen. “Exactly how long will this take?” Lisa asked impatiently. I stayed silent, not wanting to answer her question. In truth, it would take several years to paint a masterpiece. I would have to request a sitting with her multiple times just to accurately paint her features on canvas. “Not long,” I lied. She clearly saw past my lie as, several years later, she grew tired of listening to me pestering her for another sitting. “I-It takes a while, Miss!” I repeated hastily, “I’m almost done.” And it was true. I was indeed almost done. In fact, everything from her mane of dark oak-colored hair to her crossed hands was painted to perfection. Everything…except her mouth, that is. Where her mouth was supposed to be was a stretch of blank canvas. I refused to paint her in a frown. It just seemed wrong, but convincing Lisa to smile was not an option. “Look this way please,” I asked Lisa who had turned her attention to a stray strand of hair. Lisa nodded curtly and I began planning out my approach. It turned out beautifully. I found myself staring at the portrait several times. Her eyes seemed to follow me everywhere I went. Even Lisa had been taken aback when I had showed her the portrait—the portrait of Lisa. Lisa with her crossed hands and serious eyes and smile. The smile that seemed to hide something. Like she knew all the secrets in the world. A Secret Beauty.
