Warm air, shining flowers, golden sunlight—summer in Chicago. And what summer would be complete without baseball? At historic Wrigley Field in Chicago, baseball has been a central part of summertime excitement for generations. I must confess that I am an avid baseball fan. I watch baseball, play baseball, listen to baseball, and read about baseball. Recently, while flipping through a book about the Chicago Cubs, I came across a short, comedic poem written by Franklin Pierce Adams in 1910. Adams was a newspaper writer for the New York Times, and also a Giants fan. He wrote the short, woeful tale, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon,” while at a Giants and Cubs game. It tells the story of three Cubs infielders, Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers, and Frank Chance, who were notorious for turning double plays (getting two runners out in the same play). The poem laments the strong teamwork of the trio, and how they always took the championship from the Giants. The Cubs won the National League Championship four times between 1906 and 1910, so Giants fans had good reason for their frustration. This is expressed well in the final few lines of the poem: Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble, Making a Giant hit into a double— Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble: “Tinker to Evers to Chance.” When I first read the poem, I was very curious as to what “gonfalon” meant. I discovered that it means “pennant” or “banner”. The winner of the Championship would always receive a pennant, which always eluded the Giants. I love poems that accurately reflect the spirit and thoughts of people from long ago. It gives a clear window onto history and helps me understand how people really felt about historic events. When Mr. Adams’s poem first came out in the New York Times, it was wildly popular. Fellow New Yorkers understood and agreed with Adams’ complaints. The poem turned Tinker, Evers, and Chance into double-play legends and is a big part of why they were elected to Baseball’s Hall of Fame in 1946. To a baseball fan, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon” provides a historic and fascinating view into the talents of these three players. Even someone who is not a baseball fan can appreciate the rich history the poem brings to life. It connects us with the events of the day, makes us feel as if we were there. When reading it, imagine yourself at the ballpark in the early 1900s, cheering on Tinker, Evers and Chance. The warm air, clear blue sky, golden sunshine—summer in Chicago. Catherine Woods, 13Frankfort, IL
Allowables
Has anyone here ever killed a spider? Actually, I have a better question: has anyone here ever not killed a spider? The battle to keep spiders and other bugs out of the house is a fairly constant one, and most everyone, at some point in time, has found the easiest solution is to simply pick up a shoe and smash all small invaders—which is why I was so intrigued by Nikki Giovanni’s “Allowables,” a poem that describes the author’s shame at killing a harmless spider she finds in her house. The poem is written in free verse, with no rhyme or obvious rhythm, but the author nonetheless draws the reader in with ample repetition and a choppy style that reflects the emotions she describes. In order to better explain her feelings, she uses imagery to describe the spider as harmless, explaining that it was “sort of papery.” I was rather surprised to note that there was no punctuation in the entire poem, but decided that the lack of grammatical breaks mimicked the thought process the author is going through. Giovanni gives “Allowables” a very memorable ending with the simple, straightforward phrase “I don’t think / I’m allowed / To kill something / Because I am / Frightened,” using enjambment to give emphasis to certain parts of the sentence. What really drew me to this poem, however, is less the style of the writing than the way in which I connected to it, both on a personal level and on a larger scale. I can’t deny that there have been times when, given a choice between capturing a spider I just encountered in my bathtub and taking it outside or washing it down the drain, I have chosen to kill it. I always regret it after, but I continue to make the same mistake, refusing to overcome my initial fear response and act reasonably. Giovanni’s poem may seem to be making a big deal out of an inconsequential event—until one considers its implications in light of current events. Much of the racial discrimination and violence in our world is due to people allowing fear to rule them, causing them to strike out at all the people of an ethnicity because they are too afraid to remember that most of these people mean them no harm. Sonia Bhaskaran, 14Glendale, CA
Stone Soup Honor Roll: July-August 2017
Welcome to the Stone Soup Honor Roll! We receive hundreds of submissions every month by kids from around the world. Unfortunately, we can’t publish all the great work we receive. So we created the Stone Soup Honor Roll. We commend all of these talented writers and artists and encourage them to keep creating. – The Editors Scroll down to see all the names (alphabetical by section), including book reviewers and artists. STORIES Maris Brown, 12 Angelina Cao, 12 Catelyn Clevenger, 11 Maeve Filkins, 10 Bailey Fried, 11 Ava Giordano, 12 Sierra Glassman, 11 Garrett Heller, 13 Aleena Islam, 13 Ruhee Jain, 11 Cole Jersek, 11 Finn Joshi, 12 Renee Kelly, 9 Jannah Khan, 13 Lauren Lamson, 11 Eden Skye Lewis, 10 Sienna Ruby Lipton, 12 Emilia Llorca Luth, 10 Adelle MacDowell, 13 Arabella McClendon, 13 Sofia McTaggart, 12 Mackenzie Morong, 12 Natalia Odreman, 12 Sydney Phillips, 11 Myla Pierre-Louis, 13 Siddharth Ramesh, 10 Sophie Raskin, 9 Leyla Richter-Munger, 13 Ryan Rodman, 11 Emma Russell-Trione, 12 Shefali Sahai, 13 Emily Schechter, 11 Soleil Shannonhouse, 8 Lev Scheinfeld, 13 Zack Shell, 13 Liam Smith, 12 Owen Stokes, 12 Julia Ye, 12 Subin Yoon, 13 Emily Zhang, 12 POEMS Hattie Bradshaw, 10 Eliana Brenden, 11 Cora Cheer, 10 Alma Dasberg, 11 Riley Dowell, 10 Gabriel Epstein, 12 Mia Harte, 12 Zoe Keith, 9 Lauren Lamson, 11 Kyra Mathew, 10 Abraham Newman, 11 Hannah Parker, 12 Tara Prakash, 10 Chloe Riethmiller, 10 Logan Settle Rishard, 11 River Shields, 10 Abby Wallach, 12 BOOK REVIEWS Olivia Brown, 13 Claire Buchanan, 11 Emily Cao, 13 Eileen Wang, 13 ARTWORK Giselle Alexander, 12 Emma Hemsch, 10 Reiyah Jacobs, 11 Jordyn Levine, 12
The Track of Fear
“ARGHHHHH!” my sister and I screamed Chug! Chug! Chug! the rollercoaster roared as I rose higher and higher into the air. High above the bustle of Paris, my sister and I rose and plunged on the snakelike coaster. My stomach started sinking like the Titanic when I dared look down for a split second. Why did I do this to myself? I silently screamed, not really wanting to answer my own question. In a blink of an eye, we were almost at the top, and I felt my stomach clench as I stared wide-eyed at the gargantuan drop! If I could have one wish, it would be to freeze this moment. I could not mentally move past this point. One second later, reality belly-flopped me into a black hole. Chug! Chug! Chug! the rollercoaster taunted me. All I could think about was how high I had climbed, how soon the death-defying drop would plummet me into an abyss, and why I had agreed to do this. “Aren’t you excited for the big drop, Izzy?” Hannah asked, gazing at me as joy shot through her voice like a sunbeam. “Yeah,” I muttered, not looking at her. I was lying both to her and myself. Think happy thoughts, I told myself, but how could I think that way when the once bright sapphire sky was now dark and gloomy and the grass under me no longer seemed green but shadow black? I shut my eyes, not ready for what lay ahead. I would face the drop in five, four, three, two… “ARGHHHHH!” my sister and I screamed. I hurled my hands in the air and let the wind run against my arms, and to my surprise, it didn’t turn out to be as scary as I had thought it would be. After the ride was over, I realized I enjoyed conquering my fears and trying new challenges. “See, wasn’t that fun, Izzy?” my older sister asked, turning to me with her golden smile. “Yeah, do you want to go again?” I asked, my voice singing with confidence as I gazed up at the giant roller coaster with pride. “Sure.” With that, Hannah and I clasped hands conspiratorially, and we joined the line. Isabelle Dastgheib, 11Newport Coast, California Mia Fang, 12West Lafayette, Indiana
Welcome Aboard
I had heard that boarding a train was like entering a whole new world Gusts of wind whipped around the platform, a welcome appearance for the impatient passengers dripping with sweat on this sweltering Beijing summer afternoon. Off in the distance, two whistles blew, piercing the air with their tremulous shrill, ushering in a series of booming clang clang clangs. Eagerly, I gripped my blue suitcase ever so tightly. Sweat in my palms practically melted into the silver luggage handle. Just a few moments before we would board the train… a couple of seconds now… a mere split-second… CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! Puffs of smoke from the train funnel rose and drifted in the breeze, and the locomotive stopped still on the tracks, its red hue dimming in its countless journeys. The crimson gleam remained though. A train attendant clad in a dark navy-blue suit and beaming pearly whites unlocked the train entrance. A cluster of voices suddenly bubbled up as everyone clamored to board the train, yearning to escape the burning heat. Only one young woman stayed behind to wave tearfully at her family, yelling a last minute I promise to write! and I’ll miss you! Her parents nodded, ready to let her go as the young woman vanished within the clamoring crowd. I had heard that boarding a train was like entering a whole new world. That it would be an exciting, thrilling adventure. That sometimes you met all kinds of people who could change your life, or become a lifelong friend. It seemed that the world inside this train was bursting with people to be met, things to be seen… People also said that riding trains was the best way to immerse yourself in Chinese culture, as Chinese people routinely traveled by train, and that was just my goal as my family and I boarded the train that would take us on a cross-country route, leading from northern Beijing to the southern China harbors. We were bound for the final stop on the train route: Shenzhen, a mega-metropolis in China famed for being the Silicon Valley of China, for its contemporary architecture and modern, youthful culture. We’d come to visit my uncle who lived there. I had heard amazing tales of Shenzhen from my parents, and I dreamed of the urban adventures I would get to experience. Inside the train, I leaped across the passenger corridors, bursting with curiosity at the unfamiliar newness of it all. I paused to stop and inspect the cogs of an enticing gadget. Or how the window curtains were royal blue and fringed with golden yellow, with phoenix figures imprinted on the fabric… I was so thrilled to be on a real-life train, on a world away from home! Suddenly, my mom called me over. Instantly, I rushed—no, skipped—over to our compartment. This would be our home for the next twenty-two hours. Triple bunk beds were built on either side. Mom and I snagged the bottom bunks—rejoice!—while my cousin got the middle bunk above. Bottom bunk was almost always the best spot, because beside it was an oval-shaped window that gave a view of outside. Underneath was a sterile white table ideal for eating. And the best part was that I could freely amble in and out of the compartment. No having to climb down and fret about accidentally squashing someone’s toes! As we furnished our surroundings, I took out my travel satchel and a pink-and-purple dog-shaped pillow. Our bunkmates soon came in and settled down. They promptly began to doze off. The train would start off shortly. Suddenly, a flurry of voices began to rise. Poking my head out to see the commotion, I heard some people having a heated debate. A woman with high heels sharp enough to stab someone chatted in animated Chinese with her friend, a carefree spirit in her smile. A frail, elderly man with a head full of gray hair, dashed with specks of white, persevered to keep his balance as he walked and took out a pocket-sized leather-bound photo album and lovingly stared at a tiny, grainy, sepia photograph before placing it back. A pair of parents warned their child QUIT climbing on the suitcases or else… A teenager crunched on some chips as she listened to the blasting music in her earphones. She swayed to a rhythm I couldn’t make out, completely immune to the activity rushing around her. An auburn-haired man glued to his cellphone muttered to himself in a foreign tongue, urgently tapping the screen for a response, a ghostly halo framing his features. A young mother with a tied-up bun nestled in her arms a whining and wailing infant. Trailing behind her was her daughter, pulling her mom’s orange blouse, craving attention. Not far behind was the children’s dad, huffing and puffing as he heaved the massive luggage. They settled in the compartment next to us, the baby screaming louder. I wondered about the tales of these people, what sort of lives they had to tell. TWEEEEEEEET! The shrill whistle abruptly sounded, and off the train lurched, giving a violent jolt and leading me to hop into the safe covers of my bed. Grabbing a book, I began to read. Suddenly, nearly three chapters in, I felt someone staring at me. Intently. And for a long time. Maybe it was my sixth sense creeping in. I could hear a pitter patter of footsteps. Then a pause. Who could it be? Looking up, I found a pair of deep black eyes staring at me! Oh! Those eyes belonged to that little girl with the wailing infant sibling! They were thoughtful, glassy eyes, like marbles, rolling around the small room and studying the compartment, my dozing bunkmates, and, most importantly, me. Then she hid behind the wall separating the train compartments. She peeked again. And again! This game of peek-a-boo went on for several minutes, with each stolen glance becoming increasingly longer and more confident. Black bangs framing her chubby face, radiating total
Summer Sea Shell
My feet sunk into the soft sand. The waves called to me. “Come play,” they said, “within my water so that I can hear your laughter.” The water washed up on the yellow sand, trying to reach me. The breeze rustled in my hair and the only sound I could hear was the love that the seagulls shared that morning. In the distance, the water looked as pretty as a pearl. Just as I was about to turn back, something sparkling came out of the sand. At first, it looked like a shell. Then it became more. It was a precious turtle, small and helpless. Suddenly, crabs and seagulls crowded around the turtle. Breakfast was what they saw. “Stop!” I shouted. I walked over to where the turtle hid and I guarded it. Slowly, I walked with it, imagining our conversation as we sauntered to the sea. Then, the turtle stumbled over a shell the color of my mother’s eyes. Finally, it made it to the sea. I picked up the shell, for it would be my memory. McKenzie Steury, 11Auburn, Alabama
Enchanting Sunset
A walk by the shore on a blazing summer day, So hot that you can cook an egg on the street. The soft silky sand tickles your toes While you complain that it is hot as fire. Happiness and laughter fill the air as I jump From the glistening waves that try to pull me in. You build a castle with your left hand And eat a frozen treat with the other. You spread a fuzzy blanket to sit back and wait, For the time has come for you to be speechless. In awe you see, your eyes sparkling bright, Right at the horizon, is a sunset. Jinny Min, 11Mukilteo, Washington
Ghost Girl: A Blue Ridge Mountain Story
Ghost Girl: A Blue Ridge Mountain Story, by Delia Ray; Clarion Books: New York, 2016; $6.99 “I stopped cold, then turned around real slow. ‘What did you say?’ I asked. A big grin spread out over Dewey’s wide face. ‘I said, the Hoovers say they’re gonna build us a school.’ Set in 1930, Ghost Girl takes place on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains in West Virginia. The main character, Miss April Sloane, is an eleven-year-old girl dubbed ghost girl because of her white skin and hair, who lives an almost ordinary life after her brother dies in a freak accident. But when President Hoover and his family move into a vacation home in the mountains and invite Miss Christine Vest, a kind, smart young lady, to teach twenty-two uneducated kids in the new school, everything turns topsy-turvy. In this fast-paced novel based on real letters and newspaper clippings about the school, author Delia Ray guides us through April Sloane’s ups and downs, her hardships and successes, and her realization of who she really is.Even though April’s life is very different from mine, I was transported to her world in the Blue Ridge Mountains, a world with no formal education and not much money. I felt like I was with April and her dad, doing chores and telling stories. I was enchanted by the author’s descriptions of the brisk cool mountain air, the dewy morning grass, and the towering maple trees. The creation of the president’s Mountain School starts out looking like it is going to give kids a chance to thrive and be educated, but it turns out to be much more complicated.From the beginning, April’s mom does not want her to go to school so her daughter can stay home to do more chores. I think the mom is still grieving for her son and wants to keep April, her last child, safe and to herself. When April comes home from school every day, overflowing with love for her new teacher, April’s mom pushes her away.The jealousy leads to discord, not only with her teacher, but also between mother and daughter. This year, I am going to school for the first time after homeschooling for six years. Like April, I am super excited, but it means that I won’t be able to spend as much time with my family, and I will not have the control that I used to have over my schedule. Now, of course, it will be very different from April’s experience because my family supports me, and no matter what happens out there they will be there for me (or at least I hope so!). But, as in Ghost Girl, there will be many challenges in going to school for the first time. I really liked this book because it opened up a whole new way of living and a different place and time than I had ever read. I would recommend this book to anyone in need of a good story. Sarah Day Cymrot, 12Washington, DC
The Boy on the Wooden Box
The Boy on the Wooden Box, by Leon Leyson; Atheneum Books for Young Readers: New York, 2015; $8.99 Leon Leyson’s memoir of his experiences of Nazi Germany is a testament to the power of family and the amazing ability of kindness and good even in the darkest of times. Born Leib Lejzon, the author chronicles his family’s experience during World War II and the Holocaust. He and his siblings grew up in rural Poland and moved to Krakow to join their working father in 1938. But by the fall of next year, the German army invaded, and set in motion a cycle of misery, starvation, and death that would last Leib and his Jewish family six dark years. Leyson’s writing is simple but touching and gives us a window into what it was like to live through the Holocaust. It’s insane to think about how it would feel to be beaten, starved, and hated just because of which God/gods you placed your faith in. And Leyson’s physical pain was just the beginning, as he had to go through the murders of several family members. What if one day you learned that the people you loved the most in the world were dead, and you would never see them again? How is it possible to go on living, when a part of who you are is crushed like that? But somehow, Leon and some of his family did survive. It’s amazing how Leon and a lot of his close family endured the Holocaust. It was all through the help of Oskar Schindler, a German businessman who rescued Jews from certain death to work in his factory. His story was adapted into a critically acclaimed movie, Schindler’s List, by Steven Spielberg. Oskar Schindler was an amazing man. Disguised as a Nazi, he used bribes and extravagant parties to coerce high-ranking Nazis into letting him save Jews. Leon and his family were on Schindler’s List, and it saved their lives. Leyson describes Schindler as “the hero, disguised as a monster himself, who would save my life.” I won’t tell you all of what happened, but I can tell you that the book can make you cry with matter-of-fact lines, and tells you that it’s possible to outlast even the worst experiences and build a new life for yourself. Leon went through the Krakow ghetto, two brutal concentration camps, and still somehow survived his ordeal. I have read history books about World War II and the Holocaust before, but hearing someone tell a real, human story is something much different, and is so much more enlightening than any history book could be. This book spoke to me even though I don’t share the author’s faith. It really made me stop and think about how valuable my family is, and how lucky I am to have comforts like a warm bed, enough food, and a roof above my head. These are things that we should really stop and think about, and when someone like Leon Leyson shares his story with us, it puts it into perspective. It’s easy to take these comforts for granted, and walking a mile in Leon Leyson’s shoes is important. Even though the story is very sad and touching to read, it is ultimately uplifting and teaches us that even in the worst of times, we can still find goodness and bravery, even in unlikely places. Dash Barnett, 13Seattle, Washington
A Horse Named Seamus
All this time Seamus didn’t want ribbons or fame, he just wanted to go home Horses, horses, horses. There were so many horses! Valery wondered which one would be hers as she gazed over the crowd of them. She had waited so long for this day. Today was her tenth birthday, and her parents had finally given in to Valery’s pleas to let her adopt a horse. There was a local horse carnival in town, so Valery and her mom had gone. “Do you want to go see the Pony Parade? It’s starting in five minutes,” Lucia, Valery’s mom asked. “I want to keep on looking for a horse, Mom.” Valery shook her head. “Can I look for a horse alone while you watch the show?” Valery offered. “I suppose so,” Lucia replied. “But stay safe! And meet me here after the parade.” “Thanks, Mom!” Valery called as she walked towards a large bay horse. The sun was starting to go down into the trees, and darkness was falling. “How much is he?” Valery asked the horse’s owner as she patted the horse kindly. He was a bit old but looked friendly. “Four hundred dollars,” the woman answered. “OK, thanks,” Valery nodded. Her parents’ budget for a horse was two hundred and fifty dollars. Valery walked around for a while, going from horse to horse. She examined great horses and small horses. Full horses and thin horses. The moon was rising as she went closer and closer to the woods that marked the end of the carnival. Valery was starting to think there were not any more horses to see when a flash of white caught her eye and the shrill cry of a horse echoed throughout the woods. Glancing around, Valery noticed that there was no one else in sight. Since the Pony Parade was probably ending, or perhaps already finished, Valery decided just to take a look at this horse, then go. Moving towards the horse, she saw it was tethered to a tree not far into the woods, unlike most of the horses who were in shiny trailers. The horse reared again and whinnied louder this time. “It’s OK,” Valery said calmly, inching slowly towards the horse. The horse snorted and backed away from her, tossing his head. He was a handsome piebald stallion who did not look older than four years. His eyes were big and dark, reflecting a sense of sadness from within. His head swept back and forth as if he could see something she could not.Then, deciding that all was well, the horse walked towards her and sniffed her face. Valery laughed as she rummaged through her pockets for treats. “Sorry, I spent them all on other horses,” she said apologetically, noticing how thin and bony the horse was. A bale of hay and some oats would help take care of that, Valery thought to herself. “Hello?” she called into the darkness. Someone had to own this horse, Valery knew, but all she could spot was a table. The carnival lights did not reach this far, and Valery called again, louder this time. “Hello?” “What?” a raspy voice snapped, making Valery jump. Quickly, she brushed a strand of dark red hair that had fallen out of her braid away from her face. There was no one in sight! Who could be speaking? Valery wondered. She looked at the horse half accusingly. No, it wasn’t the horse. But as long as someone was speaking, she may as well ask.“How much is this horse?” Valery called cautiously. “Three hundred dollars,” said the voice. Valery looked around but could not distinguish who was speaking. “One hundred.” Valery frowned. She wasn’t very good at bargaining, but she knew to start low. “Two hundred and seventy-five,” the voice replied irritably. Valery knew the Pony Parade must have ended a long time ago, but something told her that this horse was the one. “Two hundred and fifty.” Valery bit her lip. Two hundred and fifty dollars was the maximum, and she knew she couldn’t lose this horse. If she had to pay more she had to pay more. Valery just hoped her mother would understand. “All right, sold. Put the money in the bowl on the table.” Valery gasped in surprise. The horse was hers! Valery turned towards the table. There was now a dark pink and gray bowl sitting on the table where there was nothing before. Fear began to creep up her neck as she placed the two hundred and fifty dollars on the table quickly. The trees cast long shadows over the ground like the silhouettes of ghosts, and she felt invisible spiders crawling up her back. Valery began to untie the lead rope, which was tied tightly to the tree. “What’s his name?” Valery asked, desperately trying to start up a conversation as she picked at the knot with her nails. Cold chills were creeping up her back. Was it raining? Or were those footsteps she heard? Turning around, she saw that the money and the bowl were gone. Valery prepared to run, but darkness seemed to swallow her from both sides. Running could either lead her out to safety or deeper into the woods. Her nails throbbed with pain as they scrabbled with the rope. “Seamus.” His name seemed to be carried by the wind, only appearing for a moment before vanishing. Valery nodded meekly as she finally succeeded in untying the knot. Now remembering which way she came from, Valery prepared to escape with her life and the horse. Cold fingers grasped her shoulders, and Valery ran out of the dark and shadowy woods with the horse following beside her. “Valery, where were you?” Lucia cried, hugging Valery. “It’s been nearly an hour since the Pony Parade ended! I was about to call the police!” “Sorry, Mom,” Valery apologized. “I got a horse, though. His name is Seamus.” She stepped aside to let the piebald horse through. The horse had a white
Softball
I had only one thought in mind, and that was: Get. To. First. I stood in the box, wriggling my toes around in my cleats along with the sand that had somehow managed to wedge itself in there. It was a hot, cloudless summer day and I regretted wearing long wool knee-high socks, though they were part of my uniform. The green-and-white bat felt heavy in my hands, as well as the large purple batting helmet atop my head. I looked nervously at the pitcher’s mound and watched as she wound up… and threw. I watched as my teammate swung…and missed. Another hit, and I’m up, I thought, another hit and all the pressure is on me. It’s not that I don’t like softball, because I do. I love throwing and catching with my teammates, going to batting cage. But the prospect of batting in a real game makes me want to crawl under a rock for a few weeks. Behind me, in the dugout, I could hear my teammates cheering. That gave me a little courage but not much. Clang! I watched the softball sail through the air. An outfielder lunged but missed the ball and it rolled neatly onto the ground. She snached it up and made a wild throw to first as my teammate rounded it then touched second. “Safe!” called the umpire, though distantly in my head. More sharply did I hear, “Batter up!” My stomach flopped around and then violently tried to eat itself, but I forced my quivering legs to walk the couple yards to home plate. It felt like miles, especially with the ump and pitcher watching expectantly. My team really needed a hit. The score was one-to-two, in our opponent’s favor. We had runners on second and third, there were two outs. My nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point, I wished someone—anyone—would do it instead of me. But nonetheless, there I was. It didn’t help that I hadn’t gotten a hit all season. My only experience with batting was swinging and missing, swinging and missing. I shouldered my bat, lined my feet up with home plate, and concentrated on the pitcher. If I was going to have to do this, I might as well try as hard as I possibly could. The pitcher wound up, and threw. I panicked, trying to remember everything I had ever learned about batting in a split second. The ball landed short at my feet, but I still made a wobbly swing. “Strike!” called the umpire. I winced. No! You knew that was a grounder, I thought, why didn’t you leave it alone? I promised myself that I wouldn’t swing at any more balls. (A ball in hitting terms is something to avoid, something unhittable.) Next pitch the softball whizzed by my shoulders and I didn’t do anything. “Strike two!” But when the next ball rolled my feet, I was ready for it, staying stiffly where I was. Three more softballs hit the dirt and my bat didn’t move. I looked up in surprise as one of the coaches rolled out the blue pitching machine. Had I really gotten four balls? Something like hope stirred up inside of me. The pitching machine! In my league, that’s what they brought out if you had four balls. It always threw perfectly, you could always swing at it. “You ready?” asked the coach.I nodded stiffly, my helmet bobbing up and down on my head. The coach brought his hand up and around, just like a real pitcher, and released. I tensed and then something inside me clicked. I was going to swing at that ball and hit it. The ball was almost upon me, I tensed, waited for just the right moment, and then swung. Hips first, then elbows, then bat just like my coach had taught me only twenty minutes before. Ball hit bat. The clang echoed around in my mind. I had done it! I hit the ball! Then the more sensible part of me reminded myself that I still had to get to first base. I dropped my bat and was off. I ran as hard and fast as I possibly could. I had only one thought in mind, and that was: Get. To. First. Adrenaline raced through my body. I wasn’t tired, or if I was I couldn’t feel it. I didn’t have time for that sort of nonsense. In seconds, I was running through first as the first-base player ran to get her missed ball. I looked to the right and saw my dad (who was also the first-base coach), a gleam of excitement in his eyes, waving his arms in an ecstatic windmill-like fashion. I knew what that meant. Keep going. I turned, dug my cleats into the dirt, and began to run to second. As I ran, I managed to turn my head a little to see what was going on in the field. One of the girls on the other team had the ball and was winding up for a throw to second. I sped up with all the strength I had left, my arms pumping at my sides. When I was only a few feet from the base, I dropped to my bottom and slid. The front half of my foot touched the base. Ball hit glove. “Safe!” called the umpire. Sonja Skye Wooley, 12Berkeley, California Caroline Troll, 11Somerset, Pennsylvania
Not Just a Dream
I knew that the memories of my mother would burn on forever Wind rushed through my long hair as I ran through the spring-green grasses of my mother’s farm. I was the happiest I had ever been. I ran through fields, picking flowers and tucking them behind my ears. I felt like a little girl again, so free, so wild. I ran with the birds, flying high above me in the sun. I felt like I could just jump and I would fly. I tried. I was flying, flying higher than the sun; leaping, bounding, laughing. Then, I woke up. My laugh faded, I looked around at my closet of a room and sighed. I was still in musty, dirty, and polluted New York City, in my small apartment, living with my absent father. When was I going to get out of here? I couldn’t stand it any longer! After my mother had died, my father had hidden any remembrance of her. He sold all of her clothing, sold all her trinkets from around the world, and sold her books. She had a whole library filled with books. Her books were historic, she got them from her travels: Egypt, Asia, Greece, everywhere! Now, there was nothing left here, except for her memories. The memories of her singing Joni Mitchell out of tune in the car, the memories of her teaching me how to ride a horse, pressing flowers from the garden, and learning to read books. These memories brought tears to my eyes. I jumped out of bed, put on my favorite dress, although I didn’t know why. I slowly walked into the small kitchen that held only a microwave, a minimum amount of cabinets, and a miniature table. I poured myself a bowl of cereal and sat down at our table to eat. My dad was at work, like he always was at this time. It was still summer, so I sat at the small table and waited. Most kids my age dreaded the day school would start, but I couldn’t wait. I had nothing to do. At the farm I had everything in the world to do: I could explore, I could pick flowers, I could help my mother cook our meals, or I could ride my horse, Rose, a mare with beautiful spotted white hair. I remember my mother asking me what I wanted to name her. I decided as quick as I could on my last name, Rose. Cecilia Rose, that was my name. I hated the name for myself, but it suited her just fine. Rose was another treasure my father sold when my mother passed away. I continued to sit at the table, waiting for my father to return. I walked around the very small apartment and waited…and waited. At 5:45 p.m., my father arrived. His face was encrusted with dirt and his hand was bleeding heavily. “Dad, are you OK?” I asked, concerned. He didn’t answer, he just walked straight into his room. I went to bed that night with no words spoken. My father had disappeared into his room and had not returned. That night I had a different dream. I was running, leaping, and picking flowers. I was happy, like in the other dreams I had in the past nights. Then, in the distance, I saw my mother. She was walking closer and closer. She was beautiful, her long white dress cascaded down like a waterfall, gently flowing until it reached the ground. Her face shined bright like an angel. Her golden locks blew in the wind. She walked closer and closer. As she approached I was filled with a warm sensation of new comings. I woke up and knew exactly what I was going to do. I was going to cry. I sat on the edge of my bed and I cried. I cried for joy, I cried for sadness, I cried for letting go, and I cried for moving on. I thought of all the things I would do and all the things I would miss. Stella Keaveny Haapala, 12Portland, Oregon Viktoriya Kukarekina, 10Flower Mound, Texas
