A furious gust of wind howled down the moonlit lane, sending a cascade of freshly fallen snowflakes tumbling from the treetops, up and over the rooftops, whirling around the lampposts, before finally slamming into the row of houses that lined either side of the street. The houses strained against the frigid blast, creaking and groaning, all the while steadfastly shielding the inhabitants lying dormant inside. The wind struggled for a moment, moaning with the sheer force of which it pushed against the walls of the houses, and then whistled away to continue on towards wherever its path lay. As the continuous drone of the wind slowly died away, the houses gave one final creak and shudder before relaxing back to their normal positions. In the muffled cover of heavy snow, all was silent once more. It was this creak that awoke Tom on that cold, dark, winter’s morning. With a start, he turned his head towards the alarm clock that sat upon his bedside table. Three numbers winked in the darkness on the face of the digital clock: 6:34. For a second, Tom just stared. Then, with a sigh, he sank back into his pillow and turned the other way towards the bedroom window. The shades had been pulled back the night before, and the soft clear moonlight filtering in through the glass stood in stark contrast to the harsh, cold world that lay outside. The soft blanket of snow that had fallen outside earlier that night had been frozen into a single untouched sheet of ice that sparkled and glittered in the starlight. The long, glistening icicles that dangled from the top of the window lay testimony to the frigid temperatures outside. There was no way he’d be going outside to deliver newspapers today Even more telling of the conditions outside was the fact that there wasn’t a single newspaper boy outside delivering papers. Tom shut his eyes firmly and burrowed down under the warm covers of his bed. There was no way he’d be going outside to deliver newspapers today. For one thing, it was just completely frozen out there and Tom didn’t fancy becoming a human popsicle. Besides, he was already late anyway. Mr. Beason, the newspaper delivery manager, wanted them “on the spot, six o’clock, at the dot.” It was a bit too late for that. Tom imagined walking into the office more than a half hour later and announcing to him, “Here I am!” He scoffed. Chances were that the office would be completely abandoned and Mr. Beason himself was probably snug under the covers of his bed himself anyway. However, Tom couldn’t quite help thinking about walking into the newspaper office on that first day and asking for the job. Pocket money was always a bit tight around the house, and when he had seen the ad in the newspaper, he had jumped at the chance. His interview with Mr. Beason had been short, but he could never quite forget it. After a few niceties and introductions, Mr. Beason had fixed Tom with an unblinking stare and said, “I want to tell you straight off the bat. We’re looking for hard workers only here. The mornings delivering these papers won’t always be easy, and they won’t always be fun. But if you want to be a part of our team, you have to do your job no matter what.” He had mumbled something like, “I won’t quit on you. I’m a hard worker.” It was then that Mr. Beason smiled and clapped his shoulder. “I know that, son. I can see that you’re a hard worker. Have a good sleep tonight. You start tomorrow at six.” Tom saw Mr. Beason’s face smile through his closed eyes. He could hear his voice saying, “I won’t quit on you.” And then Mr. Beason clapping his shoulder and telling him, “I can see that you’re a hard worker.” The words seem to echo in his ears. Tom opened his eyes and looked up at the dark ceiling of his bedroom. Remember what Mr. Beason said about you, a voice told him. But Mr. Beason was wrong. He wasn’t a hard worker. Besides, Mr. Beason probably said the same thing to every kid who applied for the job. You said you wouldn’t quit on him. So perhaps he had been lying to Mr. Beason when he had said he was a hard worker. On the other hand, who cared what Mr. Beason thought? So what if he had lied? It was ultimately Mr. Beason who made the decision to give him the job. But in his heart, Tom already knew. You weren’t just lying to Mr. Beason, you were lying to yourself. Groaning, Tom turned away from the ceiling and tried to bury his face in the pillow. “Go to sleep,” he told himself. “Go to sleep. Mr. Beason doesn’t care. I don’t care.” However, sleep wouldn’t come and the voice in his head was inescapable. But you do care. And so do the others. It hit him then. The people he delivered the newspapers to! Would they be so disappointed not to get them that day? In his head, he saw Fido, the Kentleys’ dog, leap onto him in joy at the sight of the rolled up bundle of newspaper. He saw the two Swanson twins running to meet him at the door when they saw him walking up towards their house. He saw old Mrs. Johnson, who always had a treat or two for him when he delivered her newspaper. Would they be so disappointed to not get their newspapers that day? Tom shook his head, wearily trying to shake off this crazy, this insane idea. He couldn’t deliver the newspapers today. Just by glancing out the window, it must have been at least minus-forty degrees outside. For heaven’s sake, he thought, Icicles are hanging on my bedroom window. The streets are frozen and slippery. Delivering newspapers now is just completely stupid. That’s why none
Hiroshima Dreams
Hiroshima Dreams, by Kelly Easton; Dutton Children’s Books: New York, 2007; $16.99 “I have the gift of vision. It was given to me by my grandma, handed to me in a lotus seed, a pod that felt as big as my five-year-old hand.” Lin’s unique gift of vision, which she describes in the opening sentences of Hiroshima Dreams, helps her over the years, rescuing others, making her aware of danger, and seeing what no one else can. When Lin’s Japanese grandmother, whom she calls Obaachan, comes to the United States to live with Lin and her family, secrets unravel about the family’s history, and Lin gains a new strength and insight. Obaachan was fifteen years old when Hiroshima was bombed during World War II. She tells the story to Lin: young Obaachan and some boys were tossing her mother’s dress around and it was flying through the wind. The next moment, Obaachan heard a loud clap of thunder, and all that was left was her and a barren landscape. I can relate to a story like this about the horrors of war and how they can instantly shape an ancestor because, when my great-grandmother, Zoia, was one year old, she lived in Russia at the time of the Bolshevik Revolution. When her parents refused to give up their land to the Communists, their house was set on fire. Five out of Zoia’s six siblings died, as well as her father. She, her mother, and one remaining sister, Nina, had to flee to China. Lin and I have stories that changed our family histories in an instant, but unlike me, Lin didn’t learn her story until her grandmother arrived to share it with her. When Obaachan arrives, she brings herself, and also stories that have not only changed history but have made her and Lin who they are. Obaachan shares these stories with Lin alone, and together they learn about their past and how to face the challenges that lie ahead. Hiroshima Dreams takes readers through Lin’s childhood, from ages five to sixteen. Lin’s strange gift of vision develops further from listening to Obaachan’s stories and thinking more deeply about them by meditating. Obaachan teaches Lin how to meditate and they both do so when they have something on their minds. It acts as a way to help them think and consider other thoughts and ideas. This practice helps Lin understand the terrible times of the Hiroshima bombing, and also allows her to see things in a brand new way, making her more perceptive. For example, Lin visits her friend’s house where her friend’s brothers have built a mobile. Lin predicts that it is not sturdy enough and will soon collapse, but everyone else disagrees with her. Sure enough, she is correct! Stories of all kinds bring mystery and memories, and I think that Hiroshima Dreams is a great one, because it encourages us to remember our own stories. Whether or not Lin’s story connects to your story, it still can help you think differently about yourself or your family. Alexandra Skinner, 10St. Paul, Minnesota
Breaching the Wall
There stood Grandpa Wilson, his old yet strong form slightly hunched over, while his gaze followed our car as we pulled up to the house. The light drizzle dripped off the old tweed cap he liked to wear. As I clambered out of the car, a grin appeared on his face and he opened his arms to hug me. As I wrapped my arms around him, I could feel his red woolen sweater scratching my skin. A few moments later, Mom appeared with little Betsy. My little sister charged Grandpa and allowed herself to be picked up in his strong arms and smothered with affection. “Come in, come in,” said Grandpa. “Grandma’s been hard at work all morning baking cookies for you.” “Yum, yum, yum!” shouted Betsy, who had immediately lost interest in Grandpa and desperately tried to get out of Grandpa’s arms and inside to the cookies. Inside the scent of homemade chocolate-chip cookies filled the air. “Hello,” shouted Grandma from the kitchen. “Who wants cookies?” “Meeeeee!” yelled Betsy at the top of her lungs. A few moments later, we were in the kitchen, stuffing ourselves with cookies. Betsy elaborated on and on about how tedious the car ride to Connecticut was. When I looked up from the vast plate of cookies, I noticed that Grandpa had disappeared. I knew that Grandpa was the kind of man who realized that arguing with his wife is pointless and for the most part avoided her by pursuing his interests—reading World War II stories and biographies of infamous criminals in the hut by the brook and repairing furniture and building bookshelves for his ever-expanding library in his workshop. I also knew that he didn’t like spending time with other people. Still, stunned that he would leave us the moment we arrived, I inquired about his whereabouts. A few moments later, we were in the kitchen, stuffing ourselves with cookies “He’s probably in his workshop; he’s got a bookshelf that he’s got to finish,” answered Grandma. “Why don’t you go and build something with him? He always wanted to make a model boat,” suggested Mom. I walked down the hallway, turned at the open door and peered down the stairs to Grandpa’s workshop. I could hear a paintbrush swishing over wood. I walked silently down the stairs and watched Grandpa staining the individual boards of the bookshelf. The evilly toxic smell of the wood stain flooded my nostrils and almost made me gag. Finally, he finished and set the pieces to dry. As Grandpa turned, he noticed me, sitting on the unfinished wooden stairs. “Well, hello Peter,” he mumbled, “what brings you down here?” “Mom said we should make a model boat together,” I stated awkwardly. “If you want to,” I added. Grandpa said nothing. He went over to the corner of the shop, mumbled to himself a bit and then appeared with several two-foot-long boards. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. “Come on, let’s get to work,” he ordered. We took the boards and cut them into thinner strips. Then, we started making the ribs of the boat. We worked until dinner in almost complete wordlessness. The Grandpa who had welcomed us was long gone; this new silent Grandpa seemed here to stay. As I went to bed, I made a wish that the old Grandpa would come back. The next morning, we were working on the boat bright and early. Around eleven o’clock, Grandpa was using the lathe to make the mast, and the wood molded perfectly under his chisel. When the mast was complete, he turned the lathe off and took the wood off of the spikes that held it in place. He started talking, loudly enough for me to hear but not looking directly at me. “What shall we call her?” He looked up after a moment and I grasped that he was asking me. I thought for a moment and then stated, “The Seadog, the dreaded ship of Pirate Captain Wilson.” “And don’t forget his loyal first mate, the swashbuckling Peg Leg Peter,” he added, showing a seemingly uncharacteristic smile. “They sail the high seas, robbing rich merchant ships and giving to the poor.” Grandpa seemed to have let a bit of himself out and I realized that Grandpa wasn’t the boring old man he seemed to be. Just then, Grandma called down that lunch was ready and we headed upstairs for our midday repast. After a delicious meal of grilled cheese with juicy tomatoes and smoked ham, we were back at work. Now Grandpa seemed to be more open, although he didn’t say a word. While fitting a miniature royal yard to the main mast, he spoke excitedly. “The Seadog is the fastest, most maneuverable, best crewed ship on the high seas.” “ “Wish her luck,” smiled Grandpa, setting our beloved model into the water And its crew is wanted by all the merchants in the known world,” I continued. “Why she once fought the Endeavor, flagship of the East India Tea Company, and came out victorious,” Grandpa explained authoritatively. “The freedom-fighting duo of Captain Wilson and Peg Leg Peter boarded and captured Blackbeard’s ship single-handedly.” As he spoke, he fit rigging to the already be-sailed masts. “Recently, though,” continued Grandpa, “the Seadog was forced to fight an entire column of British ship-of-the-line led by the HMS Victory herself. The Seadog suffered grievous losses but she will sail again someday.” At first it seemed as if his story was done, but as he attached a miniature pirate flag to the flagstaff, he made as if to say one more thing. “I believe, that day is today!” He picked up the finished boat and impishly motioned for me to follow him as he bore our precious cargo to the brook. I peered into the gurgling waters and worried for the Seadog on her maiden voyage. “Wish her luck,” smiled Grandpa, setting our beloved model into the water. As she floated and bobbed along, we
I Taste the Sky
We fly like falcons over sheets of soft snow Listening to the distant kinks and grinds of steel against rails The scent of snow cools my mind And I taste the blueness of the sky Isaac Kamgar, 11Laguna Beach, California
An Indian Monsoon
“In a few minutes, we will be landing at Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport in Mumbai. Please fasten your seat belts. Thank you for flying Air India and hope you have a wonderful stay in Mumbai,” the pilot’s voice echoed. As the plane descended under the clouds, I looked out of the window and got my first glimpse of Mumbai. My family had decided to return to India after living in the U.S. for twelve years. As I thought of white and fuzzy snow falling into my hands, a few scattered lights twinkled in an island of darkness. This was so different from Chicago. There the city had glowed like a Christmas tree! Coming out of the airplane, the first thing I noticed was the large number of people. Hundreds of baggage handlers, policemen, officials and many hangers-on were running back and forth like a swarm of bees. The air was also very hot and humid. My father had told me this happened because of the monsoon. He explained to me about these rising winds from the Arabian Sea that brought much relief from intense heat and were essential for Indian farmers. But this year, the monsoon was different. The city was facing its worst flooding in a century and as we drove to Pune (100 miles from Mumbai), our destination, I saw the havoc that the rains had caused. There was water everywhere, dogs and cows lying on the streets, destroyed shantytowns and millions of people living in squalor. It seemed, on that day, the most wanted thing in Mumbai was a dry place to sleep! In Pune, my aunt came over to meet us and brought tea and samosas After that horrible view of Mumbai, we were now on an expressway to Pune that seemed to pop out of a U.S. travel book. My father was beaming. “Wow! We never had roads like these when I was growing up in India. This is better than Chicago!” he exclaimed. The driver was talking on his cell phone—I had not expected that in India. As the early morning sun came (we had landed at two am), I saw the most beautiful scenery that I could imagine. It was green everywhere, rolling hills of the Sahyadri range surrounded us on both sides and there were hundreds of seasonal rivulets that were flowing down. I felt that I was in Hawaii! In Pune, my aunt came over to meet us and brought tea and samosas. Although I had never met her before, she seemed to know everything about me. In a week, I started at an International School in Pune. Its name was (believe me, this is going to be funny) the Mercedes-Benz International School. There were children and teachers from over twenty countries, and during our breaks we played baseball, cricket, soccer and “dog and the bone.” I was happy that my class teacher was an American—Mr. Winch, from Cambridge, Massachusetts. At least I wasn’t the only new one. He was a superb teacher and I learned well in his class. I also taught him a few words of Hindi! After fourth grade, my parents moved me to an Indian school. It was a world apart from my school in Chicago or the International School. There were many kids in my class and the classrooms were not air-conditioned. The teachers were very strict and we had tests very frequently. The class had a broken ceiling—the facilities in the school were a little run-down. The best part was that, within a week, I had made new friends But the best part was that, within a week, I had made new friends—Sheerja, Disha, Laxmi, Akansha, Meghna, Simran and Parinaz. They would break out in loud laughter when I would read “z” as “zee” instead of saying “zed” or spell “color” instead of using the Indian English spelling of “colour.” But that was just a little fun part. They also had many questions about America. “Is everybody rich there?” “Is it very cold in Chicago?” “How is baseball different from cricket?” or “Do you miss your friends from Chicago?” I answered that America was a big country—pretty, rich and a lot of fun. Time was flying by and I started to adjust to all the things that make India special—family, friends, festivals, food and my friend Sheerja. But my father was having second thoughts. He would often say, “India is still very poor,” “America has the best universities,” and “Can I make an honest living here?” I did not fully understand all the discussions that he had with my mother, but soon I found out that he had found a job in California and that we were moving to Menlo Park. The only thing I knew about California was that it was called the Golden State and it was not as cold as Chicago. I was sad that I would be leaving my new friends in India—we exchanged e-mail addresses and promised to keep in touch. A long flight and a stopover in Chicago and soon I was at a school in Menlo Park. It was a beautiful day when I started at my new school in Menlo Park. The teacher asked me to introduce myself to the class. After I said a few lines, the teacher thanked me and said, “Oh, what a beautiful day, Jana has brought an Indian summer to California.” I touched my lips; I did not want to tell her about the Indian monsoon! Sanjana Saxena, 11Menlo Park, California Aditi Laddha, 12Indore, Madhya Pradesh, India
That Foggy Brick Wall
One side of my heart is for myself and the other half is what other people see. Nestled deep in that half of my heart for me is a large black stain. That is where deaths have landed. Grandpa; Grandma; Mrs. Brown, the mother of my fifth-grade friend Tiana; and many others sit there. And Marie. When I was eight years old, I took a visit to my ancestors’ home, green Ireland. I remember Dublin, I remember cows, but mostly I remember Marie’s farm. Marie was my mother’s cousin—and my friend. She lived with a crowd of other friendly, elderly people. I remember one man with large hands and thick, dirty clothes from staying out all day. Marie was sixty-nine, a bit older than my parents. She was a kind woman and, although I did not remember her, it was as though she was always my best friend. The two of us set out tea and sat close to the stove—their only heating appliance. Being traditional Irish farmers, they had an old-fashioned home and heated only the main room during the day—a common practice throughout Ireland. Later, I’d spend time picking dewy, green Ireland flowers with my sister, Libby. We gathered them into great bouquets and I always gave mine to Marie. On a day that seemed ordinary enough, my family drove up to the house with its gray stone wall and swirling fog. I unbuckled and hopped out, smoothing my sweater as I did so. The air was wet and cool and I adored it. Smells of water and grass, and even cows, drifted along. A small sun shone weakly on my head, illuminating fiery red hairs. Glittering like tinsel on a tree, dewdrops trembled on their grass stems as I walked into the warm embrace of Marie. Everyone talked for a while and then the big-handed man asked, “Would anyone like to see a movie?” I walked into the warm embrace of Marie Everyone nodded, of course. But, after I realized that the movie was about milking seasons, I decided that picking flowers amongst the real cows was more interesting. A few hours later, I came back in, shivering and sporting a wide grin. The flowers went into a vase and Marie and I started afternoon tea. Throughout Ireland, friends and family gather each day for a small meal. Marie and I put out cream, tea, milk, biscuits, and cold cakes and sandwiches. We ate the crispy, hot, fresh biscuits and drank the thick, buttery milk and the hot, pronounced, sharp tea. Everyone talked and ate and laughed. Then Marie got a bit faint and we all quieted down. She was a bit twitchy for a few minutes. Then she was kind of just deflated. I asked her, “Are you all right?” She looked brave as she could manage and moaned, “I’m OK.” And for some reason, that was when my mom said, “You need to go up and get some rest.” But she found she was too weak to walk up the stairs. So we all helped her stand, and when my dad saw me holding her up, he told me to go away for a moment. Marie was lifted upstairs and I never have seen her since. My dad and mom finally came down. I wanted to stay and help Marie, but my parents told me to get in the car. So I did. But I fought and ran, back to the car and slammed the door, and begged my parents to turn around. But we left through those foggy gates, past that foggy brick wall into the foggy world. We went home to New York after that. Never did we get news. I soon learned to forget. Or pretended to, at least—until two weeks later, on St. Patrick’s Day. I loved St. Patrick’s Day— the green, the joy, and the celebrations. It would have been a marvelous day if the overseas phone call had not come. Marie had died. I appeared to be the same as always, outside—silly, talkative, understanding and listening. But inside, a part of my heart felt numb. My understanding about the permanence of life was now clearer. No more Marie. No more tea in that house beyond the misty gray lane. I learned to treat relationships with friends and family more deeply. I realized that, at any moment, loved ones could be ripped away from you. Outside forces, like people, can write your life story and take you down unexpected paths. My outlook about friendship has been edited because of Marie and that foggy brick wall. Marie Lee lived with her husband, Michael, on a cattle farm in County Cavan, Ireland. Cassie Armon, 11New York, New York Jessa Fogel, 13Bow, New Hampshire
Song of the Harp
Brrriing!! The bell announced that school was out. Kids poured out from different classes and the slams of lockers could be heard. While the rest of the kids ran out the door and into the winter air, Odette Barry walked patiently to the outside of the school. She was in no rush to arrive home to her demanding grandmother who insisted on being read her favorite childhood books. If Odette was lucky, she would arrive home at the time of her grandmother’s nap and enter through the back door. Barry House was like a manor. Clara Barry, Odette’s mother, had suggested it had a rich look. There were gates, stone columns, heavy oak doors, and three chimneys. Through the back there was a great, majestic pine forest that had a stream flowing by. Odette discovered a path that led to the stream, across a tiny bridge, and then a stump. The stump allowed Odette to hoist herself over the wooden fence that dropped into Barry House’s lawn. On this particular day, Odette was in for a surprise when she crossed the back door into the kitchen. Her mother was standing over the stove, shelling peas into a bowl. Odette froze. Trying not to make a sound, she tiptoed across the kitchen floor. A wooden board creaked and Odette’s mother turned her pretty head. “Hi Mom,” whispered Odette. Her harp looked like something the angels dropped into the room by mistake A look of understanding crossed her mother’s face. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to read to your grandmother, Odette,” said her mother. “She’s sleeping.” Her mom was everything: understanding, intelligent, beautiful, and kind. Odette’s mother was a nurse who traveled around the world helping poor villages. She only came home once a month and when she did there would be a delicious dinner and Odette would play her treasure, the harp. She tiptoed past the sitting room where her grandmother napped, past the parlor where she played her harp, and up the stairs to her room. Odette’s room was exactly like a composer’s office. There were three sections, a bedroom, a bathroom, and a mini-office. In the bedroom there was a bed and a quilted pillow with violins on it. It was next to the window that welcomed sunlight. A rolltop desk filled with notebooks and test results stood on the wall opposite the bed. In the bathroom, a pretty purple towel hung on a rack, while the smell of shampoo and soap danced off the walls. In the mini-room were mini-bookcases filled with papers and framed pictures of Odette and her harp. Two music stands stood together in a corner and a small table was put in the center. Her harp looked like something the angels dropped into the room by mistake. Its gold furnishings glinted in the sunlight that would sometimes reach the office by the small skylight. The small jumps provided slides for Odette’s fingers. After finishing her homework, Odette grabbed a notebook entitled Music and seated herself on the stool next to the harp. Odette reached for a music stand to put her notebook on. On most days, she would turn to Composer’s Chapter and practice music for the harp, but today she decided to write her own song, “The Return.” At the beginning it was lonely and mysterious but then it turned gleeful and loud. She wanted to have cymbals go with it some day. These were the emotions that Odette felt during the return of her mother, but she wasn’t showing anyone her songs. “Child,” said Odette’s grandmother. They were passing around bowls of egg salad at the dining table. “You didn’t read Treasure Island to me today.” Granny’s voice was stern and tired. Odette glanced a look at her mom, who exchanged a mischievous smile. After the salad was finished, brownies and ice cream reached the table for dessert. “Odette,” said her mother, “I saw a pamphlet for a junior symphony called Angel’s Music. Do you want to join?” Her eyes looked expectantly at her. Odette gulped a brownie and knew exactly what she was thinking. Her mother wanted Odette to finally make some friends, not to play the harp. “I’ll think about it,” replied Odette. She got up and went upstairs to get her harp. Odette needed some way to avoid the symphony, but she always wanted a chance to prove she was a great harp player. Odette decided to think about it later. She heaved her harp down the stairs, into the parlor, and started playing “Ode to Joy.” “OK. I’ll do it,” said Odette that night in her mother’s bedroom. She had considered joining Angel’s Music and decided to do it. “That’s wonderful, Odette,” replied her mother, smiling. “I’ll take you to rehearsals on Tuesday.” As Odette lay in bed, arms on the back of her head, staring at the sky, she wondered if she really wanted to do this. Would she make a good impression and get a solo? For the first time in a while, Odette Barry looked forward to trying something new, even if it meant making friends. * * * Time flew by and soon it was Tuesday. Odette was seated in the car while her harp lay in a case on the back seat. “Odette, you are simply going to love this,” said her mother for the entire trip. “I did some research and Angel’s Music was the start for some really famous musicians.” Odette was silent during all this; she began to doubt that she would have fun with this symphony. They finally found a place to park next to a giant building that had a sign that said Devin Hall. Odette stepped out of the car, opened the back-seat door, and got her harp. In its case the harp looked like a giant red mitten on wheels and Odette thought it was embarrassing. Odette and her mother were soon inside a maze of empty hallways that had doors every few
Bats and Pearls
Raindrops fell from the dark velvety sky, dropping delicately onto the world below. A few clouds drifted through in the gloom, covering the moon and few stars that had escaped the light of the city that flourished down the river. Five fruit bats glided through the air, each trying to find enough food for themselves before the rain started to pour down. The only reason they were staying together was that, if one bat found any sign of food, he wouldn’t be able to get it all for himself. Four of the five bats flapped a considerably long distance from the last one. They were bigger, with longer wings to allow them to fly farther and faster. They flew out every night to look for food, and they were veterans at it. The fifth bat was a young creature called Seed. This was his first time venturing out of the cave where he was born. He had been smart enough to go with the most skilled fliers to search for food, but he was quickly tiring. His wings felt like lead. He bit his tongue, struggling to keep up with the others, but he was much smaller than any of them. The muskrat smiled as she lifted the pearl and watched it sparkle “Hey, wait up!” he gasped. The other bats didn’t pay any attention. The rain came down harder. A bolt of lightening shot through the air, and a crack of thunder followed quickly after. The older bats dived, but Seed couldn’t tell where they had gone. “I can’t fly!” he cried, his wet wings flapping uselessly. He tumbled from the sky, down toward the ground. The world snapped out of view, and numbness spread through him. He was unconscious before he could cry out. * * * A muskrat sat on her haunches at the edge of the river, carefully scrubbing the spherical pearl in her paws of any dirt. She didn’t mind the rain pelting down onto her fur. She kind of liked it, actually. Not like that silly duck that sat hunched up in her nest as if the rain would burn her. The muskrat smiled as she lifted the pearl and watched it sparkle, evidently as clean as it would get. She was just about to turn and go back to her lodge when something caught her eye. A dark shape floated toward her. She stood on her hind legs to get a better look at it. It was definitely a creature of some sort, but she couldn’t tell what kind it was. She waded into the river, the current rushing past her faster than it usually went because of all the rain. The strange creature wasn’t moving—it was either dead or unconscious. The muskrat seized the animal around the middle with her paws and hauled him to shore. She was enthralled about how this creature looked. It had long, thin membranes stretched across its forelegs, which she guessed served as wings. The bat stirred and coughed. He opened his eyes and stared around at the river. The muskrat gently lifted him into her lodge, which was made of grass, sticks, and dried mud. “Who are you?” the bat asked suspiciously. He wiped his eyes with his thumbs. “Me? Oh, I’m Azure,” the muskrat said cheerfully. She looked curiously at the bat. “You’re a bat, aren’t you? How’d you get in the river?” The bat ignored her. She shook her head and stashed the pearl, which she realized she was still holding, behind a pile of sticks. “What was that?” the bat demanded. “Nothing,” Azure replied. “I’m going to catch some fish!” She left rather quickly. The bat stood on his feet and looked around. The inside of the lodge was completely empty of anything of interest, except perhaps the thing that Azure had stashed away. He decided he would investigate that later. “Hey, Bat, have you ever tried fish?” Azure asked, crawling back into the lodge with two pink fish wriggling in her paws. “My name is Seed!” the bat protested. “And I only eat fruit!” He lifted his right wing and licked it, attempting to get it dry. “You’re not even going to thank me for saving your life?” the muskrat asked, appalled. Seed ignored her once more. He stretched and yawned widely, then climbed to the ceiling of the lodge and hung upside down, immediately drifting into dreams filled with apples and pears. Azure curled into a ball and fell asleep as well, planning to teach the little bat some manners in the morning. * * * Seed’s feet slipped. He landed on the ground with a bump, waking instantly. Fuming, he rubbed his furry head and crept to the entrance of the muskrat lodge. It had stopped raining, and the sun was high in the sky. The bat shielded his sensitive eyes. Azure was paddling skillfully through the water, clutching a fish in her mouth. Seed glared at her. More fish! Why didn’t she go get him some fruit? He turned and went back inside, his stomach growling. The sunlight was hurting his eyes, and he liked the darkness of the lodge much better. He was about to climb back onto the ceiling when he remembered. What had the muskrat hidden? He reached behind the sticks where she had put it, and to his amazement he drew out a snow-white pearl. Seed grasped it in his wing tip and marveled at it. If he brought this back with him to his cave, maybe the others would be so impressed that they wouldn’t leave him alone in the rain the next time they left to find food! He couldn’t dwell on this thought very long, though, because at that moment a gunshot rang out, startling him so much that he dropped the pearl. There was a scuffling from outside, and Azure crawled into her lodge, out of breath and with wide eyes. “A hunter!” she gasped. She hurried to the far
Mirror, Mirror
Ellie leaped from the incubator warmness of her covers to get ready for the day that lay ahead. The sun was rising and the day was still in its infancy, offering a new beginning, and new challenges. After spending some time in her closet looking for just the right combination of shirt, pants and boots, she stole one last glance at herself in her dresser mirror. “Yep, that’ll do,” she said, putting down the wand of her Sugar & Spice brand mascara. In the mirror, she saw a stylish girl staring back at her, with streaks of sunlight in her hair and promise in her smile. She smudged her eyeliner just the right amount. It was important to fit in at school. It took some doing, but all those trips to the mall with Hailey, Drew and Shoshanna had paid off. It wasn’t easy to run with the popular crowd; everything had to be perfect. There was a price to pay for being popular, but wearing that badge came with automatic lunch buddies at a reserved table, a crowd to hang out with every Friday night and a standing invitation to all the parties from anyone who was anybody. Ellie grabbed her books and ran to catch the school bus. Once aboard, she was careful to choose whom she sat with. Of course she wouldn’t want to be seen with the wrong person. Wow, she thought, being popular does take a lot of energy. But she smiled to herself. It was worth it. The morning moved as slow as a watched pot, but she knew things would pick up again by lunchtime. That’s when any gossip worth hearing would bounce around the cafeteria like a ball in Brownian motion. “Ellie, would you like to come over to my house Friday night for pizza and a movie?” “Hey, did you hear, Megan and Cole are going out?” asked Shoshanna. “No, I hadn’t heard that,” she exclaimed, being careful to hide too much surprise in her voice for fear she’d be taken as an outsider. “Did you hear that Avery and Jake broke up?” asked some junior wannabe sitting at the next table leaning over, clearly overstepping. Well, no she hadn’t heard that either. “Hey, did I tell you that they’re having a sale on these new boots at Glitz & Glamour? I got mine for half price last night,” announced Ellie, trying to change the subject. Her whole table cheered. That was something worth knowing. A low buzz continued between bites. It sounded more to Ellie like noise made by busybodies, rather than any useful communication, but surely this was what middle school was all about. It was all about seeing and being seen with the right crowd. From the corner of her eye, suddenly Ellie spied Melanie transfixed on her from across the crowded cafeteria. Oh no, she’s coming this way to talk to me, screamed Ellie anxiously in her mind. Melanie had been a friend ever since the first day of kindergarten when they both discovered their shared love for strawberry licorice and found out they had a common birthday. They had become instant friends and had celebrated almost every birthday in elementary school together. They had a lot in common. Both liked pink lemonade, jazz band and gymnastics. Ellie wondered exactly when their friendship had ended. Oh yeah, it was when Melanie had the nerve to wear that dorky lime-green sweater her grandmother had knit for her and sent her two birthdays ago, she reminded herself. She had been the laughingstock of the school. She wasn’t foolish enough to wear that sweater twice. But there was more to it than that. She just wasn’t popular and being popular meant everything, didn’t it? Melanie was walking faster now and heading directly for Ellie. There was no avoiding her. Suddenly, Melanie was standing right in front of her. Ellie tried to look away casually, like someone else had just called her name, diverting her gaze. “Ellie, would you like to come over to my house Friday night for pizza and a movie?” Ellie’s face turned a deep shade of fuchsia. She tried to pretend she didn’t hear, but Melanie was persistent and facing her now, demanding a reply. “Ellie, would you…?” “No, I heard you the first time, Melanie. Sorry, but I already have plans,” she heard herself grumble, noticing that everyone at the lunch table was listening and watching, enjoying her misery. Some were pointing. Ellie was squirming and uncomfortable, as if an army of itchy hives had suddenly infiltrated to pronounce their conquest. Some girls were even snickering out loud. They didn’t care whose feelings they hurt. Ellie turned away from Melanie sharply. Stony-faced, Melanie walked away. Ellie’s mind began to swirl with a thousand questions Ellie thought she had seen tears in those lovely root-beer-colored eyes, those eyes that effervesced with excitement whenever they shared secrets, like at those sleepless sleepovers in the distant past. Ellie was glad, however, that the unpleasant encounter was finally over and she could move on, but secretly she thought that a movie with Melanie actually sounded fun. She was getting bored of going to the mall every Friday night with the same tiresome friends who only talked about fashion, hair and makeup. She had given up so much to be popular. She let her honest feelings now float to the surface, including the stabbing pangs of guilt for treating her friend so harshly. The feeling of betrayal still stung when Ellie got home, but she tried to shrug it off. When she opened the mailbox at the edge of her driveway, part of every afternoon ritual, a letter addressed to her from her grandfather lay right on top. Ellie ripped open the envelope excitedly without taking another step. “My Dear Eleanora,” it read, “Your grandmother would have been so proud of you and the nice lady that you are becoming.” Ellie’s heart sank with her grandfather’s description. Being an immigrant,
The Storm
Brilliant splashes of yellow light Spewing all corners of the earth With a radiant glow of scarlet Then darkness A shield of gray Then the rains Pounding relentlessly On the cold Damp Ground The wind Slowly growing With every passing second A clap of thunder Vibrating the water-drenched ground Then peace The storm retreats. Lincoln Hartnett, 10Portsmouth, New Hampshire
The Boarder’s Battle
This would be his last run of the year, and he knew it would be spectacular As the boy dropped down from the icy ski lift and slid down the slope, you could already see the adrenaline pulsing through him like an aura of energy. This would be his last run of the year, and he knew it would be spectacular. As he glided over the snow on his board, he already knew which run he was going to do. With all of the possible choices, his mind was set on one run. The one run he could never do. This run was his enemy, a rival, a foe; he had to overcome the fear. His heart skipped a beat as he whooshed down the slope into the entrance to the run. As he looked down the slope he saw the obstacles, such as trees, rocks, and moguls, that he must overcome. He stopped. There was no going back now, he had to move on. His pulse increased tremendously. His eyes were bigger than his heart. This run was impossible! He had to move on or else he would be stuck on the mountain. He slid down the icy slope. It was getting colder by the second. His toes inside his boots were freezing, his jacket barely protecting him from the chilly winds. Snow started to fall from the sky, the white flakes brushing like a small, soft cloud against the boy’s face. Crystals of frost clouded his goggles, trapping him inside a different world of vision. He gradually picked up speed. The moguls were like jagged mountains shooting out of the ground. The boy slowed down and sliced around them. He was tired, and only halfway done. Fortunately for him, the rest of the slope was decently flat with only a few of the mountain-like moguls along the way. The boy carved and glided through it with extravagant ease. Then on the final stretch the boy wanted a thrill, he was going to try and battle one of the enormous moguls. He had enough speed, he was ready. He crouched down into a jumping position. As he hit the mound he lurched forward and flew three feet off the ground! The boy’s adrenaline surged as he was in the air. He felt free and alone like he had never felt before. It was as if the world had stopped and he kept racing forward. The boy had finished his enemy. He had beaten it. He was satisfied and sad. He started to burst into tears, each drop like a drop of rain falling from his face. He would have to wait another year to feel free and energized. A whole year to challenge the impossible slope again. A whole year, yet he felt satisfied and accomplished that he had met his goal. He stopped crying. The boy said goodbye to the slope and went back into the lodge, ready to head home. Connor Nackley, 12Darien, Connecticut Carly Thaw, 13Charleston, West Virginia
Summer Ball
Summer Ball, by Mike Lupica; Philomel Books: New York, 2007; $17.99 Have you ever read the sequel to a book that you loved and felt utterly disappointed or, even worse, robbed? If you read Travel Team, by Mike Lupica, which was reviewed by Zach Hoffman in the May/June 2007 edition of Stone Soup, and decide to read Summer Ball, you will feel anything but robbed. Summer Ball is an amazing book written by the best sportswriter in the business. In the book, Danny Walker is coming off leading his team, the Middletown Warriors, to a travel team championship. His dad, a former NBA player, Richie Walker, decides that Danny will go to a famous basketball camp in Maine, the Right Way Basketball Camp. Even though Danny’s two best friends, Ty Ross and Will Stoddard, are going, Danny is worried about attending camp because he fears not being good enough or tall enough to compete well against some of the other campers, the best players his age in the country. When he arrives, his fears are realized. A player that played against Danny in the travel team championship game, Rasheed Hill, hates him and is attending camp. He is put on the same team as Danny, and their coach wants Rasheed to be the star of the team. When Danny visits the coach, the coach suggests that Danny try soccer. Danny is able to fight through all of these hardships and make it to the championship game, while standing up for his new friend, Zach Fox, in a fight with one of the best players in camp, Lamar Parrish. When Danny first arrives at camp, he realizes that he isn’t one of the best players there. One time, when I was eight, I went to a basketball camp. The camp was divided into two divisions. According to my age, I belonged in the top division. But after a few minutes of practice, I was demoted to the lower division, even though I felt like I was doing fine. But, just like Danny, I continued trying and I was promoted. My favorite part of the book is when Rasheed stood up for Danny during the championship game. Throughout the book, Rasheed and Danny slowly gain respect for each other and become friends. Because Coach Powers wouldn’t play Danny, Rasheed told Coach Powers that if Danny didn’t play, he wouldn’t play. When Coach put Danny back in, he led a huge comeback. Another one of my favorite parts was when the ref called a technical foul on Lamar. In my basketball league, there was one team that was very dirty. They were never called for a technical foul. In the book, the campers could cheer for whatever team they wanted. We got revenge on the dirty team by attending the league play-off game they were in and cheering loudly for the other team. One thing the author does extremely well is dialogue. Even though the camp is in Maine, it attracts players from all over the country. One of the friends Danny meets, Tarik, is from New York City, so he has a different vocabulary than the kids from Long Island. This is kind of funny because he uses terms that Danny (and I) don’t know. I definitely recommend this book about basketball, friendship, and teamwork. Once you pick it up, it is hard to put down. Aidan Quigley, 12Trumbull, Connecticut
