Stanford Anthology For Youth: Volume 19

theme song played as I rolled and snuck between various of- 101
fice appliances—doo-doo-dooooo. This was the closest I’d felt
to being a stereotypical secret agent, which was sort of pathetic,
but it was exciting. I made it to the plain door to the stairs (after
getting several odd looks from my co-workers) and braced myself
for several minutes of nonstop exercise. The door was old, it’s
off-white paint starting to wear off around the knob, which had
lost its metallic shine years ago. I slowly opened the door and its
hinges squealed. The whole office probably had heard it, but I
was already dashing down the stairwell.

I had never been a good athlete or even what most people
considered “in shape.” When I was still in school, I was always
the strange, pudgy outcast, sitting in the corner, reading a comic
book. When I got to high school, I decided to change my image
and join track and field. It was the biggest mistake of my life. I
stayed on the team for only two weeks. Sports and athletics just
weren’t my thing, but I wasn’t classified as a nerd either. I made
straight Cs my sophomore year of high school and absolutely
despised math and science. I had trouble defining myself and
figuring out who I was. In school, everyone would classify you as
a jock or a nerd or whatever, but I couldn’t fit myself into any of
those groups. I continued to drift between groups and labels in
college and I couldn’t decide on a major, so I just chose computer
science, which is what my mom wanted me to do — she was a
game designer for an indie game company. After college, I got the
job at SSA stapling papers, unrecognized and unacknowledged. I
also lost control of my diet and had twice as much sugar as what
my doctor thought was healthy.

My history of bad food choices and lack of physical activity
made the long journey down the stairs ten times harder than it
should’ve been. When I reached the bottom, I had to pause for a
few moments to catch my breath and wipe the layer of sweat cov-
ering the back of my neck. The secretary gave me a weird look as
I hobbled past her and walked out the door, still exhausted from
the one hundred flight trip.

As I stepped out onto the gum-covered sidewalk, a strong
gust of wind brought the smell of rain on hot pavement to my
nose. We were smack dab in the middle of fall and I loved it. As I
walked through the crowded parking lot to my car (a ten year old
Honda Civic with empty chip bags and candy wrappers shoved
into the glove compartment), crisp fallen leaves tumbled across
the pavement, propelled by the breeze. I got to my car, which was
covered in a layer of grime, and unlocked it. When I got in, my
phone started to vibrate and ring (“Baby, baby, baby, ooooooh”).
Another wave of worry washed over me, drowning me in pan-

102 icked thoughts. It was Rachel. I slowly picked up my phone,
pressed the bright green “Answer Call” button displayed on the
screen and raised it to my ear, expecting the worst.

“Hello?” I asked, my voice tense.
“Hey Joe!” Rachel’s tone was happy, free of worry. I was
relieved that she hadn’t seen the files yet. “I just wanted to let
you know that I’m coming home from work early. Mrs. Huggle
said that Bento is barking non-stop.” Mrs. Huggle was the elderly
woman who lived in the apartment below Rachel. She was very
conservative and wouldn’t hesitate to call the police to complain
about excessive noise. Bento was Rachel’s pitbull. She loved
Bento to the bottom of her heart, but she wasn’t very good at
training dogs, so Bento had a tendency to bark… a lot. “I’m go-
ing to get home around 12:15, after I finish teaching my class.”
Rachel worked at the local art center, teaching kindergarteners
how to paint. My eyes flicked to the clock in my car. It read 11:08.
I had to hurry. “When I get back, we can go out for lunch. Do you
think you could get Rick to let you leave early?”
“Uhh, sure.” I said, trying desperately to devise a plan to stop
her from seeing the files.
“Great!” She replied cheerfully. “I’ll see you soon! Love you!”
“Bye!” I said, off-handedly, still thinking of a plan. She hung
up, and I put my phone down. I sat there for a few moments, the
seconds ticking by, to think of a plan that didn’t involve anything
to physically strenuous. After I had thought of several ridiculous
plans, I decided there was no point. I would just wing it.
I jammed the key into the ignition. The car came to life and
I drove to Rachel’s apartment building. The traffic was horrible.
The only sounds were car horns honking obnoxiously. What
should’ve been a ten minute drive turned into a thirty minute
one. I arrived at Rachel’s at 11:45. My palms were sweaty as I
walked to the door and dialed Mrs. Huggle’s number into the
panel on the wall.
She answered, “Who is it?” Her voice was cold and harsh.
She sounded annoyed and frazzled.
“I’m Rachel Arnold’s boyfriend. Rachel lives in the floor
above you. I think we’ve met before. I’m uhh… here to stop her
dog from barking.” I was proud of myself for thinking of the lie
on the spot.
“Oh, great! I’ll let you in immediately. That darn dog...” She
trailed off. After a few moments, I heard the delicate clacking of
heels on wood, then the click of door unlocking. It opened, the
hinges creaking. Mrs. Huggle stood there, a stern look on her
face. Her expression made her look a few years older than she
actually was.

“Hello!” I said, reaching my hand out to the petite old wom- 103
an for a handshake. “I’m Joe Smith, Rachel’s boyfriend. I believe
we’ve met before?”

“Yes, yes.” She waved away my hand, apparently not wanting
to make skin contact with anyone but her many cats. “Follow me.
The mutt’s behavior is unacceptable. Your girlfriend should re-
ally train it better. My cats are nearly dead from fright.” I stepped
inside, tripping on the doorstep. My face turned red, but Mrs.
Huggle hadn’t seemed to notice. She walked up the stairs to the
seventh floor, still ranting about Bento. “Here we are.” She said
when we reached Rachel’s door. “I suppose you have a key?” She
asked, examining my face carefully.

“Uh, yeah! Um, of course I do.” I stuttered, the musky smell
of her old lady perfume clouding my brain. She raised her eye-
brows in suspicion. I reached into my pocket and rooted around
between the candy wrappers and pocket lint until I grabbed hold
of the key to my own house. I held it out and she said, “Very
well,” then walked away, her heels still clicking on the ground.
The key felt cold in my palm, possibly from the guilt of lying. I
dropped it back in my pocket, then contemplated how I would
get into Rachel’s apartment. It was 11:51. My time was running
out. I had no idea how to pick a lock, I wasn’t strong enough to
break down the door action-movie style, and the minutes I had
left were disappearing.

I looked around the dimly lit hallway. Thin brown carpet
covered the floor from wall to wall. A few of the ceiling lights
were out. Every door to the apartments were the same, except
for the carefully printed apartment numbers in metallic gold
paint. Rachel’s door was different. There was a lighthearted and
brightly colored welcome sign hanging from the brass knob and
a handwritten caution sign was taped beneath the apartment
number. “Beware of Dog: Might attack you with kisses”.

At the end of the hallway was a window, a thin layer of con-
densation blurring the view of the chilly afternoon outside. The
window went from floor to ceiling and had a worn metal latch
keeping it closed. I walked up to it and gazed out, wiping off the
fog from the glass with my sleeve. Outside was a rusty fire escape
and a ledge about six inches wide. I could see the window leading
into Rachel’s apartment. It was open. I guess she had forgotten
to close it when she had left for work that morning. A crazy idea
formed in my mind. I unlatched the window. As I stepped out
onto the fire escape, I doubted myself, but then decided that this
was better than having to explain to Rick why his most confiden-
tial plans had reached the eyes of a perky art school teacher. The
air outside on the fire escape was cold. There was a breeze with

104 small fallen leaves riding on it. I shivered and realized I had left
my jacket in my car. The rusted floor of the fire escape platform
groaned under my feet, but I knew it wouldn’t give out. After all,
it was meant to support a person’s weight, right? I clambered
onto the railing and held on to the windowsill of the apartment
above Rachel’s, then made the mistake of looking down. I was
seven floors up, standing precariously on the edge of a fire es-
cape. At that point, I knew I had gone insane. I exhaled sharply
and forced myself to step onto the tiny ledge leading to Rachel’s
open window. My whole foot didn’t fit on the ledge, so my heel
hung off of it. I slowly inched towards Rachel’s window, the wind
making my tie whip around my face. It was the most danger I’d
been in since I accidentally bought Rick a small pumpkin spice
latte instead of a large. You should’ve seen his face. I had thought
I was going to die that day and that Rachel would find my body, a
pumpkin spice latte clenched between my cold dead fingers.

When I finally reached the open window, my hair had been
completely annihilated by the wind and my fingers were sore
from gripping the ledges above me so tightly. I clumsily jumped
into Rachel’s apartment.

I heard Bento before I saw him. A low growl came from my
right and I turned to see a very surprised, very angry dog staring
at me. He apparently didn’t like it when tubby, clumsy cubicle
workers dropped in unexpectedly from an open window.

“Hey Bento…” I said, my voice shaking. Bento had never
liked me. When I had first met him, Rachel had to restrain him
from biting my leg off. The dog inched closer, his nose in the air.
I prepared myself to have a wrestling match with my girlfriend’s
best friend. He lunged forward and I cringed, but he didn’t bite.
Instead, he sniffed my pockets. I looked down at him like “Why
aren’t you maiming me?” He continued to investigate my pock-
ets with his cold wet nose, which was not pleasant, but better
than his teeth. I put my hand in my pocket and felt a plastic bag.
I pulled it out and realized that it was a packet of my favorite
brand of beef jerky. I hadn’t even known that it was in there. If
I had, I would’ve eaten it long before I reached Rachel’s apart-
ment. Yum. Apparently, Bento liked Fat Matt Beef Jerky too,
because he was looking up at me with pleading eyes.

“Do you want some beef jerky, boy?” I asked him, shaking
the bag. Bento whined and spun in a circle. I pulled out a hand-
ful of the tasty snack and tossed it to him. He gobbled it up in
no time and looked to me for more. I dumped the whole bag in
his food bowl in the kitchen, then ran to Rachel’s computer. Her
apartment was completely clean except for a thin layer of dog
hair coating the furniture. It smelled nice in there, like cinnamon

and hot chocolate. Her computer sat in her office, on a feminine, 105
vintage white desk. I sat in the ultra-comfy leather massage chair
and turned on the computer. It started up in three seconds (I
thought of my laptop at work and sighed). The clock in the top
right corner read 12:03. I opened the web browser and went to
Wahoo.com. Sure enough, Rachel was logged in. I spotted the
email I had sent with the subject Re:Vacation Photos and deleted
it. Then I rushed out the door, Bento staring at me in confusion,
and quickly went out of the apartment building.

I sat in my car, listening to my favorite Red Hot Chili Pep-
pers album until Rachel pulled into the apartment’s parking ga-
rage, the worry and anxiety seeping out of me. I felt so relieved.
There would be exactly zero SSA agents busting into Rachel’s
apartment tonight. Rachel saw me and waved. Her hair was
tucked behind her ears beneath a white knit beanie. Her sweater
had a few paint splotches on it. She smiled and little dimples ap-
peared on her face. I got out of my car, smiling back.

“Hey Joe!” She called while she hefted a bag of groceries out
of the trunk of her baby blue Fiat.

“Hey!” I replied and walked up to her. I kissed her on the
cheek and we walked into the building together.

“I’m happy that Rick let you go early,” she said as she rum-
maged through her purse for her keys, “He must’ve been in a
good mood, huh?” She unlocked the door and Bento greeted her,
covering her leggings in dog hair. “Hi Bento!” she said to him
in a baby voice, “I heard you were causing Mrs. Huggle a lot of
trouble.”

I put away her groceries for her while she continued to baby
talk to Bento. I looked around the apartment. It had lots of
vintage furniture pieces she had collected at various flea markets
I had been dragged to. Pastel blues and greens dominated the
house and sunlight streamed in through the translucent white
curtains. There were many odd knick-knacks and collectables
sitting on the tall white bookshelf, going from floor to ceiling—
gaming collectables and figures, an assortment of scaled down
everyday items, and an intricately painted tea set she had bought
on her trip to Russia.

Rachel walked into the kitchen and sat on an Ikea barstool,
facing me. She asked me about my day and told me about a little
kid who had shoved a crayon up his nose in her class today.

“Was he okay?” I asked, horrified.
“Yes.” Rachel said, and continued on with her small talk.
We sat there, chit-chatting for a few more minutes until I asked
where we were going for lunch.
“Oh! Yeah. There’s that new sushi place downtown that I was

telling you about. We can leave in just a moment. I need to go
check my email.”

“Okay, sounds great.” I said. She stood and walked to her
office while I pulled a cup of chocolate pudding out of the fridge.
Mmmm. I sat there for a few seconds, enjoying the deliciousness,
until Rachel called me into her office. She sounded confused, but
I couldn’t tell why.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, puzzled.
“What is this?” She asked me, and tilted the monitor to face
me. My heart sank for the second time that day. I had deleted the
wrong email: the first one I had sent, without any attachments.
She was staring at the SSA’s top-secret plans.
“I thought you were an accountant!”

106

*KENDaLL BUrLisON 107

Million Dollar Masterpiece

An escape, a cure for stressful times. A place of comfort
where I can stare into the magical glistening of the sun shining
down on the luminous blue lake. My eyes reflect off the soothing,
superb teardrop of cool crystal water that runs for miles, almost
tasting the refreshing drinking water splashing into my mouth.
I felt mollified by the stunning landscape, the horizon peeks
through the mounds of prickled noble firs, shining through deep
waters, as nature’s colors flow together in the reflection. The
cerulean colors of the sky and lake shine through each other, get-
ting darker and darker till the twilight zone hits. The evening sky
an ombre pale violet blue. I was dazzled by this mind-blowing
summertime sunset, this illusion of illuminate colors. “It was like
heaven at first sight,” I whispered to myself.

A trip every summer to this natural paradise is a family tradi-
tion that will last for eternity. Bringing future generations to this
spectacular place to expand on already vivid, lasting memories.
My family’s generosity and happiness brought me to this mag-
nificent place. Our beach house a couple miles away from the
beach, we spent every last second in the warm sand and cool
water. Making my summers in Lake Tahoe all about creating new
memories, cherishing the years in the past, sharing love and hap-
piness with my family.

While standing beside my mom, dad, and my brother in our
summertime swimsuits, the waves wiping our feet, I watch the
most insane people paragliding higher than birds. Observing
the cloud-like parachute in the sky, my fear of heights makes
me question why they would want to fly that. Being on a high
strapped piece of fabric so high above the water would frighten
me. The people appear to be tiny dots floating underneath color-
ful parachutes. Being pulled by the speedboats high up in the sky.
As the boats and paragliders disappear into the distance, I watch

* Kendall Burlison has a love for writing. It’s really about showing who you truly are.
Writing is passion with a pencil.

108 the waves crash across my feet and legs, back and forth getting
bigger and bigger till the night falls.

A coral colored pail about six inches tall, trying its best to
swim back to shore. Over and under the little pail goes, wishing
it could call for help. The waves taking its prey by night and often
bringing it back before dawn to the joy of the poor petite kid that
lost his sandy pail.

This reminds me of my toddler days, when my little brother
and I got hot dogs from the famous restaurant Lone Eagle Grill,
in the early afternoon. We would always sit on the edge of the
dock with a fishing line in my brother’s hand, hooking the bitten
pieces of hot dogs to fish for crawdads. As my brother lifted the
tiny crustaceans out of the water I try my best to put them into
the wet and sandy violet bucket without getting pinched too
many times. When the sun finally began to disappear behind the
mountains we let them scurry back into the dark midnight blue
waters. I take a glance straight through the bottomless waters,
my mind cleared from everything, hypnotized by the wildness of
boats rocking side to side. Visualizing the flashbacks of the sun
setting while my cousin, my brother, and I would have polar bear
plunge races.

“It’s the last rice krispie treat Mammaw made for us and I’m
getting it!” my brother Will hollered.

“No way! I’m getting it!” my cousin Matt and I shouted in
sync.

“I have an idea, let’s have a polar bear plunge race. We all get
our inner tubes and go all the way to the buoy and back. Whoever
gets back first gets the rice krispie treat, ” Matt said. I hesitated at
first but I absolutely love anything my Mammaw makes for me.
She’s like a southern Martha Stewart!

“It’s a deal!” I exclaimed.
“Alright let’s get our inner tubes and stand in front of the
water,” Will said.
“Ready?” I cried out.
“Set?” Matt shouted.
“Go!” Will screamed.
We all jumped into the freezing cold water. Moving our legs
like a frog swimming in the water, the waves slowed us down
going up and down. We all got to the buoy and now we had to go
back through the monstrous waves. I look to my left and we are
all neck and neck with each other. I turn around and see the most
massive wave coming right at us being so huge that if I turned
around I couldn’t even see the sky. I screamed to warn the boys.
“Look out, there’s a huge wave! Let’s try to get ashore!”
We started kicking as hard as we could together and our

arms stroking the water. 109
“It’s coming!” Will shouted.
The wave towering, crashing onto our bodies, the strong wa-

ters push us all ashore. Our heads, legs, and arms having scratch-
es between the rocks and the sand, none of us could get up. After
a moment my Mammaw sees all of us just laying in the freezing
cold water. “Oh my sweet honeys go get in the hot tub, it’s across
the casino by our house. I’ll make you some more treats tonight.”
We all stare at each others’ eyes and bolt to the hot tub.

Other flashbacks go through my head thinking about when
my family and friends would meet up by the dock at the beach
and take out the dark maroon speedboat to cruise around the
lake. I remember hearing loud rock and roll music through the
speakers on the side mix with the laughter filling the boat with
happiness. I always loved tubing behind the speed boat on the
humongous tube. While the boat was stationary my friends
Alexa, Mason, and I would plunge from the cushy stern to the
reddish, blue tube. Holding as tight as we could, freeing us from
the boat, the boat’s engine started up and I could hear loud hum-
ming noises. We’d start out slow and then pick up speed as the
tube zoomed across the water, gliding through the lake creating
tiny waves on the side of the tube. I could feel the wind pushing
my body off the tube while I hold tight to the rope-like handles.
We would scream out in laughter as the tube flew over the water.
Afterwards my friend’s dad, Jeff, stops the engine and we get
back onto the boat to enjoy tanning on the soft cushions as the
boat slowly rocks side to side.

Ending the millions of my flashbacks in my head, I feel my
toes massaged by the hot grainy sand. I take a dawdling step
towards the extraordinary sight intrigued into the astonishing
scenery. I turn my head to the left seeing a refurbished dark
wood rectangular dock venturing out into the lake. Speedboats
tied down with knotted, thick rope to mini foot-long poles. Some
boats hum to get started while others relax, rocking side to side.

I turn my back seeing rows of long, cream lounge chairs in
the hot, dusty sand, being used by people falling right asleep to
get a relaxing nap. Thinking that I could go for a quick nap too,
I gaze past the lake to catch sight of evergreen pine needle trees
lining the water, towering over the fine, tan sand.

These moments are where my breath is taken away by the
beauty of the scenery. Feeling the sun shine through me, my eyes
glare like a polished diamond into the sunset with my blonde
Goldilock hair blowing with the trees. Relating to a panorama
circling the lake, shiny dome-like pyramid mountains. Rounding
an abundance of noble fir trees and a tip of snow at the top melt-

110 ing through the summer days. With islands of warm grainy sand
rounding the lake. I thought to myself, “This portrait view is like
a million dollar masterpiece.”

**

*NiCKy DOvyDaitis 111

Missing

DING DONG! Not usually my wake up call, but I was willing
to accept it. I stretched, hopped down from my bunk bed, and
looked at the clock. 8:40 AM. My parents and sister were still
asleep, but they usually slept in on weekends, whereas I never
did. That Saturday morning in 5th grade seemed like any other,
but Mikey Imison, my next door-neighbor, sat there on the other
side of the door, impatiently waiting for me. Something was off.
He asked if I could hang out, and of course, I said yes. Within 45
seconds, I was dressed and out the door with him.

It was a typical sunny San Carlos morning, something that
is harder to find in the surrounding towns. The birds sang, the
air was warm, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Okay, maybe
one or two. The air smelled of wet grass due to the unnecessary
amount of sprinklers spraying all at the same time. Typical sub-
urbia. I didn’t notice any of it though because Mikey hadn’t hung
out with me in at least a year, so I asked him why he came to my
door.

Apparently, every other kid on the block was either not there
or didn’t answer the door. My heart sunk. The day earlier, Reese
Posten, who lived just two doors down from Mikey and myself,
had set a new record with the kids on the block by bouncing
1,005 times in a row on his pogo stick. I was the guy who counted
it, and felt very proud that I hadn’t lost track. We had all wanted
to beat his record, but it got late, and we had to go back home. I
was up all night fantasising about getting 1,006.

As we walked past the Postens’ house, Mikey thought we
should try again to see if anyone answered. This time, Heidi, Re-
ese’s mom, answered the door. She said that both Reese and his

* I, Nicky D, believe myself to be a fairly funny and creative guy, with several comic
books, parodied songs, and a YouTube account with over 2,000 subscribers. Eng-
lish is definitely one of my favorite subjects in school. I like writing lot, especially
my own fictional stories and stories from my life (so far).

** Andrew Richards (opposite page) is a 7th grader who enjoys soccer, art, and
playing with friends and his dog Jazz. He likes to plan activities and does a great
Al Pacino imitation.

112 older brother Xander had left early in the morning to a “friend’s
house” and hadn’t come home since. But neither Mikey nor I had
seen them, and nearly all the other cars were gone.

We walked inside anyhow, and plopped down on the couch.
It was quiet. Too quiet. The house seemed to have lost its soul
without the boys there. Now, it was just a dusty, dog hair-covered
museum of early 2000s artifacts. Heidi got worried and decided
to search White Oaks School, which was only a few blocks away.
She hopped into her car, as Mikey and I watched from afar. She
was struggling to get the car out of the driveway due to the trailer
on the back, but managed. As she did so, Mikey and I heard the
crunch of metal.

Heidi had crashed her car into the one directly across the
street. A huge dent lay in the little car, and the door had come off
one of its hinges. There was a dent in the bumper, which was also
hanging by a thread. Heidi was freaking out, and you could tell.
She told us to stay calm, and frantically drove off, but returned as
soon as she’d left, still without the boys.

By this point, I had begun to worry, and Mikey had too. Heidi
told us to go play somewhere else, so we regretfully walked across
the street to play tetherball in Mikey’s yard. As we hopped the
fence, I heard the faint sound of Reese laughing, but I brushed it
off as nothing.

SMACK! The tetherball hit me in the face. It knocked me
down onto the pavement, and tore a hole in my jeans. Mikey
laughed hysterically. As I got up, we heard the sound of wail-
ing sirens echoing around the block, and we ran inside to the
window. 1, 2, 3, police cars pulled up outside the Postens’ house!
There was already one parked there, and cops walked back and
forth, speaking gibberish into their walkie-talkies. Sam the dog,
who Reese loved almost as much as his guitar, was nearly just as
confused and excited as we were.

As one car left, another two cars arrived. To make matters
worse, Mikey’s mom left to search for them as well, and Mikey
and I were left alone pondering. Talking didn’t work, Nerf guns
didn’t work. Not even Legos could take our minds off of the crime
scene that had been unfolding outside. Eventually, Mikey’s mom
returned just as Heidi had before. Alone.

Just then, a flash of brown ran across the street. One of the
cops interviewing Heidi had let Sam loose, and he was gallop-
ing away down the block. Our time had come at last. Mikey and
I hopped the fence, and darted after him. It didn’t matter that I
didn’t have any shoes on, or that the hole in the knee of my pants
that was getting bigger and bigger by the minute. As soon as we
were in attack mode, there was no stopping us.

Sam was a blur of us, but we were catching up. Mikey, who 113
was the faster one, ran up ahead past Sam to stop him. Once he
saw Mikey, Sam tried to stop, but ended up just skidding along
the sidewalk. Looking around frantically, he gathered speed, and
veered to the right just as Mikey was about to grab his collar.

Sam continued up the block, and was just about to reach the
corner when a man with a Giants cap and a 5 o’clock shadow
got a hold of him at last. “Gotcha,” he said triumphantly. We
knew the man as the father of Gavin and Landon, the smallest
and most troublesome kids on the block. We walked up to him,
relieved and out of breath. He asked us what all the commotion
was about, and we explained it to him. “Reese and Xander have
been at my house with the kids on the trampoline! I was in the
shower, and came out about an hour ago!”

Mikey and I couldn’t believe it. We looked back. Reese and
Xander burst out of Gavin and Landon’s house and ran to their
mother, like the end of a cheesy movie. The cops looked pleased,
but slightly annoyed. Heidi gave Mikey a dirty look, and Sam
barked, as if to say “All’s well that ends well”. As the cop cars
drove off one by one, Heidi had the biggest smile. It was short-
lived.

“Why didn’t you TELL ME??” she said, as she dragged her
two grunting boys inside. Mikey had gone back home, and I did
the same. I walked in the door. I saw the clock at 10:15 and my
dad making breakfast. “So, what did you do, Nicky?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing really.”

114 *KathEriNE haNsEN

My Moment

My toes scrunch into the smooth yet beaten-down carpet. I
look up at the wide blue expanse of the spring floor, 40 feet by
40 feet. Sweaty, tired girls with chalk smeared on legs and hands
watch from every corner of the floor. They will me with their eyes
to go, so they don’t have to, grateful for any extra second of rest.
One girl with a tight bun and sparkly leotard is ready to tumble,
motioning to me to hurry. Another leans against the ballet bar
mounted on the wall to the left, singing softly to herself, under a
poster of Shannon Miller. My best friend is beside me, bending
over, gathering her hair into a ponytail.

“Emily, I’m totally freaking out!” I told her earlier after hear-
ing our floor assignment. Twisting on floor. One of my newly
acquired skills. One that I still shrank away from. I clench and
unclench my hands. A glance at my reflection reveals a wide-eyed
girl with chalk smudged on the cheek of her pale face. I reach up
and pull my slick ponytail tighter, a nervous habit.

This is my moment to impress Oksana, who has been gone
for weeks in the Ukraine caring for her mother, and show her
how much I accomplished in her absence. I’ve been working
towards a new level, learning new skills, like twisting, and in
three weeks I had made great headway. She stands off to the
side of the floor, in between two thick ropes descending from the
ceiling, head tipped to one side, hands on hips, softly speaking
in Russian to a fellow coach, while flipping her hand around to
illustrate a skill. I want so badly to make her proud, to show her
how hard I worked in her absence. I want to get some acknowl-
edgement from her; my work ethic has improved a lot from the
last time she saw me. It’s enough to make me feel that no matter
what I do, I won’t live up to my own standards. I want perfection
from myself now, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull it off.

It’s only my second day doing this skill onto the unforgiving
floor. The last time I attempted this I had landed short and fallen

* Katherine is a competitive gymnast who loves to read. She loves foxes and drawing
them.

forward onto my knees. It had hurt my ankles and confidence. If 115
I land wrong here, I could sprain an ankle, or worse. I wipe my
palms on the sides of my chalky thighs, feeling every callus that
scars the surface of my hands, battle wounds from bars.

“Okay, deep breaths Katie-Kat. You know what to do, just
bring your hips up and keep your head tucked in.”

I rise up onto the balls of my feet, poised to spring forward
into a run. One more deep breath, then forget all the pressure
and live for the moment.

I race forward, carefully counting out three steps, while
charging towards the opposite corner. My chest contracts, and
I’m weighed down by pressure and expectations. Teammates
cheer from the sides of the floor where they are stretching,
“Come on Katie! You got this!”

I throw my body forward, arms flying up, body extended
forward, straight as an arrow, momentarily suspended. I come
back to the floor and my momentum continues forward. I kick
my feet over my head and bring my arms down to the floor. I leap
backwards onto my hands in a back handspring, snapping my
feet under my body again, still traveling towards the other side
of the floor. My feet leave the floor, my shoulders angled up and
slightly back. I utter a silent prayer in my head for a safe landing.
Up, up, I float, time seems to stand still. I tip my shoulders back
to flip. Deaf now to the cheers of teammates, faces and shapes
blur, the world going by in slow motion.

I reach the correct orientation, feet barely higher than my
head, and begin the calculated twist, dropping my left shoul-
der, hands brushing my thighs. My hips sail over my head as I
turn like a tired top, about to fall. At last, I see the floor, having
completed a 360 degree rotation. I bring my shoulders back,
feet reaching towards the floor, ready to absorb the spring-filled
impact and stick the landing.

With a small thud, I land, chest slightly low, and step back
with my left foot, throwing my arms up in a gymnastics salute.

A slow grin crosses my face, as I realize all that I accom-
plished, and a teammate calls, “Nice!” I light up inside and out,
and faces around the floor mirror my excitement. My second
family feels my joy. I turn to Oksana, beaming. She glances at
me, then turns back to her oh-so-interesting conversation.

I want to run up to her, shake her, and say, “I did it! Didn’t
you see my beautiful full twist! Aren’t you proud of me! I totally
just accomplished something really big! I beat the fear you al-
ways tease me about! Do I mean nothing to you?”

But instead, I collect myself. Move off the floor and walk
back to the corner where I started. Adjust my leotard and hair.

116 Bite the inside of my cheek to keep from crying. Glance at the
clock. Try not to be hurt. And get ready to do it all again.

**

*giaNNa COLOMBO 117

Never Be the Same

Muffled voices swell from down the hall, interrupting the
incessant clicking of my keyboard. Curious as to what the com-
motion is about, I close my laptop and tiptoe silently toward the
source of the sound. The old, rusty pendulum of the grandfather
clock in the living room swings back and forth rhythmically as I
creep past it, its hands ticking ever closer to midnight. Moonlight
streams through the skylight above me, bathing the room in a
milky white glow. I crouch next to the closed garage door, behind
which I hear flurries of exchanged voices. I press my hands to its
cracked wooden surface, leaning in to try to hear what’s going
on. To my surprise, a shrill voice rings out into the silence of the
night, sounding so forlorn that even the quiet symphony of chirp-
ing crickets outside ceases for a moment.

“LEAVE?” my mother screams. “You’re just… leaving? That’s
how you want to deal with this?”

I recoil slightly, shocked. Leave? I think, hoping it doesn’t
have as serious a meaning as I dread it does. What is going on?
“I don’t know how much more of this I can take!” replies a deeper
voice belonging to my dad. “Everything is always about you--Ma-
rissa this, Marissa that--and no one ever cares what I think! Well,
I’m sick of it!”

“But Richard, I never meant--”
“I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU MEANT!” my dad roars.
“Nobody ever cares about me anyway, you would be better off
without me!”
I draw back from the door, my heart clenched like an iron
fist. My parents had fought before, but it was always just small
quarrels, never anything like this. I try to get up and leave, but

* Gianna Colombo is a talkative eighth grader at Central Middle School. She enjoys
art, sports, and music and plays the saxophone and oboe. She also enjoys loung-
ing on the couch with her friends watching Netflix and eating lots of Oreo cookies.

** Maeve Heller (opposite page) is an 8th grader at Central Middle School. She
loves to read, play sports such as soccer and volleyball, and spend time with her
family and friends.

118 some unspoken force keeps me rooted to the spot and I am un-
able to pull myself away from the angry voices.

“You’re really going to abandon us?” My mom is almost cry-
ing now. Her voice breaks with every word she speaks. “You’re
just going to leave Haley fatherless?”

The realization hits me like a tidal wave at the mention of my
name. This was no ordinary misunderstanding over something
small--they were serious. I lean against the wall, drawing in a
shaky breath and closing my eyes, hoping that somehow this will
all resolve and we can pretend like this never happened at all. But
deep inside, I know that’s just a fleeting wish that will never be
granted and nothing will ever be the same as it was before.

“She’s fifteen, she’s old enough to know her place in the
world,” my dad snaps, his words like the painful scratch of sand-
paper against my ears. “She doesn’t need me. No one needs me.”

“Please--” my mom sobs, her voice rising in desperation.
“No. That’s my final choice. I’ll get my belongings tomor-
row,” my dad says shortly, his voice devoid of emotion. I hear my
mother say something in response, but I have stopped listening.
I bury my face in my arms, unable to stop the flow of thick, warm
tears rolling down my cheek. My vision becomes blurry as I gasp
for air, desperate to find something that will tell me that this isn’t
real, that this isn’t happening. But nothing comes.
The angry voices continue on. Each word stings like the lash
of a whip, cutting deeper and deeper into my heart and threaten-
ing to tear it apart. People had told me about divorces before,
and they said the moment you first find out is the hardest part.
But what they didn’t say is it feels as though your soul is being
ripped away from your body, every last drop of life within you
vaporizing away to nothing. The one place I felt safe, the one
place where I could escape all my hardships and truly be myself
has been ripped away from me. My home had been broken by
the ones I love into a million pieces that could never be perfectly
reassembled.
My parents were always the one constant in my life. Through
all the struggles I’ve endured, they have always been there to help
me up and put me back on my feet. For as long as I can remem-
ber, they’ve been people around which I never had hide my true
emotions or to pretend to be someone I’m really not. But that all
seemed gone now, all my happy memories turning to painful sor-
row and fading into the past. I’m now truly on my own.
I drag myself up from the floor, glancing mournfully at a
faded family portrait on the mantle. My mom and dad’s smiling
faces look down upon an eight-year-old version of myself, cap-
tured mid-laugh by the cameraman as I cling possessively to my

dad’s arm. I wished I could step into that picture, to go back to a 119
time when I was happy and carefree and thought that the bond
of family meant you were together forever. But now my dad had
stepped in and shattered that bond, ripping apart my dreams at
the same time.

I force myself away from the photo and stumble numbly out
the front door, the tears still streaming silently from my broken
eyes. The screen door slams shut behind me, echoing through the
now quiet house. At this point, I don’t care if my parents know I
eavesdropped and heard everything--they were going to have to
explain it to me anyway. Numb with grief, I sit down on our cold
porch steps, staring up at the clear night sky. Thousands of stars
twinkle above me like brilliant diamonds, each one millions of
miles away but still seeming like you could reach up and brush
them with your fingertips. Looking at the tiny gleaming lights, I
realize that I am now, in a sense, a star of my own. Even though
it feels like I am many miles away from everything I have known
in the past, I realize I am closer to my true self now than I’ve ever
been before.

A car engine roars to life and I see my dad’s black Mercedes
tear out of the driveway and race away into the darkness, be-
yond the reach of the faded streetlights. I hear the screen door
creak open behind me. Quiet footsteps plod across the cracked
brick porch and I feel my mother sit down on the steps beside
me. I look up at her and see that she wears the same expression
of forlornness and anguish that I do, her eyes shining with tears
and her breath shallow. She reaches down and wraps her arms
around me and as she does, I feel a warmth spread through my
heart even as I weep on the outside. Her embrace slowly works
to mend my shattered soul, and I realize that I am not as alone
in this as I thought I was. And as I look back up at the twinkling
lights in the sky, I know that my life has changed forever and I
will never be the same person I was before.

120 *ryaN iKi

Never Good Enough

Effortlessly, I twirl on the thin, wooden beam. Poise and
beauty radiate through every inch of me. Each footfall comes
swiftly and silently from pointed toes. My arms gracefully sway
about my body in a stunning performance. I feel like a beautiful
princess dancing at a fancy ball.

But the next step I take loses its elegance. My sweaty feet re-
luctantly join together in an awkward stance as I prepare for the
nerve-racking backhandspring that is to come. My heart pounds
loudly. I shuffle my feet to find a better position. My knees smash
together, aggravating the bruises from past attempts to achieve
this skill.

The beam now seems rough and cold. The thin layer of
leather protecting the hard wood now seems useless. The once
beautiful song playing in the background now sounds like a
somber march. I can no longer tune out the loud noises in the
crowded convention center.

“C’mon Ryan! You can do it! Go Ryan!” Supportive team-
mates and family members shout in the distance. They all believe
in me, so why can’t I?

Despite the dimness of the lights above me, I feel stuck in the
spotlight. All eyes on me, watching and waiting for a mistake. I
carefully begin to lift my arms past my waist. Corrections race
through my mind. Keep your arms and legs straight. Don’t whip
your head back. Watch your hands meet the beam. Ahhh! Why
is there so much to remember?! My breathing quickens as I come
closer to my leap off the beam. A pounding headache erupts in
my forehead, not helped by the tight helmet-like bun that holds
my hair out of my face. My face begins to scrunch up. I purse my
stiff, chapped lips and squint my eyes. A crease forms between
my eyebrows.

I steal a quick glance at the stone-faced judges who refuse to

* Creatively challenged, yet undeterred, Ryan Iki is an aspiring writer in the eighth grade
at Central Middle School. She finds inspiration in athletic endeavors and motivation
from a supportive family and group of friends.

show any emotion at all. They scribble notes onto their pads of 121
paper, without taking their eyes off of me, making them look like
lifeless robots, whose only duty is to crush the dreams of many
gymnasts. My coach, pacing near them, stops to watch. Her
hands clench in fists as she becomes more and more frustrated
with my nervousness and struggle to move. Her face resembles
the stoic face of the judges. The only exception is that in her face
I can see expectation. Why can’t she ever be proud of me? Can’t
she see I am trying my best? When will she ever realize that not
everyone is as perfect as she was? She has an impossible stan-
dard for me, one of an elite Olympian, that I know I must strive
to meet, while the judges are just doing their job. If I mess up,
the judges couldn’t care less. I am just the same as every other
gymnast they will watch. But for some reason, I feel as if the only
rationale for putting myself through all of this anxiety is to make
them happy. As long as they are happy, it doesn’t matter how I
feel. Does it?

As my stretched arms become level with my shoulders, I real-
ize that I should really be focusing on my backhandspring. Don’t
worry, Ryan, you won’t faceplant on the beam like you did a
couple of days ago. You won’t fall off the beam and skin your leg
leaving a painful, red mark that stings and throbs…

My arms drop from above my head and brush my cheek as I
spring off my feet with as much force as I can muster. My head
flips backward and my whole body curves forming a beautiful
arc. My stomach squeezes tight as I begin to hold my breath. I
feel like a majestic bird, soaring through the air, and at the same
time, wounded, plunging towards its death. In that position, I
float through the air. My eyes find the thin, brown surface that I
am expected to fit my hands onto.

I suddenly dive downward and my legs begin to split. I fool-
ishly close my eyes, unable to watch the outcome. Will my hands
make it onto the beam, or will they miss, crushing me into a
heap of failure right in front of the judges and my coach? In my
head, I see myself landing on the floor and looking up to see the
disappointed look on my coach’s slowly shaking face.

Luckily, my hands find the gritty strip of brown leather,
sending a surprising, yet relieving jolt throughout my body tell-
ing me the scariest part is over. One in front of the other, my
hands fiercely grip the rigid piece of wood, making my fingers
ache. They curl viciously, cramping into a stiff, unbreakable posi-
tion. I don’t take a single breath, to ensure that I don’t disrupt
my fragile structure that could tip at any moment. A fist thrashes
inside of my head, trying to break my skull, as all of the blood
rushes into my brain. My face begins to redden with every breath

122 that is not taken or released. Heat emanates off of my cheeks
and warms my arms. Above my head, my legs form a perfect V.
I don’t dare to take my eyes from the beam where my feet are
about to land. The V slowly begins to tip downwards. One toe
touches the beam. Then two. Then three. Then four. Finally my
first foot finds its place and I begin to lift my chest.

My arms stick to my ears like glue and the sharp sparkles of
my overly bedazzled leotard begin to poke into my skull. Why
do our leotards have to look like a six-year-old girl’s glitter art
project? I force my sore hands into a less painful position. I at-
tempt to clear my mind of all nervousness and worries that were
there a second ago. So that I can fill my head with useful con-
centration, which I will need to perfect this skill. I focus on each
individual finger that curves its own way, finishing off a long,
fluid arm that bends delicately at the wrist. I keep my second
leg up, leaving me to balance on one foot. Please, please, please
don’t lose your balance and mess up now! When my chest aligns
with my leg on the beam, a flawless L is formed with the leg that
is still held up. My stomach and thighs burn in an effort to bal-
ance while continuing to hold up my back leg. I slowly lower my
leg down to the beam, lightly tapping it with my toes to make
sure my leg doesn’t fall into empty space, carrying the rest of my
body with it in an alarming fall to the ground. My foot is deli-
cately placed onto the beam’s rough surface. I carefully shift my
weight from one foot to another. After safely securing my posi-
tion, a sigh of relief escapes my lips and I finally start breathing
normally again.

I proudly throw my arms and head backwards showing off
my amazing feat. A stiff mouth softens into a broad smile stretch-
ing across my face. My heart beats quicker than ever, not from
fear, but from joy. I did it. I did it! What will the judges think?
They’ll be so impressed! I look back to where the judges and my
coach sit, expecting to see astonished faces. To my dismay, the
same expressions remain on their faces showing no acknowl-
edgement of my incredible accomplishment. My immense smile
turns into disappointment as I realize that no matter how hard I
try, it will never be good enough for them.

*graCE LEDWith 123

New Hope

I leaned near the cliff as I watched the grey lonely rocks be-
ing thrashed by the rushing trash-filled New York City river. As I
stepped closer to the godforsaken river, the wind rustled the gi-
ant trees that stood aloft half-dead bushes. I peered down at the
ground noticing how the full moon glistened on the goopy, brown
mud, I shuddered.

I was chilled by the emptiness inside of me, praying I could
break free from this prison

of emotion. My heart felt black and my soul seemed like it
had already been reincarnated to

someone more worthwhile, since my life was wasted on
dumb decisions. I kicked the ground in front of me with all my
might and fell to the ground in a tsunami of tears. My breaths
became louder and less powerful; it felt like I just ran fifty miles.
I frantically groped for my oxygen tank, soon feeling the soft cool
air flowing into my distorted lungs.

If only I could go back in time and stop myself from falling
into my obsession, smoking my first cigarette.

I remember when the pale faced girl walked up to me, hands
shaking, eyes red. She reached into the pocket of her overly
ripped jeans and pulled out a disfigured box. She never told me
her name, but she looked like a plastic bag that got blown onto
the freeway, all tattered and lost. I bet if I looked in a mirror now
I would just see her staring back at me with a grim smile. She
seemed very dark and cruel when she stood there in the back of
the school, hidden among the shadows, as if she belonged there.
I should have known it was bad idea, after all I was staring my

* Grace Ledwith, who is often known as “Chicken,” is an eighth grader at Central
Middle School. Her hobbies include sleeping, eating, softball, basketball, reading,
going on her phone, and walks.

** Gianna Colombo (next page) is a talkative eighth grader at Central Middle
School. She enjoys art, sports, and music and plays the saxophone and oboe. She
also enjoys lounging on the couch with her friends watching Netflix and eating
lots of Oreo cookies.

124 future self right in the eyes.
I was never appreciated as a high schooler; my clothes were

second hand and my mom got them wherever she could find
a good deal. To make things worse Mom would promote her
job of “streetwalking” to the older boys. I got pushed around in
the blurry hallways, as people yelled at me “You are not good
enough!” “You should kill yourself!” “Your mom is such a slut!”
I thought smoking could make me a “cool kid”. If I did smoke, I
could have a little freedom and choice in my life, never realizing
that freedom had a cost. But I realized that being accepted by my
fellow peers should not have been my priority.

I kept on thinking of when I was little, so innocent, so happy,
so full of hope. But, nowadays I can barely even stand on my feet
before I become overwhelmed with regret and pain. I am older
now, yet I still haven’t made one responsible decision on my own.

I would not stop smoking. Even when I try and try again
my goal is never accomplished. I would sit in my three room
apartment, and think about what my life has come to from this
everlasting pain. Even after hearing the dreaded words from the
doctor, “You have lung cancer,” I couldn’t stop my overwhelming
obsession.

Coming from a broken home I was never looked fondly after
in my teen years. Mom would isolate herself in her room, talking
on the phone with her male friends and I would stand outside of
the door crying, thinking how she didn’t even talk to me as much
as them. Sometimes when I was alone I would smoke straight
through a pack and a half of cigarettes, tasting the bittersweet
taste of nicotine thinking of my forgotten memory of life.

Years after years I went through this pain. At times I looked
in God for help, this I clearly remember. I prayed two times a day
for six months straight, hoping that God would give me a reason
to keep on going. But, by the end of the six months my cancer
was at its worst. After getting chemo, I realized that if I stopped
I could end my cancer for good. I had a choice. But I, of course,
made the wrong one.

The next time I went to the hospital the doctor smiled reas-
suringly. He looked like his face was frozen.

“Julie.”
I crossed my arms.
“Okay, you have to be completely honest with me.”
“Sure, whatever.”
I felt so sure at the moment, never realizing that I had no
control of my life.
“Do you still smoke?”
This is where I got stuck. Do I be honest like he asked me to

125

**

do, or do I lie and just live with the guilt of never having his help?
“No, of course not.”
I thought I knew what I was doing. I’m so ignorant, now I

will never be able to quit.
“Alright then, I trust you.”
He gave me a dubious glance.
I brought this pain upon me, causing myself to have personal

pity. But I wanted to think it was someone else’s fault. At times
I do blame it on other people and I thought about how foolish
they were to let me do this. Mostly my mom. Since she practically
ruined my life in my teen years after my dad left I usually think
that she let me do this. Because aren’t moms supposed to make

126 sure you don’t make dumb decisions? But, then I realized I am
the only person who let me do this. I am the foolish one.

So here I stand watching the water race beneath my aged,
worn feet, and I once again thought about my extraneous life. I
was ready to leave the never-ending pain. I released myself from
the support of my oxygen tank. Taking a step back then closing
my eyes, I ran forward. I quickly ran out of breath, but that didn’t
stop me. Mud flung behind my feet as my last tear fell into the
earth.

I stopped. I would have kept on running if it wasn’t for my
sudden realization, that even through all these years of hardship
I always had some way of bouncing back up and trying again.
People did help me and care for me. I know someone could never
have the commitment of loving me for a person, not my prob-
lems. But I was content with just their kind gestures.

I wiped my eyes of my somewhat never-ending tears that
poured down my face like a waterfall. My feet were so close to
the edge that if I took one more step I would fall to my death. I
slowly backed away, but then I noticed something, I no longer
felt shame. I guess now that I finally stood up to my personal
demons I could move on and restart my life that hopefully would
be extracted of all sorrow.

I turned my back to the rushing water as if I didn’t need the
“pain-ending, problem-solving” water of death. I put my hands
in my pockets and they fumbled around until they managed to
find the source of my problematic life, a pack of cigarettes. I took
them out and stared down at them, for once feeling like I could
be free to live my life, not trapped in their essence.Turning the
worn down box with the faded label in my hands, on the label in
bold letters it stated WARNING: SMOKING MAY CAUSE LUNG
CANCER. “Well no kidding,” I said bluntly as I looked sadly at
my bald head.

I examined the box one last time, then as if in an instant I
threw it with all my might into the racing water below. Never
again.

*KathEriNE haNsEN 127

One Day Only

The little fox stood up straight and perked his ears at the
sound of human voices and an odd buzzing noise. These unusual
things made him nervous. He shivered, then began to slowly
slink away from the scary sounds, forgetting about the squirrel
he was stalking. Along he went, as quiet as if he were sneaking up
on a mouse. Never one to welcome danger, he headed back to his
safe, warm den, away from voices, strange noises, and anything
that might harm him.

Boom! A noise like a shot rang out through the forest. The
little fox gave a yelp and dashed into the tall, green trees, leap-
ing over logs and rocks. His heart thudded and his paws covered
with black velvety fur pushed themselves even harder over the
soft earth of his home.

All of a sudden, another animal stepped into his path. Un-
able to slow down in time, the little fox crashed into her, the two
going head over heels, over and over. With a thud, the two came
to a stop, dizzy, shaken. The little fox untangled himself from
the foreign animal and stood slowly, shaking his head to clear
it. He turned to see who and what had crashed into him. To his
complete astoundment, another little fox was sitting up carefully.
Their eyes met, and widened.

The little fox ducked his head towards the ground then
looked up at her. She was shyly grooming her beautiful, thick
tail, which had gotten ruffled in the tumble. He walked up to her
slowly, barely daring to breathe or look at her, she seemed too
perfect to be more than a figment of his imagination. After a few
steps, he reached her, and they circled each other once. Looking
up at each other, their noses bumping. As the little foxes’ noses
hit, both received a shock, almost like an electric shock, but not
painful. This one was full of joy, both knew they had found a
mate.

They played with each other for most of the morning, bounc-

* Katherine is a competitive gymnast who loves to read. She loves foxes and drawing
them.

128 ing around, tumbling through the dirt joyfully. Teasingly nip-
ping at each others’ heels, chasing each other through the forest.
Long forgotten were the frightening events of early that morning.
Birds and squirrels had returned. The forest was peaceful again,
sun peeking through the boughs of the trees. In those few happy
hours, the forest seemed to smile.

But all too soon, human voices wafted back through the
forest. More crashes could be heard. Both foxes paused and
stiffened. The little fox shrank away, preparing to spring back
through the forest to his den, but not wanting to leave his mate.
She had a curious gleam forming in her eye as she turned to face
him. She trotted up to him and rubbed her nose against his neck,
then turned and headed towards the voices.

Everything in the little fox was completely against what his
mate was obviously up to. He felt as if she were dragging him
unwillingly along, knowing he wouldn’t leave her. As much as he
wanted to run in the other direction, he couldn’t let her go alone.
So he followed along right behind her, ignoring the birds that
flew overhead in the opposite direction, and the silent, deserted
state of the forest.

Around logs, stones, over moss, they walked, stealthily grow-
ing closer and closer to the voices. The little fox was ready to turn
and run at the slightest sign of danger. He wondered how his
mate could be so brave and seemingly foolish. Every fox worth
his fur knew not to walk towards humans, but to run far away
from them. And yet, he somehow knew, she had to know what
was happening in their home.

Suddenly, they stopped at the edge of a large clearing. A
clearing that hadn’t been there yesterday. In front of them,
all that remained were stumps. No life except whistling lum-
berjacks. The section of the forest was annihilated. Men were
swarming about, some carrying saws, a few barking orders, many
stacking logs. A numb feeling spread throughout the little fox.
As if underwater, he turned to his mate. She was frozen, her eyes
wide open, trying to process all the destruction. A sharp pang of
disbelief, somewhat like hunger, though he’d just eaten, formed
in his chest. His home was being uprooted, taken away from him.

Pain and sorrow suddenly hit him like a dead tree branch
over the head. He turned and ran blindly, yipping at his mate,
who followed him away from the evil, cold-hearted deed. Right
back into the safe forest they fled. Branches stung at the little
fox’s face, he cut his foot on a sharp rock. He lost sight of his
mate, totally assuming she was right on his heels. He couldn’t
think of anything but getting away from this horror.

He dove into his burrow, skidding to a halt, his pink, moist

tongue hanging out of his mouth from the overexertion of his 129
mad sprint. With great caution, he peered out into the now
silent woods, ears cocked, barely breathing. No signs of life were
anywhere. The little fox carefully made his way out into the open,
scanning the trees surrounding his strategically placed burrow.
He began to feel faint. His mate was nowhere to be seen.

He whirled in circles frantically, trying to look everywhere
at once. He felt short of breath, dizzy, scared. In desperation,
he turned and ran back the way he had come, scrutinizing every
tree, rock, twig, piece of moss, everything, his ears perked and
straining for any signs of her. Every piece of his being strained to
an impossible point, searching, hoping, fearing. At last he came
into a natural clearing which the two had run through, him first,
then her a bit behind. A tree had been cut down nearby. It was
laying across the open ground. Sun streamed down on it and the
beautiful little fox crushed beneath.

The little fox ran to her, touched his warm little nose to
her cold one. He stared into her eyes, once full of mischief and
curiosity, now looking off into a place that cannot be seen by a
living eye. In his heart he knew what had happened, but his head
refused to believe it. He lay by her side, waiting for her to wake
up, slither out from underneath the tree, groom her beautiful
tail, and prance off into the trees with him. All through the night
he lay there, his nose against hers, under the thousands of stars.

The next morning, workmen came to collect the tree and
strip it of its branches to make lumber. To their shock and
amazement, two foxes lay still and cold on the ground.

“Have you ever seen anything like this in your forty plus
years out here, Charlie?” a short, balding one asked of an older,
experienced lumberjack.

“No, sir, this is a strange sight indeed, one crushed by the
tree, and one that just layed down there and gave up on livin’.”
Charlie replied.

The men gathered around the little foxes, and as the sun rose
up around the trees and bathed the forest in a golden light that
only could have come from heaven, they removed their hard hats
and placed them over their hearts, a last memorial to the fallen.

130 *WiLLiaM KEiM

The Opal Ghost

Spudder. Spudder. Boom. The dying gasps of the Ford Mus-
tang’s engine jolt the car forward, and then stops completely.
“What luck I have” I think to myself. “Why did I even buy this
piece of junk?” I pop the car door open and step out of the vehi-
cle. I know I’m somewhere around the outskirts of New Orleans,
surrounded by dark swamp cypress trees. It’s about 9:00 at night
when I finish walking and arrive at the nearest hotel. The front of
the abandoned-looking hotel had a big stone fence, with a rusted
metal gate as its entrance. I push the gate open and cautiously
walk up the pathway. Small shrubs and reeds grew on the side
of the path. I walk up to the big, grey door and grab the lion face
knocker. I knock three times. Knock, knock, knock. An old lady
with a black scarf on her neck opens the door. She greets me with
a kind smile and lets me in. I shut the old door behind me.

“Welcome,” she says to me. She beckons me to the front desk
with her bony hands. The hotel lobby looks like a mess. Spider-
webs are in every corner of the room, which was covered by an
old blue rug. “Why isn’t anyone here?” I ask curiously. “These
businessmen sent people to scare away guests so I would sell the
old place,” the old lady says. Feeling bad, I decide to stay there
for the night. I’m a detective, so this issue intrigues me. I sign in
and she gives me my room number. Room 212. The old eleva-
tor is out of order so I take the stairs. The staircase was cold and
outdated. The faded rugs rode up every step. I put the key in the
door’s keyhole and swung the door open. In the center of the
room is one white bed with a small grey T.V in the corner. I toss
my jacket on the bed and look in the bathroom. It’s very small
and dusty. The pipes creaked as I turned on the faucet. After a
thorough investigation of the room, I take a seat on the bed.

Then I hear a ghostly moan. I silently move around the room
until I reach the door. Slowly but surely I peek my head out of
the door. In the hallway is a ghost. Its head was almost touch-

* William Keim goes to Central Middle School in San Carlos. He loves sports and roller
coasters, and he has a twin brother. His favorite food is spaghetti.

ing the ceiling. Pale white sheets cover the ghosts entire body. It 131
slowly walks closer to me, saying, “Goooo Awayyyy.” I run down
the stairs and into the lobby, looking back as I run. The old lady
is sitting at the desk, casually knitting a sweater. “Did you see
a ghost?” she asks. I nod my head. “It’s just a person who was
hired by the men.” I walk back up the stairs to the scene. The
ghost is gone, but I notice black writing on the destroyed grey
wall. It says Leave Now. I stroll back to my room and sit down on
the bed. I think about how to catch the men that want the land. A
lightbulb goes off in my head.

My plan is simple: get policemen to dress as visitors. When
the so-called ghost appears, the policeman will radio the next
room. I will cut the string holding a net and the ghost will be
trapped under it. I call the local authorities and share my plan
with them. The chief officer agrees to help. I rested up so I would
have energy for tomorrow.

The next day I set up my trap. The police helped me set up
the net and wire the walkie talkies. When the sun went down, the
policemen arrived. They were all dressed in crazy tourist clothes.
We all met outside to discuss the plan one more time. I went to
my spot in room 104, right across from room 102. The police
will check into room 102, so I positioned myself accordingly. I
wait for what seems like hours for the signal. Just as I am about
to drift off to sleep, I hear a scratchy signal. “That’s my cue”, I
think to myself. I snatch the scissors off the nightstand and cut
the rope. A loud thump outside the door. I swing the door open
to see the ghost, sprawled out across the carpet. It was time to
uncover the culprit behind the haunting.

I step forward and pull off the mask. In one swift flick of the
wrist, the sheet is off. It was the old lady. “Why did you do it?” I
asked in a harsh tone. “The men wanted my land, so I pretended
it was haunted. I hired some men to be in the costume, but they
were unavailable tonight, so I did it. Now thanks to you I’m going
to jail. The police lead her away and the chief approaches me.
But then I notice something about the old lady. Her hands were
not bony. There was no bone to be seen. Her hands were meaty
and she was wearing a green scarf. “How long have you had that
scarf on?” I ask. “I got it a week ago and I have never taken it off
since.” Right then I know that it isn’t the real old lady. I splash
water in his face. Makeup pours in bucket loads down the “old
lady’s” face. Once it’s all off, a young man’s face appears. “Who
are you?” I curiously say. “My name is classified,” he says, “but
all I will say is that I was hired by businessmen to scare people at
this hotel.” The policemen put him in the car and drive away.

“Where could they have hid the old lady?” I tell the chief. I

132 go back to the spot where we caught the ghost. Down the hall is
a footprints. I grab my magnifying glass and head down the hall.
The shoe print looks the same size as the culprits shoe. I follow
the prints back into a storage closet. I carefully twist the knob
and open the door.

The door creaks as I walk in the unlit room. My hands find
the wall quickly and I shuffle into the closet. The closet goes back
far until I hit a small switch. I flip the switch and the lights flicker
on. Dust piles line the edges of the walls. Various vacuums are in
the back of the closet. On the ground is the old lady, wrapped up
in thick ropes. Grey duct tape is stuck to her mouth. I rush to the
ground and untie her. She slowly stands up. Red marks from the
rope wrap around her wrist like a bracelet. Her body is covered
in bruises, as if she was beat up. She looked at me with warm
eyes. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she says, rubbing her jaw and
wrists. “The man who kidnapped me threatened to torture me if I
didn’t sell him the deed to the property.”

As we are about to leave, I see a lever in the back of the
closet, covered by some boxes. I carefully move the boxes and
examine the lever. I wipe off the dust and pull it. I feel a rumble
and part of the wall next to be opens up. I look in the hole, only
to see a narrow stairwell. I grab a flashlight from my pocket and
head into the darkness, the old lady at my heels.

Small water droplets fall as I walk down the stairwell. A
small light at the end of the stairs grows brighter every couple
steps. I turn around and shine my flashlight at the old lady. She
is behind me, almost mimicking my movements. I continue
walking until I get to the bottom of the stairs. Splash. A burst of
coldness explodes in my shoe. I step into the cave. Multi-colored
rocks covered the cave walls. I smoothly brushed my finger over
the perfect looking gems. I break a rock from the wall and exam-
ine it closely. “The rock is opal, so this must be an opal mine.”
The old lady remarks. I run back up the stairs until I reach the
closet. I wait for the old lady to follow. When she finally reaches
the closet, I walk to the entrance of the hotel.

“I found an opal mine underneath the hotel,” I tell the chief.
The police team goes and searches the mine. The hotel was
destroyed to reach the mine, but the old lady got three quarters
of the money made off the opal. She renovated the hotel and it’s
booming with visitors. “Thank you for reviving my business,” she
says. “Here is $1,000 for helping me. Use it to fix your car.” I take
my car to the repair shop and they fix it up for me. My car fixed, I
roll out of New Orleans, headed for home.

*gaBriEL MONtCLarE 133

A Peaceful Place

The forest was peaceful. There was an unusual silence. The
forest was so quiet any noise would have taken away the peace.
It was the kind of silence that can be interrupted quickly. A large
amount of rain made the dirt ground cold and moist. The tall
trees blocked most of the sunlight. Occasionally, there were gaps
of space in the thick branches. Sunlight slipped through these
gaps making small, bright areas in the forest. They looked like
spotlights on a theatre stage.

The air was humid but the morning’s cold temperature made
it seem normal. A small creek flowed through the forest. The
creek led to a small waterfall where the water would gently tap
the earth. The forest definitely was a peaceful place. The problem
is, peace can leave a place very quickly.

A baby monkey followed his mother down the small creek.
Every day they do this. They follow the smooth, shallow creek
until it opens up into the mouth of a calm pond. The pond was
tinted emerald green. Since it was morning, the low, rising
sun reflected across the pond, making the emerald green shine
brightly.

The peace was at its climax when they got to the pond. The
baby monkey watched his mother as she picked ants and other
bugs out of the moist dirt ground. His mother would then give
some of the food to him. The baby was enjoying the peace of the
forest. He always stayed with his mother. She was the only one
who took care of him. His mother is the baby’s only reason why
he is alive. She taught him everything he knows.

A loud laugh in the distance alerted the mother. The laugh
was very deep and echoed greatly in the quiet forest. Cautiously,
the mother started to walk the opposite direction, back to where
the other monkeys lived. The baby stayed to her side closely. The
laugh’s echo was still lingering in the peaceful forest. He noticed
that his mother was acting more nervous and cautious. He knew

* Gabe likes to read and play basketball. He is so cool.

134 this was a bad sign.
There was another loud laugh. This one seemed closer than

the first laugh. The forest seemed to shake from the booming
laugh. The mother and the baby were starting to move faster
towards their home. There was more laughing and commotion.
The mother could hear feet walking over dirt and leaves towards
them. There were people talking and laughing obnoxiously. It
was still too far away for the mother to understand what was
going on, but she could tell that there were many of them. They
seemed to be walking together in a line. The mother then put the
baby on her back and she started to run for their home.

When the monkeys saw them, the forest lost all of the peace.
5 adult men walked through the thick forest. They smelled strong
of alcohol. Three of the men were carrying large, black tranquil-
izer guns. The other two were carrying large nets. They had crazy
grins and they were walking uneasily. The men were wearing
white, stained shirts that were drenched in sweat.

One of the men saw the two monkeys running away. He
pointed towards the monkeys and screamed at the top of his
lungs. The other men also saw the monkeys and they too started
screaming excitedly.

“Finally,” screamed one of the men. “We’re going to be rich!”
They then took out their tranquilizer guns and nets and ran
through the thick forest.
The baby monkey was clinging on his mom’s back while
she was dashing around plants and jumping over obstacles. The
mothers quickness could definitely outrun a few drunk men, but
the baby was weighing her down. All the baby wanted was for
peace to return to the forest.
The men with the tranquilizer guns were firing them aimless-
ly, not knowing where the quick monkeys were. Darts were scat-
tered everywhere in the forest. They were stuck on tree trunks,
the ground, and other plants. Finally, one of the men spotted the
two monkeys sprinting to the right. He carefully aimed his tran-
quilizer gun at the monkeys and fired.
The baby monkey was still grabbing his mother’s back when
it happened. A small dart was spiraling towards the monkeys.
The mother who was still carrying the baby, leaped up to protect
him. Suddenly, the dart hit the mother’s right side. The mother
screeched painfully, but the noise went away when she collapsed
onto the floor. The baby also hit the floor, but he got up to his
feet. His mother did not.
Confusion struck the baby’s mind. His mother wasn’t get-
ting up. He started screeching and crying, trying to wake her up.
She wouldn’t budge. So quickly, the peaceful forest changed to a

nightmare. 135
The men walked towards the monkeys. The baby just

couldn’t leave his mother. Without her, the baby would be lost
and confused. She was the only person who took care of him. The
baby knew if he didn’t run, he would end up like his mother. He
didn’t run. He didn’t want to. The baby watched as one of the
men fired a tranquilizer at him while another threw a net.

As the baby’s vision faded to black, the forest became peace-
ful again.

**

136 *sOPhia ChiaNg

The Pencil

The yellow wooden stick that molds ideas into reality.
Wisps of thought
Into a grand scheme.
But it becomes chipped,
Its lead now dull,
Its bright eraser worn down.
Until almost nothing is left.
Yet it still scribbles across the artist’s paper,
The task of transformation not yet complete.
When finally one day,
The weathered tool is discarded.
Removed from its place on the creator’s desk.
The pencil,
Finished,
And useless.
Alone,
And broken.
It slowly fades away to nothing;
Disappears into the earth.
But deep beneath,
Time passes,
And it is shaped into something new.
Alive once again.

* Sophia Chiang currently resides in Palo Alto and attends JLS Middle School. She
is the eldest of four younger siblings and is required to abide by the laws estab-
lished by her parents despite the many rebellions that have occurred over the
years. Some of Sophia’s beloved pastimes include playing volleyball, reading thick
fiction novels, and singing along to her favorite songs.

** Daphne Crum (previous page) finds joy through reading, writing, and drawing.
She is a competitive swimmer and water polo player, and her favorite school
subjects are English and science. Daphne also loves learning about birds, and
she even owns a pet parakeet.

*EMMa saMsON 137

Poor Riches

The richest man in the world sits alone
By himself as he counts
the endless, endless, piles of wealth.

Stacks of bills and piles of gold
They’re nothing but paper and metal.
He tries and he tries to tell himself
He’s got it all, finally has it all!

But what about the hole in his heart?
The hole that can never be filled—
He tries and he tries to fill that hole up
with money and prizes and all of his junk

But the hole will stay empty
Until he realizes he’s broke—
Dead broke—

He’ll never be rich in love, or sorrow
All of his troubles are paid for,
All of his pain sucked away
But when will he realize?
How to fill up the hole
That the richest man is always the poorest soul.

* Emma loves to ride horses and spend time with her friends. Her favorite class is Eng-
lish because she loves to learn new words!

138 *sOPhia ChiaNg

Ready or Not, Here I Come

20, 19, 18. He slowly crept through the thick brush, glanc-
ing over his shoulder every few minutes. His feet didn’t make a
sound as he cautiously moved through the plants, careful not to
give himself away. 17, 16, 15. His short figure cast shadows that
danced across the parched greenery. 14. He hurried, more pan-
icked now, hastily pushing through the branches and leaves in
his path. 13, 12. Then he glimpsed a small cavity in a boulder cov-
ered in vines. 11. He pulled aside the vines and darted inside. 10,
9, 8. After putting the vines back in place, he quickly backed into
the corner and curled into a ball. Although the dark frightened
him, it covered him in a curtain of black obscuring his outline.
The cave smelled wet and humid and beads of sweat dripped
down his forehead. 7, 6, 5. The sound of his rapid panting
gradually quieted and eventually was replaced by quiet, steady,
breaths. The aftertaste of stale cornbread resided in his mouth
as he crouched on the ground waiting. 4, 3, 2, 1. Heavy footsteps
approached, crunching through the layer of dried leaves on the
ground. Inside the rock, the boy smiled and held his breath as
the sound of the footfalls receded. He lay against the cold stone
allowing his mind to wander, remembering the times when he
would hide for hours to escape. But his life was better now, a new
father, new school, and a new home in the small rural town of
Felton Valley. The footsteps returned, coming closer. Then the
shoes came into view; brown, worn, leather loafers with thick
black soles. The vines rustled and two brown eyes peered into
the cave adjusting to the darkness. They landed on the small boy
huddled in the corner, with a mischievous smile on his face. The
man pulled aside the vines and lifted out the boy into his arms.
“Found you,” the man said, and both of them smiled.

* Sophia Chiang currently resides in Palo Alto and attends JLS Middle School. She is
the eldest of four younger siblings and is required to abide by the laws established by
her parents despite the many rebellions that have occurred over the years. Some of
Sophia’s beloved pastimes include playing volleyball, reading thick fiction novels, and
singing along to her favorite songs.

*NataLiE BEiEr 139

The Rebel Children

I woke up to a loud scream, then silence. Another scream
shattered my eardrums.

“Father! Mother!” I yelled.
I staggered upright and hopped out of my bed, falling to the
floor. I grabbed my knife, uncased it from its leather pouch, and
ran down our tiny hallway. I skidded to a stop in front of my
parent’s room and slammed into the wall. I found my father and
my mother on the ground, face first, dead. A muscular man who
wore all black stood above them. There was a single golden patch
on his left arm shaped like a star. You could see his smirk from a
mile away.
“That’s what you get for not following the government laws,”
the man whispered to my now dead parents. My parents were
killed and it was my fault.

I was always kept hidden away from our dark society, away
from the harsh world. Shut out, I only saw daylight through the
crack in the walls. I never saw the blue sky. Never smelled the
sweet scents of the pine forest that surround our country. Not an
ideal life, but it had to be that way. I was a surprise to my family.
Most of the time surprises are a good thing, but of course, that’s
not my case.

I was the third child. Nobody was allowed to have more than
two children. That was the law. If you broke the law, you would
always regret it. If the government found out, they would snatch
your baby and slaughter it in front of you. If you got lucky, they
would spare your baby’s life and take him or her to be trained in
the army. Even after they killed or took your baby, they would
find a way to make your life miserable. The government ruled
harshly, but gave just enough freedom that most citizens fol-
lowed their rules. For my parents, I guess that was just too hard.

* Natalie is a seventh grader at Central Middle School. In her free time she enjoys read-
ing, drawing, and playing viola. When she grows up, she hopes to become a writer or an
illustrator so she can share her creative abilities with the world.

140 They had a baby girl; they decided to name her Annie. They
loved her to death but always wished for a second child. Three
years after my mother gave birth to Annie she became pregnant
with twins. She kept it a secret because she knew that if the gov-
ernment found out, she would lose one of us. How could she ever
bare that pain? When she had Chase and I, she decided to hide
me. She knew how big of a risk it was, but she had to take her
chances for the love of her children.

She kept me hidden in our tiny house for 12 years. We lived
in a small cottage far enough away from town that hiding me
wasn’t too much of a problem. Still, I was never allowed to go out
of the house. I never met anyone, or made any friends. I was a
hidden girl until now.

My instinct kicked in and I ran straight towards my sister
and brother’s room.

“Get up!” I screamed.
I could hear the man’s heavy footsteps as he trompped
through the house. He got closer by the minute.
“What the heck is happening, Bella?” my brother asked.
“Get up! We have to get out of here!” I replied.
“Why?” Annie asked groggily.
“No time to explain,” I yelled.
I could hear the man; he was just outside the door. I
slammed it closed and with my sisters help pushed her bookshelf
in the way so that it blocked the door. My heart pounded in my
ears. This was a life or death situation.
“We have to move!” I said.
Annie understood and slammed her fists against the window
pane. Glass rained on my face. I couldn’t care less; we needed
to get out of the house before this man tried to kill us, just like
he had killed our parents. The man pounded on the door and
screamed loudly as he realized we were getting away. I hopped
from the window to the ground and landed with a THUMP!
The light blinded me. The aroma of sweet pink roses filled
my nose. The noise of the birds’ songs silenced me. Then the sun-
rise, oh the colors, cotton candy pink, mango, and gold filled the
sky with warm hues. Never had I once seen this many colors all
at once. A butter yellow ball of fire rose from the horizon. Every-
thing overwhelmed me as I tripped on my thin legs, and looked
around for help.
“Annie! Chase!” I yelled.
“Right here Bella, don’t worry,” Chase came towards me with
a look of concern on his face.
“Oh! You’ve never been out of the house!” Annie cried.

“No, but don’t worry about me I am fine,” I reassured her 141
even though I felt nothing close to fine.

“The man,” I remembered, “he must have gotten through the
door by now. We have to hurry!”

As we ran, the air whipped through my golden blonde hair.
I stumbled on my weak legs, tripped over a root, and fell on my
face. I pulled myself up from the ground. I kept on running. I did
not care about the mud that was smeared across my face, for the
fear that the man could be right behind me. We reached the edge
of a forest and turned around.

“Nobody seems to be following us,” Chase said as he caught
his breath.

“Yes, but we can never be too careful,” I told him panting.
Sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes.

We trudged into the woods. The trees surround me like a
blanket, blocking out the sun. As we walked through the woods,
we listened for any sign that we were still being followed. All I
could hear were our own footsteps as they crunched the pine
needles and leaves under our feet. We came to a humongous
redwood and decided to take a break.

“So, who exactly was chasing us Bella?” My sister asked.
“Yeah. Can you tell us now?” Chase commented.
“Well, I woke up to a scream that sounded like mother. I got
up out of bed, and ran to their room because I thought she had
gotten hurt. When I got there, I saw a man wearing a government
uniform standing over her, a knife in his hand dripping with
blood. I knew that this man had found out about mom and dad
having three children instead of two. I feared that he might also
want to kill us, so I woke you two up.” I told them.
“Bella! Thank you! We owe you big time. You just saved
our...”
CRACK.

“What was that?” Chase hissed.
“I don’t know,” I whispered back.
We slowly began to rise from the ground. I readied my knife
fearing that the man had found us. A small bush next to the tree
began to shake, and I heard footsteps coming.
“We’ve been found!” I said to myself as dread filled my brain.
What popped out of the bush wasn’t the muscular man ready
to kill us, rather it was a teenage girl about Annie’s age, maybe
older. Her eyes were as green as the forest around us. They shim-
mered slightly and I noticed tiny specks of gold in them. Her
chestnut hair was in a long braid down her back. She wore grimy
shorts and a ripped brown t-shirt probably as camouflage. She
had a single scar on her left cheek. It made her look like a true

142 warrior.
“Come with me,” she whispered.
“What? We would never…”
“Chase!” I interrupted.
I knew we needed to follow this girl. I felt as though I could

trust her. Her innocence and beauty made her look like a prin-
cess. Then I remembered a legend my father told Chase, Annie,
and I once about 2 years ago. It was about the Rebel Children.

“Father tell us a story!” Annie cried.
“Shhh, not too loud,” my father replied.
“Okay,” Annie said softer this time.
“Once upon a time...” he began, “there was a young girl
named Persephone. She was as beautiful as a princess, but she
was more than any old princess. She was fifty times smarter, and
one hundred times faster. One night Persephone could not sleep.
When she called for her mother, she did not come. She yelled for
her father, but still nobody came. She finally got up out of her
bed and walked down the long hallway into her parents’ room.
She found her parents dead!” My dad said in a spooky voice.
“No! Who killed them?” I asked him.
“No interrupting, Bella.” my dad replied.
“Sorry,” I said.
“Keep telling the story!” Chase pleaded.
“Okay, okay. She was so upset. Who could have done this to
a little girl. Then she saw him, a big man standing in the corner
of her parents’ room. She was furious that this man had killed
her father and mother! She screamed at the top of her lungs. The
man slashed her with his knife on the left cheek, to stop her from
screaming. Then he took her away. Next thing she knew she was
in the middle of an army base where they trained troops. She was
devastated! How could they have killed her parents? She trained
with the army for many years hoping that one day she would be
able to make an escape. To her luck that one day did come. It was
a cold night. The guards had foolishly left the jail cells unattend-
ed while they warmed themselves by the fire. Persephone knew
that this would be her only chance to escape. She quietly picked
the lock on her door. When the door finally opened, she tiptoed
down the hall and straight out the door. Without hesitation she
began to run, far away. She ran and ran. Legend has it she ran for
three days until she came to a forest. That’s where she decided to
create a hideout. To this day she is still lurking through the forest
plotting revenge on the government.”

“Persephone?” I breathed. 143
I suddenly understood who was in front of us.
“Yes, my name is Persephone, now come with me or die,” she
replied.
“I remember you! Our father once told us a legend about
you,” Chase told her.
“Are you coming with me or not? This is my final offer,”
Persephone asked annoyed.
“Yes we are coming,” I told her.
“I’ll explain everything to you,” Persephone said, “besides
we’ve got a long way till camp.”
My feet ached so much. I felt as though my whole body was
going to turn to stone. My legs were lead, my arms toothpicks.
Never had I walked this far or even stood up for this long in my
whole entire life. I turned around and glanced at Annie. She too
looked on the edge of falling over. Her brown hair was inter-
twined with the many pine needles from the trees above us. Her
normally bright blue eyes now looked dull.
“Well at least I’m not the only one who is uncomfortable,” I
thought to myself.
Finally Persephone said the magical words, “We’re here.”
I looked around. “I don’t see any house or any people for that
matter,” I uttered.
“Look up, you idiot,” Chase said.
I glance up, and to my astonishment I see at least twenty
houses nestled in the pine trees. I almost fall over backwards,
as I took in the magical sight. All the houses were connected by
an intricate system of ladders and bridges. The small wooden
dwellings seemed to be made of pinewood. Each with there own
special symbol carved on the door.
“Wow! You live up there?” I ask astonished.
“Of course we do, where else would we live?” Persephone
replied.
I peered upwards again to see about fifteen children, of all
different ages, staring at us with great interest.
“Who are the new ones?” A boy with red hair asked Perse-
phone.
“This is Bella,” She said. I smiled at the children above.
“Over here is Chase,” Persephone pointed out.
Chase waved, and his sandy blonde hair bobbed up and
down.
“Last but not least this is Annie,” Persephone said.
“Up there is Bran, Delia, Olivia, Sophie, and the rest of the
Rebel Children,” explained Persephone.
They all waved down at us.

144 Suddenly a siren screamed a long piercing note. The color
drained from Persephone’s face, leaving her as pale as a ghost.

“Oh no,” Persephone said quietly to herself. “This can’t be
happening.”

“What’s going on Persephone?” Chase asked.
“The government was following us through the woods and
they have found us. That siren was a trap we set up to alert us if
an intruder was about twenty minutes away from our camp.”
Those words ripped through my brain. They crushed all the
hope that I ever had.
“They found us? But how could they? We were extra careful
and nobody was following us,” I thought to myself.
“What do we do?” I asked my brother and sister.
“Fight,” said Bran, as he pumped his fist into the air.
“Yeah this is the moment we’ve all been training for!” an-
other child piped in.
“To get revenge! The government killed all of our parents
and left us orphans. We need to fight back.”
“I’m in!” I told them.
“I second that,” Chase said.
“Triple it,” Annie said determined.
“We fight!” the Rebel Children screamed.
Fifteen minutes ticked by. Weapons were passed out, tactics
were reinforced, strategies were made, and cries of revenge were
uttered. Even though I had just met the children I already felt
like they were family. I felt that everybody in this group would
fight to the end if necessary. This group wouldn’t stop until the
government changed their ways!
We heard footsteps as they smashed through the forest and
readied our weapons. Seconds later a group of twenty govern-
ment officials came storming through the trees, swords at hand
ready to swing at anything that moved. From my hiding place
under a bush all I could make out were their sturdy black leather
boots.
“This is where they were supposed to be, the Rebel Chil-
dren!” A man said in a gruff voice.
“Where the heck are they?” another man said eager for
blood.
“After all these years of pinpointing them to this exact spot
and we find nothing?” A third man’s voice yells.
Then, I heard a faint cooing noise. So soft, that the arguing
men couldn’t hear it, but us children sure could. It was a com-
mand, the command to attack.
Children began to stream from the bushes slashing their
weapons at everything. I hopped from the brush and began to

fight with them. One man fell to his knees. He mumbled some-
thing about annoying children ruining everything, before falling
square on his face never to get up again.

Another fell, as two ravenous children dove towards him.
“AHHH! Bella! Chase!” Annie screamed.
“Annie! No!” I thought. My head swerved around as I tried
to spot my sister in the chaos. I saw her. A government official
was standing over her. A bow and arrow aimed right at her heart.
TWANG!
The man released his grip and the arrow went flying. The
deadly tip streaked straight towards my sister’s heart. Time
began to move in slow motion. I let out a long, loud scream and
sprinted towards my sister. Jumping with the last ounce of my
energy into the path of the arrow. I heard the words “Annie go…”
come from my mouth. Then the arrow ripped through my heart.
As darkness fell over my world, I wondered what would hap-
pen to the Rebel Children. Would they defeat the government
officials, and go on to change the laws of our land? Would the
people of this world finally have the freedom they deserve? I will
never know the answer, but I can only hope that this world is a
better place because of my actions.

145

146 *MaDisON fOstEr

A Recipe for Fun

I sprinted around the kitchen, trying bake the cupcakes to
perfection while also flawlessly whipping together four different
frostings. Gooey, sweet cupcake batter was splattered across the
kitchen table and counter where I made my confections. Flour
coated the patterned apron I had slipped on over my shorts and
tank top.

Sliding the Oreo cupcakes in the oven, I sighed at the choco-
laty smell that made my mouth water.

I remembered the afternoon I had found out about this huge
baking assignment.

“Hey Maddy,” Mom said, her voice laced with excitement.
“Yeah?” I replied, slightly wary. I wondered what was in store
for me this time.
“We are having a work party in a few weeks, and we need
desserts. Do you want to bake cupcakes?” She knew I loved to
cook, and was especially excited right now because of cupcake
camp back in July. I had learned how to make all sorts of cup-
cakes and frostings.
Suddenly, I was all ears. “I’m in!” I said, my mind suddenly
spinning with ideas, from how in the world I would manage to
bake over 200 cupcakes, to which cupcakes to bake.
I had used all of our mixing bowls for batter and frosting,
and there was going to be lots of leftovers. Strands of blond hair
fell out of my messy bun, and tickled my neck. My suntanned
face was red from all the action. Gorgeous summer sunlight
streamed into the room, so opened a window. Despite the heat,
mess, and the stress, I felt in my element. I knew exactly what I
was doing in here.
The timer rang, so I grabbed a hot pad and pulled the Oreo
cupcakes out of the oven. The aroma of chocolate immediately
filled the kitchen. I carefully took the piping hot treats out of the

* Madison Foster, an eighth grader at Central Middle School, loves to read. The avid
bibliophile reads in the morning, during the day, and at night. When she isn’t reading,
she likes to cook and do logic puzzles.

muffin tin and set them on a wire rack to cool. 147
I carefully placed paper cupcake wrappers back in the pan,

relining the tray. I began to scoop batter into the new wrappers. I
filled them exactly three-fourths full so they would bake perfect-
ly. After I slid the tray into the oven, I decided to tidy up a bit.

I turned around to find myself face to face with a stack of
dirty bowls and silverware. Oh dear, this may take a while. I
wipe up the counter with a rag and wash my hands. Cleaning up
was always the worst part of cooking. I didn’t mind it so much
today, though. It gave me time to cool down from the beloved
adrenaline rush that I got from cooking. However, it could get a
little overwhelming.

I got lost in a daydream as I cleaned. Suddenly, I was in a
much bigger, top-notch kitchen. There was a spice rack mounted
on the wall, and modern appliances were placed strategically
around the room. Noises from the T.V. snapped me back into the
reality of our small, dirty kitchen, with limited counter space and
old furnishings.

I peeked out into the living room, where I had Food Network
on in the background. Ina Garten was on, so I turned my atten-
tion back to the task at hand. She had never entertained me very
much - her boring, laid back way of talking could put me to sleep.
Blech. I wouldn’t dream of thinking I was a better chef than her,
I just didn’t like her style. I wish Alton Brown were on, I thought
wistfully. He was funny, sarcastic, and very entertaining.

I began to scrape down the sides of the bowls to evaluate
how much extra batter I was really going to have. Too much, I
thought to myself, disappointed that I was losing so much batter.
I probably could have used three-quarters of the recipe. Oh well.
I wasn’t going to use all the batter; we would have too many extra
cupcakes. I sighed, mourning the loss.

Then, I turned over to my frostings. I tasted the Oreo one
first. It was chocolaty, creamy, and the Oreo bits added great tex-
ture. Next came the maple. It was sweet and silky and would be
perfectly complimented by the bacon garnish. Third, the coconut
cream cheese. It wasn’t overpowering, and was impeccably bal-
anced with the tangy cream cheese and sugary coconut shreds.
Yum!

I was so excited to be presenting these treats to my parents’
colleagues. I had known them for years, and they had always
been so welcoming to me. When I was younger, going into work
was a real treat.

I noticed the chocolate frosting was a tiny bit overly sweet,
and the texture was slightly off, but I knew the partygoers
wouldn’t notice. Plus, the sweetness would be balanced out by

148 the vanilla cupcake, which was on the more savory side. I put
the chocolate frosting into the piping bag, and began to swirl the
frosting on to the cupcakes, completing them. I knew the choco-
late frosting could have been better, but it was good, considering
I didn’t use a recipe.

Suddenly, the buzzer was echoing through the house. I
jumped, startled. I hurried to grab my hot pad, and pulled the
cupcakes out of the oven. I set them out to cool, and then hurried
to finish frosting the vanilla cupcakes.

I had to work even faster now. My hands were warm from
handling the cupcakes, and if I took too long, the frosting would
melt. I could feel the energy in my veins beginning to slow. As the
frosting began to run low, I finished piping the vanilla cakes. I
was so worried these weren’t going to turn out! I had to wash the
piping bag so I could refill it, this time with coconut frosting.

My mind again began to wander, but this time, I was imag-
ining what people would say about my cupcakes. I was hoping
the reviews would be good, but it was all a matter of taste. It was
nerve-wracking, so I focused on my work. What if they don’t
turn out? What if… No! They are great! I repeated the frosting
process with the coconut and maple cupcakes. I made sure to put
a small piece of crispy bacon atop the maple cupcakes, to add
saltiness and give that french toast feel. All of those batches went
on to cookie sheets. Once all the oreo cakes were cool, I frosted
them too, and garnished with a mini oreo. The cupcakes looked
perfect! I was happy, but also nervous. What if people didn’t like
them? I remembered how good they tasted, and that brought
some relief.

I suddenly remembered I needed to label the cupcakes, so
I quickly typed out Oreo, Maple Bacon, Coconut, and Black and
White, and printed them out. Finally, I covered all the trays in
aluminum foil, tenting it so I wouldn’t wreck the frosting I had so
carefully piped on. I couldn’t believe it. I was done! I had baked
and frosted over 200 cupcakes! A rush of pride swept over me,
and I smiled to myself.

I walked down the dimly lit hall, my bare feet padding gently
along the cold hardwood floor. I washed off my face, hands, and
arms in the bathroom sink. I would have done it in the kitchen,
but the sink was still piled high with pans and bowls. Slipping
into my room, I shed my batter-covered, floury apron and tossed
it into the hamper. I donned some nicer clothes, swept my hair
up into a prettier ponytail, and put on some small sparkly ear-
rings. Just then, I heard a car pull up. It was time to go! Thoughts
began rushing through my head. Will they like them? Are they
good enough? Finally, she’s here!

I quickly walked back into the kitchen, and surveyed the
area. The cupcake pans dominated the counter, but the cupcakes
themselves were not visible under the silver foil. There was
batter speckling the table, linoleum floor, and counter. Cooking
utensils were spread around everywhere, and there was hardly a
clean space.

“Hi Mom!” My voice was cheerful and full of energy.
“Hello. How did they turn out?”
“They turned out well,” I said, trying to mask the excite-
ment in my voice. My cheeks were still pink from the controlled
chaos in the kitchen, but it had been worth it. Cooking was all
about making people happy, and the people at Bekins were no
exception. Everyone could connect through food! So I loaded the
cupcakes into the shiny red Subaru, and as I left, I smiled out
the window. Then I turned towards the radio and cranked up the
volume.

149

150 *KatE LOvELaND

A Room Full of Boxes

I don’t know much, but what I do know is that my head
hurts, and it hurts a lot. It’s too dark to see exactly where I am
but the room I’m in is small, almost like a storm cellar. The stone
wall my head is leaning against is cold and damp. I reach up
to feel my head where it is throbbing. I feel something wet. It’s
probably just sweat, I think, but when I bring my hand down
from my temple and in this dim light I squint to see what is on
my hand. My eyes widen and my jaw drops when I see blood
instead of sweat.

Where am I? Am I going to die? What happened?! I close my
eyes trying to remember what happened to me. All I can remem-
ber is hearing my little sister, Maddy screaming for help from her
room. I thought she was just having a one of her usual night ter-
rors so I went to her room to try and calm her down, but that’s all
I remember. I don’t remember calming her down, I only remem-
ber the walk to her bedroom.

Oh my God! I realize that I also don’t know what happened
to Maddy. “HELP! SOMEBODY PLEASE! I NEED TO GET OUT
OF HERE! WHERE IS MY SISTER! LET HER GO!” I scream
hoping somebody can here me.

“Liv?” Somebody whispers to me from behind a pile of boxes
next to me that I had not seen when I first looked around the
room.

“Maddy, is that you?” I reply tensely.
“Yes, Liv what’s going on? Where’s Mom and Dad?” Maddy
asks me, her voice wavering with terror. As she asks me this I
take a closer look around the room. This room is way too big
to be a storm cellar. I gasp realizing that the room we are being
kept in isn’t a storm cellar, it’s a small basement!
“I don’t know what’s happening, but I think we are in a base-
ment. I know you’re scared but we need to find a way out of here,

* Kate is a dedicated 8th grader at Central Middle School. Kate plays volleyball year
round, club and her school team during the school year and camps and beach volleyball
during summer.